Star Fleet Yeager Class shuttle, near to the Romulus system, Oct 2160

"Standing by, admiral," Captain Michael Cromwell said. He brought the little shuttle to a relative halt.

Commodore Jocelyn Stiles sat next to him in the copilot's position. Admiral Forrest sat behind them in the observer's position. Their other passenger was Soval, Prefect of Vulcan. Commander Trudy Schultheiss had come too. Michael had insisted upon having a surgeon along; just in case. He also wanted his wife-to-be here at perhaps the end of all of this.

Cromwell listened into his earpiece as a single spoken phrase came over the subspace radio. It was not cryptic in his opinion. It was also not coded and scrambled. It was obvious that Forrest wanted any unintended listeners to know what awaited them.

"Thor's hammer is in place admiral," Cromwell said. Michael looked back at the senior officer. "Do you think that we'll have to use it?"

"I was talking to Dan Kennedy at the awards ceremony," Forrest said. "He is a descendent of a US president."

"Was that the one at the turn of the nineteenth century admiral?" Schultheiss asked.

"Later twentieth actually doctor," Forrest said.

"The Cuban Missile Crisis," Prefect Soval supplied.

"Yes," Forrest said. "I thought of how telling that was. Kennedy's ancestor was faced with a situation that would have put offensive nuclear weapons right off the coast of the United States. Remember in those days Russia dominated through the old USSR. That was way before the European Hegemony."

"Your US had missiles in a country that bordered that nation," Soval countered.

"They did prefect," Forrest said, "and their removal was part of the behind the scenes diplomatic effort that resolved the situation. What is important is that that Kennedy ordered his entire military on alert. Bombers were in the air, ships were ready to launch and missile crews were at a heightened state of alert. Had the Russians not backed down there would have been war. They would have received the brunt of it."

"Our forces are poised to hit Romulus, aren't they admiral?" Stiles asked.

He nodded. "The order of battle is known only to Admiral Buchanan. That way if they are up to something here then they can't wring anything out of me. But rest assured, all of you, if we don't show up for the rendezvous with Daedelus then the Romulan Empire is done."

"Contacts inbound," Stiles told him. Cromwell turned and brought the display up on his panel. Thirty-four returns were on course for their position. They would have just two hours to wait. Daedelus would be out of sensor range by then.

Cromwell looked back at Trudy. She smiled playfully at him. He had debated her coming here but she was the only medical doctor that knew the Romulan secret. If they were to die, then it would be together.

"I should be in the attack fleet admiral," Stiles said.

"You've done enough," Forrest snapped. Cromwell could see the tension between the two. "You are here as the stick. Hopefully we won't need that."

There was an awkward silence and much to Cromwell's surprise it was Soval who relieved it. "There is time for a game of hearts."

"You're serious prefect?" Cromwell asked, hoping that he was not out of turn.

"Quite, I learned the game from Augustus Kirk," the Vulcan answered. "Overly simple, like most Earth games, but there is an interesting strategy involved."

"You miss him?" Forrest asked. Cromwell had heard that Kirk was on Romulus. He still found the notion hard to believe.

"Kirk has many of the admirable qualities that we saw in humans," Soval answered. "He also taught me much more about your people. What I mistook for trivial nonsense from him I later discovered masked much wisdom. Humor, I still don't understand it but I grasp its positive impact on your people. Kirk taught me that. And yes, I do miss him."

"I don't suppose anyone brought cards?" Schultheiss asked.

"We are about to meet the Birdies and you all want to play cards," Stiles snapped angrily. Cromwell knew that her career was to end after this. That probably played no small part in her bitterness.

The Vulcan removed a deck of cards from an inner pocket of his cloak. Cromwell saw that Forrest was about to admonish Stiles when Soval piped in:

"Lighten up commodore," he said in that unemotional Vulcan voice.

Michael was losing his third game when the Romulans showed up. He became convinced that Trudy and the prefect had a mental connection. He had been dealt some excellent hands only to have either his intended bride or the Vulcan pull the rug out from under him. Stiles sent the prearranged recognition signal. Cromwell got up, returned to his seat and watched as a pinpoint slowly grew into a monstrous green shape.

The bird of prey, proudly emblazoned on its hull was scored and burned in places. More of the ships took form as they got closer to the shuttle. A harsh light came from the Romulan Sabinus as shuttle bay doors parted. Cromwell looked back at the admiral. Forrest nodded.

"Take us in captain," Forrest said.

Cromwell flew straight and steady. He was very careful to execute the best docking that he could. The others came forward to look out of the port as he entered the cavernous bay. Romulan shuttles, apparently made of the same materials as were their capital ships sat neatly in formation. Their prows were shaped like the beaks of hunting birds. Slots in the sides marked what looked to be deployable wings. Cromwell turned the craft about its vertical so that they were facing the way that they had entered. He sat the shuttle down.

"Gravity field is forming outside sir," Stiles reported. "I'm reading partial pressure," she continued after the bay doors had rolled shut. "Stabilizing at almost the same as ours," she added after a few minutes. "The gas reads as oxy-nite mix, breathable," she said.

"Match pressure and open us up captain," Forrest ordered. Cromwell watched him get up and put on his dress uniform jacket. Michael did likewise. Forrest pulled out his sidearm and racked the slide.

"You are going to shoot your way out admiral?" Soval asked.

Forrest chuckled fiercely. "You never know prefect."

The hatch slid up. Forrest led, Soval followed. Stiles was next. Cromwell followed her. Trudy followed him. She seized his hand and squeezed it before they stepped down and out. Across the deck a human stood with three Romulans. One was slight and older with white hair. He was dressed in a cloak, pants and boots. The other two were dressed in uniforms. One of those must have received an injury for it marred his face. Hackles went up Michael's spine. This was surely the enemy general.

The taller of the two, this Romulan was a head shorter than Michael. But then again most people were. His straight black hair was shot through with gray. As the humans and the Vulcan drew closer Michael could see the officer's piercing gray eyes. They were engaging and assessing each of them. Cromwell found it hard to not look away when the Romulan commander's gaze fell upon him. The human spoke first:

"I am Augustus Kirk." He went about introducing the Romulans. "This is Senator Vrax who is here on behalf of Praetor Karzan."

"Wait!" Forrest exclaimed. "Does he have full authority to approve anything that we agree to?"

"I do," Vrax answered in English. His accent made him sound Eastern European to Cromwell. "I am designated as the Praetor's Hand."

Kirk continued after an uncomfortable silence. "These gentlemen are Admiral Valdore and his aide Major Denaton of the Romulan Imperial Star Forces."

The one named Denaton bowed his head slightly. None of the human officers returned the gesture. Forrest had briefed them not to. Forrest and Valdore seemed locked in a staring contest, neither looked away from the other.

"Very well," Kirk said quietly. "Senator Vrax, this is Prefect Soval of Vulcan. Admiral Maxwell Forrest, supreme commander of the Star Fleet, Commodore Jocelyn Stiles of the Star Fleet—"

"Stiles," the one named Denaton hissed under his breath. He uttered more words in his tongue until Valdore laid a restraining hand onto his shoulder.

The Romulan admiral turned his sharp gaze upon the commodore. "You do not look like a demon." Valdore's English was not as heavily accented as was Vrax's.

"You do look like a murderer," she spat.

"That's enough!" Admiral Forrest exclaimed.

"She has earned that Forrest," Valdore said softly. Cromwell saw the Romulan's gaze change from the look of a hunting beast to something else. He reminded himself that these were not humans. The expression might have been anything. Had Valdore been human then Michael would have called it pity. There was more awkward silence.

"I'm afraid that I don't know these two," Kirk said of him and Schultheiss.

Forrest finished the introductions. The Romulans escorted them to a briefing room. The oddly curving tight corridors were familiar to Cromwell from his study of the Romulan derelict. This was the same class of vessel. It was almost as badly damaged as that one had been. They passed several open relay boxes. The smell of burnt electrical systems filled the air. Romulan engineers engaged in repairs would pause and look at them. Their looks held sadness when they saw the humans. But the expression for Soval was different.

Cromwell's father had taken a young Michael to Rome once. They had stopped and toured the Vatican. Cromwell had not subscribed to that faith yet he could not help but to see the adulation upon the faces of the faithful who were there to see the Pope that day. That same look was on the faces of these Romulans. What sort of hope did Vulcans engender for these Romulans?

They were led to a briefing room. The seats looked to have been brought in at the last minute. Cromwell recognized them as the type that was in the Romulan crew quarters. He recalled Omar Bashir's speculation about why Romulans stood for briefings instead of sitting. They picked their places around the triangular shaped table top. Cromwell sat down. He was uncomfortable.

"Let's get to the point," Forrest said without ceremony.

"We wish to speak further about your final term," Senator Vrax started. "We cannot possibly maintain the sovereignty of the empire with the forces that you leave to us."

"We've run high speed sensor passes of your system senator," Forrest said. "You would have approximately fifty ships left to your disposal."

"Many of those are freighters and tankers," Valdore said. "We have agrarian colonies on several worlds. Our race relies on food shipments from those worlds. We need ships for that."

"Fifty ships can easily form the nexus of a freighter fleet," Cromwell said. Besides knowing the Romulans' identity Cromwell had discovered that Forrest thought of him as something of an expert in ship deployment.

"We would have no ships for self defense," Vrax countered. "We share a border with the Klingons and we've already had disputes with them."

"Self defense wouldn't be an issue if you hadn't attacked us senator," Forrest replied in a calm tone. "Frankly, your defense is not my problem. We've done an assessment of the Klingons though: you would have several human decades before they become a problem for you."

"This is unacceptable," Vrax said.

Forrest had laid out an ancient leather bound notebook before him. The pages were open to the details of the proposals. He reached down in a decisive manner and slammed the book close. Cromwell almost jumped out of his skin.

"Very well, we'll see you over Romulus. Commodore Stiles, you're with me." Forrest and Stiles stood up. Cromwell followed suit with Schultheiss. Soval remained sitting.

"Reunification will not happen in our lifetimes, senator, admiral," the Vulcan calmly told the Romulans. "Ending this meeting will ensure that it never occurs."

"Ally with them do you!" Denaton exclaimed while pointing at the humans. "Never unified after this!" he spat.

"You are a part of us major," Soval declared. "Given what has happened the present generation of Vulcans will never accept you as anything but conquerors. But there is hope for the future. We will ally ourselves with humans and Andorians and probably many others; this is true. We must change and so must you. This respite will allow time to alter our destinies. Vulcan needs to grow before we can accept you. You too will have to change."

"Conquerors we are!" Denaton declared. Vrax held up a warning hand.

"So we are," the senator said. "I heard the very same argument from our praetor, prefect. Perhaps we can survive with the ships you leave us." Vrax gestured for all to resume their seats.

"We Vulcans will embrace you in the future. It is not logical but…I sense that it will happen. But for now our paths must separate one last time." Soval looked at the humans. "Please admiral, let us all be seated again."

The Star Fleet officers returned to the table. The Romulans reluctantly agreed to the number of ships. Cromwell found that condition humiliating. He could only imagine how the more prideful Romulans must feel. But these were a defeated people. In the simplest of terms they had picked a fight and lost. Were it not for the Vulcans then it was a real possibility that there would be no conference out here and that the fleets would be heading for Romulus. The Romulans, for all that they had done, had gotten off lucky.

"This neutral zone will guarantee our anonymity," Vrax said. "It will also cut off trade with the Orions and the Thoul'n among others." Cromwell realized just how old the Romulan senator was from his pained expression. "It is your custom to sign documents."

"It is, but we won't." Forrest folded his arms over his chest. "There will be no record of this meeting. Your praetor will communicate with Earth via subspace channel 'K' as we've indicated. The treaty will be concluded over subspace. It is to be set for ten of your dawnings hence."

Vrax closed his eyes for a long time. The room was silent. So silent that Cromwell could pick out the mechanical whir of the environmental units. He could hear Trudy's breath like a loud noise in a quiet library. Finally the elderly senator opened his eyes.

Vrax stood up. "As the Praetor's Hand I hereby accept the terms of the alliance powers for the Romulan Empire. It is agreed. It is over." He sat back down shakily and hung his head. To Cromwell he symbolized his people: shattered and beaten.

There was more silence. Cromwell watched Valdore. The admiral eyed the senator with concern. He reached out and touched the elder's shoulder. The act was gentle. Vrax looked up at him. Tears rolled down the old Romulan's cheeks, like drops of water on old paper.

Valdore stood up. "Major Denaton will conduct you back to your shuttle." He spoke a rapid stream of Romulan to the major. Valdore's subordinate seemed angry but finally relented. They started to leave. "I request to speak to Stiles—alone," Valdore said.

"Admiral I'm sure that—"

"Let Stiles decide if you would Admiral Forrest." Valdore held out both hands. "We are defeated. This is no act of pointless retribution. Will you not hear what I have to say commodore?"

"It's up to you commodore," Forrest told her. His tone was kindly and gentle.

Cromwell watched Stiles dark skin grow even darker. Her eyes were moist. Her fists were tight balls at her side. "You…fucking bastard! You killed my daddy…David…everyone."

"What is the harm in hearing the last words of an enemy that you crushed?" Valdore asked. "I know that you are courageous. Have courage enough to listen to me."

There was a long pause. Stiles nodded tersely. The others filtered out of the briefing room. Cromwell caught up to Augustus Kirk. He reached out and took Trudy's hand. He squeezed it gently. A few minutes later the strange group arrived back at the bay. The Romulan major entered one of their shuttles. A Romulan deck gang helped him prepare for launch. Stiles and Valdore entered while that was happening.

"Where is the major going?" Schultheiss asked.

Cromwell was silent. Augustus Kirk looked at the Romulan shuttle containing Denaton. He shook his head sadly. The Star Fleet personnel boarded. Cromwell resumed his seat. The bay depressurized and opened up. The Romulan flew out first. Michael followed. Denaton peeled away and headed for another of the ships.

"He's going to board one of the ships," Kirk said softly.

"They should be evacuating those!" Forrest exclaimed.

Cromwell brought the shuttle to a halt. Stiles seemed dazed but she darkened the port. Just in time as the Romulan ships erupted one after another. The shuttle was bathed in the scalding light of nuclear detonations.

"They were fully crewed." Kirk's voice was almost inaudible. "They were given the choice and decided to stay with their ships." The nuclear display continued as one after the other the Romulan ships engaged their self destruct devices. Cromwell saw tears in the old man's eyes.

"What a bloody waste of people," Cromwell mumbled softly as the carnage ended.

"They retained the worst of what we were captain," Soval said, "and perhaps the best," he added softly.

Vrax's cruiser passed overhead relative to the Sinjan's position. It shrank to a large dot and then stretched out into warp. Cromwell was silent. So was everyone else. Stiles laid in a course for the rendezvous and then sent the recall code. Two hours later Daedelus returned. No one had spoken a word in that time.

Marietta, Georgia, the old United States, Earth, Nov 2160

Commander Frank McCoy put the bottle to his lips and downed the cold beer. He had finally gotten a break from the intelligence business. Kanya was putting together their new home. Last night she had told him flatly that he would be a father—again. Frank smiled and took another sip. Funny where life takes a person, he thought.

His father had taken him to this very bar after he had enlisted. His dad, the mightiest man in the universe had cried while declaring how proud he was of McCoy. Frank doubted that the place had changed any in the two decades since.

"I told you Pete," A bellicose older, balding man started. He was speaking to a smaller quiet man who evidently wanted to be elsewhere. "That warmonger Thorpe got us into this. Make no mistake; it was Thorpe, not the Rommies that started this. Now this war will go on forever!"

"Why don't you shutup Neil!" an old man shouted from across the bar.

"Why don't you come over here and make me Lou!" Neil replied. "People have rights despite that idiot Thorpe. He's the worst president we ever had. Starts a war when people need looking after," he grumbled.

McCoy sighed softly. He was glad that he was not in uniform. But then again maybe Neil would be quiet if a uniform was here. Neil was rare among his ilk Frank reckoned. Most of them kept their foul opinions to themselves unless they were with a group of likeminded idiots. He sipped some more beer.

"I don't know about you Neil but I like taking care of myself," the bartender said. "The government never did a damn thing for me."

The vidcaster squawked. Frank piped up. Intelligence was scant these days. In fact he felt useless as most of the action was on the frontier. By the time that Frank and his staff got something it had already been analyzed. Frank guessed that maybe this was a weather warning. He was shocked to see the screen resolve into the form of a sitting President Christophur Thorpe.

"There's the chimp now—"

"Shutup Neil!" Frank barked. He got up off of the stool. "I will come over there and make you if you don't." There was a flash of anger but Neil was becoming mollified. McCoy could hear Thorpe's voice in the background.

"Warmongers," Neil mumbled, "just wanted to talk."

"--oh-four seventeen Greenwich Mean Time yesterday the Romulan praetor asked for a ceasefire. I conferred with the council and the other allied leaders via subspace, that was granted, effective tonight at zero-zero-zero-one GMT. We have sent further messages to Praetor Karzan. On behalf of his empire he has agreed to a full cessation of hostilities."

The establishment was quiet for many seconds until the import of the president's words sank in, then it erupted into cheers. Two young women were seated next to Frank. One of them burst out into tears. The other spoke of a man who would be coming home. Her friend looked at Frank, jumped out of her stool and ran over and kissed him. He smiled and kissed her back. McCoy saw that she was crying. He was too.

"—terms of the peace are as follows: a neutral zone, one light year in diameter shall be established as a buffer. If ships of either side enter the zone then the state of war will resume. The Star Fleet shall establish armed monitoring stations, deep inside asteroids to enforce the zone. Subspace channel 'K' shall be maintained as a conduit for both sides to talk, should that become necessary."

"All of this is contingent on the vote of the World Council. The treaty committee has accepted my draft and put the treaty up for a full vote. I am assured that the votes are there for passage. The alien governments have already accepted the terms."

There were more cheers. McCoy also heard some mumblings about not going all the way. This was it he reckoned as the girl kissed him again. They both laughed. The president had hidden the Romulans' identity—for now, Frank reminded himself. He listened to the details and applied his military training to them.

Generation III subspace sensors were being tested this year. Frank imagined that they would be installed in some of the already existing asteroid bases. With those sensors he didn't believe that the Romulans would be able to send a beer can through the zone without being seen, much less a starship. Given their locations the powerful new sensors would cover more than the one light year of this proposed zone. It would take the Romulans too long to get around them.

"—not forget that this war was not ended by me, the council or our allies. It was ended through the blood, sweat and sacrifice of those who fought. Our military will soon stand down as the allies participate in building new exploratory starships while the expensive warships are scrapped. For those that volunteered, your sacrifice and those of your families is almost over, my thanks to all of you on behalf of a grateful people."

Neil was no where to be seen. Apparently he had lost his appetite for exercising his supposedly lost rights. The girl untangled herself from Frank and went back to her girlfriend. The old man named Lou, walked over and slapped Frank's shoulder. Frank turned around and shook his hand. His handheld vibrated against his leg. Frank pulled it off of his belt and answered it.

"Frank, it is over," Kanya's voice announced. He pressed the handheld against his ear and turned up the volume. The noise in the bar was getting louder.

He put the half empty beer bottle down. "I know," he said. "I'll be right home…I love you Kanya." Frank dug in his pocket pulled out a credit and tossed down the tip. He had decided to go home and ask Kanya about making their arrangement permanent.

"I love you too," she replied.

Times Square, New York, New York, the old United States, Dec 2160

"I'll burst if I don't get to pee soon," Edie Patelli said.

"We'll stop in the diner and you can go," Sharon Patelli told her mother. "I thought you loved coming to Times Square for Christmas. You've haven't stopped whining since we left the house!"

"I did! When you were a little girl, you aren't so little now. I figured that Christmas lights didn't mean so much to my girl who had seen the stars. Besides, you can ask that nice Eddie Narducci to take you. It's supposed to snow tomorrow. You kids can come up here and see the lights then."

"Ma, I don't like Eddie Narducci that way." Patelli pulled her scarf down away from her mouth. The wind was cold but it tasted moist, the promise of Saturday's snow.

"You and that farmer!" he mother scolded. "Enough, already with him! He let a good thing go when he let you come back home by yourself. My poor baby, all those nightmares."

"Ma—he is not a farmer. Just because Bill is from Kansas doesn't mean that he is a farmer!"

Maybe they wouldn't finish their mother-daughter trek to Rockefeller Plaza. But Sharon wanted to see the Christmas tree. Since her experience she had developed a sense of nostalgia. Those silly old things that she had seen and did while growing up meant something. They passed by a diner. Patelli led her mother into the scents of coffee and deli sandwiches. The elder Patelli excused herself while Sharon ordered two coffees to go. Perhaps she should call Eddie.

She and Narducci had dated once or twice. Sharon had been geared to go off to the academy and explore space while Narducci wanted to follow his father's footsteps. Eddie did indeed work in and now was an active partner in his father's restaurant. He had changed the simple but successful pizzeria into an upscale eatery. Sharon knew that he had gone to Tuscany to learn to cook. Eddie was not a fighter and had confessed no interest in the service. The attendant returned with her coffee. Sharon decided that the canollis looked good. She ordered three. Her mother came out and stood beside her.

"You keep them from your father!" her mother exclaimed. "He is turning into Mister Blimpo. I swear, the twenty-second century, a man should be able to look trim."

"Ma, he is fifty. He's picked up a few extra kilos. Would you cut him some slack!" Her mother started to sit.

"Can we go to the plaza?" she asked. "It would mean a lot to me." Her mother must have read her desire in her face. The waiter handed Sharon the neatly wrapped box of pasties.

Her mother touched her cheek. "Sure, I'll even come up again tomorrow if Eddie doesn't take you." Her mother leaned in and kissed her cheek. "No pressure sweetie. Eddie didn't go off to fight but he wasn't one of those antiwar nuts. He's a good man."

She smiled and fell into step with her mother. They waited while a harried young man escorted his wife and three children into the diner. Sharon laughed at the children but didn't envy the parents their tasks. The young mother grabbed one of the boys by the collar before he could terrorize the diner. It struck Sharon that she thought of herself as old. She doubted that the couple was much older than she. Patelli and her mother went back out into the brightly lit New York City night.

They passed by a group of humans and Tellarites. They were all drunk. They were all laughing. Even now, a month after the ceasefire, the festive atmosphere was still in full force. Informal parties were springing up as groups spilled out from clubs and restaurants into the street. Cheering started. Sharon figured that it was another group of returning Star Fleeters.

A grateful people were indeed thanking those who had fought. Thanks to high warp Vulcan transports and the few Fireball class ships crewmen were being returned to Earth a lot faster than it had taken them to get out there. Most were back to muster out and resume their lives. Sharon stopped and caught a glimpse of this group. She took a sip of coffee and exhaled a steamy breath.

The crewmen had been led into an informal parade. They each wore the plain blue service jacket over their slacks and boots. A few sported non regulation black knit watch caps. Patelli couldn't blame them for wanting to protect their heads from the cold New York winter. People lined up on both sides of the group and clapped and cheered.

Sharon gasped. One of the crewmen detached himself from the group. She saw the commander stripes on the sleeves of his jacket. The man was looking right at her. A warmth filled her that wasn't from the coffee. She smiled. Bill Waters smiled as he pushed his way through the happy throng.

"Do you need your vacuum cleaner repaired?" he asked her as he stopped to stand before Patelli and her mother.

"What are you—"

Snow started to fall. "I couldn't stay away. A good friend told me to take care of the important things in life." He embraced her. Her coffee and canollis dropped to the ground as she returned the hug. "You're important to me Sharon. I remember those things we talked about." He held onto her arms and stepped away. "If you'll still have me," he added.

"Oh Christ, the farmer," he mother groused.

Sharon nodded. Bill pressed his mouth to hers. "I'm home baby."

Victoria, British Columbia, Canada, Earth Jan 2161

Christophur Thorpe didn't have to worry about smiling for the vidcasters. His replacement, Thomas Vanderbilt, would be taking care of that from now on. He wrapped his fur lined jacket tightly around him. His walking companion did likewise. Augustus Kirk had been ill from the flu but had recovered to meet Thorpe at the city where Christophur had grown up.

"The council approved the final draft of the federation agreement," Kirk told him. "The signing will be in a few months. Are you…"

"I think that Maggie and me are going to tour Andoria," Thorpe said. He stopped and pointed to an old house. "I spent most of my childhood there. I rode my tricycle down that alley. Somehow I hit something. I think that I was all of five. I was flipped off the bike and hit my head on the pavement." He laughed and shook his head. "Maybe that is what made me go into politics."

"You'll be missed at the signing sir," Kirk said.

Thorpe laughed again. There was bitterness this time. "I'm the loser; the one who didn't finish the job."

"History will vindicate you sir," Augustus told him.

"Funny thing about that Augustus," he replied. They cut across a snow covered side street. Ground and air cars were slowly disappearing as Emery Erickson's device was actually transporting people. "History usually waits until the person is dead." He smiled ruefully.

"I chose my place at the table Augustus. Sure, I'm bitter that the public turned against me this fast."

Aided by many who had spoken out against the war, he ruminated. These doves had suddenly grown talons when it had come to making money. More than a few of them had started building government bureaucracies in spite of Thorpe's efforts to stop that sort of childishness. He suspected that much of their anger had come from his manipulation of legislation that had caused their little agencies and make work jobs to be done away with.

"That's not why I asked you here though. By the way did you…"

"Transport?" Kirk responded. "The short answer is—no. Transporting is for the young. I like to keep my atoms all in one state, thanks."

Thorpe laughed. "I agree." He sighed. He pointed to an alien foods market. "That used to be the Peking Palace. Any time that there was a celebration my parents went there. I tell you Kirk that to this day me and my brothers hate Chinese food."

Augustus laughed. "I bet that you still took your parents there though?"

Thorpe nodded. "We passed the duty from sibling to sibling, but yes. But I treasured every bite of General Tso's chicken when I got to the age that I realized that I wouldn't always be able to talk to my mom and dad."

Kirk nodded. "Mortality is a bitch sir."

"You're right," Thorpe said. He took a deep breath. Here goes, he thought. "Tell me about Oguma, Kirk."

He watched his friend start to utter a reply and then stop. Kirk looked away from him. "The report attributed the loss to the Romulans."

"Augustus, you've never lied to me—until today," Thorpe said. He walked stridently past his old haunts. "You see, Admiral Forrest had done a detailed scan of their system. He wondered how or why they would deploy so far away when the fight was coming their way."

Kirk continued his silence. "Well," Thorpe said.

"What do you want me to say sir?"

"The truth."

"It was all a crazy mix up." Kirk looked straight ahead as he related the events of that day to Thorpe.

"Did you want me to come back and plant the seeds of the next war for you sir? I am truly sorry. You had so much responsibility. The Federation is your baby. History will remember you one day for that sir. I figured that the lie would die with me."

Thorpe looked at nothing as he walked. He had assumed as much. Kirk's tale of the Klingon attack confirmed what he had guessed. There was a suspicion of the Klingons. Thorpe had hoped that the federation would prevent future conflicts. Yet here was another challenge. Thorpe knew that it was not his.

"Thanks for being up front with me Augustus," he said at last.

"The Klingons are someone else's problem." Kirk shook his head. "The Klingons, even the damn Romulans, they should be our friends. Here we are going out in space, unlimited wealth and resources and we are fighting like twentieth century barbarians. It's all so goddamned stupid!"

Thorpe laughed. Kirk was where he had been in 2156. It was stupid. He agreed with Kirk. The two walked on in silence. One of Thorpe's old schools had been remodeled and renamed. Albright High after the former Canadian Star Fleet officer who had just been appointed as ambassador to Andor. No schools had been named for Christophur Thorpe. They plodded on for a while longer.

"My turn sir," Kirk said after a period of silence. "Tarang Gupta," Kirk added.

That was like a stab. Thorpe could rationalize the loss of Oguma. He could deal with the fallout from his political losses. But the young officer was someone who, without having met him, haunted his nights.

Christophur sighed. "I tried moving in the background. When I suggested a deep space mission to that sector the space probe agency head jumped on it. Admiral Archer wanted to know why. He wanted to know why I was interested in sending crews and ships on a fifty year long voyage to search through a sector of space." He shook his head. "Even if Karzan had told you the exact location I doubt that an expedition could make it there to rescue him, not in time to matter anyway."

"I issued him a Wounded Lion in his jacket, posthumous of course. The rest he did himself."

"How so?"

Thorpe laughed. "I sent him to Vulcan as a representative of Pan-Pacific Export; as a cover of course. As it turns out, after Vulcan lifted their embargo, Pan-Pac's business took off. They had huge backorders and an enormous amount of goodwill that Gupta had built up. Let's just say that I spoke to Mahendra Sawhney and that Gupta's family will receive a rather large block of stock. They will want for nothing, as if anyone does these days."

"Then he is officially a casualty?" Kirk asked.

"Ideally we should be able to go back and retrieve every single one of our soldiers. Ideally there should be a dialogue with the Klingons concerning their trigger happiness. But there won't be. Accepting my political fate is nothing compared to knowing that that officer is out there and that nobody will be sent for him. Gupta was one of the real heroes of this war. And he'll not receive a tenth of the accolades that he should. Worse, he'll be stranded far from home."

"Him and his Vulcan wife…uh mate might be dead for all we know sir."

Thorpe looked into the cold Canadian sky. "Everything that he went through and yet he completed the mission, I know that he is—that they are alive out there." They walked together in silence.

"You want to grab something to eat sir?" Kirk asked. Thorpe nodded. "How about Chinese?" his friend asked.

Thorpe laughed. "Go to hell," he told Kirk. "You're buying," he added.

Victoria, British Columbia, Canada, the old United States, July 2165,

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," the priest intoned.

Lieutenant Jocelyn Stiles looked straight ahead. Maggie Thorpe's small thin hand was cold in hers. Stiles could hear her small sobs of sorrow. About thirty people were gathered around the graveside. The Federation had sent a minor bureaucrat. Thorpe took her hand away and got up to stand by her deceased husband's grave. Stiles watched her stoop to take up a handful of earth.

"She will be alright," a deeply accented voice proclaimed. Stiles thought for a second that Jospin had come for the service. But it could not be: Jospin had died in a training accident six months after the neutral zone had been established. She turned, instead to see Pierre Oulette standing behind her.

She nodded. "My mama went through the same thing, admiral."

"It is mister these days," Oulette said.

Oulette was dressed in a severe black suit. Behind him a pretty woman of about the same age as Oulette stood with three children. Two were young, Stiles guessed about no more than seven. They each had Oulette's dark red hair. The third was a blossoming teen that was looking after her younger siblings. Stiles remembered that Oulette had adopted a survivor from one of the colonies. Commodore Leonard Zimmermann and his family came to stand beside Oulette's wife. Zimmermann had retired almost immediately after the treaty signing.

"Back in the service I see," Oulette remarked.

"Commander McCoy took me into intel."

There had been resistance to that to say the least. Maxwell Forrest had personally written a letter to President Vanderbilt criticizing the choice. But Vanderbilt was on the way out and fear of the Tholian Holdfast and Klingon Empire was on the way in. Forrest's opinions didn't carry much behind them anymore. He had left the service to become a professor of exopolitics at Dartmouth after being defeated in a run for president. No one wanted the warriors running things in spite of the Tholians and Klingons. No one publically anyway, Stiles thought.

Stiles got up out of her chair. A group of Andorians, Vulcans and Tellarites had beamed onto the grounds. She recognized Shahar Shran and Creel Zarn among their respective entourages. They walked towards them. A tearful Maggie Thorpe walked up to stand beside Jocelyn. Former Prefect Soval was there for Vulcan.

"Madam Thorpe," Soval said. He bowed his head. "Had I known of the president's condition…" Stiles was surprised to see a tear roll down the Vulcan's cheek. A younger Vulcan cast a piercing glance at the prefect. Soval dabbed at his face. The younger Vulcan departed after a surprisingly harsh exchange between the two aliens.

"It is alright sir," Thorpe said. The woman looked at Shran. "I'll be ready shortly Shahar."

"We shall wait as long as you say Madam Thorpe. There is mourning all across the ice since the news." Shran looked around. The Federation bureaucrat was walking over. Shran and Zarn's personal guards intercepted the man at their charges' behest.

"This is closed pipesqueak!" a burly Tellarite told the representative. Stiles wanted to chuckle at his mispronunciation. Maggie Thorpe was laughing. The confused, berated official turned away.

Oulette and Zimmermann expressed their condolences. They walked over to the grave with their families, leaving Thorpe and Stiles alone with the aliens. Thorpe thanked all of them for coming.

"As we agreed," Shran said.

Thorpe nodded and smiled at Stiles. "He's not in there don't you know," she said while nodding at the grave. She must have seen Stiles' puzzled expression. "We are going to Andor. I told Chris that it would be an insult if he announced his intention to be buried there, even after the way he was treated after the war."

"He saved us all," Zarn said. "He was a fool to do it but fools lead and others follow. He led us to victory and the formation of the Federation." The Tellarite looked over at the Federation representative. "That one looks to be so young of your people that he was probably wearing a diaper while you humans were fighting the Romulans. Yet here he is profiting from the work of Thorpe."

"Chris knew that and he accepted it." Thorpe looked down at the ground and then she looked around her and then into the sky. "I grew up on this planet. I'll miss it."

"You're…not coming back?" Stiles asked. She was astonished. Was Thorpe that angry over the treatment of the president?

Margaret Thorpe gave her a knowing grin. "I know, and it is best that I leave so that that secret stays that way."

"Know what," Stiles started.

"Shhhh," Thorpe hissed softly. The older woman put a finger to Jocelyn's lips as her mother had often done. "I slept with the man. It's hard to keep secrets. Still, he did better than most I believe." Stiles thought of Trip Tucker and Jeff Sutton. No, it was easy to keep secrets with a bed partner. You just had to give up a piece of your soul to do it. "He knew that you know too Jo-jo."

"I had a part in informing the president of that," Soval added.

"I'm afraid that age might make me say things that I shouldn't. We are going to be with the Andorians so that won't be a problem. Chris had grown to love them." Stiles watched her smile at Shran. "Thank you for having us there after the election Shran. Christophur loved it. I can't remember him being so happy." She turned to Stiles. "You might think of a place to go after age comes for you, darling."

Who would have me? Stiles, who had been drummed out of the service. Sutton didn't know about the Romulans. Stiles had relented and finally accepted his marriage proposals. She had kept her name. Jeff was happy and Stiles maintained the façade of that. Jeff had wanted to forget the war. He had even gone as far as to beg off this obligation. She thought again about Maggie's suggestion. Where would Stiles go to die? She had perhaps one option.

She smiled. "I'll think of that Madam Thorpe—Maggie."

The older woman embraced her. Stiles realized that Thorpe was crying again. So was she. Thorpe released her hold. She smiled up at the taller Stiles.

"I'm going with the Andorians now," she told Jocelyn. She joined Shran. "Goodbye Jo-jo."

The Andorian leader bowed to Thorpe as did Soval. Even the normally irreverent Zarn bowed his head. The Andorians guards returned at Shran's order. They escorted the human woman to a location for beaming. The alien leaders followed. None of them had granted Stiles a place of exile for her old age, she observed. The group soon turned to energetic sparkles. They disappeared.

Stiles saw that most of the attendees were gone. She had chosen a shuttle over beaming at her doctor's request. No one knew if the new method of transportation could affect unborn children. She patted her belly while contemplating the briefing that she had received regarding the Klingons.

Commandant Michael Cromwell and his wife, Surgeon General of the Fleet Gertrude Cromwell separated themselves from the small throng of active duty Star Fleet officers and crewmen. Michael put a restraining hand on Michael Junior's shoulder. Cromwell imagined that he thought of the somber monuments and headstones as forts and castles. Their youngest was with Trudy's parents. Cromwell saw a familiar figure standing alone.

"Long time no see, lieutenant," Cromwell told Jocelyn Stiles.

Stiles merely looked at him. Star Fleet had eliminated the old style UESN salute. Still, most of those here for the president's funereal had rendered the old human respect. She did not. Cromwell was not surprised.

"Funny, you turned down my application for a teaching position at the academy sir," she responded. "That wasn't so long ago." Her bitterness was like a mask on her face.

"I won't lie to you. We have enough instructors in weapons and strategy. This is a new era. We need scientists, diplomats and cultural experts. The mandate of Star Fleet under the Federation Charter is defensive. Shooting is our last option."

She held up her sleeve for them. "I got back in anyway. From the reports that I read the Klingons differ with you."

"You're overlooking the strides that we've made," Cromwell shot back. "Our first contact with the aliens of Axanar, Horizon's study of the Iotians, our contact with the Ro'ha," he continued. "The future belongs to the explorers. This notion of frightening the populace with nonsense about Klingons or Tholians is the same rot as the twentieth century media moguls used to manipulate the public."

Her fists balled up at her sides. "Neither of those are nonsense sir! The day will come when we have to fight them."

"Perhaps," Cromwell said. He had read that many had never really gotten over the war. "The Star Fleet personnel that leave the academy know how to fight, rest assured of that. But the real genius is making your opponent agree with you. One day, the Klingons may be in the Federation, maybe even the Romulans. What will you do then?"

"The Birds will be back and it won't be to offer a handshake. You'll see."

"You are pregnant?" Trudy asked the infuriated woman. Stiles seemed to be taken aback by the sudden change of topic. She answered in the affirmative.

"Don't worry," Trudy told her. "I guessed from your general appearance and the fact that we have two of our own." His wife sighed. Michael felt the brief pride that only a father can. "I hope that having that child changes your outlook. Olly's philosophy isn't about surrender."

"We aren't computers lieutenant," Cromwell said. "We have more choices than ones or twos, either or. We won't start a fight. But we'll finish one if it is thrust upon us. There are all sorts of solutions for conflicts and those solutions arise out of a greater understanding of potential adversaries."

Cromwell was particularly proud of Ensign Picard in that regard. She was the one that had broken through the barriers with the Axanar aliens. It had not been with a .45 or a laser guided missile: it had been through careful observation of their culture. Those people and aliens were where the hope lay.

He watched Stiles shake her head. "Looks like they kept intel anyway. Someone must feel a need to do more than study alien mating habits." The young woman eyed them both. "Time will tell."

Michael had to agree. He also silently agreed with his wife. Stiles had to get rid of her hatred or it would be passed down to her child. He could see that her anger was merely covered. Hadn't the man whose funereal they were attending taught her anything? The group parted. Stiles walked away without even as much as a good day. Cromwell hugged his wife to him. So many veterans had failed to adjust since there return. He could only hope as did Trudy that Stiles would turn around.

Star Fleet Headquarters, San Francisco, California, Jul 2188

"What do you think?" Captain Jocelyn Stiles asked Commander Darrel Paris.

"Section 31 of the charter might mean anything captain," the boyish looking commander answered. "You are presenting it as a license to do anything that you want."

"What do think now that Kluge is dead?" she asked him.

Stiles was seated comfortably in her office chair. She was leaning back with her feet up on the desk. It was neither professional nor ladylike. Stiles really didn't give a damn either way. The commander looked sidewise before answering.

"Chancellor Kluge was agitating the Klingons for war. It was all horseshit and an excuse to fight, probably because he was their first humanoid Klingon leader. I…suppose that it's a good thing that he died."

"Funny how that happened wasn't it?" she asked. He started to answer. "Did you give Zaphro my present?" she asked, cutting his response off.

"The sack of pecans…yes," he answered. Stiles smiled.

She had raised enough children to be able to see through people. Paris had probably thought of discarding her gift for the Orion syndicate leader. But he hadn't, Stiles knew. The officer was almost there. She had been looking for an assistant for many years now. She was forty nine and would soon retire. Paris had caught her attention.

"You took our friend Zaphro, instructions on how to make a genetically altered virus Darrel. Kluge had to die. His dying of natural causes is the antithesis of his culture. Meaning that there will be no legacy or call to arms over his death. Neat isn't it? The Federation avoids a senseless war while the Klingons avoid a slaughter."

"Wait! You mean that I—"

"You didn't kill him," she cut him off. Stiles pushed a glass of Saurian brandy towards him. "You just delivered the method. It's okay, look at the mess we avoided."

He tossed his drink down. Paris shook his head. "We can't decide that. That is the job of the Federation Council."

"Come on!" she exclaimed. "The council; are you nuts? The council is made up of men and aliens. They are still debating if the Klingons are a threat! Someone somewhere makes a decision to do something. Organizations are only the window dressing that allow individuals to decide things and live with their decisions. We—I made a decision instead."

"That's true," he agreed reluctantly. He shook his head. "Where in the hell did you come by something that does this captain?"

Stiles decided that he wasn't ready for the knowledge about the Doomsday Vault. She smiled and put off an answer. They debated awhile longer. It was becoming apparent that Darrel was not going to be her replacement. That was too bad. Paris had a teenaged son and daughter. Stiles looked at the holos of her daughter-in-law's new baby girl. She did not offer Paris another drink. That drink would have contained the antidote for the poison that he had just drunk. Brain hemorrhages were rare these days but they still happened.

"Captain you really should confer with Admiral Barnstable over this," Paris told her.

"You're right Darrel," she answered. The remorse that wasn't in her heart was in spades on her face. "I went down a wrong turn. I'll…talk to the admiral tomorrow."

Paris seemed convinced. He might have thought differently by tonight, if it wasn't that he would be dead before that. Stiles' conversation led him into the direction that she wanted him to take. All the while she was considering possible replacements. She was satisfied that she had convinced him of her regret. She even invited him along to the meeting with Barnstable.

"We'll hash all of this out tomorrow Darrel," she said. "Now, why don't you beat it home to your wife and those hellraiser teens of yours. I think I'll transport over and see my grandbaby."

"Okay captain," he replied. There was a little doubt there. "See you tomorrow then," he said.

"See you then Darrel," she answered.

She stood up and watched him leave for the last time. Stiles was glad that she had moved the Doomsday Vault and its contents. She didn't know if Reed had been an alien monster or just a psycho. She did know that he was right about the vault: its toys were useful even in this day and age. Stiles closed her office up and started out. The transport chamber was a mere five minute walk. She would be glad to see her granddaughter. Her comm box squawked. It was Barnstable. She brought his image up on her desktop.

"Hello sir," she answered formally.

"Hi there Jo," he said. "How are things?"

He smiled perfunctorily. Geddy Barnstable was a tall foreboding man who carried an Asian heritage but spoke with a decidedly British accent. He had stayed in the fleet only by the thin ends of his fingernails. Comet captains for the most part had ended up scrapped just like their ships had been. Barnstable had managed to hang on through a series of humiliating jobs and commands.

"They aren't so good sir," she answered with a frown. "I'm afraid that our young protégé was not at all who we thought that he was."

"Are you taking steps to deal with that Jo?" She nodded. He frowned and nodded back.

"Your work on the Klingon folder was excellent Jo," he remarked. "It looks like there won't be any trouble in that area for some time to come."

"I agree," she said. "I have some more candidates for our endeavor, Geddy. I was wondering if you'd like to beam over for dinner Saturday to discuss them."

"Fried chicken and fried green beans?" he asked in reply.

She nodded and smiled.

"Jeff…"

"Will be down at Henry's to give the kids a break from their baby," she answered.

"Ah...then that will be perfect," he leaned into his viewer. "A new grandchild, may I see?"

Stiles nodded, reached over and retrieved the treasured holo and held it up the viewer's pickup. Barnstable made the usual grandfatherly noises. His grandchildren were all grown and had children of their own. Stiles replaced the holo to its rightful place.

"It is good that we can give them a safe and secure future, eh?" he asked.

She smiled. Yes it was indeed a good thing.

Starbase One, Star Fleet Museum, May 2228

"Wake up!" the harsh voice shouted. Jocelyn Stiles' eyes fluttered open. The Tellarite cadet who had been their guide was standing before her. "A starship is no place for an old woman!"

She agreed with that. Stiles smiled at the Tellarite. She slowly pushed her body out of the seat. So much had happened in this metal shell. All of it had flashed across her mind. Stiles had been here almost an hour. She smiled, this time her lips curled the expression into a grimace. A lifetime condensed down to an hour. Had it meant anything at all?

The cadet led her past the engineering hull and out into the connecting tube that led to the base proper. The transit tube was transparent. Nanotechnology allowed for shielding the eyes of humans and aliens when the station fell into sunlight. Right now that was not the case and Stiles had a birdseye view her old ship beneath her feet.

Rising up from Earth a Valley Forge class vessel was climbing out. The engineers had begun building the mighty starships on Earth. The great ship, its forward command hull contained in a saucer, was not as long as Beagle. But the new ships boasted phasers and a type of lethal high energy torpedo. This single ship could easily have dispatched the entire, combined Romulan and Star Fleet forces of her day. Yet its primary mission was one of exploration. It had weapons thanks only to people like her.

A few tourists passed by her. Star Fleet engineers hustled around in pursuit of their duties. One of them shuffled past her, his eyes glued to the screen of the new combination of sensors and handheld computer. Stiles remembered that its designers called it a tri field computational and recording device. Someone with common sense had shortened that mouthful to tricorder. Stiles also noted that the man that was lugging the briefcase sized device around was a rear admiral.

Harried aides ran in pursuit of the officer. "Admiral Roddenberry, you left without the specifications!" one of them yelled.

They walked on into the distance. The great tube was empty now except for another tourist. Another Vulcan by the looks of him, she thought. She also thought that he was aged; by the way that he hobbled. The corridor's transparent floor was bordered with a handrail so that tourists could relax while they looked out into the shipyard and beyond. The Vulcan walked up to her and leaned on the railing in a most un-Vulcan manner. The alien reached up and threw his hood back.

"Did you get all prettied up to see me admiral?" she asked.

Valdore was as she remembered him from that meeting of almost six decades ago. Oh, he was older but obviously surgeons had worked on his face in order to remove the v-shaped ridge in his forehead. Kirk, the old councilor Kirk, was it David or Augustus; she could not remember. Kirk had told her that the Birdies had conquered another species and later used their DNA to save their small population. That was where the ridge was from.

"The work was necessary in order to come here Stiles," he answered. He said nothing else. The Romulan looked out over the shipyard.

"We too are said to be rebuilding," he said at long last. Valdore continued in answer to her unspoken question:

"I accepted blame for the loss as did Praetor Karzan. He took the long walk into what waits for us all. Praetor Vrax had commanded me to assist in the tribulations that followed. I did what was expected for the empire and then was sent away. I only heard news as it came in from the freighter masters."

"Those of us soldiers that lived to return became pariahs. We rebuilt what we could of our world but the committee opposed Vrax. They knew that they could not use us and then execute us. They chose instead to reward our service by sending us to a farming world. You humans have a word: gulag."

"You expectin' me to feel sorry for ya?"

He looked straight ahead. "I told you then that there can be nothing to correct what happened."

"Why?" she asked. He knew that she wasn't asking for an apology.

"I…grew to understand you better than any of your contemporaries of that time. I believed, correctly as it turned out that it would be you who would prove to more lethal against us. You are a worthy adversary. Your people had a poor way of honoring you."

"I got what was comin' to me. We aren't killers. Everyone wanted to forget the war. There were so many broken people after that. That was enough. They didn't want ole Stiles until things started lookin' bad again. At least they dusted me off and put me back out, guess you didn't have that luck?"

"The farming world is pleasant and quiet. We were all stripped of rank and title. I expected no less. I worked until I had saved enough thrones to do as I promised you. I have a small home that you would find pleasant."

"As to why: I had studied your people in particular. That you were repudiated came as no surprise to me. All of your cultures dismiss their warriors after war. I knew after the treaty that you would never really adjust to civilian life. We did kill your father and mate-to-be. I cannot undo that action. I should hate you for inflicting such a defeat onto us but I do not. You did as one of us would. I suspect too that you've taken part in events that followed. Your society does not appreciate what you've done."

"I cannot undo what was done. I am responsible for what happened to you. My only answer was to offer you a final resting place among those who are like you. We belong to that time. We were caught up in those events. Blame me if you will but even had I opposed the war I would have been executed, another like me would have been there. I cannot take back those actions. I can offer you a resting place."

She nodded. "I half felt like a fool when I had that signal sent out. Hell, I figured you for dead. I'm gettin' old admiral. The docs say that it's fifty-fifty that I'll be pissin' my panties and forgettin' my kids. The genes are there and I have been forgetting." Stiles shrugged. "It could be just old age, nothing more. I still got thirty years they say."

"You are alone," Valdore said. "I am sorry about your mate."

"Jeff never knew," she said. "He would have thought that I was a monster. It wasn't enough to protect my babies. I wanted to see that everyone's babies were safe."

"Service to the state is treasured by us," Valdore said. "At least—it used to be. My Romulus is dead. The price for impatience and treachery was exacted. I do not like it but I accept it." He looked out past the blue curve of the Earth towards space.

"My home is small but comfortable. It might surprise you but you are looked at as a hero by those of us on Al'aton; probably in no small part because of my words. The war is over for us Jocelyn Stiles."

"I am not here to kill an old woman. The time for retribution is past. I offer you only rest among those like you—like us."

"Watch that old!" she exclaimed. "You ain't no youngster anymore!"

He laughed. Stiles looked around in alarm. Such an action would reveal more than should be known. Even after all of this time, what harm would exposing the secret cause? Stiles thought that it would not be good. No, now was not the time. Valdore recovered his unemotional demeanor though before any harm could be done.

"I am almost two hundred and forty of your years old. My span too draws to a close. I have secured passage through the Orion criminal network. You may join me if you will. I can spend no more than ten of your days here."

She laughed softly. "Time to blow this popsicle stand. My mama used to say that. Anyway what would killin' an old lady get you? When your people come out again, and I know they will, someone will be waitin'. They'll stop you just like I did."

"Perhaps," Valdore said. "I will await your—"

"No, I'm ready. I've thought about this a hunnert times after the president's funereal. There's plasma in the old girl's chambers yet." Stiles looked below at Beagle. "I left the group. The leak will fill the engineering space. I left some DNA there. Poor, confused old lady died in a plasma leak." She giggled. "Maybe they'll name a school after me."

Her sons and daughters would miss her. So would the grandchildren. But Valdore was right. This was not her time any longer. She had been miserable since war's end. She had only drawn peace from operating Section 31. Now that she was retired that was denied her. Knowledge of that organization and the Romulan secret could not be revealed by an Alzheimer's riddled old lady. It was time to go.

"We live as long as our children remember us. There is little else to immortality," Valdore said. He offered her his arm. Stiles took it.

The End