“Commander,” Sisko said, perhaps a little too sharply. He knew that he’d been a bit hard on his senior staff during his seven months commanding Robinson, but he also understood his reasons for doing so. Sitting back in his chair, he turned slowly toward the ship’s first officer, forcing the younger man to take a step back. Rogeiro stood about the same height as Sisko, with an olive complexion, wavy brown hair, and dark eyes. “Commander, I’ve taken your recommendation under advisement. I will finish reviewing Lieutenant Sivadeki’s record and make my determination.”
“I know, sir,” Rogeiro said. “Pardon my enthusiasm, but it’s just that Sivadeki’s gone far longer than she should have without a promotion in rank.”
“Maybe there’s a reason for that,” Sisko said.
“There is, but it’s not a good reason,” Rogeiro said. “Since I’m relatively new to the ship, and since the time that this should have come up for review more or less coincided with the ship’s transition in executive officers, I mistakenly overlooked it.” Rogeiro had been assigned to Robinson at the same time that Sisko had taken command. Before that, Rogeiro had served as Vaughn’s first officer aboard James T. Kirk, surviving their encounter with the Borg at Alonis.
The mere thought of all those lives lost to the Borg and, closer to home, the effective loss of Elias Vaughn, tore at Sisko’s spirit. He regarded Rogeiro and, knowing what he had been through, suddenly felt sympathetic toward him. Motioning to the sofa off to the left, Sisko said, “If you’ll have a seat for a few minutes, Commander, I’ll give you my answer.”
“Aye, sir,” Rogeiro said, with a smile that immediately made Sisko regret his offer. He turned away from the commander, who quickly and quietly crossed in front of the desk and sat down on the sofa.
Sisko returned his attention to his computer interface, where he resumed evaluating the appropriateness of promoting Lieutenant Sivadeki. The Tyrellian conn officer had an unblemished, if unspectacular, record. Several accomplishments did stand out, though, including several instances where her starship had encountered conditions considered virtually impossible to navigate, and yet she had somehow managed to do so.
After about ten minutes, Sisko reached the same conclusion that Commander Rogeiro had—namely that, given the steadiness and length of Sivadeki’s Starfleet service, she warranted an increase in rank. Sisko made that notation in her file, then said, “Commander.” Rogeiro immediately rose from the sofa and stood at attention before the desk.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve approved your recommendation for Sivadeki’s promotion to lieutenant commander,” Sisko said. “It will take effect as soon as you notify her.”
“Yes, sir,” Rogeiro said, a smile again appearing on his face. “Thank you, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Rogeiro headed for the bridge, and Sisko picked up a padd, intending to record the promotion in his captain’s log. He waited for the sound of the doors opening and closing, but it never came. He looked up and saw that the ship’s first officer had stopped, and stood peering back at him. “Commander?”
“I was just wondering if you might like to deliver the good news to Sivadeki, sir,” Rogeiro said. “She’s on shift now. I can send her in.”
“No, thank you, Commander,” Sisko said. “It will be sufficient for you to notify the lieutenant.”
“Understood,” Rogeiro said, but still he made no move toward the doors.
“Can I help you with something else?” Sisko asked.
“Sir,” Rogeiro said haltingly.
He appeared to have some difficulty deciding what to say—or perhaps whether he should say anything. Sisko waited, offering him no help, and hoping that the commander would think better of whatever difficult subject he considered broaching. Instead, Rogeiro marched back toward the desk.
“Sir,” he said, “I wonder if I might ask you a personal question.”
Sisko did not hesitate in his response: “No, Commander, you may not.”
Rogeiro seemed surprised by the answer, but it took him only a moment to regroup. “Then might I ask you a professional question?”
Sisko sighed, not hiding his annoyance. “Go ahead.”
“Why do you refuse to answer personal questions?”
Sisko dropped his hands onto the desk, shocked at the commander’s presumption. “Is that supposed to be funny, mister?” Sisko’s tone left no doubt that the question did not amuse him.
“It’s not supposed to be,” Rogeiro said, “but it’s a little funny.”
“Not to me, it’s not,” Sisko snapped.
Rogeiro glanced down, seemingly abashed. “I’m sorry, Captain.” When he looked back up, though, he said, “Permission to speak freely.”
“Commander Rogeiro, I’ve had enough of this,” Sisko said, his anger quickly rising. He leaned forward in his chair. “You don’t have permission to ask me personal questions, and you don’t have permission to speak freely.” He stopped and tried to rein in his emotions. He took a moment, then sat back. “Commander,” he said, calmer, “when you have matters to discuss with me regarding the crew or the ship, by all means do so. Short of that, I know you have other duties to tend to.”
“I do have other duties,” Rogeiro said, “but I’m not sure I have any more important than this one.” He turned and walked away, and for a second, Sisko thought that he might actually leave, but at the far end of the room, he turned back. “And I’m going to speak freely, because it matters to this ship and crew that I do. If you feel the need to write me up, then go ahead, but it’s my duty to tell you what I think.”
Sisko considered relieving Rogeiro of duty on the spot or having him removed by security, but either action would result in having to explain his actions to Starfleet Command—another conversation he didn’t wish to have. “And what is it you think, Commander?”
“I think this ship isn’t running as efficiently as it should be,” Rogeiro said, “and it’s because you have nothing to do with the crew beyond issuing them orders.”
“I wasn’t aware that a captain was required to befriend everybody aboard his ship,” Sisko said.
“Not ‘everybody,’ Captain,” Rogeiro said. “And it’s not even friendship I’m really talking about. It’s your . . . your isolation.”
The word resonated for Sisko because he knew it to be true. He could command a starship, he could lead a crew, and he did. But he had chosen his path, and he walked it alone.
When Sisko said nothing, Commander Rogeiro walked back over to the desk. “We’ve both been here for seven months,” he said, “and in all that time you’ve gotten to know not a single member of this crew, other than on a professional basis. And you’ve allowed none of them to get to know you.” Rogeiro shook his head, as though he couldn’t believe what he was saying to his commanding officer. “How often have we sat on the bridge through an entire shift with almost nothing to do? We’re patrolling the Romulan border—the two Romulan borders—and we’re keeping our eyes and ears open, but that doesn’t require too many active shifts from us. And yet whenever any member of the crew attempts to engage you in conversation, you either offer up a monosyllabic reply or don’t even bother to respond at all. I’ve seen you head into this ready room rather than tell Ensign Stannis whether you’ve ever been to Pacifica.”
Sisko didn’t know how to react. Rogeiro had said nothing untrue, and yet Sisko could not possibly explain to the commander why he kept to himself—why he had to keep to himself. He’d never anticipated this sort of problem, since command, by its very nature, carried an element of separation with it.
“Captain,” Rogeiro said, “I mean absolutely no disrespect to you. I know what you’ve achieved in your Starfleet career, and I also know that you’d been away from it for a while before you took command of New York and then Robinson. But I don’t think any of what I’m talking about has to do with your time away.”
“No,” Sisko said. “But I really don’t wish to discuss what it does have to do with.�
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Rogeiro nodded as though he understood completely. “For the sake of this crew, Captain, and for your own sake, I think maybe you should discuss it with somebody . . . even if it’s just with yourself.”
Sisko looked away, trying to figure out how to deal with the situation. Maybe he shouldn’t be commanding a starship. Maybe he hadn’t isolated himself enough. Whatever the case, he really would have to have a conversation with himself about how to proceed. To Rogeiro, he said sincerely, “I will take your recommendation under advisement.”
“Yes, sir,” Rogeiro said, seemingly satisfied. “Thank you, sir.” He turned toward the doors once more, and then once more turned back to Sisko. “Sir, I served under Captain Vaughn for two years aboard James T. Kirk. He was one of the finest men I ever knew . . . really like a father to me in many ways. It’s still hard. I still miss him.” He paused, then said, “I know that you and he were close. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Without intending to do so, Sisko slowly stood up. He peered across at Rogeiro, but instead he saw the inert body of his friend, tucked into a dim corner of Deep Space 9’s infirmary, machines technically sustaining the life of his body, though the brilliant spark of his mind had perished. At last, he said, “Thank you, Commander.”
“Sir,” Rogeiro said, and finally he exited the ready room.
Sisko continued to stand at his desk. Obviously Rogeiro thought that his captain’s aloofness stemmed from the loss of a close friend on a mission in which both had served. Although that only began to tell the story, Rogeiro had in some sense been right.
Out of a long-standing habit that he had yet to entirely break, Sisko reached up to run a hand across his goatee. Instead, his hand touched only flesh. Shortly after he’d made the decision to let his hair grow back in, he’d done away with his beard. It had been during his brief stopover on Deep Space 9 that he’d shaven, and the psychology of it seemed obvious to him. The Prophets had left him, and so when he’d finally decided to leave that part of his life behind—on Bajor, aboard DS9—he’d made a change in his appearance too, reverting back to what he’d looked like prior to his posting as commander of the station.
Sisko sat back down at his desk. Before the ship’s first officer had come in to see him about Lieutenant Sivadeki’s promotion, Sisko had been about to write a letter to Jake. He’d stopped recording messages to him about a month after arriving aboard Robinson. He knew that he had to put some distance between himself and his son—something that being stationed on the Romulan borders helped to do—but he also didn’t want to hurt him any more than absolutely necessary. He’d found it impossible to strike the right balance between love and distance when he recorded messages, but found that writing to Jake helped him with that.
He’d also considered writing to Kasidy, but had decided against it. Contacting her would likely only prolong the pain through which he’d already put her. He hoped that she would be able to move on quickly and find happiness, not just for herself, but also for their daughter. She’s a strong woman, Sisko thought. Perhaps she’s already moved on. Certainly he had received no word from her since he’d left Bajor.
Sisko dismissed Lieutenant Sivadeki’s personnel file from his computer interface, and opened the letter he’d started to Jake. He dictated a sentence, changed it, completed a second sentence, but then stopped. He saved the letter so that he could finish it another time.
Maybe it’s this damned region of space too, he thought. So far, his assignment aboard Robinson had proven uneventful. Though the Federation president and Starfleet had pledged to continue exploring the galaxy, such missions had been handed out to only a small number of starship crews. With so much of the fleet destroyed, few ships could be spared the critical task of patrolling the Federation’s borders and protecting against an opportunistic adversary—such as the newly formed Typhon Pact. Sisko did not know the ultimate goal of the new alliance, but it relieved him to know that even with Starfleet decimated, the introduction of slipstream drive on some vessels effectively maintained a balance of power in the region.
“Bridge to Captain Sisko.” The tone of Rogeiro’s voice revealed not the slightest indication of their confrontation just moments earlier.
“Sisko here. Go ahead.”
“Captain,” Rogeiro said, “we’ve got some traffic in the vicinity that you might want to take a look at.”
Sisko immediately took a swing at his melancholic thoughts, trying to chase them away. “I’m on my way,” he said.
He bolted out of his chair and across his ready room. The doors opened before him, and he stepped out onto the bridge. “What have we got?” he asked as he crossed to his command chair. But before Rogeiro answered, Sisko saw for himself: three massive vessels, teardrop-shaped, featureless while in flight, but together, more than a match for the Galaxy-class Robinson. As Sisko recalled that these were the ships he had for so long seen in his nightmares, Commander Rogeiro identified them:
“Tzenkethi marauders.”
21
As Alizome Tor Fel-A and her two aides followed the Romulan through the tall, wide spaces of Stronghold Ortikant, she concentrated not just on hiding her discomfort with the largely open areas through which the group moved, but on controlling that discomfort. Her people, as a rule, did not care for such exposure. Traveling the depths of space proved the most troublesome; even within the tightly packed interiors of Tzenkethi vessels, the reality of the nothingness through which the ships journeyed harrowed even the sturdiest psyches. Medication helped, but Alizome disliked dulling her faculties at any time, particularly when embarking on a mission. When she had first come to Romulus, she had suffered through the voyage, envying the echelon of the Tzenkethi crewing the marauder; though unsuited to many aspects of everyday life, the Vel enjoyed a genetic constitution that inured them to the emotional impact of open spaces.
Though Alizome’s visit to the Star Empire had lasted for some time, she had not grown desensitized to the broad pedestrian thoroughfares and the squares and parks that made up so much of the exterior areas of Romulan cities. Some of their buildings afforded nicely enclosed rooms, but others—such as Stronghold Ortikant—did not. And none of the Romulan design involved maximizing the use of available space. Instead of inferior, lateral, and superior floors, they had floors, “walls,” and “ceilings.”
Such a waste of space, thought Alizome, and so unsettling. The heels of her shoes—and everybody else’s—pounded against the stone floor, the echoes reverberating loudly. She peered up at the high walls and tall ceilings, bare and unused, and repressed the urge to shiver.
Ahead, the Romulan—a man named Ritor—stopped before a set of wooden doors. Ritor had greeted Alizome and her party at the landing pad where their shuttle had touched down. He’d indicated that he would escort them to their meeting, but not what position he held at Stronghold Ortikant. She believed him likely a servant, or perhaps an aide to the senator. But this is Romulus, she reminded herself. He could well be a member of the Tal Shiar.
Ritor lifted a large golden ring attached to the center of one of the doors and rapped it against the aged wood. He did not appear to wait for a response before opening the doors inward. Alizome and her aides walked into the room after him, where he turned toward a sitting area in the far corner and announced them by name to the senator.
“Trade Representative Alizome Nim Gar-A to see you,” Ritor said. For her mission to Romulus, Alizome had assumed the title of Nim, trade representative, in the government policy specialist echelon of Gar. “She is accompanied by her aides, Bezorj Nim Gar-B and Ertoz Dop Yor-C.” Ritor then turned toward the three Tzenkethi and said, “Representative Alizome, allow me to present Senator Xarian Dor.”
Dor and a woman stood from a long sofa that ran along two walls in the large room. Several chairs and a low, square table completed a considerable sitting area. Alizome had hoped that the office would provide a more intimate setting, but as had been the case time and again during her stay on Romulus, she ha
d little choice but to accept disappointment. Though outfitted with modern furnishings, the room itself appeared as ancient—and as consistently large and airy—as the rest of the stronghold.
“Representative, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Dor said, bowing his head. Lean and somewhat taller than the average Romulan, he wore an expertly tailored navy-blue suit. He had a piercing gaze, his dark eyes communicating a serious intelligence. Alizome wondered immediately if, for the second time, she had found what she’d come to Romulus seeking.
It must be the gene pool of the Ortikant, she thought.
As Ritor withdrew from the room, Dor introduced his aide as Noret, then invited Alizome to sit. She took a position on the sofa, and Dor sat down on its other wing. Noret directed Bezorj and Ertoz to chairs, where she also sat down. Alizome pondered Noret’s true affiliation, whether one of the senator’s assistants, or an incognito security officer, or—again, as one always had to consider on Romulus—a member of the Tal Shiar. The two men masquerading as her own aides had no such nefarious connection, attending her simply as a means of reinforcing her supposed identity as a trade representative.
“Forgive me, but I’m not certain how I should address you,” Dor said. “Representative seems rather awkward to me.”
“You may address me by my title,” she said. “Nim.”
“Very well, Nim,” Dor said. “And that means that Gar is your . . .?” He let his question trail into silence, inviting Alizome to answer it. She didn’t. Before the moment could grow uncomfortable, Dor completed his question himself. “Caste, is it?”
Alizome had heard that characterization before from outsiders, who apparently believed that the Tzenkethi employed a system of social classes. Such a notion only underscored how little others understood her people. Nobody in the Coalition found themselves relegated to a particular function in life as an accident of being birthed by members of that function. Biologists confirmed the genetic composition of every Tzenkethi in utero, allowing the assignment of individuals to the echelon in society to which they were physiologically best suited, and which therefore best served society. Tzenkethi culture did not prevent people from overachieving and moving beyond their echelon, nor did it allow underachievers to retain an unearned position. Because of the quality of Tzenkethi genetic examination and cultural placements, though, such repositioning from one echelon to another rarely occurred.
Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Rough Beasts of Empire Page 17
