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Q: Login Attempt with duration I did the login attempt but the problem is I want to have duration to log. I mean, if the attempt is gone, I want to put an extra information saying "Your attempt reach 0, please wait 3 minutes to log again" or something like that.
Login Form XML
<RelativeLayout xmlns:android="http://schemas.android.com/apk/res/android"
xmlns:tools="http://schemas.android.com/tools" android:layout_width="match_parent"
android:layout_height="match_parent" tools:context=".Mobile_Grocery"
android:id="@+id/mobile_grocery"
>
<ImageView
android:id="@+id/mobile_grocery_bckgrnd"
android:layout_width="match_parent"
android:layout_height="match_parent"
android:src="@drawable/mobile_grocery"
android:scaleType="centerCrop"
android:layout_alignParentTop="true"
android:layout_alignParentLeft="true"
android:layout_alignParentStart="true" />
<TextView
android:layout_width="wrap_content"
android:layout_height="wrap_content"
android:text="@string/mobile_grocery_main"
android:id="@+id/mobilegrocery"
android:layout_marginTop="40dp"
android:textSize="50dp"
android:textColor="#000000"
android:textStyle="bold|italic"
android:layout_alignParentTop="true"
android:layout_centerHorizontal="true" />
<EditText
android:layout_width="200dp"
android:layout_height="wrap_content"
android:id="@+id/Email"
android:hint="@string/email_text"
android:textColorHint="#000000"
android:layout_above="@+id/Password"
android:layout_alignLeft="@+id/Password"
android:layout_alignStart="@+id/Password" />
<EditText
android:layout_width="200dp"
android:layout_height="wrap_content"
android:id="@+id/Password"
android:hint="@string/password_text"
android:textColorHint="#000000"
android:layout_marginBottom="119dp"
android:layout_alignParentBottom="true"
android:layout_alignLeft="@+id/mobilegrocery"
android:layout_alignStart="@+id/mobilegrocery"
android:layout_marginLeft="37dp"
android:layout_marginStart="37dp"
android:password="true" />
<ImageButton
android:layout_width="100dp"
android:layout_height="45dp"
android:id="@+id/Login"
android:layout_marginTop="43dp"
android:layout_below="@+id/Email"
android:layout_alignLeft="@+id/Password"
android:layout_alignStart="@+id/Password"
android:src="@drawable/login_button"
android:scaleType="centerCrop"
android:layout_marginLeft="48dp"
android:layout_marginStart="48dp"
android:onClick="ocLogin"
/>
<TextView
android:layout_width="wrap_content"
android:layout_height="wrap_content"
android:text="@string/attempt_text"
android:id="@+id/attleft"
android:textSize="20dp"
android:textColor="#000000"
android:layout_alignParentBottom="true"
android:layout_alignParentLeft="true"
android:layout_alignParentStart="true" />
<ImageButton
android:layout_width="100dp"
android:layout_height="45dp"
android:id="@+id/register"
android:src="@drawable/register"
android:scaleType="centerCrop"
android:layout_below="@+id/Login"
android:layout_alignLeft="@+id/Login"
android:layout_alignStart="@+id/Login" />
<TextView
android:layout_width="match_parent"
android:layout_height="wrap_content"
android:id="@+id/number"
android:textColor="#000000"
android:textSize="20dp"
android:layout_alignParentBottom="true"
android:layout_alignLeft="@+id/register"
android:layout_alignStart="@+id/register"
android:password="false" />
Login Java
public class Mobile_Grocery extends ActionBarActivity {
private static EditText email;
private static EditText password;
private static TextView attempts;
private static ImageButton login_btn;
int attempt_counter = 3 ;
@Override
protected void onCreate(Bundle savedInstanceState) {
super.onCreate(savedInstanceState);
setContentView(R.layout.activity_mobile__grocery);
ocLogin();
}
public void ocLogin () {
email = (EditText) findViewById(R.id.Email);
password = (EditText) findViewById(R.id.Password);
attempts = (TextView) findViewById(R.id.number);
login_btn = (ImageButton) findViewById(R.id.Login);
attempts.setText(Integer.toString(attempt_counter));
login_btn.setOnClickListener(
new View.OnClickListener() {
@Override
public void onClick(View v) {
if (email.getText().toString().equals("admin") &&
password.getText().toString().equals("pass")) {
Toast.makeText(Mobile_Grocery.this, "Email and Password is correct",
Toast.LENGTH_SHORT).show();
Intent intent = new Intent("com.example.admin.mobile_grocery.Method");
startActivity(intent);
} else {
Toast.makeText(Mobile_Grocery.this, "Email and Password is incorrect",
Toast.LENGTH_SHORT).show();
attempt_counter--;
attempts.setText(Integer.toString(attempt_counter));
if (attempt_counter == 0) {
login_btn.setEnabled(false);
}
}
}
}
);
}
How can I do that?
A: You can do something like this,
First define
private static final int WAIT_TIME = 3 * 60 * 1000;
private int loginAttempts = 3;
In your login button click listener,
login_btn.setOnClickListener(
new View.OnClickListener() {
@Override
public void onClick(View v) {
if(loginAttempts == 0) {
Toast.makeText(Mobile_Grocery.this, "Your attempt reach 0, please wait 3 minutes to log again", Toast.LENGTH_SHORT).show();
return;
}
if (email.getText().toString().equals("admin") &&
password.getText().toString().equals("pass")) {
Toast.makeText(Mobile_Grocery.this, "Email and Password is correct",
Toast.LENGTH_SHORT).show();
Intent intent = new Intent("com.example.admin.mobile_grocery.Method");
startActivity(intent);
} else {
loginAttempts--;
Toast.makeText(Mobile_Grocery.this, "Email and Password is incorrect",
Toast.LENGTH_SHORT).show();
if(loginAttempts == 2) {
new Handler().postDelayed(new Runnable() {
@Override
public void run() {
loginAttempts = 3;
}
}, WAIT_TIME);
}
}
}
}
);
A: I recommend as following.
login(){
//show your loading text visible
new Thread(new Runnable() {
@Override
public void run() {
boolean loginTrue = //request your web login method
//You don'y need handler to pause thread. Http request will pause until response from server
runOnUiThread(new Runnable() {
@Override
public void run() {
//set invisible your laoding text
if(loginTrue){
Toast.makeText(Mobile_Grocery.this, "Email and Password is correct",
Toast.LENGTH_SHORT).show();
}else{
Toast.makeText(Mobile_Grocery.this, "Email and Password is incorrect",
Toast.LENGTH_SHORT).show();
}
}
});
}
}).start();
}
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This course will focus on the practical application of bioanalytical techniques for the detection and quantification of biomolecules in complex sample matrices. In this lab/lecture course students will gain understanding of basic bioanalytical instrumentation, sample preparation, and analysis techniques, and apply them in a variety of laboratory experiments. Graduate students will read primary literature articles and prepare oral presentations or written projects. Prer., CHEM 4001, CHEM 4002, and either CHEM 4211 or CHEM 4221 with grades of "C" or higher. Meets with CHEM 4502. | {
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Longitude Prize Information Session
An information event on the Longitude Prize will take place at the Trinity Biomedical Sciences Institute (TBSI) in on November 11th at 4pm. This briefing on the competition details will be given by a member of the Longitude Judging panel, Martin Kiernan, Research Fellow at the Richard Wells Research Centre at the University of West London and is Director of Clinical Research and Education for Gama Healthcare.
Longitude Prize is a challenge with a £10 million prize fund to help solve the problem of global antibiotic resistance. It is being run by Nesta, supported by Innovate UK. The Longitude prize was launched in 2014 to celebrate the 300 year anniversary of the original competition which sought to find a means to measure longitude. Six topics were put to the British public, who collectively voted on antibiotic resistance as the most pressing issue facing humanity in the coming years.
The challenge now, is to create a cost-effective, accurate, rapid, and easy-to-use test for bacterial infections that will allow health professionals worldwide to administer the right antibiotics at the right time.
The competition is open to everyone, from amateur scientists to the professional scientific community, to try and solve this issue, The judging panel will evaluate entries every four months until December 2019 or until a winner is chosen.
BiomedicalDublinLongitudeTrinity Biomedical Sciences Institute
Record Number of Collaborative Agreements Signed Between Industry and Researchers in 2015
Ireland-US research collaboration set to go ahead
Dual Quality of Food – European Commission Releases Common Testing Methodology | {
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Forget the personal website – LI now has the functionality to richly communicate your personal brand, and it is highly searchable by recruiters and hiring managers. Your LinkedIn profile gives you options for branding yourself across the written word, audio, video, photos, PowerPoint presentations and other documents, blogs, links etc. In addition, when someone searches on your name, your LI profile is more likely to come up in the first page of results than your personal website is (in most cases).
Want to find something or somebody on LinkedIn? Leave LI's Search and go out to Google to enter your search term(s) there. LinkedIn is supposed to be improving its Search but it's still hard to find someone in particular if they share a name with other LI members. One of many reasons why you might want to find people on LI is if they work for the company you are interested in. You can identify potential contacts and use the method described elsewhere in this blog to seek out and secure employee referrals – a GREAT way to get a job. I've found LI Search to be helpful, though, when seeking to build a list of companies that meet your criteria.
I know as well as all of you do how hard it is to take time out of a busy professional life to take advantage of these amazing features! It's the short-term vs long-term thing. In this case, leveraging LI's features will, WITHOUT A DOUBT, enhance your career prospects going forward. Good luck to you (and me!) in scheduling time to make this happen.
You MUST have a 1-page resume. Not true! The Career Directors International survey of recruiters, HR managers, and career coaches/resume writers shows that most people care more about the quality of the material than the length of the resume.
You MUST not go over two pages. NO, see reason above.
You MUST have a QR code on your resume. NO, so far there is no indication that this practice is catching on in a big way; if you put one on your resume, only some will click through.
A video resume is the way to go. NO, with 25% saying they would not view one and 13% saying they would, don't go out of your way to make one.
You don't need to be on social media. NO, Only 27% of people said they don't or rarely use social media to check out a candidate before deciding to interview them.
So, what should job seekers do in a positive direction?
Create a branded 100% complete LinkedIn Profile! Add apps!
Write a resume of 2-3 pages that has excellent content.
Visually present information so that the resume can be scanned in 1-2 minutes.
Extend your online identity footprint; make your content on other sites support your personal and career brand as expressed on your resume.
Take advantage of online opportunities for visuals: LinkedIn's slide app, Pinterest, youtube, etc.
Get in gear for the new job search with these suggestions! | {
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It really is commonly said that relocating derived from one of property or home completely to another is among the greatest ordeals that an individual might encounter of their lifestyles. If not thought out suitable, relocating property or home cannot merely become actually demanding, however can even be sentimentally wearing. In order to make your possessions as efficient as it can be. Somewhat arranging will let you stay away from a painful expertise! Comply with a few easy recommendations to start with to create your go less complicated.
# Telephone 2 or 3 Movers and Packers in Pune to get an estimate in addition to information on their own solutions. The actual mover might wish to acquire along with you in order that your carry of one's household furniture will probably be without difficulty. Select a organization property or home relocating that includes a very good reputation due to the solutions. Ideally, you intend to acquire personal references by folks you know who may have utilized a selected property or home removals corporation's solutions.
# Be crystal clear when you bargain the many solutions connected with movers. Ensure that your commitment consists of each of the related specifics. Let the movers realize of the most valuable items that need added health care in addition to focus.
# Authenticate how the mover's insurance protects the possessions while in carry. If not, verify your own insurance plan. This specific aspect is significant because the last thing you want as part of your property or home go should be to locate several of the things are destroyed within transit but not covered by any kind of insurance. Probably the most crucial issues with verifying insurance is to make certain Every one of the things that you'll be relocating are enough included. So verify to create that every the things are enough covered by verifying the type of insurance policy set up.
# Post the alter connected with tackle postal office shooting in the program connected with vehicle registration, insurance firms, banking companies, companies, program request connected with newspapers in addition to magazines, the doctor in addition to dentist, moms and dads in addition to pals. But if your property or home will probably be active by means of fresh owners, recall people inform them to help inform you connected with any kind of crucial communication that you will find have missed to help redirect for your fresh property or home. Depart information of one's fresh property or home while using the fresh people so that they can inform you connected with any kind of snail mail that is definitely going for you personally.
# Hold most receipts linked to the go. You are able to deduct the relocating expenses from the taxable cash flow for anyone who is getting close to no less than 45 miles from the business office.
The above mentioned are just some of principle points that need to be considered while you are making your possessions go. | {
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FreeBookNotes found 8 sites with book summaries or analysis of The Pale Blue Eye. If there is a The Pale Blue Eye SparkNotes, Shmoop guide, or Cliff Notes, you can find a link to each study guide below.
Among the summaries and analysis available for The Pale Blue Eye, there is 8 Book Reviews.
Depending on the study guide provider (SparkNotes, Shmoop, etc.), the resources below will generally offer The Pale Blue Eye chapter summaries, quotes, and analysis of themes, characters, and symbols.
Sites like SparkNotes with a The Pale Blue Eye study guide or cliff notes. Also includes sites with a short overview, synopsis, book report, or summary of Louis Bayard's The Pale Blue Eye.
Sites with a book review or quick commentary on The Pale Blue Eye by Louis Bayard.
FreeBookNotes has 3 more books by Louis Bayard, with a total of 21 study guides. | {
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Restylane, Perlane and Fine Line Restylane are hyaluronic acid gel products offered by the QMed Esthetics.
This family of products are of non-animal origin. The difference in the three products is related to the gel particle size.
Restylane is recommended for wrinkle correction and lip enhancements, while Restylane Fine Line is used to correct thin, superficial lines about the eyes, mouth, forehead and smile areas and Perlane is designed to shape facial contours, such as cheeks and chin, correct deep folds and for volume augmentation of the lips.
These products are teamed together and are considered "Tissue Tailored Concept", reflecting the different uses for each product. Because these products are non animal, there is no skin test necessary prior to the use of these products.
The results are seen immediately, and the products are considered long lasting but not permanent. How long a treatment holds is variable and depends on many factors, including age, skin type, life style and muscle activity. Approximatley 50-80% of the product remains after 6 months. Maintenance or touch-up treatments can be considered after 6 months, and most are done within a year.
As with all injectable treatments, there may be some reactions, such as swelling, redness, pain, itching, discoloration and tenderness at the implant site. These typically resolve spontaneously within one to two days after injection.
Other types of reactions are very rare, but about 1 in 2000 treated patients have experienced localized reaction thought to be of a hypersensitivity nature. These have consisted of swelling at the implant site. Redness, tenderness and rarely acne-like formations have also been reported. Generally described as mild or moderate, they tend to be self-limiting with an average duration of two weeks.
Restylane, Perlane, Fine Line Restylane are commonly used products with a long safety record, suitable for facial enhancement and wrinkle reduction. | {
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Endorsement from Karl Galinsky | Latin Alive!
« Continuing Education Units Now Available!
I am excited to report that Latin Alive! Book 1 has received a very kind endorsement from Dr. Karl Galinsky, the Floyd A. Cailloux Centennial Professor of Classics and Distinguished Teaching Professor at The University of Texas at Austin.
Thank you, Professor Galinsky, for your kind support! | {
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• FMT provides reusable pulse oximetry sensors for continuous monitoring of blood oxygen saturation and pulse rate in compatible with different manufacturers of pulse oximeters and patient monitors.
• FMT offers comfortable, durable and accurate pulse oximetry sensors designed to fit adult, pediatric and infant patients.
• Specially designed, polyurethane jacketed cable, flexible bend reliefs at the connector and sensor end provide extra durability and extend product life of FMT pulse oximetry sensors.
• Dual shielded cable assures signal integrity.
• FMT pulse oximetry sensors use all medical grade Polyurethane, Silicone, Santroprene, Polypropylene and ABS components. No LATEX. No PVC to maximize patient safety and comfort by minimizing the risk of bio-compatibility problems.
• The wide range of available connectors and precision optoelectronic components that meet the specifications and performance levels of the OEM sensors make FMT oximetry sensors compatible with most of the pulse oximeters and patient monitors in the market.
• FMT pulse oximetry sensors have part, lot and serial numbers to ensure equipment compatibility and product traceability.
• FMT disposable pulse oximetry sensors are ideal for extended monitoring or minimizing the risk of infection where the risk of cross-contamination is high.
• FMT disposable sensors are made of flexible shielded cable, high accuracy electronic components and 3M Microfoam™ or Medaplast™ fabric adhesive materials. These adhesive materials with medium adhesion maximize patient comfort and allow the sensor to be easily moved and quickly reapplied when repositioning.
• FMT also offers velcro non-adhesive single patient use sensors. Due to the Velcro design, the repositioning of the sensor is possible for many times without destroying the sensor body. This sensor is very helpful to users especially during long term monitorization.
• FMT disposable sensors have special design that ensures easy and accurate sensor placement and functionality.
• FMT offers four sizes of comfortable and accurate disposable sensors designed to fit adult, pediatric, infant and neonatal patients.
• FMT disposable sensors are compatible with major leading manufacturers of patient monitoring and pulse oximetry systems.
• FMT disposable pulse oximetry sensors have high signal accuracy. Accuracy is ±1% between 90%-100%, ±2% between 70%-89% and ±3% between 60%-70%.
• Dual shielded cable and added Faraday shielding feature reduces the effect of magnetic interference from the environment and increases the accuracy of the measurement.
• FMT disposable pulse oximetry sensors are supplied sterile or non-sterile and sold in 24 pieces per pack.
• All FMT disposable sensors are Latex-free and meet industry standards for biocompatibility.
• All FMT pulse oximetry sensors meet the requirements of MDD/93/42/EEC and CE marked.
• FMT offers high quality pulse oximetry adaptor and extension cables for use with the widest range for pulse oximeters.
• Specially designed, polyurethane jacketed cable, flexible bend reliefs at the connector and sensor connection point provides extra durability and extend product life of adaptor and extension cables.
• Durable polycarbonate cover holds the sensor connector completely and secures the sensor connection.
• FMT pulse oximetry adaptor and extension cables are in 2.4 and 1.5 meter standard lenghts. Other lenghts are available on request.
• Wide range of available connectors make FMT pulse oximetry adaptor and extension cables compatible with most of the patient monitors and pulseoximetries in the market. | {
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LFC Budget Includes Affordable Health Coverage Funds
on January 10, 2020 - 8:44am
NMTH News:
SANTA FE — The Legislative Finance Committee unveiled its FY 2021 budget proposal Tuesday, which included $500,000 critical to helping the Human Services Department "prepare to implement affordable health coverage options" for New Mexicans.
One of the main coverage options being considered is Medicaid Buy-in, an innovative policy that allows uninsured and under-insured New Mexicans to pay a monthly premium to receive trusted Medicaid coverage.
"This funding shows that the Legislature is serious about working with the administration to ensure that all New Mexicans have health care," said Strong Families New Mexico community leader Ali Moore, who recently shared her personal health care story in The Santa Fe New Mexican. "In New Mexico, we value family. Medicaid Buy-in would allow new moms like me to focus on our families—not on sky-high doctor bills."
Under the heading of "Coverage Initiatives" in the LFC's budget proposal for HSD, the funding is specifically designated to:
"…prepare to implement affordable health coverage options for uninsured and underinsured New Mexicans. HSD indicates its initial efforts will include a comprehensive study to identify target populations, benefit packages, and coverage options targeted to have the greatest impact for New Mexicans. The coverage initiatives should be affordable and sustainable and maximize federal funding."
"We appreciate the Legislative Finance Committee's plan to invest in affordable health coverage options," said Colin Baillio, director of Policy and Communication with Health Action NM. "Medicaid Buy-in is an ideal option that will make it easier to help New Mexicans pay for health care and will allow the state to leverage—and maximize—federal funding."
Medicaid Buy-in, which has been supported by the Governor and the Legislature, is a popular idea in the state.
"From Gallup to Doña Ana and up to Rio Arriba, New Mexico families are ready for Medicaid Buy-in," said Strong Families New Mexico Field Director Adriann Barboa. "Whether it's a Navajo mom who needs specialized care for her son outside of Indian Health Services or a father in Sunland Park trying to provide for his family, New Mexicans want a way to keep their families safe and healthy. Medicaid Buy-in, and this funding proposal from LFC, will change lives in our state."
LFC's proposed budget, along with the Governor's budget proposal, will be considered and acted on during the 2020 Legislative Session, which begins Jan. 21. | {
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Hilda and Jesse
Chef Kristina Compton and Rachel Sillcocks, intend to capitalize on the lack of inventive breakfast fare by providing an updated, more worldly interpretation of the unassuming meal period. They will bring the freedom, creativity and excellence of fine dining to a welcoming neighborhood restaurant.
Chef/Co-Founder, Kristina Compton has fifteen years in the industry dating back to the early 2000's in her hometown of Hilton Head Island, South Carolina. Upon graduation from High School, Kristina moved to Charleston, South Carolina, where she had the good fortune to land in the kitchen at Fig under the tutelage of Chef Mike Lata. It was this time at Fig that served as the foundation for her culinary education. Looking to further her cooking career Kristina moved to San Francisco, California. Since her arrival she has worked in some of the Bay Area's finest kitchens. Some highlights include:
Chef de Cuisine, Avery, SF, CA
Sous Chef, Mosu, SF, CA
Executive Sous Chef, Atelier Crenn, SF, CA
Sous Chef, Range, SF,CA
Sous Chef, Haven/Plum, OAK, CA
Kristina considers this new venture as the ultimate opportunity to showcase her food in a fun and unique setting.
Director of Operations/Co-Founder, Rachel Sillcocks has a total of seventeen years experience in the food industry. Since her arrival from New York, Rachel has had the opportunity to work with some of Northern California's best chefs, restaurateurs and entrepreneurs. The list includes:
- Sous Chef at Cyrus, Healdsburg
- Sous Chef at Nopa, San Francisco
- Executive Chef at Piccino, San Francisco
- Executive Chef at Range, San Francisco
- Consultant/Culinary Director at Green Heart Foods, San Francisco
- Executive Chef/Operator at Fare Resources, Emeryville
In her role as Director of Operations, Rachel is excited to build a restaurant that is known not only for its delicious food but also for its values and positive work environment. | {
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Quiz Master / June 14, 2020
Food Trivia Questions and Answers | The ultimate food quiz 2020
In the words of renowned American chef, Julia Child, "people who love to eat are always the best people." We'd argue that people who love to quiz are top of the pile, so we've gone ahead and mixed the two together, in this epic food and drinks quiz piece! If you're thinking of running a trivia night themed around cooking (or just dining), we've collected 100 great food trivia questions and answers; a veritable feast of trivia!
Feast your eyes on ten rounds of ten questions each, where we've sprinkled in easy, medium and difficult questions to keep your contestants guessing. We also think that a food quiz does lend itself to a few visuals, so go ahead and get a Picture Round ready with appetising images of the food and drinks on offer.
Whether it's just fun food trivia or dishes from around the globe with our world food trivia questions and answers, we've got you – the quizmaster – covered.
Quiz Rounds
Fast Food Trivia Questions
World Food Trivia Questions
Healthy Food Trivia Questions
Food Trivia Questions about the USA
Food Trivia Questions about the United Kingdom
Food Trivia Questions about Europe
Drinks Trivia Questions
General Food and Drink Trivia Questions
Food and drink trivia from films and television
From burgers to burritos and everything in between, fast food has swept the globe in the last few decades, and is a real 'leveller' when it comes to trivia. Kick off your epic food trivia night with a few fantastic fast food trivia questions and answers:
1. Previously widely used in commercials, what is the name of the McDonalds character who attempts to hoard all the burgers for himself?
2. How many calories are there in a Burger King Whopper (sandwich only): 330, 630 or 930?
3. Which drink, now a popular fast food, typically contained both eggs and whiskey when it originated in the late 1800s?
4. Which Mexican food has a name meaning "little donkey"?
5. Which fast food restaurant has the largest number of outlets in the world?
6. Modern pizza originated around which Italian city, as a means to feed poor people quickly and cheaply?
7. Which fast food restaurant was founded in Indiana in 1934 and had 500 UK outlets by the 1970s? Soon after this it disappeared completely from the US and fewer than 60 UK outlets remain.
8. Which soft drinks company produces Sprite, Fanta and Lilt?
9. Where on Cuba would you find the island's only McDonalds?
10. Salted flour, thyme, basil, oregano, garlic salt, celery salt, black pepper, white pepper, mustard powder, paprika and ginger are rumoured to be the secret ingredients of which fast food?
Read next: The best travel trivia questions and answers
Fast Food Trivia Answers
The Hamburgler
Wimpy
Guantanamo Bay (a United States naval base)
Interesting fact: This fried chicken recipe was "revealed" by Colonel Sanders' nephew Joe Ledington, who claims it comes from a handwritten note. The company who own KFC did not confirm the ingredients, but have said that in the 1940's, the Colonel used to display the ingredients above the door of his gas station diner.
For round two of your epic food trivia quiz, why not go around the world in ten dishes? We've collected 10 lip-smackingly good food quiz questions about meals and delicacies from across the globe:
1. Which Italian cheese has a name which translates as "sweet milk"?
2. Often roasted whole on a stick and considered a delicacy in parts of Ecuador and Peru, what type of animal is a "cuy"?
3. Which curry house favourite is named after the city now called Chennai?
4. In which country might you be invited to a "hāngi", where your food would be roasted in a pit under the ground?
5. Popular in Scandinavia, what is the main ingredient of a rollmop?
6. The words "chocolate", "chilli" and "avocado" derive from the language of which ancient people?
7. One of the most popular condiments in the world, which 2,200 year old sauce is made from fermented beans, grain, brine and fungus?
8. Although famously grown in a country in Australasia, which fruit is also known as the Chinese gooseberry?
9. Bobotie is the national dish of which country?
10. Also a well-known central European food, what is the German word for whirlpool?
Read next: 100 of the best entertainment trivia questions and answers
World Food Trivia Answers
Dolcelatte
You don't need to be plant-based to enjoy some of these particularly puzzling trivia questions and answers about healthy food. You might say you can't 'beet' 'em!
1. What is the common name for the meat of a deer, elk or antelope which is typically far leaner than alternatives such as beef?
2. Named after the hotel where it originated, which salad contains celery, apples, walnuts and grapes?
3. Which derogatory nickname was given to British sailors of the 19th century in reference to the Navy's practice of adding lemon juice to their rum to prevent scurvy?
4. In the traditional nursey rhyme, what is healthy about Jack Spratt's diet?
5. Although rich in Vitamin C and polyphenols, less than 5% of Britain's blackcurrants are consumed raw. What specific product is the destiny of the other 95%?
6. What is the French term used to describe mixed raw vegetables, often served with a dipping sauce?
7. Although eaten locally for thousands of years, production of which seed or grain has roughly tripled in the Andes since the 1990s?
8. The name of which food derives from the Latin for "salted", referring to the traditional practice of preserving vegetables in brine?
9. Which fictional character is credited with increasing spinach consumption in the US by a third?
10. Which food has the highest percentage water content?
Healthy Food Trivia Round Answers
Waldorf salad
Limeys
He ate no fat!
Jack Spratt could eat no fat.
And so betwixt the two of the them.
They licked the platter clean.
Made into Ribena
Interesting fact: The cucumber is 96.7% water. Iceberg lettuce and celery also make the podium with 95%+ water content. Watermelons do indeed contain more water than other melons but only slightly: watermelon is 91.5% water and a cantaloupe melon is 90.1% water.
The home of burgers, clam chowder and deep-dish pizzas, the United States of America has contributed some good (albeit sometimes carb-laden) dishes to the international menu. Test your contestants' knowledge with a few well-placed American food trivia questions and answers.
1. Why did the Carolina Reaper enter the Guinness Book of Records in 2017?
2. What is the best-selling flavour of ice cream in the United States?
3. Jambalaya, incorporating French, Spanish and Caribbean influence, first became popular in which city in the United States?
4. Which popular Southern dish comprises soft dough quick breads and a sauce made of sausage dripping, flour and milk?
5. Which drink is normally spelled with an "e" in the United States and Ireland, but without an "e" in other countries that produce it?
6. What kind of plant does the Colorado beetle attack?
7. Consumed by two Americans, bacon cubes, peaches and sugar cookie cubes was the first ever meal to be eaten where?
8. Which thick soup, the official cuisine of Louisiana, often contains okra as well as bell pepper, celery, onion and meat or seafood?
9. In which US state might you eat laulau?
10. Which now ubiquitous food was pioneered by German immigrant Anton Feuchtwanger in the early 1900s in the Midwest?
Recommended reading: Ultimate general knowledge quiz questions and answers
Food Trivia about the USA Round Answers
The world's hottest chilli
Fun fact: Feuchtwanger initially lent gloves to customers so they could eat the hot sausages he sold. Finding that many of the gloves were not returned, he swapped them for a bun.
The UK isn't all bangers and mash and mushy peas. The cuisine is more varied than you might think, plus the selection on offer is full of great ideas for trivia quiz questions! Here are a few ideas for a round on UK food:
1. What type of sausage, typically flavoured with pepper, is served in a large coil and named after an area of Northern England?
2. Which town in Lancashire gives its name to a small, round pastry cake filled with currants?
3. Which three sheep organs are minced with oatmeal to make haggis?
4. What is the name of the traditional cockney dish of specific fish cooked in spiced stock which is then allowed to set and cool?
5. Launched by Fry's in 1914, what confectionary is a rose-flavoured gel wrapped in milk chocolate?
6. Cullen Skink is a traditional Scottish soup whose main ingredients are potato and what?
7. Name any of the ingredients of a Glamorgan sausage.
8. Popular in Northern Ireland, a "farl" is a type of what?
9. What was the name of a Cadburys dark chocolate and also a model village built by Cadbury's?
10. Gregg's launched a successful new product made from fermented mould in 2018. What was it?
Food Trivia about the United Kingdom Answers
Heart, lungs and liver
Jellied eels
Cheese / leek / breadcrumbs / onion (it is vegetarian)
Vegan sausage roll
Interesting fact: Fusarium Venenatum is a microfungus or mould discovered growing in the soil in Buckinghamshire in the 1960s. It is fermented to form the mycoprotein Quorn. A popular online marketing campaign helped sales to take off.
Last, but not least in the regional round-up, it's worth including a quickfire round about Europe. Many of the globe's most notable dishes come countries like France, Spain and Italy, so there is some rich quiz territory to explore.
1. What would you get if you ordered albóndigas on a Spanish tapas menu?
2. A traditional Austrian wiener schnitzel is made of what meat?
3. When told that they had no bread, what did Marie Antoinette supposedly suggest the poor people of France should eat?
4. Which pasta shape has a name meaning little tongues?
5. What is the main ingredient of borscht, a popular soup throughout Eastern Europe?
6. Which Portuguese island gives its name to both a cake and a fortified wine?
7. What sort of food are pierogi, popular throughout Poland and Ukraine?
8. What is the name given to the Greek dip of strained yoghurt with garlic, cucumber and olive oil?
9. In which country are colcannon and champ popular dishes?
10. Oeufs à la neige are a French desert of what, floating in custard?
We think you'd like: Fun quiz questions for the whole family
Food Trivia about Europe Answers
Enough with the food, let's get onto the tipples! We've collected ten cracking quiz questions about drinks (alcohol and teetotaller alike), for you to use in a drinks trivia round:
1. Scrumpy is a type of which alcoholic drink?
2. Named after an area of New York, which cocktail contains whisky, sweet vermouth and bitters?
3. Which spirit is distilled from the Agave cactus?
4. Brewed in Surabaya, Bintang is the national beer of which country?
5. The juice of which two fruits can be found in Lilt (they make up approximately 5% of the drink)?
6. Which country grows the most coffee in the world?
7. Which type of wine is made of Pinot Noir, Pinot Meunier and Chardonnay grapes?
8. What does the abbreviation UHT (a method of preserving milk) stand for?
9. Which juice drink comes in flavours such as Mango Madness, Kiwi Strawberry and What-A-Melon?
10. Which berry is the predominant flavour in gin?
Drinks Trivia Round Answers
Tequila (or Mezcal)
Pineapple and Grapefruit
Ultra Heat Treatment / Ultra High Temperature processing
Recommended: Test your knowledge – the best Southeast Asia quiz questions
Need another round to challenge your trivia contestants? We've put together ten simple questions which will put their food and drinks knowledge to the test:
1. What type of food can be "chestnut", "oyster" or "button"?
2. Widely eaten during the Second World War, "spam" is a contraction of which two words that describe it as a product?
3. Which fruit is the most calorific per gram?
4. Which hugely popular flavouring is derived from a particular species of orchid from several islands in the Indian Ocean?
5. Which spice comes from a crocus plant?
6. What is the main ingredient of nasi goreng?
7. Arbequina, Manzanilla and Gordal are varieties of what?
8. Of all the artists that share their name exactly with a foodstuff, who has sold the most records?
9. What role does the Asian Palm Civet play in the production of Kopi Luwak coffee?
10. Early references to which British fast food staple can be found in two novels by Charles Dickens?
Civet Cat
General Food and Drink Trivia Answers
Spiced ham
Red Hot Chilli Peppers (marginally ahead of Meatloaf)
It eats, digests and defecates the coffee beans, partially fermenting them in doing so
Interesting fact: Great Expectations features a Fried Fish Warehouse and in A Tale of Two Cities the characters eat "chips of potato, fried with some reluctant drops of oil". Although fried fish had been brought to Britain by Jewish immigrants centuries earlier, it was not commonly eaten with chips until the mid-1800s when Joseph Malin ran out of fish in his East London restaurant. He replaced the fish with chips and, when fish came back in stock, found that customers wanted to order both together.
Closing out your ultimate food and drinks trivia night, take some time to explore questions related to food and drinks within entertainment, with these tricky questions on food within film and TV. This round also lends itself to being a picture round, as you could always use images from the relevant films and TV programmes to spice it up:
1. How were Clarissa Dickson-Wright and Jennifer Paterson known on UK television?
2. Which reality TV show starring Gordon Ramsay, first aired in the U.S. in 2005?
3. Which celebrity chef was played by Meryl Streep in a 2009 film?
4. Which TV chef has children called Daisy Boo, Buddy Bear and Petal Blossom Rainbow, amongst other equally eye-rolling names?
5. Which 1992 film starred Steven Seagal as a ship's cook who saves a US Navy vessel from terrorists?
6. In a famous scene from the film Pulp Fiction, Vincent tells Jules that which item is called a "Royale with Cheese" in France?
7. What does Violet Beauregard turn into in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory / Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory?
8. In which film is there a famous "spaghetti scene" where the two characters end up kissing because they are both eating the same strand of pasta?
9. Which food is like life, according to Forrest Gump's momma, because "you never know what you're gonna get"?
10. Which peanut confectionary does Elliot use to lure E.T.?
Read this next: 100 easy movie trivia questions and answers
Food and drink trivia from films and television round answers
Two Fat Ladies
Quarter Pounder (with cheese)
A blueberry
(A box of) chocolates
Reese's Pieces
Interesting fact: Mars Inc. were approached by the film production company who wanted to use M&Ms in this scene. Rivals Hershey agreed to spend $1 million promoting the film and were allowed to use E.T. in their own advertisements. The scene is considered one of the most successful product placements of all time – sales of Reese's Pieces shot up 85%.
We hope this food trivia quiz has, at best, challenged your contestants and, at worst, made everyone ravenously hungry! If you think we've missed any easy food trivia questions and answers, do pop them in the comments below.
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What does the P in INFP mean? (3 functions)
This blog post aims to answer the question, "What does the P in INFP mean?" and explore the various dimensions of the Myers Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI) personality type named INFP that will help understand the answer.
What does the P in INFP mean?
The P in INFP means Perceiving. The following are 3 functions of perceiving manifested by INFPs –
INFPs, as perceivers, like to be spontaneous and flexible rather than planned and structured.
INFPs, as perceivers, are flexible and versatile at work and in life.
INFPs, as perceivers, are more concerned with possibilities than with reaching conclusions.
These 3 functions of perceiving manifested by INFPs will be discussed in further detail below after taking a deeper look at what INFP means.
What are these 3 functions of perceiving manifested by INFPs?
The P in INFP stands for Perceiving which means that INFPs like to be spontaneous and flexible rather than planned and structured.
Perceivers demand flexibility in their life and in how they handle their time. They prefer to be open to new event chances and appreciate making decisions on the fly, and they might occasionally enjoy working on things at the last minute or on their own timetable.
Perceiving personalities approach life in a freewheeling, spontaneous manner, preferring to keep their choices open rather than making a firm plan of action. Structure is perceived as confining, and they desire flexibility in their life.
They like adjusting to new conditions and are dissatisfied with the everyday grind of routines. People who have this desire gain control by making decisions only when they are really essential.
They regard deadlines as pliable and frequently postpone making decisions until the last possible minute in order to spend as much time as possible researching fresh choices.
They would rather begin a new project than end an existing one since making a decision leads them to commit to something that may turn out to be the inferior option.
They live for the now and work afterwards, and they are always searching the horizon for new possibilities and chances. They might appear untrustworthy and erratic, but it's all driven by a desire to keep their choices open.
Externalized perceiving functions will make the P personality types appear more relaxed and adaptable.
Because their most prominent decision-making process (of thinking or emotion) is internalised, they will display the world primarily how they see things; and, while impacted by their internal judgement process, their decision-making process will be less evident.
As a result, perceivers frequently appear more open-minded and laid-back. They appear to be more spontaneous and adaptive. They will discuss what they notice rather than what they have determined.
They are more concerned with investigating chances and possibilities than with reaching conclusions. Deadlines, planning, and predictability tend to worry Perceivers rather than soothe them.
Perceivers can be highly planned or decisive because this preference just characterises what they display to the outside world. What appears to be a spur-of-the-moment choice might have been months in the making.
This blog post aimed to answer the question, "What does the P in INFP mean?" and reviewed the features and functions of the introverted and extremely inventive Myers Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI) personality type named INFP to help determine what the P in INFP means. Please feel free to reach out to us with any questions or comments you may have.
Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs): What does the P in INFP mean?
What is judging vs perceiving?
People who favour Judging desire things to be tidy, ordered, and established. The Perceiving preference prefers flexibility and spontaneity. Judges like things to be resolved, but Perceivers prefer things to be left open-ended.
What does F mean in INFP?
The 'F' in INFP means 'Feeling'. Intuitive (N) and Thinking (T) personality types, known for their rationality, impartiality, and intellectual excellence. Intuitive (N) and Feeling (F) personality types, known for their empathy, diplomatic skills, and passionate idealism.
What does the P in Myers-Briggs mean?
Perceiving – the letter P stands for Perceiving, and people with this preference are the ones who want flexibility in their lives and in how their time is managed.
What does the J mean in INFJ?
The J stands for Judging. It does not mean being judgmental. It means that an INFJ makes fairly quick decisions about people. They rely on their natural instincts in conjunction with their experiences to decide if they want to be near someone or disappear from their presence. It is actually a very practical personality trait.
What is a perceiving personality?
Ps, or perceiving personality types, feel at ease. They deal with difficulties by having an open schedule that allows them to work at their own speed and change assignments as needed. People with a perceiving preference are adaptive and nonjudgmental at work.
How do you know if you're a judger or perceiver?
Judgers prefer to have everything determined for them, to have a strategy, and to have their surroundings neat. Perceivers want to keep their choices open, to be adaptive or spontaneous, and they are typically quite fine with a little clutter.
INFP, The Healer. Truity. (n.d.). Retrieved from https://www.truity.com/personality-type/INFP#:~:text=INFP%20is%20one%20of%20the,work%20of%20psychologist%20C.G.%20Jung.
Mediator Personality INFP-A / INFP-T (WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE?). 16 Personalities. (n.d.). Retrieved from https://www.16personalities.com/infp-personality
Storm, S. Understanding What the J/P Preference REALLY Means. Psychology Junkie. (2015, September 13). Retrieved from https://www.psychologyjunkie.com/2015/09/13/myers-briggs-mistakes-understanding-what-the-jp-preference-really-means/
Judging or Perceiving. The Myers & Briggs Foundation. (n.d.). Retrieved from https://www.myersbriggs.org/my-mbti-personality-type/mbti-basics/judging-or-perceiving.htm
Granneman, J. 12 Secrets of the INFP Personality Type. Introvert, Dear. (2018, January 14). Retrieved from https://introvertdear.com/news/10-type-secrets-of-the-infp/
Roscoe. MBTI Personality Types J and P. (2019, November 14). Retrieved from https://www.personalitypathways.com/personality-type/mbti-personality-types-j-and-p/
Melissa. What do the letters in the Myers-Briggs test stand for? (2017, July 11). Retrieved from https://www.mbtionline.com/en-US/Articles/2017/July/What-do-the-letters-in-the-Myers-Briggs-test-stand-for
INFP, the thoughtful idealist. (n.d.). Retrieved from https://www.mbtionline.com/en-US/MBTI-Types/INFP
INFP. Urban Dictionary. (n.d.). Retrieved from https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=INFP
Categories INFP, MBTI Tags What does the P in INFP mean? Post navigation
What does the N stand for in INFP? (3 functions)
What does the T stand for in INFP T? (5 insights) | {
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Linung Bulen II is een bestuurslaag in het regentschap Aceh Tengah van de provincie Atjeh, Indonesië. Linung Bulen II telt 638 inwoners (volkstelling 2010).
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Kerrison Media
John Kerrison on media, social content, and photography
The secrets of social media management? Mind the gap
It's customary for social media managers to share a last hurrah post when changing roles. I'm off to an exciting new challenge at Service NSW so this is that post about what I've learned and loved doing with Transport for NSW. I've been working with passionate leaders who put the customer first. These same people trusted me when I became Transport's first social media manager.
Here's some of what we achieved along the way.
Get everyone to agree on the framework.
Social media managers must earn trust. In my role at Transport, we grew from six social platforms to close to 40 in three years. I had support for a federated management model for social where policies and security are centralised but the content production and distribution are in the hands of the subject matter experts. As a team, we became more responsive to customers.
Trust your online community and mind the gap.
Understanding how people consume news helps you produce better social media content. It's critical to listen to online communities because that's how you narrow that gap between what the organisation wants to say and what people really want to hear. Create more relevant, shareable and useful content. Leading social media for the Your Ferry competition was a career highlight.
Update your video strategy.
I campaigned to introduce an inhouse content producer and committed to more video capability across the organisation. Because more people are watching more video on mobile phones, the rules have been rewritten: no opening tiles, include shorter shots in the first three seconds, fewer talking heads, bold copy on screen, and the key message goes first- not last.
Welcome transactions on social media.
I am so proud of the Twitter offering for public transport customers. Today, they can ask questions and get help in real time with a few taps of the mobile keyboard. The rapid growth of direct messaging and chat tools will change the game for customer service. It's great to see Transport is committed to some exciting things in the social media transaction space.
Master of Ceremonies at the Transport Awards 2016
It was a tough decision to leave Transport for NSW in the midst of such growth but I'm also excited by my next steps. Possibly the greatest thing I take away from my time at Transport is a network of friends and mentors. Thank you to my immediate team for teaching me so much of what I claim to know! It's been a fun ride; one that was guided by our customers each and every time.
Kerrison Media, Public Affairs, Social Media
Can journalists survive inside big business?
Managing social media in a large organisation
1 thought on "The secrets of social media management? Mind the gap"
james massad on December 20, 2016 | 12:20 am
John it must be a hard time, but that doesn't change the facts. Weve had a culture war in Sydney and the "jocks" won. Artists,scientists & minorities livelihoods were discarded our views ignored and this is the consequences we left to feed our families, we were shunned in organisations such as yours, absolutely. The city establishment has had absolutely no idea of the problems it is facing and now how to deal with them, the recent fiasco is proof of that. How could that have gotten through the filters? Its incomprehensibly stupid by every local and global standard there is. Yes tourism will suffer, yes innovation will suffer, Sydney now has a bad reputation good minds will not come and stay for tourism or work, I live overseas yes all comments akin. Thats the truth. LISTEN! We've gone, we could of told you the harms that releasing such tripe would cause, But there was no place in your organisations or similar for us. None, Inclusiveness was disregarded and you all must lie in the bed you made. H.R. Thats " the gap". Would of saved your job. Enjoy the choc tops & don't stay up too late mate x
Retro flat colour
Black and White exercise
Four tips to mindful leadership
Social media teams in government embracing shift to video
Mic Night Series
Kerrison Media 2021 . Powered by WordPress | {
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Keeping you up to date on the progress of the Named Person scheme and the NO2NP campaign.
NO2NP ROADSHOW: KILMARNOCK
The Dean Suite of Kilmarnock's Park Hotel was full on Wednesday night for the latest stop for the NO2NP Roadshow. We even had a journalist and photographer from a national newspaper turn up! Word about our roadshow events is certainly getting around.
After a video was shown from last week's Question Time in Aberdeen (where the Named Person was discussed), community paediatrician Dr Jenny Cunningham gave the first talk. She said that a child's wellbeing (something nowhere defined in the legislation) is going to be assessed and judged, not by parents, but by health visitors, teachers and social workers.
Jenny continued: "The assumption is that parents are incapable of ensuring their children are safe and healthy and happy – and incapable of accessing the various services without the assistance of a third party." She also expressed her concern about information sharing with various agencies and third parties and the creation of a central database: "Who controls it? Who can access it? What will happen to all the information on it?"
She finished by saying that the Named Person scheme "undermines, not supports, parental authority. Parenting is not some formulaic prescription of right and wrong practices: it's all about parents' relationship with their children".
Next up was Dr Gordon Macdonald, CARE for Scotland's Parliamentary Officer. He explained the reasons behind NO2NP's opposition to the Named Person scheme, which are really threefold. First, it's universal in its nature – it's not just for a few vulnerable children and there is no opt-out – and no opt-in either. Secondly, it's about the nebulous concept of wellbeing, not welfare (which is defined in law as significant risk of harm or neglect). Wellbeing is much harder to define, indeed there is no definition of it in the Act. And the third reason is the widespread data sharing that will take place, for which there is no opt-out. Despite Nicola Sturgeon's assurances that the scheme is not mandatory, the data sharing aspect will be universal and compulsory, with no consent required for the sharing of personal and sensitive information.
Gordon's children's school recently sent him a letter which said: "It is our practice to share information", which is far removed from the legal requirement of "strict necessity" for such information sharing. If parents refuse to cooperate, then that itself becomes problematic. Gordon went on to say that the ideology behind the scheme is that children's groups see children as being fully autonomous, when in fact they are not.
Lesley Scott from TYMES Trust then spoke about the fact that children and young people must show progress in the eight areas of wellbeing (SHANARRI) in order to be assessed as doing well now and in the future. But even supporters of this scheme cannot find the words to explain the concept at the heart of the Named Person. Lesley went on to say that "in East Ayrshire you are part of the AYRshare model for health and social care collaboration.
NHS Ayrshire and Arran along with North, East and South Ayrshire Councils have access to shared files which are created by practitioners based on a child's NHS number. 'At the push of a button' practitioners can 'push' information on to AYRshare. Police are also on AYRshare and there has apparently been a successful test in Dalmellington involving GPs, pharmacy, health visitors and education – this trial is being extended to Loudon."
Lesley had referred to a chronology of a child's life that health visitors will use and this timeline of 'significant events' is one of the documents that will be shared through systems like AYRshare. "But what is a 'significant event'?", Lesley asked. She then produced another 'non-exhaustive' guide from the Government, which includes:
• Positive or negative changes in family circumstances, e.g. housing, birth of a sibling, emotional wellbeing
• Childhood illnesses
• Dates of immunisations and screenings
• Physical and mental health and wellbeing of child, parents/carers
• In Perth and Kinross, parental non-engagement is also classed as a significant event
In other words, she concluded, anything and everything will be logged – and shared.
After showing a video about the history of the NO2NP campaign, Nigel Kenny suggested some ways in which people could be involved, before Dr Stuart Waiton from Abertay University hosted an extended Q&A.
Several people signed up as volunteers and a local team will be in Kilmarnock's town centre this Saturday for our latest Action Day. If you live in the area, please come and say hello to them!
Dr Stuart Waiton: Sinister law that will chill the blood of EVERY family
From the sun on their backs and how often they smile to the state of family finances, your child will soon be scrutinised on 529 'risk and wellbeing' indicators. And it's all down to the SNP's grotesquely intrusive Named Person Act…
By Dr Stuart Waiton, published in Scottish Daily Mail, 05 Mar 2016
About ten years ago I started writing a dystopian novel about a future world where everyone, from birth, was given a state-appointed 'support worker' to monitor their development. Now I find, with the creation of the Named Person in Scotland, I no longer need to imagine this scenario. By August, it will be a reality.
By then, every headteacher in our schools will become a Named Person. And every health visitor will likewise become a Named Person, visiting new mothers and fathers eight times in their child's first year alone, to assess not only the health of the baby but the 'healthiness' of you as a parent and considering your financial situation.
Every professional who has any dealings with a child, or with an adult who has children, will be trained to inform the Named Person if they have any 'concerns'.
But these are not concerns about a serious risk of neglect or abuse. These are concerns about 'wellbeing' – one of the most flexible and loose concepts imaginable, a definition so wide-ranging that it is possible to imagine state investigations of families based on almost anything.
From the sun on their backs to the food they eat, the new technologies they indulge in and especially their relationships with family and friends, almost every aspect of a child's life is being re-imagined as a 'risk'.
Instead of at-risk children being a small minority, the presumption – say critics – is that all children are at risk.
Parents themselves are increasingly regarded as one of the biggest risks to their own children, struggling as they are with what the architects of the Named Person scheme regard as the near-impossible burden of being a parent.
The training of professionals involved with the new system will include a working knowledge of the 221 risk indicators and the 308-long list of wellbeing indicators, which include questions about whether or not a child 'smiles a lot'; does the child have a 'good relationship with the family' and do they 'receive regular praise and encouragement'.
Bob Fraser, a health adviser working with a forerunner of the Named Person scheme, suggested that a lack of hope, love, or spirituality, provided by parents could – and perhaps should – be the basis for action.
This, he noted, would mean intervening with children who are 'not just the usual suspects, not just for those we identify as those in need'.
Other attempts to explain to parents what the Named Person is all about ask questions such as: 'Does the child get a say in things such as how their room is decorated and what they watch on TV?'
This is a fundamental change in the way children are considered by the state, one with profound implications for the family unit. The state's remit will now extend beyond our front doors and into the very heart of the family, scrutinising the relationship between parent and child and intervening if it does not like what it sees.
Sharing information about you and your child is enshrined in the system. Concerns, no matter how apparently trivial, must be passed on and this imperative to share over-rides normal barriers of confidentiality. The driver for all this is a pivotal shift in the way we think.
For the sociologist Frank Furedi, what we are witnessing in British – and to some extent in Western – society is the emergence of an exaggerated ' risk consciousness'. This is most intense when children are involved.
Writer on parenting cultures Dr Jan Macvarish, of the University of Kent, argues that this risk consciousness surrounding children has been further assisted by the expanding category of 'abuse' and 'neglect'.
'Behaviour which would once have been regarded as within the range of family experiences, such as children becoming overweight or parents getting angry and using moderate chastisement, is now categorised with reference to ideas of risk, abuse or neglect.'
This expanding category of abuse can be seen clearly in relation to emotional issues, where tensions and difficulties are being recategorised as forms of abuse.
This has led to calls for a 'Cinderella Law' to punish parents regarded as inflicting emotional harm on their children.
Dr Ellie Lee, also from the University of Kent, is an important critic of our growing parenting industry.
She says the tendency to view the world and our experiences through the prism of risk has meant the idea of the 'child at risk', which once related to a very specific group of children, has become a category increasingly applied to all children.
So for many people, this new state guardian is seen as a menace, an authoritarian reflection of the expanding nanny state.
However, for those in favour, the Named Person is simply about providing better services and support to parents and children alike.
The point is, what it means to provide 'services and support' to parents and children means something very different from what it used to.
Author Professor Nigel Parton, an expert in social work services, has observed that over the past two decades the state and state professionals have changed their focus and understanding when dealing with children.
We are no longer talking about a child any more, he explains. Rather, we are now always considering the 'at-risk child'.
The message to professionals has been clear: 'Yes, we know you're here to teach children or to heal them or to help the family access services. But in your line of duty, first of all you must understand that you must be safeguarding children.' You must, first and foremost, ensure that every child is safe.
At one level this appears reasonable. Who wouldn't be interested in a child's safety?
The important point is to understand the significance of making safety the No.1 priority and of turning all professionals who deal with children into 'safeguarders' in a climate in which every aspect of a child's upbringing presents a risk.
This expanding concern about risks within childcare professionals is that the risk management of children has become a political priority.
This has been assisted by the change in politics. Rather than conviction politics dealing with big ideas, we have moved towards a micro-managerial approach that shifts the focus of state attention away from big issues and ideas onto the minutiae of everyday life.
There is a tendency to understand social problems, and their solutions, entirely in terms of individual behaviour.
One example of this is the way it has become commonplace for our leaders to increasingly represent parenting as the 'single most important cause of impaired life chances, outstripping any other factor', as Dr Lee argues.
So children today are more likely to be looked at as being 'at risk' by our safeguarding professionals and what is understood to be a risk is expanding all the time.
Add in micro-managerial politicians increasingly concerned with the risk management of children's lives and the outcome, Professor Parton argues, i s that the state becomes obsessed with prevention. Preventing harm becomes the default position of all 'rightthinking' modern governments.
Parents, too, are seen in a new way today and a good parent is understood to be one aware of all the potential risks and harms their children face. At the same time, parents are understood to be a potential risk – arguably the most important 'risk factor' in a child's life.
This is one of the reasons David Cameron has argued that all parents should have parenting classes.
The importance of the family as a private institution where people take full responsibility for their children and where individuals learn what it means to be responsible is lost within this scenario.
The family, once a no-go area for government and professional involvement, disappears or is diminished. With the Named Person we see these trends being played out in a more extreme form. The role of the Named Person is to oversee the 'wellbeing' of all children, to share information with other prof essionals who must be trained to understand their role in overseeing their wellbeing.
Information sharing and potential intervention in a child and family's life will be based on 'wellbeing concerns'.
This is a major change from the previous benchmark for intervention based on evidence of 'significant risk of harm'. The bar has been substantially lowered to allow and even encourage professionals of all descriptions to investigate, or share information about, families.
The whole basis of the Named Person is predicated upon the understanding that 'information on less critical concerns about a child's wellbeing must be shared'.
Health visitors who act as a Named Person, say official guidelines, must share information to support or safeguard a child's wellbeing. They are obliged to pass on any and every issue, 'even where there is a duty of confidentiality'. The watchword here is intervention.
The consultation document discussing the new Named Person Bill explained: ' We must intervene earlier to stop major problems developing in the future.'
This necessitates that professionals get involved in issues and areas of life previously understood to be beyond their remit.
For the Named Person to be effective, they must intervene in more minor issues more often.
Some believe teachers, for instance, won't have time to do this – but if they do not, it contravenes their duties as a listed, legal Named Person.
Health visitors acting as Named Persons now have a wider ' health' remit including breastfeeding benefit awareness and inquiries about family finances and money worries.
Even before a baby is born, core issues to be discussed will include promoting sensitive parenting, raising awareness about the value of talking, stroking and singing pre-birth and raising awareness about second-hand smoke.
The Scottish Government is not lying when it says the Named Person is about services and support for children and parents.
It is simply that the child they see is presumed to be a 'child at risk' and the 'responsible' parent is a risk manager who recognises the need – indeed 'aspires' – to have professional support.
Support and services are less about things we want and more about the responsible, riskaverse attitudes and behaviours the Government believes we should have.
And if you think safety nets are in place to make sure you don't fall foul of a mistake or malicious report, think again.
Scottish Public Services Ombudsman Jim Martin has written to ministers to say the system f or complaints by unhappy parents is ' outdated and out of step with modern complaint handling'.
Our rights are being transformed from the right of privacy and autonomy to a right to receive support and surveillance from experts and risk managers to help us with the apparently impossible task of being a parent.
Stuart Waiton is senior lecturer in sociology and criminology at Abertay University.
Read more by Dr Stuart Waiton:
Third Way Parenting and the Creation of the "Named Person" in Scotland: The End of Family Privacy and Autonomy?
SAGE OPEN, 26 February 2016
Would your family pass the latest Named Person 'Orwellian' state testing?
Is your home cosy? Do your parents make you feel special? Who clothes you and cooks for you? These are just some of the questions nursery kids could be asked by Named Persons in surveys proposed by local councils.
And they plan to store all the harvested confidential information on one giant council database! Hang on a minute…!
Is it not obvious to all that this is fundamentally wrong and open to misuse?
Sample questions and potential answers are being used in Named Person training sessions to teach state officials how to subtly draw out information from children, interpret the answers, record it on a database and identify potentially 'at risk' kids.
One such system called "What I Think" has been developed for use with children from nursery up to age 8. Officials can select information from conversations with the child, and also drawings, photographs and recordings.
In the training Named Persons are encouraged to obtain information in a 'natural' way so that children don't notice they are being questioned.
Sample scenarios designed to show Named Persons when a child could be deemed 'at risk', included a child not missing their mother when they stayed overnight at their granny's, or a child being shouted at by their father after having an accident when playing alone in the park.
Maggie Mellon, a top social work consultant, Vice Chair of the British Association of Social Workers and former director of charity Children 1st, analysed the proposed system.
She told the Mail On Sunday: "The well-being indicators in this tool are clearly being used as a test of parents. They are not really about the child's view, as there is no attempt to measure the child's happiness or creativity.
"The examples given imply the nursery or school is a neutral place staffed by experts and the home is a hotbed of risk. In fact, most parents can tell you the stories that children bring home of shouting nursery workers, horrible, scary teachers and mean other children. Sometimes they just need to be heard and comforted and encouraged to see the other person's point of view, although sometimes there is a need to act.
"But", she commented, "parents don't get to write down these people's names and put them on a national database for other parents to have a good read, and add their own damning stories. Parents have to think very carefully about how to respond to what children say and how not to make things worse with a teacher who clearly does not like their child.
Maggie stated: "The examples given also encourage the teacher and key worker to record very positive things about themselves and not about parents. Would the key worker record that the child told them: 'I hate you, you are mean'? Bias in key workers might be against parents who are poor, black, single, gay or posh… there is no warning of this in the guidance.
She warned: "The fact that these actually very biased and partial anecdotes will be going on a national database is extremely worrying and should make everyone sit up and say 'No'. Overall, this is a crude tool with no validity – but it will be used and the information interpreted as evidence of child abuse or neglect."
Dr Stuart Waiton, senior sociology lecturer at Abertay University, said: "A major problem with the Named Person professionals is that they appear to have lost any sense of the family as an important private institution for society. Trust, loyalty and privacy in their warped eyes are transformed into secrets being hidden 'behind closed doors'.
He added: "Once we see every child as vulnerable and every family as potentially toxic, the result is that professionals see less of a problem with interfering in the private lives of children and parents."
A NO2NP spokesman described the situation as 'creepy', and warned: "Psychologically manipulating youngsters so you can squeeze confidential information out of them is fundamentally wrong – but to store all this information on a giant council database is astonishingly foolhardy.
He added: "Parents are going to have to tell schools and local authorities to stop spying on their children. It really is beyond time that the Scottish Government called a halt to this whole charade before they do any more damage. It's Orwellian, it's immoral and it has to stop."
DR STUART WAITON: IF I COULD SCRAP ONE LAW…
Last year the Institute of Ideas, as part of their Election 2015 State of the Nation debates, asked a mix of commentators to suggest the one law or policy – existing or proposed – they would like to scrap.
Dr Stuart Waiton was one such commentator and he took the opportunity to talk about why he would scrap the Scottish Government's Named Person legislation. Read the full article below.
A state-appointed guardian for every child? No thanks.
By Dr Stuart Waiton
Scotland's 'named person' legislation means constant intrusion into family life.
In Scotland, we have a new law that means every child from birth (in fact, before birth) will be given a state-appointed guardian – a 'named person' – to oversee his or her interests – in particular to oversee their 'wellbeing' and to ensure they are 'safe'.
What is interesting about this new legislation is the extent to which the role of the parent is being confused with state employees – health visitors, then nursery staff, then senior teachers – who are taking on a much more substantial 'caring' role regarding children.
Indeed, the process of this legislation coming into being is telling in itself. The Children and Young People Act, for example, had over 50 mentions of 'corporate parents' but only one mention of 'family' or 'families'. Elsewhere, we have found that research being carried out in schools to assist the development of the 'named person' system has not adopted the usual research benchmark of asking parents for 'active consent' before their children fill out surveys.
Consequently, many parents have had no idea that this research is taking place – with their children being asked a range of intrusive questions about their lives and relationships with their parents. Again, it is telling that some of these surveys have asked children outrageous questions and appear to have little or no regard for the appropriateness of what they are doing. So for example, one survey aimed at 12-year-olds asked: 'Have you ever had anal sex?'
Similarly, a concern has recently been raised by an Aberdeen parent about her 13-year-old daughter being called for an interview with a nurse where she was quizzed about the nature of the relationship with her mother and father. It is yet to be made clear if this was a one-off interview, but I have been informed that every child of this age group will be interviewed in this way. If this is true, it is possible that this initiative could begin to become a significant problem for the SNP government, as this universal 'service' begins to hit middle-class parents who are perhaps more likely to find this type of state scrutiny – something that poorer sections of society are, unfortunately, more accustomed to – unacceptable.
The key problem with the 'named person' initiative is that it encourages the named individual to have a legal responsibility for the 'wellbeing' of children. Previously an investigation into a child and a family's life would be initiated only if it was felt that a child was at 'significant risk of harm'. Now 'concerns' about 'wellbeing' have become a broader and more subjective basis for investigation and sharing of information (including medical information) about a child.
Wellbeing itself is, in a typically procedural way, broken down into eight different categories, covering whether a child is Safe, Healthy, Achieving, Nurtured, Active, Respected, Responsible and Included. These categories themselves come with a plethora of explanations about what to look out for. So now, everything from how respected a child is by their carers to how much responsibility they are given by them becomes a concern of professionals.
How this will all pan out in practice is unclear, but if the early signs are anything to go by, the 'named person' initiative is particularly intrusive and irresponsible, even by the standards of the intrusive, clumsy, bureaucratic modern state in the UK. It would be far better to scrap the whole thing and give parents and caregivers the autonomy they deserve to raise children.
Stuart Waiton is a sociology and criminology lecturer at Abertay University and a supporter of NO2NP.
NO2NP ROADSHOW: FALKIRK
A big thank you to all those who braved Storm Henry to come to the latest NO2NP roadshow event in Falkirk on Monday night!
After Dr Stuart Waiton welcomed everyone, community paediatrician Dr Jenny Cunningham contended that children's rights should not trump parents' rights. "Parents are fully autonomous beings," she said, "able to make their own decisions, while children are not. The principle of parental autonomy is fundamental to a democratic society."
She went on to say that, far from respecting this parental autonomy, in recent years, social policy has seen parenting as "deficient" or "problematic" and there is a widespread consensus that the state has to intervene to address it.
Jenny emphasised that "there's a world of difference between parental behaviour that puts children at risk of significant harm" and parenting that doesn't fit the Government's expectations.
She said that "everything has been 'GIRFEC'ed" [GIRFEC is the Government's Getting It Right For Every Child framework] throughout health, education and social work. The legislation obligates all professionals to identify deficiencies in children's lives and make decisions about whether their wellbeing is threatened and this is clearly seen in the new Universal Health Visiting Pathway, which will be introduced this August.
Jenny finished by saying that parenting isn't a tick box list to be assessed by the state but a relationship between parent and child that grows at its own pace, as we are all individuals.
Lesley Scott from TYMES Trust then spoke about the recent decision of the Inner House of the Court of Session to reject our legal challenge. She quoted their use of the word "welfare" to describe the purpose of the legislation and showed how it is not interchangeable with "wellbeing", but fundamentally different.
The Scottish Government has made this clear in their final statutory guidance, which states that "welfare and wellbeing are different, in that wellbeing is a broader, more holistic concept." Even First Minister Nicola Sturgeon seems to be unsure about the purpose of the legislation, as she has said it is "about making sure that we are doing everything in our power to protect vulnerable children". So, is it about child protection or children's wellbeing?
On further scrutiny of the guidance, Lesley argued, there is "a dangerous conflation of the two [ideas]", with the Information Commissioner's Office conceding that there was a "lowering of the trigger" for data sharing from risk of "significant harm" to threat to "wellbeing". This is confirmed in the guidance, which states that "a series of low level indicators of wellbeing need (whether obviously related or not) taken together can amount to a child protection issue".
Lesley went on to point out, chillingly, that the guidance "is clear on the ability of Named Persons to use compulsion against parents and families who show any degree of non-engagement, non-compliance or mere ambivalence in the face of state functionaries' opinions". She went on to refer to sinister "compulsory supervision orders" which the guidance encourages Named Persons to use "at an early stage…to ensure compliance".
After a short video, CARE for Scotland's Parliamentary Officer Gordon Macdonald, gave an overview of the passage of the Bill through Holyrood, stressing that it was really only children's charities that were consulted and many of them tend to view families as potential problems. No consideration was given to religious liberty during the one morning given over to scrutinising the Bill, whose terms were applauded by the majority of the agencies invited to the session.
As a result, CARE and others involved in the NO2NP campaign, had no option but to go to court to seek to have the legislation overturned. Gordon suggested that the Court of Session had taken a "very optimistic view" of the legislation, but we were going to the Supreme Court in March and would, if necessary, go on to Strasbourg and Luxembourg, as the matter is so important.
Gordon concluded that there is a real risk of the scheme being operated in a "totalitarian" way, because individual children's rights are being viewed in isolation from – and at times in opposition to – their relationship with their parents.
After some practical points were shared, there was an in depth Q&A, which brought out further revelations about the scheme, including that "wellbeing" was sometimes seen as whether children had sufficient "hope, love and spirituality" in their lives!
A dedicated group of volunteers will be in Falkirk's High Street on Saturday morning for our latest Action Day, handing out flyers to shoppers and encouraging them to sign the online petition – if you are free to join us, please email [email protected].
NO2NP ROADSHOW: EDINBURGH
The large Salisbury Suite at the Macdonald Holyrood Hotel in Edinburgh was nearly filled to capacity on Tuesday morning for the first NO2NP Roadshow event since the summer break.
Dr Stuart Waiton of Abertay University in Dundee opened the meeting by saying that the autonomy of the family was being undermined by social policy across the board, with an overemphasis on "early intervention" by professionals to sort out children's problems.
Liz Smith MSP then spoke about the huge mailbag she had received from people concerned about the scheme, which she says destroys the trust between families and professionals that is essential in bringing up a child.
She said that the scheme was "repugnant" and a "badly mistaken policy" that "diminishes resources". The volume of support for the NO2NP campaign is growing all the time, with almost 12,000 people having now signed the petition. The appeal of the campaign "goes well beyond party politics" and the breadth of political views of those involved in it was "a good thing".
She also pointed out that the bureaucracy of running the scheme would be enormous and too difficult to put into practice. The scheme has been "mis-sold" by the Government and the responses that concerned citizens have received have been "inaccurate" and "patronising", she said. The Government, who are telling people how to live their lives, has not been shown in a good light, she added. In closing, Liz urged people to get involved, as it is "such an important campaign".
Next up was Lesley Scott, Scottish representative for The Young ME Sufferers (TYMES) Trust.
She picked apart the three main arguments that have been used by the Scottish Government to justify the scheme:
1. "We're doing all we can to help vulnerable children"
2. "We're just formalising what we've been doing for ages"
3. "And Parents have asked for it."
Lesley pointed out, firstly, that the word "vulnerable" does not appear anywhere in the legislation or the Government's guidance and that their own QC admitted in the recent appeal case heard in the Inner House that every child is seen as potentially vulnerable. The corollary of this is that every parent is therefore viewed as potentially negligent or abusive. This will have a significant impact on how parents will be viewed and treated. If children, parents and associated adults do not agree with all of the Named Person's views, then they will be treated as "non-engaging": the balance has shifted dangerously in favour of the state.
The next argument – that local authorities are simply formalising what they have already been doing – has not been reflected in the attitudes of the professionals tasked with administering it, only a minority of whom think they currently have the capacity to gain an accurate and deep understanding of how to provide it.
And the contention that parents asked for the scheme is misleading at best, as parents with disabled children in the Highland region asked for a single, voluntary point of contact for accessing services. But that is not what they have got with the legislation and any success in the Highland Pathfinder has been shown to be down to other causes than the GIRFEC approach.
Lesley concluded by saying that the Government's "disjointed excuses are shown to be a smokescreen and the true purpose of the legislation comes into view; it is a transfer of authority from your family to the state – an assault on the autonomous family unit".
After a compelling new campaign video was shown, independent social work consultant Maggie Mellon spoke about her opposition to the scheme. She said that "parents are responsible for children's upbringing, not services", and that it is a very easy thing for professionals to display prejudice, when they don't have the full picture. Civil servants have driven through this legislation but they haven't thought through how dangerous it will be. People thought that they were getting a single point of contact, but that's not what the legislation says. It doesn't give parents or children the right to be consulted, as the Named Person is to take action "where he or she considers it to be appropriate to promote, support or safeguard the wellbeing of the child or young person".
Commenting on the enormity of the universal scheme, Maggie remarked that "you can't get all the sand on the beach through a little sieve". A head teacher of a primary school isn't going to have the time or the knowledge to explain your child's needs to a range of professionals. Maggie said that she is against the Named Person scheme because "it's wrong and it will cause damage".
She said we should use the threat of compulsion far less than we do. She commented: "There's too much compulsion and not enough compassion". The Act moves the threshold from "at risk of significant harm" to "any concern about anything that might present a risk to a child's wellbeing". Instead of addressing the real needs of children, it is sinister surveillance. It's not a point of contact for families to access services, she said, but a point for those services to access children. It's as if the state is saying "We're central, you're peripheral".
Nigel Kenny from The Christian Institute finished the formal session by taking everyone through the Action Packs that had been prepared for the meeting, before the usual lively Q&A finished off the meeting.
The next stop for the NO2NP Roadshow will be Glasgow on Monday 14th September at the Couper Institute, 86 Clarkston Road at 7.30pm – hope to see you there!
Liz Smith MSP
Lesley Scott
Maggie Mellon
Nigel Kenny
'All children potentially vulnerable', Scottish Government QC tells judge
Last week's appeal hearing rehearsed many concerning reasons why the Named Person scheme is not compatible with a free and democratic society, but perhaps the most revealing and worrying comment came from the Scottish Government's QC.
Pressed by Lord Malcolm on why every child needed to have a Named Person, when not all of them were at risk, Alistair Clark QC, representing the Scottish Government, stated that every child was deemed to be "potentially vulnerable".
Mr Clark's words expose the thinking behind these intrusive plans.
A NO2NP spokesman said: "The assumption that all Scottish children are potentially vulnerable is patronising to all ordinary parents trying to do their best to bring up their children.
"The Scottish Government is saying to normal mums and dads that they all need the state to be a co-parent to stop them leaving their child potentially vulnerable.
"This unwarranted intrusion into family life is undermining and unnecessary."
During the appeal hearing last week Aidan O'Neill QC, representing those bringing the legal challenge against the Named Person, addressed conflict between respect for the family and responsibility for the protection of children from harm.
He said there was no pressing social need requiring interference in the lives of every family and said: "The overwhelming majority of children are not neglected and the Named Person scheme subverts family life and supplants parents."
He said: "We accept there is a legitimate state interest in the protection of the vulnerable, but this is not just dealing with the vulnerable, it's dealing with all children.
"Most families do not need the state to get involved. Some parents – a tiny minority – do cause harm to their children but that does not justify appointing a named person to every child."
Mr O'Neill pointed out that the Named Person scheme had been drawn up to promote children's 'wellbeing' – a concept which, according to the Government, can include everything from mental health to a "wider vision of happiness". He responded, "That's what parents do and have done through the ages. It's not the state's job.
Mr O'Neill raised the concern that the central assumption behind the scheme is that "the state knows best".
Petition officially launches on first NO2NP Action Day
On Saturday NO2NP officially launched its online petition to oppose the Scottish Government's Named Person scheme. Volunteers took to the streets of Dundee to help raise awareness of the campaign by giving out leaflets to the public and gathering signatures for the petition.
A team of volunteers were also out in Kirkintilloch, the constituency of the Minister for Children and Young People.
The petition doubled in size over the launch weekend, and now has more than 4,500 signatures. Sign and share the petition here.
NO2NP Roadshow speakers Dr Stuart Waiton, a sociologist and lecturer at Abertay University, and Lesley Scott, from Tymes Trust, joined volunteers at the Dundee Action Day.
The Action Day and petition launch comes ahead of the appeal hearing by campaigners opposing the Named Person scheme, due to be heard in the Court of Session this Wednesday and Thursday.
A spokesman for NO2NP said: "We remain deeply concerned about the threats to the human rights of families to their privacy in their own homes as well as the breaches of data protection laws as the state passes confidential family information to and from different public bodies.
"The state thinks the named person – a health visitor, a teacher or other professional – can fulfil the role better than mums and dads which is ridiculous.
"It's vitally important that the higher courts consider this issue, because it's driving a coach and horses through parents' rights and private family life."
NO2NP Action Day: Dundee and Kirkintilloch, Saturday 30th May.
NO2NP Roadshow: Falkirk highlights
Falkirk was the latest stop for the NO2NP Roadshow last night, when local supporters of the campaign were given the lowdown on the state guardian scheme.
Dr Stuart Waiton from Abertay University explained some of the key developments in social policy over the last 15 years in relation to child welfare. The concepts of abuse, vulnerability and early intervention have become deeply embedded in the minds of many strategists and there is a feeling that parents cannot advise their children properly without first receiving advice from professionals. This is known as "third way parenting".
Lesley Scott, from TYMES Trust, pointed out that contrary to the contentions of Acting Minister for Children and Young People, Fiona McLeod, parents across the country did not ask for the Named Person scheme. Lesley went on to explain how the Scottish Government's pilot of the scheme in the Highlands led to nearly 8,000 children (1 in 5) being put on a "child's plan".
During a lively Q&A session it was asked if teachers could opt out of being Named Persons. This was a very significant change in the terms and conditions of their employment, yet some of the teaching unions have yet to indicate their detailed views on this matter.
The Roadshow will be calling at the Elmwood Golf Club, Cupar at 7.30pm on Tuesday next week, when MSP Liz Smith hopes to be one of the speakers – do plan to join us, if you live in the area!
Dr Stuart Waiton TESS article: "Up close and personal"
Dr Stuart Waiton, a prominent opponent of the Named Person scheme, has voiced his concerns in an article in TES Scotland published on 22 May. With Dr Waiton's permission, we have reproduced the article in full below.
"A RECENT blog could be a sign of things to come as the Scottish government's 'named person' legislation kicks in.
The posting, written by an irate mother of a 13-year-old in Aberdeen, complains about a nurse- not the usual school nurse- having a 'little chat' her daughter.
The questions the girl was asked included, 'Have you started your menstrual period?', 'Do you feel loved and cared for?' and 'Do you feel safe and secure in your home?'
The questions continued, probing about the pupil's relationship with her mother. The child began to feel uncomfortable. When the mother found out, she was 'absolutely RAGING'.
The interview was part of the named person project, a system whereby every child in Scotland will be given a named guardian to oversee their safety and wellbeing – an initiative that could transform the relationships between schools and parents.
A key problem with the named person set-up is that teachers will now be responsible – and trained to be responsible – for the 'wellbeing' of every child.
This may sound fair enough, but the breadth of meaning the term well-being can encompass suggests that the roles of parent and teacher will be confused. So, for example, everything from how respected a child is by their carers to how much responsibility they are given by them could become a matter of concern and intervention.
Given the emphasis placed on being aware of 'risks' and the potential anxiety about not flagging up a problem early enough, the likely trend is for more and more children to be investigated and put on a children's plan.
When defending the named person legislation, first minister Nicola Sturgeon and others argue that this is about protecting the most vulnerable children, but this is disingenuous. This is a universal service that is trying to prevent problems occurring in the future, and doing so by massively increasing the basis upon which teachers' concerns and suspicions trigger action. Consequently, all sorts of emotional or personal issues that would previously have been seen as aspects of growing up, or as issues for the family, will become a legally enforced matter for the named person – for teachers.
Teaching unions have said little about this subject so far – a surprising state of affairs given the seriousness of this development and the pressures that will be placed on senior staff in particular to take on this new role.
Worryingly, as parents find out about the named person system, it is likely that some will begin to treat teachers with suspicion and fear, nervous about sharing personal information with them or discussing difficulties their children are having at home."
Dr Stuart Waiton is a senior lecturer in sociology and criminology at Abertay University.
Announcing new Roadshow dates for May and June
We are pleased to announce more NO2NP Roadshows coming up in May and June.
Supporters from across Scotland often contact our team requesting a NO2NP Roadshow in their area and we do our best to try and make it happen.
Let us know if you would like one in your area by emailing: [email protected]
It's still surprising how many people are unaware of the Named Person legislation. Help us spread the word by telling people about the Roadshows. Experts will be sharing about the background to the plans and concerns surrounding the scheme.
DOWNLOAD AND SHARE THE FLYER
NO2NP Roadshow: Aberdeen highlights
The latest NO2NP Roadshow event was held in the Aberdeen Arts Centre on Monday (11th May), where one local woman's run in with an emanation of the Named Person scheme at her daughter's school was raised during Q&A as a matter of concern. Even more concern was expressed when it was revealed that a GP would be obliged to share confidential patient details about, for example, a mother's struggle with depression with her child's Named Person.
After a video was shown about the judicial review in the Court of Session, Abertay University sociology lecturer Dr Stuart Waiton spoke about the disjuncture between the people and the powerful and how, over the past century, children were no longer being seen in the context of their families and government was increasingly seeing its role as one of "risk management".
Lesley Scott of Tymes Trust then made reference to the quote in a recent newspaper article by Acting Minister for Children and Young People that the Named Person legislation "is about making sure that we are doing everything in our power to protect vulnerable children." Lesley then pointed out that the word 'vulnerable' does not appear anywhere in the legislation or in the draft statutory guidance. Instead, she said "this legislation is about measuring the wellbeing of each and every child."
Some practical points on how people can be involved in helping the NO2NP campaign were then shared by Nigel Kenny of The Christian Institute, before a lively Q&A, always one of the high points of these Roadshows.
Our next event is in Elgin this coming Monday (18th May) at the Laighmoray Hotel, Maisondieu Road, Elgin, IV30 1QR at 7.30pm – please do come along and find out more about the campaign.
NO2NP Roadshow: Edinburgh highlights
On 23rd April the NO2NP Roadshow hosted a well-attended meeting in Portobello on the outskirts of Edinburgh. Dr Stuart Waiton chaired the event and spoke of the decline in the view of the family as an intrinsically good institution, instead it is now seen as the source of most children's problems.
The first speaker was social work consultant Maggie Mellon, who said that it was "absurd" to assume that every child in a family "is potentially at risk and that information must be shared equally about all of them just in case".
Then Lesley Scott of Tymes Trust, representing families of young ME sufferers, spoke about the shift in the Named Person legislation to focus on wellbeing meaning that "the threshold for intervention in a child's life has been drastically lowered from 'at risk of significant harm' to that of a worry over something as intangible as wellbeing. This means that significant decisions are open to personal interpretation and bias on the part of the named person."
Finally, Nigel Kenny of The Christian Institute gave some practical points, as well as an update on the judicial review appeal, which has now been fast-tracked to be heard by the Inner House on 3rd and 4th June.
NO2NP ROADSHOW: GLASGOW HIGHLIGHTS
Thanks to everyone who joined us in Glasgow for the NO2NP Roadshow. Representatives from the campaign shared about the many concerns surrounding the Named Person scheme.
Dr Stuart Waiton, a Sociology lecturer at Abertay University, expressed his unease about society's increasing obsession with child safety and warned that "the autonomous family doesn't exist any more".
Lesley Scott of TYMES (The Young ME Suffers) Trust talked about how the Named Person scheme had its origins in the Scottish Government's GIRFEC (Getting It Right For Every Child) principle. She also explained about the Government's "Wellbeing Wheel" and "SHANARRI" indicators and revealed that in the Highland pilot nearly 8000 children (1 in 5) were put on a "child's plan".
Quoting Jane Colby, Executive Director of TYMES Trust, Lesley said "families appear to be facing an arbitrary, punitive, threatening and destructive state juggernaut" in this legislation. She concluded by warning: "This is state-mandated parenting, which obligates a state employee to carry out statutory duties, which are primarily the responsibility of parents".
Anne Cannon, a mother of five, said she first heard about the issue through a radio phone-in and presented her two major concerns as a parent. Firstly she warned about the negative impact she believes it will have upon the relationship between parents or carers with health visitors and teachers, and secondly she said she fears that children who do actually need help may be missed.
Michael Veitch of The Christian Institute, one of the groups backing the NO2NP campaign, shared practical pointers on how people can help oppose the Named Person scheme. He also announced a new NO2NP petition which can be accessed at no2np.org. Speaking about the Scottish government's draft guidance on the scheme, he said that it "completely fails to make reference to fathers".
NO2NP Roadshow in Dingwall
Thank you to everyone who came to the NO2NP roadshow meeting in Dingwall Town Hall last Wednesday (4 March).
A large crowd heard Lesley Scott (Tymes Trust) explain that the named person role has expanded beyond the idea of a single point of contact and usurps the natural rights of parents. She warned that the named person has lowered the threshold for intervention based on the 'SHANARRI' indicators and branded the scheme as "state mandated parenting" and an oppressive intrusion into family life.
The crowd also heard from Alison Preuss (Schoolhouse) who noted that the Isle of Man abandoned a similar scheme after a melt-down in social work, She said it was a scandal that resources were being diverted into a universal scheme.
On Monday 23 March the NO2NP roadshow returns to Glasgow for a meeting at the Hilton Glasgow Grosvenor Hotel in the West End where the audience will hear from Dr Stuart Waiton (Abertay Univeristy) and various others. The meeting will start at 7:30pm and is free and open to all. We hope to see you there.
NO2NP Roadshow update
Last night (26 Feb) the NO2NP roadshow visited Cumbernauld. The event was chaired by Dundee-based sociologist, Dr Stuart Waiton, who spoke about the spiralling bureaucracy in health and safety.
The first speaker was community paediatrician, Dr Jennifer Cunningham, who explained the 'SHANARRI' wellbeing indicators. She noted that vulnerability had been widened considerably, with factors such as inactivity, poor nurturing and irresponsibility being examined, rather than simply abuse or neglect. She said many parents were losing confidence in their ability to raise children.
Next up was Lesley Scott of Tymes Trust, representing families of young ME sufferers. She examined the wellbeing indicators in more detail, and emphasised that there was no opt out from the named person. She voiced concern that non-engagement will lead to further interventions and said the scheme was state-mandated parenting.
The next NO2NP roadshow will be in Dingwall Town Hall on Wednesday 4th March at 7:30pm. Speakers will include Alison Preuss of Schoolhouse and Lesley Scott. Hope to see you there – all are very welcome.
NO2NP Roadshow update: Dunfermline, Cumbernauld
Dr Stuart Waiton (Abertay University) was in the chair for a very well attended NO2NP roadshow at the Carnegie Conference Centre, Dunfermline on Wednesday 11 February.
Dr Waiton reiterated his view that child safety policy isn't rational and that it is spiralling out of control. He described the potential for intervention as "astronomical".
The first speaker was prominent NO2NP supporter, Liz Smith, who is an MSP for Mid Scotland & Fife. She explained her two fundamental objections to the named person scheme. First, the lack of trust in families and the fact that parents don't want someone to tell them what to do. Second, that the focus of resources must be the vulnerable children who need help, not a universal service. She said that the legislation is "wrong" and the named person scheme is "unworkable".
Next up was Lesley Scott, spokesperson for Tymes (Young ME sufferers) Trust – one of the organisations behind the recent judicial review of the legislation. She noted that the named person scheme is universal with no opt-out.
The next NO2NP roadshow takes place in CUMBERNAULD (Westerwood Hotel) on Thursday 26 February at 7:30pm. Speakers will include community paediatrician Dr Jenny Cunningham and Lesley Scott of Tymes Trust.
Named Person a risk to vulnerable children
Last Wednesday night (21st January) the NO2NP roadshow resumed for the first meeting of the new year at Howden Park Centre in Livingston, West Lothian – the constituency of the new Education Secretary, Angela Constance, whom those present were urged to contact.
The main speaker of the night was Lesley Scott of Tymes Trust, who represent young ME sufferers. She said that the Children & Young People (Scotland) Act fails to allow for non-engagement, despite a ministerial assurance to the contrary.
The audience also heard from Bonnybridge-based father of four, James McIntosh, who told how he had received a letter from NHS Forth Valley saying that all his children have a named person who would be sent future letters and reports. As a result of press involvement, NHS Forth Valley backed down.
The meeting was chaired by Dr Stuart Waiton from Abertay University in Dundee, who said that the named person policy is sold on the basis that it will keep children safe, while stating his view that the policy is in fact detrimental to children who do need support.
This same theme was highlighted in a story in the Sunday Express newspaper over the weekend, relating to concerns raised by a senior police officer. According to the paper:
"Assistant Chief Constable Malcolm Graham told ministers and senior officials that the named-person scheme could see the 'focus' of child protection efforts moving away from 'high-risk children'. The comments emerged in the minutes of a Scottish Government meeting, but a spokesman said they could not offer any further clarification as 'no detailed notes were taken'."
The paper went on to report that it had "lodged a Freedom of Information request asking for more details, but the Scottish Government has been unable to comply."
The next dates for the NO2NP roadshow are Greenock (Beacon Arts Centre) on 5 February and Dunfermline (Carnegie Conference Centre) on 11 February. Both events begin at 7:30pm and are free of charge. We hope to see you there.
NO2NP Roadshow comes to Perth
Last night (12th November) the NO2NP roadshow visited Perth, which was the seventh meeting since the roadshow kicked off back in August. The meeting also coincided with the ongoing judicial review of the named person legislation, taking place this week at the Court of Session in Edinburgh.
The main speaker was Dr Stuart Waiton of Abertay University. Dr Waiton spoke about how the idea that children are vulnerable and "at risk" has escalated in recent years and that there is an expectation that parents need guidance and support. He argued that there is very little recognition of the importance of privacy and that families have become increasingly "invisible" in social policy and law, with the term not being mentioned at all in the Children & Young People Act.
The meeting was also addressed by Lesley Scott from Tymes Trust, who work on behalf of young people with ME. She said that the named person usurped the rights of parents and had lowered the threshold for intervention. She branded the scheme "oppressive", "illegal" and an "intrusion into family life".
The NO2NP roadshow continues in two weeks' time in Montrose on 26th November, where speakers will again include Lesley Scott and also Alison Preuss of Schoolhouse. More details available here.
**If you were planning to attend the court hearing this week and expected to find details on our website, unfortunately the demands on the court meant larger court rooms were unavailable. The court room assigned to the case only has a very small public gallery.**
NO2NP Roadshow review: Aberdeen & Irvine
The two latest outings of the popular NO2NP roadshow were in Aberdeen on 15th October and Irvine, North Ayrshire on 23rd October.
At the Aberdeen meeting, supporters heard from Liz Smith MSP, Young People spokesperson for the Scottish Conservatives. She described the named person policy as "slightly sinister" and argued that resources would be diverted away from the most vulnerable, hence defeating the purpose of the policy. She also said it was ridiculous that children aged over 16, who were recognised as adults, still required a named person.
Next up was Maggie Mellon, a consultant and writer on social work and children/family issues. She said that government shouldn't get involved in parenting, and lamented a preoccupation with risk and safety.
The audience were also addressed by Lesley Scott, representing Tymes Trust, who work with children suffering from ME. She said it was unclear what will happen when parents and the authorities disagree and that it would be a "minefield" for parents who choose not to engage. She also explained that the threshold for intervention had been lowered from risk of significant harm to the 'SHANARRI' indicators.
In the chair for the evening was Dr Stuart Waiton, a sociologist from Abertay University, Dundee, who expressed his concern that children may go to their named person to complain about their parents and that the authority of parents and families could be undermined.
The meeting in Irvine was addressed by Glasgow-based community paediatrician, Dr Jenny Cunningham, who explained that every child in Scotland would be assessed through the 'SHANARRI' indicators and that the legislation would oblige all health, education and social work professionals to identify any deficiencies in parenting and to arrange intervention. She also spoke of her concern about the impact of the named person on family life and said that parents were intimidated by the idea.
The next talk was given by Anne Cannon, a Glasgow-based mother of five, who said her two main concerns with the named person policy were the negative impact it would have on the relationship between parents and state agencies, and the fact that it would fail the very people the policy is meant to help.
The meeting was also addressed by local man, Councillor Tom Marshall, who sits on North Ayrshire Council. He spoke about the appalling 'ChildrenCount' surveys which have been operating in North Ayrshire and outlined some of the questions being asked of youngsters.
The next stop for the NO2NP roadshow will be PERTH (Salutation Hotel) on 12th November at 7:30pm, followed by MONTROSE (Park Hotel) on 26th November at 7:30pm. We hope to see you there.
NO2NP roadshow comes to Inverness
The NO2NP roadshow resumed last night (1 October) with a well attended meeting at Glenmoriston Town House in Inverness. This was the first time that the roadshow had visited the Highlands, which is where a pilot version of the named person scheme has already been implemented.
The meeting was chaired by Dr Stuart Waiton of Abertay University who argued that "parenting has been professionalised" and ridiculed the SHANARRI "wheel of misfortune" used to assess child 'wellbeing'.
The first speaker was Maggie Mellon, an independent consultant and writer on social work and family issues, who said the legislation "represents a denial of families". She noted that family isn't mentioned in the legislation and that families are seen as caretakers on behalf of government, adding that "the state makes an absolutely lousy parent". She argued that "there is no evidence to support the imposition of named persons" and predicted "a huge misuse of resources".
Next up was Alison Preuss, Co-ordinator and Press Officer at Schoolhouse Home Education Association, who said that "children's rights are being selectively applied". She told the audience about the infamous 'Evidence2Success' and 'ChildrenCount' surveys which have been operating in different parts of Scotland. She also discussed the Highland named person pilot scheme, describing it as "very selective" and said that those parents in Highland who have complained have been ignored.
The meeting ended with an extremely lively and informative question and answer session.
The next date for the NO2NP roadshow is Wednesday 15th October in Aberdeen – full details available here.
NO2NP Roadshow: 3 more dates in October
Following on from the success of the initial 'No To Named Persons' (NO2NP) roadshow meetings during August (in Glasgow, Dundee and Stirling) the tour resumes in October with three more dates. These are:
INVERNESS – Wednesday 1 October @ Glenmoriston Town House, 20 Ness Bank
ABERDEEN – Wednesday 15 October @ ACT Aberdeen, 33 King Street
IRVINE – Thursday 23 October @ Gailes Hotel, Marine Drive
Events will feature contributions from a range of experts such as Dr Stuart Waiton (Abertay University), Maggie Mellon (social work consultant/writer) and Dr Jenny Cunningham (Community paediatrician). There will also be an extended time of discussion where attendees can put their questions to the speakers.
All events will begin at 7:30pm, are free entry and open to all.
Please come along and spread the word.
NO2NP roadshow visits Stirling
The No to Named Persons (NO2NP) roadshow arrived in Stirling on Friday 29th August for the third instalment of the current tour.
The lunch time meeting, held in a city centre hotel, was once again well attended and included a feisty and informative question and answer session with the speakers.
In the chair was Dundee-based sociologist, Dr Stuart Waiton, who told the audience: "To have a universal provision seems very problematic to me."
As in Dundee two nights earlier, the subject of the controversial child wellbeing surveys being conducted in three Scottish local authorities – known as 'ChildrenCount' – was raised. Alison Preuss of Schoolhouse, the home education group who are backing NO2NP, said: "It's not about child protection. It's about gathering information."
The main speaker was Liz Smith MSP, who represents Mid Scotland & Fife (which includes Stirling) at Holyrood. She told the audience: "I am fundamentally opposed to this named person policy. It is morally wrong. There is this assumption that you can't be trusted. I find this deeply unnerving."
The meeting also heard from Falkirk-based father of four, James McIntosh, who was recently told by the local health board, NHS Forth Valley, that a named person had already been allocated for his children – albeit he was never informed who the named person actually was. Mr McIntosh said: "One size fits all doesn't work…In the Bill there isn't a single mention of the parent".
NO2NP roadshow visits Dundee…as 'ChildrenCount' survey rolled out in city
The second instalment of the NO2NP roadshow took place on the evening of Wednesday 27th August in Dundee city centre. Around 50 campaigners and members of the public gathered to hear the powerful case against the Scottish Government's named person policy.
A particular focus of discussion on the night was the troubling new 'ChildrenCount' surveys currently being rolled out in Dundee, details of which (including links to the surveys themselves) can be found here: Improving Children's Outcomes
The meeting was chaired by Dr Stuart Waiton, a sociologist based at nearby Abertay University.
The main speaker of the evening was Liz Smith MSP, who spearheaded the opposition to the named person policy during the passage of the legislation through Holyrood. She said:
"It grates on me that somebody else, appointed by the State, is responsible for your child. The vast majority of parents do not need to be told by the government how to look after their family. I don't think parents want this and I don't think they know it's happening."
Speaking about the oft-cited pilot scheme in the Highlands, she added: "I don't see the compelling evidence that in Highland Council this has actually worked."
The meeting was also addressed by Lesley Scott of Tymes Trust, who work with young ME sufferers. She made clear that parents who refuse to engage with the system will inevitably find that action will be taken against them and explained that: "a named person is allowed to access your child's confidential records."
The NO2NP roadshow moves on to Stirling on Friday 29th August, then Inverness on 1st October. More details can be found here.
NO2NP Roadshow kicks off in Glasgow
Following on from the hugely successful launch of the No to Named Persons (NO2NP) campaign in Edinburgh back in June, the NO2NP roadshow kicked off in Glasgow last Thursday night (21 August).
A large crowd gathered at the St Mungo Museum of Religious Life & Art, close to the city centre, to hear various speakers explain why the Scottish Government's plan to furnish every child in Scotland with a state-appointed named person is woefully misguided and has the potential to cause significant damage to ordinary families.
The meeting was chaired by Dr Stuart Waiton, a sociologist from Abertay University. Highlighting the importance of the campaign, Dr Waiton told the meeting: "I expect 90% of parents in Scotland don't know this law exists." He also condemned the current obsession with child safety issues, remarking that: "there is an unhealthy anxiety about child safety."
A keynote speaker was Maggie Mellon, an independent consultant and writer on social work and child issues. She said the legislation "represents a denial of families" adding that "we have separated children and their rights from families and their rights".
She was followed by Dr Jennifer Cunningham, a Glasgow based community paediatrician, who argued that the legislation would have the "effect of obliging all professionals to identify deficiencies in parenting and arrange intervention."
This was echoed by mother of five Anne Cannon, who said: "I don't believe this legislation will empower parents."
The audience also participated in a wide ranging discussion with the panellists.
The next stop for the roadshow is Dundee this Wednesday (27 Aug), followed by Stirling (29 Aug) and Inverness (1 Oct), with further dates likely. Full details are available on the NO2NP website.
Dr Stuart Waiton: Named Person law 'degrades the very meaning of privacy'
By Dr Stuart Waiton, a sociology lecturer at Abertay University, writing in a personal capacity.
Here he expresses his deep concerns about the named person provisions of the Children and Young People (Scotland) Act.
About 10 years ago, I decided to write a dystopian novel about a future where the idea of privacy had completely collapsed, where each child born was given a live-in "support worker" who helped the parent manage the difficult child while ensuring the child was safe from the parent's problematic behaviour. The very idea of private intimacy and personal responsibility no longer existed in this futuristic dystopia, where safety had become the only principle and all relationships were now mediated through a state-paid professional.
Of course the book was never written and now, following the passing of the new Children and Young People (Scotland) Act, it has become almost obsolete because it is no longer a futuristic fantasy that every child will have their own "support worker" assigned at birth. It is to become a lived reality.
The new act will mean that, from birth, each child in Scotland will have a specific state-appointed professional, a 'named person', to oversee their interests, and in particular, to oversee their safety. Initially this named person is likely to be a health visitor or midwife, the role later being taken over by school teachers who will have the "duty" and responsibility to act as the child's guardian. The regulation of data-sharing between professionals is also to be loosened and the guardians will have new legal authority to access data from the police, local authority council, NHS files and even, potentially, information accessed from Young Scot (leisure) Cards.
The children's minister, Aileen Campbell, has been dismissive of those parents groups who have raised concerns about "state snoops", or who, like the various Christian groups opposed to the idea, have described the new law as an "attack on the family". For Campbell, the new powers and duties being given to the state guardians are simply another service to both help families in trouble and also to further ensure that children are protected in society. Indeed, Aileen Campbell at times appears to be nonplussed by her critics, incapable of seeing why her caring approach is not simply celebrated. The idea of state snoops undermining the family, she argues, is simply "misunderstandings" and "misrepresentations" of the new law. Somewhat comically, when quizzed about the state's overbearing intrusion into the home represented by the new act, Aileen Campbell replied, without a hint of irony, that "we recognise that parents also have a role" in looking after their children. Also?
However, given the increasing way in which all children are today being categorised as 'vulnerable', where all professionals are being educated to put child safety at the top of their agenda and when 'early intervention' is promoted as the only rational approach to solving social problems, there is a serious risk that the relationship between the 'named person' and parents will become one predicated upon suspicion. Given that the trigger for intervention into a child's life is also being down-graded to concerns about 'well-being', rather than when a child is at serious risk of harm, the potential for unnecessary and potentially destructive state intrusion into family life is significant.
The Scottish government appears to be blind to the potential this new act has for transforming the relationship between parents and the state, and for degrading the very meaning of privacy. Likewise the potential this approach has for sullying relationships between teachers (who will be the main state 'named person') and parents, is ignored. Tragically, the danger is also that by incorporating every single child into the child safety rubric, the very few children who need state intervention in their lives will become lost. As one concerned parent has noted, when you are looking for a needle in a haystack, why make the haystack bigger?
Named Person
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© NO2NP 2021
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BEDGEBURY NATIONAL PINETUM
Park and Garden
Tunbridge Wells (District Authority)
TQ 72070 33579
A national pinetum developed by the Forestry Authority from the 1920s onwards, with a scattering of conifers planted in the late C19.
HISTORIC DEVELOPMENT
The Pinetum at Bedgebury (the land within the present registered site) was developed on part of the Bedgebury estate which, as the manor of Bedgebury, dates back to pre-Norman times. The estate passed through the hands of the de Bedgebury and Hayes families, and the Great Lake in the park to the north-east of Bedgebury House dates from between 1769 (Andrews, Dury and Herbert) and 1801 (Mudge). The later history of the estate however had most impact on the Pinetum site. Bedgebury was owned by Viscount Beresford and his family from 1836 to 1890 and the oldest conifers in the present collection, around Marshall's Lake, were planted during this period. Lodges were built at outlying points on the road boundary and drives connecting them to the house were planted with avenue trees. Other garden developments included the walled fruit garden adjacent to the western boundary of the Pinetum. The Bedgebury estate was divided up in 1919 and the Crown purchased most of the land. The house and its grounds, to the north of the Pinetum, became a private school and the Home Farm together with part of the parkland became a riding school later in the C20. The Forestry Commission took on Bedgebury Forest, within which lay the present area of the Pinetum. The Commission began to plan and plant the site in association with the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, following aesthetic principles with the aim of creating a National Pinetum containing the most comprehensive collection of conifers in the temperate world. The work was carried out in the late 1920s under the direction of W Dallimore and W Castle of Kew who laid out a series of broad formal avenues and linking walks. Since 1965 the site has been the sole responsibility of the Forestry Authority. Plans are currently (2002) underway to extend the Pinetum onto agricultural land to the west (outside the area here registered) which when complete will almost double its size.
LOCATION, AREA, BOUNDARIES, LANDFORM, SETTING Bedgebury Pinetum is situated on the east side of the A21, c 15km south-east of Tunbridge Wells. The c 40ha rural site occupies markedly undulating ground falling generally to the north and divided into two main valleys running south to north, with streams meeting at Marshall's Lake in the centre of the northern boundary. The Pinetum is bounded to the north by the grounds of Bedgebury Park School, to the north-east, east, and south by Bedgebury Forest, and to the west by farmland, currently (2002) being developed as an extension to the site.
ENTRANCES AND APPROACHES The main access into Bedgebury Pinetum is from the western boundary. From Lady Oak Lane a drive enters the walled kitchen garden (outside the area here registered) built for Bedgebury house in the C19. This now (2002) acts as a car park for the Pinetum, from the north-east corner of which a path leads east into the site. On the north-east boundary of the Pinetum stands Park House and the present Forestry Office, beside which a second, small pedestrian access point enters the Pinetum. Several of the C19 drives which linked the surrounding woodland, via the Pinetum site, to Bedgebury House, survive as forest tracks. These include the C19 Pine Avenue and Cypress Avenue.
OTHER LAND The main plantings in the Pinetum are on the crests and upper slopes of the undulating ground, allowing fine views out of the site and giving extensive valley prospects within the Pinetum, which is cut through with avenues and serpentine walks. The sweeps of grass along the lower valley slopes are varied by the planting of broadleaved species including birch, maple, oak, and liquidamber. To the west of the site are pines and larches, with spruces beside Dallimore's Avenue which runs north-east to south-west close to the western boundary. Beside Marshall's Lake on the north boundary are several large swamp cypress together with the remains of C19 plantings of conifers and rhododendrons. On the south side of Marshall's Lake are collections of mature Wellingtonia and American firs, standing beside the late C19 Cypress Avenue which runs north to south along the valley floor. This avenue is lined with mature cypress trees and formed one of the C19 approach drives to Bedgebury Manor from Bedgebury Lodge (c 1.5km to the south-west). At the southern end of this area are collections of larch, pine, and yew.
On the north-east boundary stands the visitor centre, set beside the A W Westall collection of dwarf conifers (begun 1970). To the south-east of this is the North Avenue amongst a varied planting of pines. The southern end of the North Avenue joins Hill's Avenue which runs from the eastern boundary north-west to the end of Cypress Avenue. Immediately to the west of the Avenue is a collection of Japanese conifers, beyond which to the west are Douglas firs, cedars, junipers, and various redwoods.
Country Life, 110 (12 October 1951), pp 1144-5; 117 (28 April 1955), pp 1108-09; 178 (4 July 1985), pp 12-13 T Wright, Gardens of Britain 4, (1978), pp 23-6 The Garden, (September 1980), pp 357-62 Bedgebury National Pinetum, guidebook, (1983) M Scott, Forest Plots (Bedgebury National Pinetum and Forest Plots), guidebook, (1986)
Maps J Andrews, A Dury and W Herbert, A Topographical Map of the County of Kent ¿, 2" to 1 mile, 1769 W Mudge, Map of Kent, 1" to 1 mile, 1801
OS 6" to 1 mile: 1st edition published 1872-7 2nd edition published 1899 3rd edition published 1910 1947 edition OS 25" to 1 mile: 1st edition published 1870 3rd edition published 1908 1938 edition
Description written: January 2002 Amended: February 2002 Register Inspector: EMP Edited: November 2003
This garden or other land is registered under the Historic Buildings and Ancient Monuments Act 1953 within the Register of Historic Parks and Gardens by Historic England for its special historic interest. | {
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The Department of Physics at The Pennsylvania State University is seeking to fill one or more Postdoctoral Scholar positions in multimessenger astrophysics with gravitational waves. The successful candidate will participate in the research program led by David Radice on the numerical and analytical modeling of compact binary mergers in general relativity. There will also be ample opportunity for collaboration with other faculty members at the Institute for Gravitation and the Cosmos, which includes, among others, Abhay Ashtekar, Eugenio Bianchi, Chad Hanna, Sarah Shandera, and B.S. Sathyaprakash.
These positions require a Ph.D. in physics, astronomy, or a closely related field. Applications must be submitted online at https://psu.jobs/job/83305 and include a cover letter, CV, and a statement of research interests. Applicants should arrange for three recommendation letters to be submitted to institute[AT]gravity.psu.edu indicating the appropriate job number in the subject line. Applications received before December 1, 2018 will be given full consideration. The expected start date is September 1, 2019, although alternative start dates will also be considered. For more information, please visit http://gravity.psu.edu. This is a fixed-term appointment funded for one year from date of hire with excellent possibility of re-funding. | {
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The club's February meeting is Thursday, Feb 21 at 7pm in the second floor boardroom of Park Mazda in Sherwood Park. Some club members may be gathering at Caffrey's Pub (kind of kitty-korner from the dealership) at 5:30pm for dinner. The meeting is a great time/place to renew your club membership for 2013 is you haven't already done so. | {
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Government to help pay wages of under 25s for six months
Government funding would cover 100% of the minimum wage for 25 hours a week in the scheme that will be open to all employers across Great Britain
Neil Shaw
The Chancellor will announce a £2 billion scheme aimed at alleviating youth unemployment by subsidising work placements when he sets out his coronavirus recovery package.
A three-point plan to boost the ailing economy by helping job creation will include a plan to help pay for six-month placements for some under-25s facing long-term unemployment.
Rishi Sunak will set out the measures in his summer economic update in the House of Commons on Wednesday, as he faces pressure to assist those who are most at vulnerable to the effects of a financial crisis.
Meanwhile, Labour will push Mr Sunak to "avoid additional floods of redundancy notices" by developing a "flexible" furlough scheme in areas where local lockdowns are put in place.
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Mr Sunak will also offer an immediate stamp duty "holiday" to temporarily exempt the tax on the first £500,000 of homes purchased in England and Northern Ireland, according to unconfirmed reports.
The Treasury acknowledged that young people are more likely to be furloughed under the job retention scheme which is being wound up and is due to end in October.
So a "kickstart scheme" hoped by the Treasury to create hundreds of thousands of jobs will be unveiled for 16 to 24-year-olds who are claiming Universal Credit and at risk of long-term employment.
Government funding would cover 100% of the minimum wage for 25 hours a week in the scheme that will be open to all employers across Great Britain, with bosses able to top up wages.
Ahead of the announcement, Mr Sunak said: "Young people bear the brunt of most economic crises, but they are at particular risk this time because they work in the sectors disproportionately hit by the pandemic.
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Government reconsidering advice on wearing masks in shops
"We also know that youth unemployment has a long-term impact on jobs and wages and we don't want to see that happen to this generation.
"So we've got a bold plan to protect, support and create jobs – a plan for jobs."
Labour's shadow chancellor Anneliese Dodds said the Government is "yet to rise to the scale of the unemployment crisis" and said the priority should be to abandon its "one-size-fits-all" approach to ending the job retention and self-employment schemes.
"In addition, older people who become unemployed, and those living in particularly hard-hit areas, will also need tailored support," she added.
Lib Dem leadership candidate Layla Moran said the package "will sadly be too little too late for many of the corona class of 2020".
"Eighteen-year-olds could be left being paid just £161 a week under this scheme, which in some parts of the country would barely cover rent and transport costs," she added.
NHS staff offered a free holiday in Ibiza to say thank you
However, the general secretary of the Trades Union Congress, Frances O'Grady, welcomed the measure as a "good first step" to prevent mass youth unemployment.
"But we'll be checking the small print to ensure every job provides proper training and a bridge to steady employment," she added.
And Confederation of British Industry director-general Dame Carolyn Fairbairn said the plan "will be a much-needed down payment in young people's futures".
"By investing in skills, the Government can lessen the potential scarring impact of the pandemic for the next generation," she added.
Among the job measures already announced are a £111 million scheme for firms in England to get a £1,000 bonus if they offer unpaid traineeships.
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Aldi bans controversial food products
Thousands of jobs have been cut as businesses struggled through lockdown, with Royal Mail, Centrica, Easyjet and British Airways among those affected.
Meanwhile, on the eve of the speech, the Unite union said 2,200 DHL workers involved in the production of Jaguar Land Rover's vehicles are being told that they could lose their jobs.
The 2,200 proposed redundancies comprise just under 40% of the entire DHL workforce on the contract, it added.
In his speech, Mr Sunak will also detail a £3 billion green package with grants for homeowners and public buildings to improve energy efficiency.
It will include £2 billion for households to insulate their homes and make them more energy-efficient, but campaigners said the funding pales in comparison to the economic and environmental crises.
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There has also been speculation that Mr Sunak will raise the threshold for stamp duty payment for property sales where it applies in England and Northern Ireland from £125,000 to £500,000.
But housing market experts have argued it is home-buyers in southern England who stand to benefit the most from the move.
Mr Sunak has also been urged to consider an emergency VAT cut to stimulate consumer spending and stem the 14% slump in GDP forecast by the Bank of England this year.
The UK's unemployment rate could also soar to 14.8% with job losses comparable to the 1930s, according to the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD). | {
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Der erste große Meilenstein ist erreicht. Sohni Steffen feiert heute seinen 18. Geburtstag.
Pünktlich zu diesem Datum war am Freitag der offizielle Führerschein in der Post. Und dann wurde mir heute Abend ganz anders, als die drei Kinder ohne uns Eltern im Auto unterwegs waren, um noch etwas zu holen, was die jüngste Tochter vergessen hatte.
Irgendwie fühle ich mich da doch alt.
Der Winter hat uns. Und das, wo es ab morgen wieder zur Arbeit gehen muss.
Managed by the beautiful Tellico program, I've updated my database of books I own and have read. Currently the number is at around 560 books, while the next batch is already on its way from Amazon. And this doesn't count the books about knowledge stuff (programming, computers, etc). And I guess about 2/3 is in English, which is not my native tongue. Not so bad, I think.
There is still life on this planet.
Well, long time no write. The situation of my company and my personal situation within has been sufficiently dragging me down, to keep me from updating this blog. Hopefully changes for the better are on the horizon in the next couple of months, now that Fujitsu has agreed to buy the Siemens's 50% share.
Anyway, I've been wanting to update this blog theme for quite some time. I originally planed to create something from scratch. I think technically I would be capable to create something new, I though it's not really worth the effort. There are so many great free themes out there, that I choose one from this collection from Smashing Magazine. Currently the Livegreen is deployed. However, there is the chance that I might switch to the Abstractia theme. The sidebar of Abstractia needs some modification to make it widget aware. Independent of the theme I'm going to use in the end, I going to apply some personalisation in terms of colour and photography.
Sohni Steffen ist dann jetzt auch unter die Automobilisten gegangen. Er hat heute morgen im zweiten Anlauf die praktische Prüfung für den Führerschein ab 17 Jahren bestanden und auch schon seine erste Fahrt zurück nach Hause gemacht.
It's actually already two days, since we're back from a 2 weeks vacation in Denmark. 2 weeks of Xtreme relaxing. Since we weren't able to make up our minds until the beginning of May where to go for vacation this year, we ended up somewhat more in the North as originally planed. In our preferred location, Vejers, no free spots were available. So we ended up in Nørre Vorupør (see below, it's the lower of the two parallel houses below the marker).
The 2 weeks were mostly spend reading books, playing with the new Sony-Ericsson W890i mobile phone (as a dictionary, a MP3 player and a Geo-Logging device, more on this in a later post), some short walks through the location and watching a couple of beautiful sunsets. | {
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Have you ever been at an event and felt unnatural because you did not know anyone there? Are you soft spoken or shy? Do you ever feel uncomfortable or awkward when meeting new people? If so, then this workshop is for you. Learn how to walk into a room full of strangers and talk with any one of them with confidence. Master the art of networking by learning the secrets that people who are accustomed to being in the public eye can teach you. You will soon be on your way to making valuable contacts on your own.
Business etiquette is more than being courteous and polite. It is about projecting an image of professionalism and credibility that allows others to instil their confidence, trust, and respect in you. It is also a powerful and practical skill when it comes to getting a job, keeping a job, and succeeding in a job. This interactive workshop will help you develop and sharpen your business etiquette, by enhancing your professional identity and learning how to act in any business situation to leave a positive and lasting first impression.
A significant factor employers use in making their hiring decision is based on non-verbal elements in an interview - a handshake, eye contact, body language, posture, listening skills, clothing, grooming, and accessories. Do not overlook the power of a proper appearance. People make amazing assumptions about your professional abilities and potential performance based upon your physical presentation during the first meeting. It is very difficult to overcome a poor first impression, regardless of your knowledge or expertise. In this workshop, APEX members will learn how to dress professionally in order to achieve the right impression. | {
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HomeDevelopmentPublishingBusinessEventsVideo Games JobsAcademy
Titanfall 2 disappoints as Skyrim and Battlefield 1 impress in UK charts
Sales of Titanfall 2 fall well short of its original
Christopher Dring
Head of Games B2B
Monday 31st October 2016
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Battlefield 1 and the remastered version of Skyrim impressed at UK retail last week, at the expense of Titanfall 2.
Titanfall 2's launch sales (physical data only via GfK) are well below the ones achieved by its predecessor, which arrived in March 2013 on Xbox platforms and PC only. In fact, the game's launch sales are barely a quarter of the ones achieved by its original - despite the fact that this sequel has the added benefit of launching on PS4. Titanfall 2 debuts at No.4 in the GfK Top 10, while the original reached No.1.
The title received positive critical reviews, which raises questions regarding its launch strategy. Titanfall 2 has been sandwiched in-between two of the biggest first person shooter launches of the year (Battlefield 1 and Call of Duty: Infinite Warfare), which will no doubt have had a significant detrimental impact upon its performance.
Yet it's otherwise a positive week for UK physical game sales. Battlefield 1 has impressed in its second week on shelves, with sales dipping just 39 percent week-on-week. It's not unusual for core game sales to fall by 70 to 80 percent in the second week, and Battlefield has historically outperformed the market in this regard. Both Battlefield 3 and 4 saw second week sales declines of 54 per cent, which makes that 39 percent dip even more impressive. As a result, Battlefield 1 retains its position at the top of the charts.
However, the stand-out performer of the week has to be Skyrim Special Edition at No.2. The Bethesda game may be a visually improved version of the 2011 original (plus DLC), but its nonetheless the best-selling new game in the charts this week. It is also the second fastest-selling Elder Scrolls game ever released (only beaten by the original Skyrim).
There are a few other interesting little elements in the charts this week. Farming Simulator 17, which received a TV advertising campaign in the UK, reached No.5 in the charts and enjoyed a sales jump of 54 percent on PS4 and 32 percent on Xbox One over its predecessor, Farming Simulator 15 (Farming Simulator 16 was only released physically on Vita).
There's a Top Ten placement for Dragon Ball Xenoverse 2, which is a brand that's been steadily growing in the UK, while Square Enix's World of Final Fantasy just missed out at No.11.
Just Dance 2017 also makes an appearance at No.26. The series has waned commercially down the years and remains most popular on Nintendo platforms. 60 percent of the title's sales came on Nintendo consoles - 44 percent on the original Wii.
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Minecraft for Nintendo Switch takes No.1 | UK Boxed Charts
It was a very quiet week at UK retail
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Mario Kart 8: Deluxe retains No.1 | UK Boxed Charts
Big Brain Academy jumps to No.11
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Latest comments (5)
Morville O'Driscoll Blogger & Critic 5 years ago
I've not actually seen a lot of promotion for TiF2 (acronym used to differentiate between Titanfall 2 and TF2/Team Fortress 2 :p ). Certainly I don't look at gaming sites as much as I used to, and the word of mouth is great on it through Twitter, but I think EA could've done far better with promotion and marketing (more on non-gaming media sites, perhaps?). To be honest, I didn't even know it had been released until yesterday.
I can't see digital sales saving it, either - not on PC when EA are still not releasing games on Steam, and not on console when digital prices are so high. They won't be atrocious, but unless it picks up in the second week physical sales and there's word of good post-release support, its multiplayer numbers aren't going to be anything to behold.
Edited 4 times. Last edit by Morville O'Driscoll on 31st October 2016 10:49am
0Sign inorRegisterto rate and reply
Jeff Kleist Writer, Marketing, Licensing 5 years ago
The campaign is excellent. The multiplayer puts me off the same way Star Wars Battlefront did between 1 and 2, everything just feels off, and it looks like they've killed most of the cloud based Ai since Sony doesn't support it.
I'm hoping they can sell enough to continue the story, but they need to go back to what they had on the multiplayer.
Christopher Dring Publisher, GamesIndustry.biz5 years ago
I am sure the game will end up in the Black Friday sales and do well, but with all the DLC being made available for free, I'm not sure where the long-tail revenue will come from. There are some microtransactions in the game, but it's just for cosmetic changes and it won't be generating huge numbers.
Show all comments (5)
Paul Jace Merchandiser 5 years ago
The original Titanfall is one of the standout titles of this gen on any system and I had high hopes for the sequel. But this really comes down to bad timing as far as release window. They should have released this in the beginning of September, far away from the releases of Gears of War 4, Call of Duty: Infinite Warfare and Battlefield 1. And this is even more surprising considering that EA publishes both Titanfall and Battlefield properties so they should have known better. We'll see how it does once it hits the US sales charts.
Klaus Preisinger Freelance Writing 5 years ago
The IP may be tainted by its former Xbox exclusivity and does not stand out from the direct competitors in any way. The Destiny expansion is a loot shooter, Overwatch has a hard counter class system and Gears is third person. Those are at least some differences. Battlefield, Call of Duty and Titanfall are three similar flavors of the same ice cream; white chocolate, dark chocolate and chocolate chips. Being the great game Titanfall undoubtedly is may not be enough at this point. Look how Battleborn got eaten alive for having the wrong timing.
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GameStop reportedly launching NFT and cryptocurrency marketplace this year | {
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December 7, 2022 December 8, 2022 magdefrau
BP basketball teams sweep Tri-County
Belle Plaine boys' basketball
Tuesday, Dec. 6, 2022, at Belle Plaine
Belle Plaine (4-1) 54, Tri-County (1-3)
TC 8 8 10 12 – 38
BP 18 8 15 9 – 54
Belle Plaine was 18 of 50 for field goals, 4 of 17 for three-pointers and 14 of 24 for free throws. The team had 41 rebounds, 12 assists, 14 steals, one block from Jax Stamp, 23 turnovers and 14 fouls. Sam DeMeulenaere had 18 points. With 10 points each were Wyatt Kuch and Brooks DeMeulenaere. Stamp had 11 rebounds. Sam DeMeulenaere had 10. With five steals each were Keaton Parrott and Brooks DeMeulenaere.
Belle Plaine hosts Sigourney (3-1) on Friday, Dec. 9.
Belle Plaine girls' basketball
Tuesday, Dec. 6, at Belle Plaine
Belle Plaine (1-4) 44, Tri-County (1-5) 37
TC 10 16 4 7 – 37
BP 12 8 13 11 – 44
Belle Plaine was 14 of 41 for field goals, 3 of 9 for three-pointers, and 13 of 24 for free throws. The team had 32 rebounds, 12 assists, seven steals, four blocks, 28 turnovers and no fouls. Mandy Chizek had 14 points for Belle Plaine. With 12 each were Ella Grieder and Abbi Sieck. Chizek had 13 rebounds. Sieck added 12. With three assists each were Alyssa Steinback and Grieder. Chizek had three blocks.
Tri-County was 14 of 59 for field goals, 4 of 22 for three-pointers, and 5 of 10 for free throws. The team had 28 rebounds, nine assists, 14 steals, seven turnovers and 17 fouls. Lily Randall had 11 points for Tri-County.
Belle Plaine plays Sigourney (2-2) at home on Friday, Dec. 9.
Ella Grieder passes the ball against Tri-County in SICL basketball action at Belle Plaine. Photo by Les Jacobi.
Belle Plaine's Harry Singh gets in position against Tri-County. Photo by Les Jacobi.
Previous Local Covid-19 counts for Dec. 6, 2022
Next BC basketball teams face Mount Vernon | {
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How does inflammation is related to the Immune system Is that an Immune system response? If so when is it a good thing and when is it a bad thing?
What is the best way to deal with Inflammation?
Inflammation (Latin, inflammatio, to set on fire) is the complex biological response of vascular tissues to harmful stimuli, such as pathogens, damaged cells, or irritants. It is a protective attempt by the organism to remove the injurious stimuli as well as initiate the healing process for the tissue. Inflammation is not a synonym for infection. Even in cases where inflammation is caused by infection it is incorrect to use the terms as synonyms: infection is caused by an exogenous pathogen, while inflammation is the response of the organism to the pathogen.
In the absence of inflammation, wounds and infections would never heal and progressive destruction of the tissue would compromise the survival of the organism. However, inflammation which runs unchecked can also lead to a host of diseases, such as hay fever, atherosclerosis, and rheumatoid arthritis. It is for this reason that inflammation is normally tightly regulated by the body.
inflammatory response, involving the local vascular system, the immune system, and various cells within the injured tissue. Prolonged inflammation, known as chronic inflammation, leads to a progressive shift in the type of cells which are present at the site of inflammation and is characterised by simultaneous destruction and healing of the tissue from the inflammatory process.
Inflammation is becoming recognized as a primary factor in the development of a wide number of chronic disease conditions. A certain level of inflammatory response is needed to protect us from invading organisms (bacteria, viruses, and parasites) and to treat traumatic injuries. However, left unchecked, it can continue to wear down every organ in the body. This can lead to chronic diseases especially in the heart, brain, and immune system.
There are two types of inflammation. The first is classic inflammation that is associated with pain, swelling, and redness. This can be characterized as screaming pain since it is very obvious and calls for immediate intervention. The other type of inflammation is silent inflammation or silent pain that is far more insidious. It doesn't generate the pain associated with classic inflammation and therefore goes untreated for years. We now know that this silent inflammation is the underlying cause of heart disease, cancer, and Alzheimer's disease. Virtually every type of chronic disease has a significant inflammatory component as its underlying cause. A primary focus of modern medical research remains the reduction of both classic and silent inflammation.
If silent inflammation is the underlying cause of chronic diseases that take years, if not decades to develop, then why not simply take anti-inflammatory drugs on a lifetime basis to quell excess inflammation? The obvious problems are the side effects (osteoporosis, immune suppression, and death) that these drugs generate. In fact, deaths in the United States from prescribed use of non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs exceed the number of deaths from AIDS.
What is required is a new approach to reducing inflammation without the side effects created by anti-inflammatory drugs. This can be achieved by the combined used of a low glycemic-load diet and ultra-refined EPA/DHA concentrates. The combined use of these two dietary interventions can keep silent inflammation under control for a lifetime without side effects. It is the mission of the Inflammation Research Foundation to determine the extent that this dietary anti-inflammatory approach can be applied to the treatment of a wide number of chronic disease conditions.
The unique aspect of this foundation is that donors have the opportunity to determine which general chronic disease areas that they would like their donation to be applied to for current and projected clinical studies.
Dr. Sears founded then non-profit Inflammation Research Foundation in 2003 to fund clinical trials to demonstrate the potential of the anti-inflammatory Zone Diet and high dose EPA/DHA concentrates to treatment a wide number of chronic disease conditions.
Treatment of ADHD. This completed trial (Sorgi et al Nutr J 6:16 ) demonstrated that high-dose fish oil has a significant impact on improving behavior within four weeks.
Reduction of inflammatory parameters in high-risk patients. This completed trial (Johnston et al Am J Clin Nutr 83: 1055 ) demonstrated that the Zone Diet has a significant improvement in reducing cardiovascular parameters compared to the Atkins' diet.
Treatment of pediatric obesity. This undergoing trial is being conducted at the Las Vegas Heart Center.
Up-regulation anti-metastatic proteins in patients with prostate cancer. This trial at Harvard Medical School is nearing its completion.
Improvement of outcomes in patients undergoing chemotherapy and radiation for throat cancer. This trial at the University of Pittsburgh Medical School is currently recruiting patients.
Treatment of childhood depression with high-dose fish oil. This trial at the University of Cincinnati Medical School is currently recruiting patients.
Reduction of side effects of statin treatment. This trial at the University of Guelph in Canada is currently recruiting patients.
Reduction of inflammatory parameters associated with breast cancer in high-risk patients. This is a multi-national trial both in the United States and China.
As we move forward into the 21st century, we are at the crossroads in terms of how we treat chronic disease, retard the aging process, and reach our full genetic potential. The Inflammation Research Foundation plans to demonstrate the efficacy of using medically validated nutritional interventions that significantly alter a number of chronic disease conditions that are both life-altering and life-threatening. It is our principal objective to provide the on-going research support that argues forcibly for the use of medically-validated nutritional interventions that can be immediately and routinely applied for reversing the crippling effects associated with life-threatening chronic diseases.
its been a while since someone put some information in this thread. I wonder if someone can put a list of supplements and foods that can help with acute and chronic inflammation. | {
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InNewcastle, 2 months ago 0 3 min read
Australian Anthemic Indie Rockers DMA'S To Headline Hit The North 2020
Hit the North Festival organisers have today announced thereturn of the North East's largest inner-city festival and will welcome Sydney Indie stars DMA'S as part of its most ambitious line-up to date.
The 2020 event, which will be in its fourth year, will take place across multiple high profile venues in Newcastle City on 3rd May and will also welcome rising stars Fickle Friends, Brighton guitar band The Magic Gang, pop-soul star Rhys Lewis, Ryan McMullan and West Yorkshire indie quartet Working Men's Club to the bill.
As with previous instalments – which has seen the likes of Jake Bugg,Tom Grennan, Peace,The Horrors and Ratboy perform – next year's Hit The North lineup is brimming with talented bands and artists on the cusp of greatness.
DMA'S hail from Australia and take a healthy dose of inspiration from 90s Britpop, meaning that in recent years they have become an adopted indie staple in the UK. The Sydney three-piece quickly gained popularity thanks to their debut single 'Delete' back in 2014 and their following has grown continuously since.
In addition to two successful albums, 'Hills End'and 'For Now' DMA'S are well known for their cover of 'Believe' by Cher which they recorded for Triple J's 'Like A Version'.
In 2020, the band are set to release their third album on 24th April which features the sensational lead single 'Silver'.
DMA'S have a strong track record of selling out Newcastle shows, including their last outing at Newcastle's O2 Academy so fans are strongly advised to snap up their Hit The North tickets, with organisers confirming an expected festival sell-out.
Speaking about today's announcement, Festival Organiser, Steve Davis, said:"It feels great to be back! In a region where continuous cuts are being made to cultural projects, Hit The North is a vital platform for connecting promising artists with new music fans.
It also showcases Newcastle's richness as a musical city in terms of its venues and homegrown artists.
Hit The North will return in 2020 and we hope that the festival will continue to boost the profile of Newcastle and the wider North East region as a vibrant hub for new music."
Fickle Friends from Brighton are made for Hit the North Festival. Their playful brand of synth-laden pop captures the imagination of anyone who encounters them live. Fickle Friends' UK autumn 2018 tour completely sold out at all venues including London's Shepherds Bush. This October they released 'Amateurs' their first single taken off their upcoming second album.
The Magic Gang are another notable festival-friendly Brighton band on the lineup. Their eponymous debut album released back in March 2018 was met with praise from the public and British music press. Before playing Hit The North, The Magic Gang are set to support Blossoms on their March 2020 tour alongside The Lathums, who will also play the festival.
The next instalment of Hit The North will continue its tradition of introducing exciting new acts. This time around, newcomers include singer-songwriters Rhys Lewis, Ryan McMullan and Lauran Hibberd in addition to bands such as Marsicans.
The festival will also maintain its commitment to championing local acts including FEVA, Martha Hill, Picnic, Fever Days and Motel Carnation.
With more artists and festival venues set to be revealed in the coming weeks, Hit the North Festival is poised for its most ambitious and diverse line-up to date.
Tickets for Hit the North will go on sale 10 am, Wednesday 20thNovember, priced at £32.50 (plus booking fee) and will be available via this link: https://hitthenorthfestival.ticketline.co.uk/
Tags #HIT THE NORTH
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InNewcastle, 12 months ago 10 min read
BURN THE FLOOR
TOP HALLOWEEN EXPERIENCES IN NEWCASTLE | {
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As detectives of NABU have opened and have brought the matter of people's deputies who earned from the position and how many years of prison threaten deputies Borislav Rosenblat and Maxim Polyakov to court - in the Business of the Detective program with Aleksandra Drik has told the detective story of National anti-corruption bureau Elena.
about "investor", people's deputies have offered the help. Maxim Polyakov who has attracted after Rosenblat was an initiator of it. They have reported that they for money could organize process of adoption of bills in order that the foreign company could work in Ukraine as people's deputies have influence and communications.
- the Agent Ekaterina met people's deputies and their authorized representatives about 60 times, from them means were transferred 8 times. In general the sum was about 300 thousand US dollars.
- Rosenblat couldn't Sign the contract with foresters therefore he has suggested the agent Ekaterina to buy the land plots about 30 hectares on which to organize extraction of amber, and for it has asked 200 US dollars. And just during transfer of this money 6 people including the security guard of the people's deputy who took part in it have been detained. Next day have reported to them about suspicion.
- But as people's deputies have immunity of inviolability to arrest them or to report about suspicion, is necessary the consent of the Verkhovna Rada. In this regard have provided representation in I LIE about removal of inviolability and prosecution of Rosenblat and Polyakov. The court has to elect by him a measure of restraint, but considering the decision of parliament, the decision on election of a measure of restraint in the form of pledge of 7 million and 3014 thousand hryvnias has been made.
- However Polyakov at once has broken after that the duties - he has refused to put on an electronic bracelet therefore have appropriated him the double sum of pledge. And Rosenblat tried to leave the territory of Ukraine, having at himself the documents and objects important for investigation. Therefore detectives of NABU have carried out an urgent search directly aboard.
- Detectives of NABU have collected the due number of proofs, further the court has to solve, persons are guilty or not. To deputies punishment in the form of imprisonment for a period of 8 up to 15 years is prescribed. | {
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Tentacles Innovation arrives back to their production environments in both Rotterdam NL and Brno CZ. The trip to Austin, Texas USA has been very fruitful.
Thank you NXP FTF Tech Forum, your partners and the embedded community. The shared ideas and qualified feedback to our newest concepts and products are of the greatest value. | {
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Home | Articles | Ruth Light Braun, Klein's Dress Shop, Union Square
Ruth Light Braun (American, b. 1906)
Klein's Dress Shop, Union Square
Circa 1928–1929
Conte crayon on paper, 11 x 8 1/2 inches
Courtesy of Hirschl & Adler Galleries; in Ruth Light Braun: New York
and Palestine, 1926–1933, on view through April 27
At 95 years old, Ruth Light Braun, a Brooklyn-born artist, is herself a new discovery. With the exception of a small show decades ago, Braun has never shown her work publicly, or offered it for sale, until Hirschl & Adler mounted their current exhibition. Her drawings present a fascinating and nearly unique record of the appearances and aspirations of Jews in America and Palestine during the years 1926–1933, effectively documenting a generation of Jews before the events of the later 1930s and '40s changed life forever.
Many of Braun's portraits of New York Jews contain themes that reveal a yearning for upward mobility and a participation in the American dream, often presented in vignetted images, such as skyscrapers, in the background behind the sitter. Her urban sketches convey the working-class character of her subjects. In addition, Braun spent the period from August 1931 to January 1933 in Palestine, where she recorded everyday life and captured portraits of leading figures in the Zionist movement. | {
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Directly donate an item— You can purchase an item(s) from the supplier of your choice for delivery to Bayou Area Habitat for Humanity, or if you have a good working condition used item, please drop by our offices during our working hours.
Print our donation form, indicate the item you wish to be purchased, and mail with a check to our office.
Make a donation online by visiting our secure online donations page and selecting "Wish List Item" in the Donation Purpose pull-down menu. Please list the specific item(s) you wish to donate in the Additional Notes box.
We are in desparate need of a late model pickup truck in good mechanical condition.
Any brand utility trailer with rear and side opening doors. We use these for equipment storage on site, and transportation to work sites.
A new or good condition used laser network capable printer for our office.
THANK YOU FOR THINKING OF BAHFH WITH YOUR DONATIONS! | {
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They all brought together the sounds and vocal styles of London, New York, Jamaica and Africa on this jam and it bangs. The song is an encapsulation of the ever-present dialogue between Afro-pop & dance-hall.
They are united by NY producer Dre Skull, known for his work with popular Afrobeats and Dance-hall stars like Popcaan, Kartel, Wizkid, Davido and more. | {
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SPRE @ the Phoenix Group for Social Purpose Real Estate Discussion - Sept 30
SPRE's Jacquie Gijssen and Central City Foundation's Jennifer Johnstone pleased to be presenting to the Phoenix Group of professionals involved in real estate, law, finance and development. Sept 30. Link here for more info.
Let's Talk Amalgamation Do's and Don'ts in Deciding the Future of Your Organization Sept 9
Law for Non-Profits Weekly Lunch and Learn presents legal implications and best practices with charities lawyer Margaret Mason.
Imagine Canada Updates on Federal Programs
Check Imagine Canada's early alert newsletter for updates on Emergency Commercial Rental Assistance Program and a registration required teleconference on the Emergency Wage Subsidy August 18 2-3 EDT.
A Look at the Impact of Loss of Faith Spaces on the Not for Profit Sector in Toronto
John Lorinc investigates COVID driven loss of faith owned properties and the impact on not for profits in Toronto.
Federal Capital Assistance Call for Proposals to Black Organizations
Proposals accepted until July 27th The Supporting Black Canadian Communities Call for Proposals (CFP) provides capital assistance to Black organizations in Canada to build capacity to better fulfill their missions, and better serve Black communities in Canada.
Not-for-Profit organizations that are Black-led, can apply for up to $100,000 for equipment purchases for work or community spaces, and/or renovations or retrofits of existing workspaces or community spaces to improve their functionality.
Land for Community Benefit Forum
"Land for Community Benefit in a Post Pandemic BC is an opportunity to shift the discourse, the power and ultimately the system towards a fairer, more equitable place. A place that provides space for community—all communities—all peoples". Jacqueline Gijssen, SPRE Project Director
With the Housing Research Collaborative, SPRE is proud to have hosted 70 leaders in this dynamic Forum. Hit "more" to go to the Forum notes and 'big ideas summary'.
"In 2018 HRC + SPRE came together to consider our overlapping interests (housing, space for not-for-profits and social enterprises) and what we might do to move the dialogue forward beyond the current status quo.
With the assistance from a multifaceted advisory committee, and a crystalized understanding of how the Covid19 Pandemic was in fact "daylighting" the real estate market's systemic failure to support community needs for access to space—we moved to bring our members and issue specialists together in this Forum.
We see opportunity, but also risks to spaces for community—not-for-profits, housing, and the equally impacted small business community (which we are delighted to have present).
Whether you approach from the crisis in tenant and landlord situations, land owning agencies considering debt mitigation via disposal of capital assets, or the private sector looking for new acquisitions— protecting land for community benefit has never been more critical.
But we cannot move an inch forward without acknowledging the additional trauma and harm being inflicted on peoples of colour (in particular Indigenous, Asian and Black peoples) and others suffering as a result of systemic imbalances of power.
We recognize this community, here today, works hard to make the world a better place. But we must do more. By standing up and holding ourselves, our organizations and others accountable. By acknowledging we all (in some way) work in a system based on attainment and control of power. Real estate has been demonstrably biased against peoples of colour, or differences in gender, faith, ability, economic standing, from the first settler period onwards.
Land for Community Benefit in a Post Pandemic BC is an opportunity to shift the discourse, the power and ultimately the system towards a fairer, more equitable place. A place that provides space for community—all communities—all peoples. Let us be bold as we move forward." Jacqueline Gijssen, Project Director SPRE
Webinar June 25 - An Innovative Real Estate Model
Learn more about Community Impact Real Estate and their work to protect the assets of vulnerable communities against gentrification in Vancouver's DTES. Sponsored by the Real Estate Institute of BC.
BC Gaming Grants available to address impact of COVID 19
Apply for assistance with COVID 19 impact on your organization
Vantage Point's Recent Research Infographic
The Size, Scope and Impact of BC's Non-Profit Sector Infographic makes the case for the importance of the sector
Heritage BC Update
Heritage BC's position on diversity and addressing systemic racism. | {
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Each year the Division awards two teaching prizes at the annual June Convocation. Department chairs are notified of the competition for each in the winter and spring quarter, but additional details are below.
This award acknowledges excellence in teaching in College courses in the Division of the Humanities. The Award is intended to identify and honor faculty who guide the intellectual development of undergraduate students through exceptional teaching and mentoring.
Chairs will be notified of the competition for the Award at the beginning of Winter Quarter. Nominations, contained in a letter from the chair, will be submitted to the office of the Dean of the Humanities and the office of the Master of the Humanities Collegiate Division by May 1st. Each chair may submit one nomination.
Chairs will nominate faculty who have had a significant impact on undergraduate education. They will base their nominations on faculty members' substantial records of teaching and mentoring. Faculty to be considered will be those who have taught in the academic year in which they are nominated, but Chairs' nominations may be based on excellence in teaching over a longer period of time. Student evaluations, B.A. theses advised, etc., may be consulted but will not be submitted with the case.
The Award will be presented at the Division's annual hooding ceremony, and the name of the winner will be printed in the Convocation Program (along with the names of all other University award winners). The winner will choose to receive either a taxable prize of $10,000 or a non-taxable research account of $10,000.
Candidates for the Award must be current members of the ladder faculty at the University of Chicago who hold primary appointments in a department in the Humanities Division.
A candidate may not have received the Award within the last ten years.
This award acknowledges excellence in teaching by lecturers in the Division of the Humanities. Upon recommendation by the department and approval by the dean, exceptional pedagogues may receive the Janel M. Mueller Award for Excellence in Pedagogy in the amount of $3,000.
Chairs will be notified of the competition for the Award at the beginning of Spring Quarter. Nominations will be submitted to the office of the Dean of the Humanities (Ellen Pierce: [email protected]) by May 1st.
Nominations for this award take the form of a letter from the chair or director of the unit, and should establish that the lecturer is outstanding in the fulfillment of her or his duties as well as assess the lecturer's contributions to the mission of the University. The letter should be accompanied by a dossier that includes supporting materials, which may be taken from the lecturer's most recent review: a current cv, a report of a class visitation by a faculty member, student evaluations from more than one class, and any other materials helpful for assessing the nomination. Awards will be announced before Convocation in June and winners will be honored at the Humanities Ceremony at Convocation.
This award is open to full-time Lecturers and Senior Lecturers in the Humanities Division and Humanities Collegiate Division who have taught at the university for more than one year. A lecturer who has previously been awarded the Mueller Award is no longer eligible. | {
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Adocrazia o adhocrazia è un neologismo sincratico che deriva dal latino ad hoc ovvero "su misura" o "appropriato", e dal suffisso -crazia, dal greco antico kratein (κρατεῖν), che significa "governare". Questa struttura organizzativa è caratterizzata da grande capacità di adattamento. L'organizzazione è snella a tutti i livelli, è dinamica, e con poca formalizzazione. L'addestramento ricopre una grande importanza.
Storia
Essa è una forma di organizzazione flessibile, adattabile e informale che è definita da una mancanza di struttura formale che impiega team multidisciplinari specializzati raggruppati per funzioni. Funziona in modo opposto a una burocrazia.
Il termine è stato coniato da Warren Bennis nel suo libro del 1968 The Temporary Society, successivamente reso popolare nel 1970 da Alvin Toffler nel suo libro Future Shock. Da allora è spesso usato nella teoria della gestione delle organizzazioni, in particolare le organizzazioni online).
Il concetto è stato ulteriormente sviluppato da accademici come Henry Mintzberg; che descrive sei configurazioni organizzative valide (originariamente solo cinque), di cui la più innovativa è rappresentata dalla adhocrazia. Modello organizzativo questo in cui tutti i membri hanno l'autorità, all'interno delle loro aree di specializzazione, e in coordinamento con altri membri, per prendere decisioni e intraprendere azioni che influenzano il futuro dell'organizzazione, inoltre v'è un'assenza di gerarchia. L'elemento maggiormente distintivo dei risultati della ricerca di Mintzberg e degli scritti sulla strategia aziendale, è che hanno spesso sottolineato l'importanza della strategia emergente (dal basso), che si pone in modo informale a qualsiasi livello in un'organizzazione, come alternativa o complemento alla strategia deliberata (dall'alto), che è determinata consapevolmente o dal top management o con l'acquiescenza del top management.
Caratteristiche
L'adocrazia è caratterizzata da un comportamento integrativo adattivo, creativo e flessibile basato sulla non permanenza e sulla spontaneità. Si ritiene che queste caratteristiche consentano all'adocrazia di rispondere più rapidamente rispetto alle organizzazioni burocratiche tradizionali essendo più aperta a nuove idee.
Al contrario delle strutture burocratiche che sono formali, fisse e standardizzata, l'adocrazia è informale, temporale e fluida. Una caratteristica fondamentale dell'adocrazia è che la gerarchia e le specifiche formali dei ruoli tipiche della burocrazia sono sostituite da relazioni laterali e v'è l'affidamento all'esperienza del personale.
Inoltre, l'obiettivo è la costante innovazione e il soddisfacimento dei bisogni in un ambiente in continuo cambiamento come accade più spesso nei settori aerospaziali e nella difesa. Consiste di numerosi team sovrapposti con nuclei operativi separati dai nuclei professionali, concentrati sull'innovazione. Le adocrazie sono formalmente formate da esperti addestrati in competenze specifiche che si assumono la responsabilità di decisioni e attività chiave. I professionisti membri del progetto allineano le loro competenze per lavorare progetto per progetto, fondendo i propri ambiti di competenza in modo temporale.
Le caratteristiche di una adocrazia sono:
struttura altamente organica,
scarsa formalizzazione del comportamento,
specializzazione lavorativa non necessariamente basata sulla formazione formale,
una tendenza a raggruppare gli specialisti in unità funzionali per scopi di pulizia, ma a distribuirli in piccoli team di progetto basati sul mercato per svolgere il loro lavoro,
un affidamento su dispositivi di collegamento per incoraggiare l'adeguamento reciproco all'interno e tra queste squadre,
standardizzazione bassa o nulla delle procedure,
ruoli non chiaramente definiti,
decentralizzazione selettiva,
l'organizzazione del lavoro si basa su squadre specializzate,
passaggi di potere a squadre specializzate,
specializzazione lavorativa orizzontale,
alto costo di comunicazione per l'era pre-Internet,
cultura basata sul lavoro non burocratico.
Vantaggi
I vantaggi dell'adrocrazia sono:
È vantaggiosa in ambienti complessi e dinamiciN.B: sono tipici delle società di servizi ad alta intensità di conoscenza e di professionisti, dove queste organizzazioni consentono innovazioni complesse e hanno una sensibilità al cambiamento molto maggiore di organizzazioni burocratiche.
Inoltre, esse sono tipiche di organizzazioni start-up ad alto rischio e/o organizzazioni a carattere temporaneo.
Garantisce una maggiore condivisione di idee e collaborazione.
Quest'organizzazione è più adatta a rispondere all'innovazione, possedendo un'alta flessibilità, alto grado di adattamento alle esigenze mutevoli dell'ambiente.
Utilizza la cooperazione di esperti dotati di competenze diverse, dalle cui sinergie può nascere una risposta nuova ad un bisogno espresso dalla clientela.
Possiede una formalizzazione molto limitata mentre la preparazione e l'aggiornamento professionale degli operatori ha importanza cruciale.
Vi è la possibilità di seguire regole non predefinite.
Vi è un notevole decentramento che coinvolge anche il processo di formulazione delle strategie dagli elementi di base fino a un sistema complesso.
Comporta che i compiti per ideare ed erogare tali servizi si basino su un'alta variabilità e uno scarso uso di schemi analitici consolidati.
Svantaggi
Le criticità dell'adocrazia sono:
Il processo decisionale è lento.
Può esserci difficoltà nell'allocare in modo efficiente le risorse.
Può esserci difficoltà di individuare il profitto dei singoli business.
Può esserci confusione in termini di luoghi e di responsabilità e difficoltà nel coordinamento inter e intra funzione.
Può esserci difficoltà nel monitoraggio del comportamento con perdita di controllo da parte del top.
Le azioni possono rimanere incomplete.
Può esserci estremismo nelle azioni suggerite o intraprese e possono minacce la democrazia dell'organizzazione.
Può esserci frustrazione per mancanza di continuità.
I percorsi di progressione di carriera non sono prevedibili.
Questo modello non è efficiente e non sembra adatto per la realizzazione di attività ordinarie o routinarie. Sono stati individuati alla base di questa inefficienza del modello due aspetti chiave:
Mancato bilanciamento dei carichi di lavoro, gli specialisti di progetto coinvolti alternano periodi con carichi di lavoro eccessivi a periodi di attività ridotta.
Elevati costi di comunicazione, con possibili conflitti che si generano per l'alto numero degli attori coinvolti disposti a difendere le proprie idee con tenacia.
Adocrazia in un certo senso raggiunge la sua efficacia attraverso l'inefficienza; inoltre, essa è ricca di manager ma anche di costosi e necessari dispositivi di comunicazione; ogni risultato è ottenuto quando tutti hanno discusso con tutti. L'ambiguità abbonda, dando origine ad una notevole quantità di conflitti e possibili espressioni "politiche". L'adocrazia non riesce a svolgere bene compiti ruotinari ma al contrario è straordinaria nell'innovazione.
Per minimizzare alcune delle criticità individuate si suggeriscono modelli intermedi basati su un mix di burocrazia e adhocrazia; un modello misto può essere quello di un'orchestra e il suo direttore. Dove convivono funzionalmente un gruppo eterogeneo di professionisti: gli orchestrali che sono specialisti altamente qualificati e che continuamente perfezionano le loro capacità (sono equivalenti agli operatori di una burocrazia professionale). I loro sforzi, però, devono essere strettamente coordinati, e quindi devono avere fiducia tra loro ed anche per una stretta e diretta supervisione di un leader il direttore d'orchestra. Questi è l'equivalente, da un punto di vista funzionale ed organizzativo, ad un leader di una struttura aziendale semplice.
L'ibrido delle due configurazioni burocrazia funzionale e struttura semplice è realizzato con efficacia nelle orchestre; tutto ciò anche se si sviluppa una buona dose di conflitto tra il leader ovvero il direttore e gli operatori ovvero gli orchestrali.
Wikipedia come modello
Wikipedia per la sua storia, le modalità di controllo, le relazioni tra i contributori ed altro è un paradigma online di social media e sembra essere un modello attuato di adocrazia. Inoltre essa è un importante oggetto di studio sia in ambito sociale che psicologico.
La governance di Wikipedia è stata paragonata a molti sistemi politici e decisionali classici con apparati burocratici, come la democrazia la dittatura ed anche l'anarchia; essa in realta è il più vicina alle strutture organizzative proprie dell'adocrazia, seppure la sua la governance può mostrare elementi comuni a modelli di governance tradizionali.
Inoltre, su Wikipedia cambia radicalmente il modo in cui pensiamo alla leadership e all'evoluzione dei social media, infatti, essa realizza una nuova e resiliente gerarchia sociale, un'adocrazia; che combina online le caratteristiche delle organizzazioni sociali tradizionali e nuove.
Note
Bibliografia
Bonazzi, G. (2008). Storia del pensiero organizzativo, 14ª edizione riveduta ed ampliata, FrancoAngeli
AA.VV. (2005). I processi di standardizzazione in azienda. Aspetti istituzionali, organizzativi, manageriali, finanziari e contabili, FrancoAngeli
Mintzberg, H. (1981). Organization Design: Fashion or Fit?, Harvard Business Review
Robert H. Waterman, Jr., Adhocracy ()
Alvin Toffler, Lo choc del futuro (Future Shock) ()
Voci correlate
Autogestione dei lavoratori
Collaborazione
Commons-based peer production
Crowdsourcing
Economia partecipativa
Esternalizzazione
File sharing
Produzione paritaria
Social media
Sociocrazia
Wiki
Wikinomics
Collegamenti esterni
Economia politica
Forme di governo
Organizzazione aziendale
Pubblica amministrazione
Sociologia politica | {
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On July 4, 2017 at 6:30AM, the Guadalupe County Sheriff's Office was dispatched to the 200 Block of Shady Lane, Seguin for a report of a possible DAS (Death at Scene). It was quickly learned that the deceased, who is now identified as 57 year old Joe James Rangel, had died of gunshot wounds.
This is currently an active homicide investigation. The Guadalupe County Sheriff's Office is asking for the public's assistance with any information concerning this investigation. Please contact Investigator Eric Roseland at email address: ([email protected]), phone# 830-379-1224 Ext.2294.
Anyone who wishes to remain anonymous can call Guadalupe County Crime Stoppers at 877-403-TIPS (8477) or online at www.gccsTIPS.com or P3 Tips App. | {
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CHRISTIAN GROUPS HONOR KISSIMMEE LEADER
THE ORLANDO SENTINEL
KISSIMMEE -- City Manager Mark Durbin is one of a dozen Christian leaders nationwide being honored by Standard Publishing, a publisher of religious materials, and Milligan College, a Christian liberal-arts school in Tennessee.
Durbin, 48, who serves on the board of Florida Christian College, was chosen for his commitment to biblical principles, desire to serve others and wise leadership and integrity, according to a letter presented to the City Commission Tuesday night by First Christian Church in Kissimmee.
Durbin received a sculpture in the shape of a basin with a towel at its edge, illustrating a portion of the biblical book of John in which Jesus washed his disciples' feet.
Other winners include David and Peggy Beamer, parents of Todd Beamer, who became famous posthumously as a passenger on United Airlines Flight 93 that crashed in Pennsylvania on Sept. 11, 2001. Beamer called out, "Let's roll!" before leading several passengers in an attempt to subdue a group of terrorist hijackers.
SpaceX CEO Elon Musk 'super fired up' after successful launch - and destruction - of Falcon 9 rocket | {
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In its relativity short history, BWSM has become one of the most recognized intellectual property law firms in Florida. Since the firm's formation in May 2001, the composition of the firm has changed to meet the needs of our clients. The genesis of the firm began with five attorneys who were already practicing together plus two additional attorneys who saw the potential the firm could have. The firm's name recognizes four of those five attorneys who shared a vision of excellence in the practice of intellectual property law and sought to establish a firm to make their vision a reality. Over time, other patent attorneys have joined this dynamic law firm as it has expanded from being only a Florida based law firm to now include an office in Northern Virginia.
Today, the firm continues to expand with the addition of other partners, associates, patent agents, and other professionals to enhance its concentration in intellectual property law and related litigation in the furtherance of our clients' needs.
With a strong foundation of ingenuity and integrity, BWSM strives to provide the same high level of quality service equally to our multi-national corporate clients as we do to our individual inventors. We look forward to the opportunity to assist you in protecting, enforcing, and defending both your U.S. and international intellectual property rights. | {
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DUBAI- The challenges faced in the adoption of Open Skies in the Middle East region and the socio-economic benefits of the aviation policy has been debated by key aviation industry experts on the concluding day of the 2nd Global Airport Leaders' Forum (GALF) – the colocated event of 14th Airport Show- at the Dubai International Convention and Exhibition Centre (DICEC) on Tuesday.
Titled Expanding Civil Aviation's reach through Open Skies, the session panelists included Jamal Al Hai, Executive Senior Vice President, Dubai Airports, Michael Herrero, Gulf Area Manager, International Air Transport Association (IATA), Dr. Hamdi Chaouk, Director General, Civil Aviation Authority of Lebanon, Bader Almershed, Vice President, Jazeera Airways, Ibrahim Khayat, President, International Centre for Strategic Analysis. Duncan Alexander, Director of West Asia, Pacific Asia Travel Association (PATA), moderated the session which drew participants from the regional aviation industry, including airports and airlines.
In his keynote address, Jamal Al Hai, Executive Senior Vice-President for International Affairs & Corporate Communications Dubai Airports, and former member of UAE's Federal National Council (FNC), said Open Skies, pioneered by Dubai way back in 1930s and adopted globally since then, has been helping towards the growth of the aviation industry.
He said Open Skies has remained the frontline of our winning strategy for the civil aviation development in the UAE, alongside massive investments in airports and airspace management, expansion of air connectivity for the movement of both human and trade across the world. He said aviation liberalization has remained the biggest challenge impacting the growth of airports in view of the high volume of passengers and aircraft movements.
The UAE has signed more than 160 Air Services Agreements (ASAs), of which majority are Open Skies arrangements. "Open Skies have provided for us the basis for expanding market access and route connectivity between states for mutual benefits. We remained strongly committed to Open Skies and air transport liberalization given their proven and visible vast socio-economic benefits in the region – and even in other parts of the world," he said.
He said Dubai's passenger and cargo aircraft movements are projected to reach 416650 and 35,000, respectively, in 2015. Aviation's share in Dubai's GDP is projected to reach 32 per cent in 2020. It has been estimated that $82 billion have been invested in aviation infrastructure development in the Emirate of Dubai alone since the formation of the UAE in 1971.
He disclosed that Dubai International and Al Maktoum International airports will have about 665,000 aircraft movements by 2020, double the volume these world-class facilities handle now. General Civil Aviation Authority (GCAA) estimates that UAE will account for a bigger share in the Middle East air traffic growth with the number of aircraft movements reaching 1.13 million by 2015 and 1.63 million by 2030.
Due to increase in air traffic and competitive pricing of services provided to airlines and aircraft operations, the revenues of Dubai Civil Aviation Authority (DCAA) is expected to see a 15 per cent growth in the next three years. Between 2011 and 2013, DCAA's revenues have an average of 10 per cent growth.
In his presentation, Michael Herrero, Manager for Gulf Area at IATA, said the governments and all the civil aviation industry stakeholders need to cooperate and collaborate more in policies and processes to handle the rising number of air passengers which will reach 5.9 billion globally in 2030, up from the three billion recorded in 2013.
He said the Middle East and Asia will benefit immensely from the shift in balance in economic activity globally, from the West to the East. Michael utilized the session to share insights to various industry-wide initiatives that IATA has been pursuing, including the SmartS (formerly known as the Checkpoint of the Future) designed to ensure seamless and hassle-free passenger facilitation at the airports.
The project is being trialed at two European airports and will be introduced in other countries, including the Middle East region, in phases. "Technology and processes are there to ensure better safety and security. What we need is collaboration and working together. We have to change the way we look at the situation. If this happens sooner it is better," he remarked.
Michael disclosed that IATA has signed a MoU with General Civil Aviation Authority (GCAA) for sharing best practices and expertise in a number of domains like ground handling.
Dr.Hamdi Chaouk, Director General of Lebanon's Civil Aviation Authority, presented a case study which highlighted the benefits that Lebanon got following adoption of Open Skies policy in 2002-2003 and the impact the freezing of the policy had on the aviation industry.
He blamed lack of political will, corruption and the illogical protection of loss-making national carriers behind the opposition to implementation of Open Skies policy in the Arab world. He said Arab countries signed the Damascus Declaration on air transport liberalization but there had been unsatisfactory progress on this front when it comes to practice.
Highlighting the success story of Jazeera Airways, Bader Almershed, Vice President of Industry Affairs at the Kuwait's budget carrier, said aviation liberalization remains the biggest challenge impacting the growth of airports and airlines in view of the high volume of passengers and aircraft movements.
Offering a global perspective of the economy and aviation and the factors that contributed to the success of and resistance to Open Skies concept in several countries, Ibrahim Khayat, President of Dubai-based International Centre for Strategic Analysis, said the governments should adopt a better approach and strategies to tap the full potential of the aviation to the economy and society.
He attributed the success of Dubai, Abu Dhabi and Doha in transforming themselves into aviation hubs to right strategies and approach.
He underscored the need for the Arab countries to adapt to the changing times to remain competitive and successful in aviation, tourism and other socio-economic domains.
GALF-2014 has been held under the patronage of His Highness Sheikh Ahmed bin Saeed Al Maktoum, President of Dubai Civil Aviation Authority, Chairman of Dubai Airports and Chairman and Chief Executive of Emirates Airline and Group.
The knowledge sharing platform had 30 key global government decision-makers, policy makers, thinkers and visionaries as speakers. | {
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Lomography About FAQ What is Colorsplashing?
Colorsplashing is a technique used to alter the colors of things or people that are in range of a flash. When you colorsplash, you use a flash with different colors to bathe your subject with colored light. You can do this by using a Colorsplash camera or attaching a Colorsplash flash or a Diana+ Flash on the hotshoe of your camera.
Be aware that this technique will only work on subjects that are within reach of the flash. If you take the picture of a dog in the street using the blue gel of your flash, only the dog will be blue and not the background. This is because the flash is not strong enough to reach more than a few meters from the camera. | {
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Hmmm… let me see: a floral tequila-based raspberry cocktail with notes of chocolate and frothy egg white finish…What is not to love here? This is the perfect recipe to sip during one of these rainy spring days.
This cocktail is light on the plate with a beautiful balance between citrus and floral. The chocolate bitters add the perfect touch and the color exudes an enchanting pink hue. The egg white adds a velvety texture that is simply irresistible. While making this cocktail is perhaps a bit labor intensive (between the muddling and the dry shake), I assure you – it's worth the effort!
If you happened to miss our article on How to Add Egg Whites to Your Cocktails, just click here for the full details. Another great egg white recipe can also be found here. As daunting as these egg white cocktails can be to make, you have to remember the old saying: "practice makes perfect." Just keep practicing (and enjoying) these cocktails along with recipes that you create on your own – and before long this technique will become second-nature!
Even though every day can't be Friday, sipping this cocktail will make you feel like it's always Friday! This light and refreshing recipe highlights South American ingredients with a French twist. | {
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First Community Mortgage is honored to serve our military and veterans by helping them on their journey to find a home.
The Veterans Affairs (VA) Loan is a mortgage loan issued by approved lenders and guaranteed by the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs. This program was created to help returning service members purchase homes without the requirement of a down payment. VA Loans may allow for 100% financing and requires the owner(s) to occupy the residence.
Borrower qualification depends on income levels, debt levels, credit qualifications, and appraised value of the property.
0% down for qualified borrowers.
Borrowers are not required to buy private mortgage insurance (PMI) since the VA Loan is government-backed.
A VA Loan is generally easier to qualify for since the qualification procedures are less strict for government-backed loans.
A VA Loan sets a limit on the closing costs a veteran must pay, but a seller can pay all of the closing costs providing a no-cost move-in.
Who is an active duty service member.
Who has served as an active duty member and was discharged under other than dishonorable conditions.
An un-remarried surviving spouse of a veteran may also be considered for certain benefits under the law.
Veterans residing in Texas can visit any of our offices in Harker Heights, Copperas Cove, Killeen, San Antonio, North Padre Island, El Paso, and Temple. Also we render services in Peoria, Arizona.
Contact the loan office closest to you for more information on VA Loans. | {
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package crazysoap;
/**
* @see http://grepcode.com/file/repository.grepcode.com/java/root/jdk/openjdk/6-b27/com/sun/xml/internal/bind/DatatypeConverterImpl.java#DatatypeConverterImpl._parseBoolean%28java.lang.CharSequence%29
*/
public class ParseBooleanJDK6_27Optimized implements ParseBoolean {
@Override
public boolean parse(String value) {
return parseBoolean(value);
}
static boolean parseBoolean(String value) {
return _parseBoolean(value);
}
public static Boolean _parseBoolean(CharSequence literal) {
if (literal.length() <= 0) {
return null;
}
int i=0;
int len = literal.length();
char ch;
do {
ch = literal.charAt(i++);
} while(isWhiteSpace(ch) && i<len);
if( ch=='t' || ch=='1' ) return true;
if( ch=='f' || ch=='0' ) return false;
return false;
}
public static final boolean isWhiteSpace(char ch) {
// most of the characters are non-control characters.
// so check that first to quickly return false for most of the cases.
if( ch>0x20 ) return false;
// other than we have to do four comparisons.
return ch == 0x9 || ch == 0xA || ch == 0xD || ch == 0x20;
}
}
| {
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This is key to selecting the right contractor.Sequoia Roofing is . . .
Because of GAF's stringent standards, only the top 3% of all roofing contractors are qualified as Master Elite™ contractors!
To ensure your total satisfaction, GAF provided Sequoia Roofing extensive training materials developed by GAF's technical experts—allowing them to stay current in the latest roof installation techniques.
Most people think that a new roof is nothing more than just nailing up some shingles. Master Elite™ contractors know better—that's why they recommend GAF's Weather Stopper® Roofing Protection System. It gives you the best protection against a variety of all-too-common roofing problems. Plus, each component used in the system has earned the prestigious Good Housekeeping Seal.
Because of their unique training and Master Elite™ status, roofs that are installed by Sequoia Roofing are eligible for special warranties — all backed by GAF's financial clout as North America's largest roofing manufacturer.
After all, a warranty is only as good as the manufacturer that stands behind it. With a GAF roof, you know you will be covered throughout the warranty period — without fail! Ask your Sequoia Roofing roofing advisor which warranty option is best for your home.
Don't trust your biggest asset to just any contractor. Sequoia Roofing is GAF Master Elite™ and your best and safest choice! | {
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package fr.ujm.tse.lt2c.satin.slider.rules.run;
import java.util.Collection;
import java.util.concurrent.atomic.AtomicInteger;
import org.apache.log4j.Logger;
import com.google.common.collect.Multimap;
import fr.ujm.tse.lt2c.satin.slider.buffer.TripleDistributor;
import fr.ujm.tse.lt2c.satin.slider.dictionary.AbstractDictionary;
import fr.ujm.tse.lt2c.satin.slider.interfaces.Dictionary;
import fr.ujm.tse.lt2c.satin.slider.interfaces.Triple;
import fr.ujm.tse.lt2c.satin.slider.interfaces.TripleBuffer;
import fr.ujm.tse.lt2c.satin.slider.interfaces.TripleStore;
import fr.ujm.tse.lt2c.satin.slider.triplestore.ImmutableTriple;
/**
* INPUT
* x rdf:type rdfs:Class
* OUPUT
* x rdf:type rdfs:Ressource
*
* @author Jules Chevalier
*
*/
public class RunRDFS8 extends AbstractRun {
private static final Logger LOGGER = Logger.getLogger(RunRDFS8.class);
private static final String RULENAME = "RDFS8";
public static final long[] INPUT_MATCHERS = { AbstractDictionary.type };
public static final long[] OUTPUT_MATCHERS = { AbstractDictionary.type };
public RunRDFS8(final Dictionary dictionary, final TripleStore tripleStore, final TripleBuffer tripleBuffer, final TripleDistributor tripleDistributor,
final AtomicInteger phaser) {
super(dictionary, tripleStore, tripleBuffer, tripleDistributor, phaser);
super.ruleName = RULENAME;
super.complexity = 1;
}
@Override
protected int process(final TripleStore ts1, final TripleStore ts2, final Collection<Triple> outputTriples) {
final long clazz = AbstractDictionary.classRdfs;
final long type = AbstractDictionary.type;
final long ressource = AbstractDictionary.Resource;
int loops = 0;
final Multimap<Long, Long> typeMultimap = ts1.getMultiMapForPredicate(type);
if (typeMultimap != null && !typeMultimap.isEmpty()) {
for (final Long subject : typeMultimap.keySet()) {
if (typeMultimap.get(subject).contains(clazz)) {
loops++;
final Triple result = new ImmutableTriple(subject, type, ressource);
outputTriples.add(result);
}
}
}
return loops;
}
@Override
public Logger getLogger() {
return LOGGER;
}
@Override
public String toString() {
return RULENAME;
}
}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 3,045 | [
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Tag Archives: American Crime
Elwes Unbound: American Crime (2004, directed by Dan Mintz)
Posted on October 1, 2018 by Jedadiah Leland
Smalltown reporter Jessie St. Clair (Rachael Leigh Cook) has stumbled across the story of her career. A stripper and a prostitute have been murdered. Before committing the murders, the killer sent each victim a video tape of him stalking her. With the help of her producer, Jane (Annabella Sciorra), and her cameraman, Rob (Kip Pardue), Jessie sets out to try to solve the case but when she receives a videotape that indicates that she might be the next victim, she quits her job and vanishes.
Then, Albert Bodine (Cary Elwes) shows up in town. Albert says that he's the anchor of the UK's top true crime show, American Crime, and that he wants to investigate not only the two murders but also Jessie's disappearance. When both Rob and Jane are suddenly fired by their station, they reluctantly agree to work with Albert. Albert soon proves himself to be so incompetent that his new colleagues start to wonder if he's actually who he says he is. Meanwhile, another videotape turns up, this one starring Jane.
The tone of American Crime is all over the place and it never seems to be sure if it wants to scare us or if it wants to make us laugh but there are some tense scenes and a good twist ending. American Crime tries to strike a balance between being a horror/thriller and a satire of media sensationalism. It doesn't always succeed but you really haven't lived until you've seen Cary Elwes play a sleazy tabloid reporter. Imagine an even more hyperactive version of Robert Downey, Jr's performance in Natural Born Killers and you'll have some idea of what Cary Elwes does in this movie. Elwes sweats profusely, bulges his eyes, speaks with an extremely affected English accent, and plays with his hair every time he passes a mirror. Everything sets him off, from his camera falling off of its tripod to people questioning his journalistic credibility. Though the movie does feature good roles for underappreciated actresses like Rachael Leigh Cooke and Annabella Sciorra, Elwes is definitely the best thing about and the main reason to watch American Crime.
Posted in Film, Film Review, Horror | Tagged American Crime, Annabella Sciorra, Cary Elwes, Dan Mintz, Horror, Horrorthon, Kip Pardue, Rachael Leigh Cook | 1 Comment
Here's What Won At The Emmys Last Night!
Posted on September 18, 2017 by Doc Bowman
Last night, Lisa Marie did not watch the Emmys because she says that, "I'm just not feeling TV this year." If Twin Peaks had been eligible to be nominated, I bet it would have been a different story!
Instead, she asked me to watch the ceremony and let everyone know what I thought. It needed less politics and more cats.
Here's the list of winners:
BEST COMEDY SERIES
"Masters of None"
X — "Veep"
BEST COMEDY ACTRESS
Pamela Adlon, "Better Things"
Jane Fonda, "Grace and Frankie"
Allison Janney, "Mom"
Ellie Kemper, "Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt"
X — Julia Louis-Dreyfus, "Veep"
Tracee Ellis Ross, "Black-ish"
Lily Tomlin, "Grace and Frankie"
BEST COMEDY ACTOR
Anthony Anderson, "Black-ish"
Aziz Ansari, "Master of None"
Zach Galifianaks, "Baskets"
X — Donald Glover, "Atlanta"
William H. Macy, "Shameless"
Jeffrey Tambor, "Transparent"
BEST COMEDY SUPPORTING ACTRESS
Vanessa Bayer, "Saturday Night Live"
Anna Chlumsky, "Veep"
Kathryn Hahn, "Transparent"
Leslie Jones, "Saturday Night Live"
Judith Light, "Transparent"
X — Kate McKinnon, "Saturday Night Live"
BEST COMEDY SUPPORTING ACTOR
Louie Anderson, "Baskets"
X — Alec Baldwin, "Saturday Night Live"
Tituss Burgess, "Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt"
Ty Burrell, "Modern Family"
Tony Hale, "Veep"
Matt Walsh, "Veep"
BEST COMEDY DIRECTING
X — "Atlanta" ("B.A.N.")
"Silicon Valley" ("Intellectual Property")
"Silicon Valley" ("Server Error")
"Veep" ("Justice")
"Veep" ("Blurb")
"Veep" ("Groundbreaking")
BEST COMEDY WRITING
"Atlanta" ("B.A.N.")
"Atlanta" ("Streets on Lock")
X — "Master of None" ("Thanksgiving")
"Silicon Valley" ("Success Failure")
"Veep" ("Georgia")
BEST DRAMA SERIES
X — "The Handmaid's Tale"
BEST DRAMA ACTRESS
Viola Davis, "How to Get Away with Murder"
Claire Foy, "The Crown"
X — Elisabeth Moss, "The Handmaid's Tale"
Keri Russell, "The Americans"
Evan Rachel Wood, "Westworld"
Robin Wright, "House of Cards"
BEST DRAMA ACTOR
X — Sterling K. Brown, "This is Us"
Anthony Hopkins, "Westworld"
Bob Odenkirk, "Better Call Saul"
Matthew Rhys, "The Americans"
Liev Schreiber, "Ray Donovan"
Kevin Spacey, "House of Cards"
Milo Ventimiglia, "This is Us"
BEST DRAMA SUPPORTING ACTRESS
Uzo Aduba, "Orange is the New Black"
Millie Bobby Brown, "Stranger Things"
X — Ann Dowd, "The Handmaid's Tale"
Chrissy Metz, "This is Us"
Thandie Newton, "Westworld"
Samira Wiley, "The Handmaid's Tale"
BEST DRAMA SUPPORTING ACTOR
Jonathan Banks, "Better Call Saul"
Ron Cephas Jones, "This is Us"
Michael Kelly, "House of Cards"
X — John Lithgow, "The Crown"
Mandy Patinkin, "Homeland"
Jeffrey Wright, "Westworld"
BEST DRAMA DIRECTING
"Better Call Saul" ("Witness")
"The Crown" ("Hyde Park Corner")
"The Handmaid's Tale" ("The Bridge")
X — "The Handmaid's Tale" ("Offred")
"Homeland" ("America First")
"Stranger Things" ("Chapter One: The Vanishing of Will Byers")
"Westworld" ("The Bicameral Mind")
BEST DRAMA WRITING
"The Americans" ("The Soviet Division")
"Better Call Saul" ("Chicanery")
"The Crown" ("Assassins")
MOVIE/LIMITED SERIES
BEST LIMITED SERIES
X — "Big Little Lies"
BEST TV MOVIE
X — "Black Mirror: San Junipero"
"Christmas of Many Colors"
"Sherlock: The Lying Detective"
"The Wizard of Lies"
BEST MOVIE/MINI ACTRESS
Carrie Coon, "Fargo"
Felicity Huffman, "American Crime"
X — Nicole Kidman, "Big Little Lies"
Jessica Lange, "Feud: Bette and Joan"
Susan Sarandon, "Feud: Bette and Joan"
Reese Witherspoon, "Big Little Lies"
BEST MOVIE/MINI ACTOR
X — Riz Ahmed, "The Night Of"
Benedict Cumberbatch, "Sherlock: The Lying Detective"
Robert De Niro, "The Wizard of Lies"
Ewan McGregor, "Fargo"
Geoffrey Rush, "Genius"
John Turturro, "The Night Of"
BEST MOVIE/MINI SUPPORTING ACTRESS
Judy Davis, "Feud: Bette and Joan"
X — Laura Dern, "Big Little Lies"
Jackie Hoffman, "Feud: Bette and Joan"
Regina King, "American Crime"
Michelle Pfeiffer, "The Wizard of Lies"
Shailene Woodley, "Big Little Lies"
BEST MOVIE/MINI SUPPORTING ACTOR
Bill Camp, "The Night Of"
Alfred Molina, "Feud: Bette and Joan"
X — Alexander Skarsgard, "Big Little Lies"
David Thewlis, "Fargo"
Stanley Tucci, "Feud: Bette and Joan"
Michael Kenneth Williams, "The Night Of"
BEST MOVIE/MINI DIRECTING
"Fargo" ("The Law of Vacant Places")
"Feud: Bette and Joan" ("And the Winner Is")
"Genius" ("Einstein: Chapter One")
"The Night Of" ("The Art of War")
"The Night Of" ("The Beach")
BEST MOVIE/MINI WRITING
"Feud: Bette and Joan" ("Pilot")
"The Night Of" ("Call of the Wild")
VARIETY/REALITY
BEST REALITY COMPETITION PROGRAM
"Amercan Ninja Warrior"
X — "The Voice"
BEST VARIETY TALK SERIES
X — "Last Week Tonight with John Oliver"
"Late Late Show with James Corden"
"Real Time with Bill Maher"
BEST VARIETY SKETCH SERIES
"Billy on the Street"
"Documentary Now"
X — "Saturday Night Live"
"Tracey Ullman's Show"
BEST VARIETY SERIES DIRECTING
BEST VARIETY SERIES WRITING
Posted in TV, TV Review, TV Show | Tagged Alec Baldwin, Alexander Skarsgård, Alfred Molina, Allison Janney, American Crime, American Ninja Warrior, Ann Dowd, Anna Chlumsky, Anthony Anderson, Anthony Hopkins, Atlanta, award, awards, Aziz Ansari, Baskets, Benedict Cumberbatch, Better Call Saul, Better Things, Big Little Lies, Bill Camp, Billy on the Street, Black Mirror: San Junipero, Blackish, Bob Odenkirk, Carrie Coon, Chrissy Metz, Christmas of Many Colors, Claire Foy, David Harbour, David Thewlis, Doc Bowman, Documentary Now, Donald Glover, Drunk History, Elisabeth Moss, Ellie Kemper, Emmy, Emmys, Evan Rachel Wood, Ewan MacGregor, Ewan McGregor, Fargo, Felicity Huffman, Feud: Bette and Joan, Full Frontal With Samantha Bee, Genius, Geoffrey Rush, Grace and Frankie, Homeland, House of Cards, How To Get Away With Murder, Jackie Hoffman, Jane Fonda, Jeffrey Tambor, Jeffrey Wright, Jessica Lange, Jimmy Kimmel Live, John Lithgow, John Turturro, Jonathan Banks, Judith Light, Judy Davis, Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Kate McKinnon, Kathryn Hahn, Keri Russell, Kevin Spacey, Last Week Tonight With John Oliver, Late Late Show with James Corden, Late Show With Stephen Colbert, Laura Dern, Leslie Jones, Liev Schrieber, Lily Tomlin, Lisa Marie Bowman, Louie Anderson, Louis Anderson, Mandy Patinkin, Masters of None, Matt Walsh, Matthew Rhys, Michael Kelly, Michael Kenneth Williams, Michelle Pfeiffer, Millie Bobby Brown, Milo Ventimiglia, Modern Family, Mom, Nicole Kidman, Orange is The New Black, Pamela Adlon, Portlandia, Project Runway, Ray Donovan, Real Time With Bill Maher, Reese Witherspoon, Regina King, Riz Ahmed, Robert De Niro, Ron Cephas Jones, RuPaul's Drag Race, Samira Wiley, Saturday Night Live, Shailene Woodley, Shameless, Sherlock: The Lying Detective, show, Silicon Valley, Stanley Tucci, Sterling K. Brown, Stranger Things, Susan Sarandon, television, Thandie Newton, The Amazing Race, The Americans, The Crown, The Handmaid's Tale, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, The Night of, The Voice, The Wizard of Lies, This is Us, Tituss Burgess, Tony Hale, Top Chef, Tracee Ellis Ross, Tracey Ullman Show, Transparent, tv, TV Show, Ty Burrell, Unrbeakable Kimmy Schmidt, Uzo Aduba, Vanessa Bayer, Veep, Viola Davis, Westworld, William H. Macy, Zach Galifianaks | 1 Comment
The SAG Nominations are here and … Hello there, Captain Fantastic!
Posted on December 14, 2016 by Lisa Marie Bowman
Earlier the year, I choose not to see Captain Fantastic. Every bit of advertising that I saw for it led me to believe that Captain Fantastic was basically just Wes Anderson-lite and, as we all know, only Wes Anderson can successfully duplicate Wes Anderson.
Well, I think I may have made a mistake because Viggo Mortensen is definitely in the hunt for best actor. Though most of the precursor awards (so far) have gone to Casey Affleck for Manchester By The Sea, Mortensen still seems like a likely nominee.
Just consider this: he got a SAG nomination! And so did Captain Fantastic, itself! It was nominated for best ensemble, which is the SAG equivalent of best picture…
Actually, maybe you shouldn't spend too much time fixating on that. People like me always talk about how the SAG awards are an obvious precursor for the Oscars. Our logic is that the Actor's Branch is the largest voting bloc in the Academy and the members of the Actor's Branch are among those who also vote for the SAG awards.
Of course, we always forget that the majority of SAG members are themselves not a part of the Academy. So, while enough members of SAG may have liked Captain Fantastic for it to get an unexpected ensemble nomination, that doesn't necessarily mean that those voters are also members of the Academy.
I mean, let's consider what happened last year. Beasts of No Nation picked up an ensemble nomination. So did Straight Outta Compton. So did Trumbo. None of those films proved to be an Oscar powerhouse. In fact, Beasts of No Nation received a grand total of zero Oscar nominations.
So, let's put it like this — it's a good sign for a film or a performer to get a SAG nomination. But there's still no guarantee that it will translate into Oscar recognition. Captain Fantastic may have been nominated and La La Land was snubbed (for ensemble). But I imagine that the reverse will happen when the Oscar noms are announced in January.
With all that in mind, here are the SAG nominations!
Best Film Ensemble
Viggo Mortensen, "Captain Fantastic"
Emily Blunt, "The Girl on the Train"
Meryl Streep, "Florence Foster Jenkins"
Mahershala Ali, "Moonlight"
Jeff Bridges, "Hell or High Water"
Hugh Grant, "Florence Foster Jenkins"
Lucas Hedges, "Manchester by the Sea"
Dev Patel, "Lion"
Naomie Harris, "Moonlight"
Nicole Kidman, "Lion"
Octavia Spencer, "Hidden Figures
Michelle Williams, "Manchester by the Sea"
Best Stunt Ensemble
Best Comedy Ensemble
Titus Burgess, "Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt"
Jane Fonda, "Grace & Frankie"
Julia Louis-Dreyfus, "Veep"
Lily Tomlin, "Grace & Frankie"
Best Drama Ensemble
John Lithgow, "The Crown"
Winona Ryder, "Stranger Things"
Best Movie/Miniseries Actor
Riz Ahmed, "The Night Of"
Sterling K. Brown, "The People v. O.J. Simpson"
Bryan Cranston, "All The Way"
Courtney B Vance, "The People v. O.J. Simpson"
Best Movie/Miniseries Actress
Bryce Dallas Howard, "Black Mirror"
Audra McDonald, "Lady Day at Emerson's Bar & Grill"
Sarah Paulson, "The People v. O.J. Simpson"
Kerry Washington, "Confirmation"
Posted in Film, TV, TV Show | Tagged Academy Award, Academy Awards, All The Way, American Crime, Amy Adams, Andrew Garfield, Anthony Anderson, Arrival, Audra McDonald, award, awards, Black Mirror, Black-ish, Bryan Cranston, Bryce Dallas Howard, Captain America: Civil War, Captain Fantastic, Casey Affleck, Claire Foy, Confirmation, Courtney B. Vance, Daredevil, Denzel Washington, Dev Patel, Doctor Strange, Downton Abbey, Ellie Kemper, Emily Blunt, Emma Stone, Felicity Huffman, Fences, Film, Films, Florence Foster Jenkins, Game of Thrones, Grace & Frankie, Hacksaw Ridge, Hell or High Water, Hidden Figures, House of Cards, Hugh Grant, Jackie, Jane Fonda, Jason Bourne, Jeff Bridges, Jeffrey Tambor, John Lithgow, John Turturro, Julia Louis-Dreyfuss, Kerry Washington, Kevin Spacey, Lady Day At Emerson's Bar & Grill, Lily Tomlin, Lion, Lisa Marie Bowman, Lucas Hedges, Luke Cage, Mahershala Ali, Manchester By The Sea, Meryl Streep, Michelle Williams, Millie Bobby Brown, Modern Family, Moonlight, movie, Movies, Mr. Robot, Naomie Harris, Natalie Portman, Nicole Kidman, Nocturnal Animals, Octavia Spencer, Orange is The New Black, Oscar, Oscars, Peter Dinklage, Rami Malek, Riz Ahmed, Robin Wright, Ryan Gosling, SAG, SAG Awards, Sarah Paulson, Screen Actors Guild, Screen Actors Guild Awards, Shameless, show, Sterling K. Brown, Stranger Things, television, Thandie Newton, The Big Bang Theory, The Crown, The Girl On The Train, The Night of, The People v O.J. Simpson, The People Vs. OJ Simpson, The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, The Walking Dead, This is Us, Titus Burgess, Transparent, tv, TV Show, Ty Burrell, Uzo Aduba, Veep, Viggo Mortensen, Viola Davis, Westworld, William H. Macy, Winona Ryder | Leave a comment
Alexandre Rothier
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casewright
The Perfection, Review By Case Wright
Titans, S2 Ep 2&3, "Rose" "Ghosts" Review by Case Wright
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The Last Halloween, Short Film Review, by Case Wright
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Visual Novel Review: Steins;Gate
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Artwork of the Day: Complete Detective (Artist Unknown)
The Covers of Jungle Stories
Artwork of the Day: The Hucksters (by David Attie)
Artwork of the Day: Diana (Artist Unknown)
Doc Bowman
Happy 2020 From All The Writers (and the Cat) at the Shattered Lens!
And now, a word from Doc Bowman concerning Halloween….
Happy Friday the 13th From The Shattered Lens!
4 Shots From 4 Films: The Incredible Shrinking Man, Sleepwalkers, Team America: World Police, Captain Marvel
To Everyone Up North, The Cat Wishes You A Happy Canada Day!
Happy April Fools Day From The Shattered Lens!
From All The Humans and the Cat at the Shattered Lens, Happy Oscar Sunday!
Happy Valentine's Day From The Shattered Lens!
Happy 2019 From All The Writers (and the cat) at Through the Shattered Lens!
Thanksgiving Greetings From The Shattered Lens!
gary loggins
Halloween Havoc!: DEATH CURSE OF TARTU (Thunderbird International 1966)
Halloween Havoc!: Peter Cushing in TWINS OF EVIL (Universal/Hammer 1971)
Halloween Havoc!: ISLAND OF LOST SOULS (Paramount 1932)
Big Bad Bob: Robert Mitchum in MAN WITH THE GUN (United Artists 1955)
RIP Sid Haig: A Career Retrospective
Farewell, Captain Spaulding
Built For Speed: Richard Pryor in GREASED LIGHTNING (Warner Brothers 1977)
Cleaning Out the DVR #24: Crime Does Not Pay!
4 Shots From 4 Films: Happy Birthday Fay Wray!
Drive-In Saturday Night #5: MALIBU BEACH (Crown-International 1978) & VAN NUYS BOULEVARD (Crown-International 1979)
Jedadiah Leland
Music Video Of The Day: The Lady Don't Mind by Talking Heads (1986, directed by Jim Jarmusch)
When Justice Fails (1999, directed by Allan A. Goldstein)
Goin' South (1978, directed by Jack Nicholson)
Hijack! (1973, directed by Leonard Horn)
4 Shots From 4 Films: Happy Birthday, Richard Lester!
Music Video of the Day: I Didn't Mean To Turn You On by Robert Palmer (1986, directed by Terence Donovan)
In The Line Of Duty: Ambush In Waco (1993, directed by Dick Lowry)
A Scene That I Love: "The Sword Has Been Drawn" from John Boorman's Excalibur (1981)
Music Video Of The Day: Where The Streets Have No Name by U2 (1987, directed by Meiert Avis)
Cinemax Friday: Jailbait (1993, directed by Rafal Zielinski)
Valerie Troutman
Val's Mini-Post: Why The Adventures Of Huckleberry Finn (1955, dir. Herbert B. Swope Jr.) Is On My Worst List Of 2019
25 Best, Worst, and Gems I Saw In 2019
Degrassi: The Kids Of Degrassi Street — Sophie Minds The Store
Degrassi: The Kids Of Degrassi Street — Lisa Makes The Headlines
Degrassi: The Kids Of Degrassi Street — Noel Buys A Suit
Degrassi: The Kids Of Degrassi Street — Irene Moves In
Degrassi: The Kids Of Degrassi Street — Cookie Goes To Hospital
Degrassi: The Kids Of Degrassi Street — Ida Makes A Movie
Update On Music Video of the Day Posts (Rock Me Tonite by Billy Squier)
leonth3duke
'Annihilation' Review (dir. Alex Garland)
'Ex Machina' Review (dir. Alex Garland)
'It Follows' Review (dir. David Robert Mitchell)
'Two Days, One Night' Review (dir. Jean-Pierre & Luc Dardenne)
Trailer: 'Knight of Cups' (dir. Terrence Malick)
Quick Review: 'The Babadook' (dir. Jennifer Kent)
'Interstellar' Review (dir. Christopher Nolan)
Duke Tries A Halloween Marathon…Part Three
Duke Tries A Halloween Marathon…Part Two.
Duke Tries A Halloween Marathon…Part One.
Lisa Marie Bowman
Lisa Reviews An Oscar Nominee: Tender Mercies (dir by Bruce Beresford)
Music Video Of The Day: Psych Ward by Okay Kaya (2020, dir by Kaya Wilkins & Adinah Dancyger)
Lisa Reviews An Oscar Nominee: Alibi (dir by Roland West)
7 Films That David Lynch Turned Down
4 Shots From 4 Films: Special David Lynch Edition
Scenes That I Love: The Final Scene of Federico Fellini's La Dolce Vita
Music Video Of The Day: Everything Has Changed by Best Coast (2020, dir by Ryan Baxley)
Lisa's Week In Review: 1/13/20 — 1/19/20
The SAG Honors Parasite and All The Usuals.
Lisa Reviews An Oscar Nominee: The Wolf of Wall Street (dir by Martin Scorsese)
Leonard Wilson
Sony surprises with the Morbius Teaser trailer.
Quick Review: Underwater (Dir. by William Eubank)
Quick Review: Ratatouille (dir. by Brad Bird)
The New Mutants has a new date and trailer.
The 2nd Top Gun: Maverick Trailer
Lin-Manuel Miranda and Jon M. Chu make some magic in the In the Heights trailer
There's something strange going on in the Ghostbusters: Afterlife Trailer
In Memoriam: René Auberjonois (1940-2019)
Ryan Reynolds improves his game in the Free Guy Trailer
James Bond returns in the No Time to Die Trailer
necromoonyeti
My Top 20 Albums of 2019
My Top 15 Metal Albums of 2015
A special Christmas Eve sing-along with your friend, necromoonyeti!
BlizzCon 2015: World of Warcraft: Legion
October Music Series: Dissection – Where Dead Angels Lie
October Music Series: Jason Hayes – Darkmoon Faire Merry-Go-Round
October Music Series: Векша – Царство снега
pantsukudasai56
Song of the Day: That's My Job (by Conway Twitty)
Anime You Should Be Watching: Zombie Land Saga
Anime You Should Be Watching: Asobi Asobase
Anime you should be watching: Hinamatsuri
Congrats to the Super Bowl Champion LI New England Patriots!
Anime You Should Be Watching: Gate
Anime of the Year:2016
Convention Report: Kawaii Kon 2016
A Tugboat Christmas
Anime You Should Be Watching: Gakkou Gurashi (School Live)
Semtex Skittle
Sailor Moon Crystal – Act 7 – Mamoru Chiba!
Sailor Moon Crystal – Act 6 – Tuxedo Mask!
A Glorious Fantasy: Finally, a Thief!
Sailor Moon Crystal – Act 5 – Makoto – Sailor Jupiter!
Sailor Moon Crystal – Act 4 – Masquerade Dance Party!
A Glorious Fantasy: The Original Klingon
Sailor Moon Crystal: Act 3 – Rei – Sailor Mars!
A Glorious Fantasy: Hyper-Realism and Time Travel
Maximum Regression: DotP 2015
The Dwelling: Movie preview, review and trailer
The Tokoloshe: Movie Preview, Review and Trailer
Empathy Inc. Movie preview, review and trailer
Clownado: Movie preview, review and trailer.
This Way Up: TV series review
Dolls: Movie Preview and Review
AD/AF Thoughts of mine on the current situation
My Pet Dinosaur: Movie Preview, Review and Trailer
TV Series Review: Ghoul
Update: The Lullaby movie theatrical release cities
Ryan C. (trashfilmguru)
A Tetsunori Tawaraya Double-Bill : "Dimensional Flats"
A Tetsunori Tawaraya Double-Bill : "Crystal Bone Drive"
"Opal Fruit" Is More Than A Little Delicious
We Left Avant-Garde In The Dust A Long Time Ago : Diana Chu's "Rodin Du Jour"
Make Time For "Making Time"
"Keeping Score" Of Jesse Reklaw's Life
"Constantly" In Awe Of GG
A Book With Few "Faults"
Up "Snake Creek" — But With A Very Steady Paddle
Get A Life — A "Ditch Life"
Viktor VonGlum
My (extremely late) Black Panther Review
Last Man review
Fantastic Four: 2015
Terra Battle: Tactical Fantasy
Alex Wilder (from the Runaways) remix
Tactical Fantasy Concept by Eliot Min
Naruto: An unexpected gem for Scifi fans
Cable Remix Part 2: Chibi Inferno Nate
Nate Summers Remix Idea
Arleigh
Horror Review: Glyceride by Junji Ito
Horror Artist Profile: Junji Ito
Star Wars: Rise of Skywalker D23 First Look
Song of the Day: Tao of the Machine (by the Roots and BT)
Trailer: Game of Thrones Season 8
Hottie of the Day: Bae Joo-hyun
4 Shots From 4 Films: Horror Remakes (Evil Dead, Maniac, The Fly, The Thing)
Song of the Day: Make Me Love You (by Taeyeon)
Song of the Day: Candy (by Red Velvet)
Song of the Day: I Will Show You (by Ailee)
Recent Case Files
The Producers Guild of America Honors 1917
Awards Circuit
Big Brother Blog
CineSportsTalk
Cracked Rear Viewer
Days Without Incident
Enough Talk, More Writing. The Random, Dumb Adventures of an Irish Guy In L.A.
Ferguson Ink
Geek Aaron Presents
Grandhorse
Haute Campe
HitFix
Hobby Search BLOG
Horror Critic
Images by Erin
Journeys in Classic Fim
Kings of the New World
Lisa Marie Bowman's Station on Blip.FM
Lisa Marie's Dream Journal
Live Tweet Replay
Model Kaos
Nerd Heroine
Nintendo Legend
Off The Rez
On This Day In Art History
Outspoken and Freckled
Paper and Ink
Paranormal Pop Culture
Pochi Kyuubei's Vault of Goodies
Pop Politics
Prime Time Preppie: The College Career of Zack Morris
Random Thoughts of A Cereal Kind
Reality TV Chat Blog
Ryan C's Four Color Apocalypse
saturday night screening
Snarkalecs
Storycrafter
SyFy Designs
The 160 "Pretty Faces" Challenge
The Drive-In Mob
The Ferguson Theater
The Grindhouse Cinema Database
The Stay Supple Daily
The Summer of Morris
The Teresa Jusino Experience
Think Hero
Through the Shattered Lens Facebook Page
Through the Shattered Lens Presents The Oscars
Tomopop
Trash Film Guru
Tricks121's YouTube Channel
Tullaryx's last.fm
What Is Lisa Marie Watching Tonight?
Where the Nightbirds Settle
Hits and counting...
Evidence Locker
4 Shots From 4 Films Academy Award Academy Awards AMC AMV AMV of the Day Andrew Lincoln anime anime music video award awards Back to School black metal christmas comedy coming attraction coming attractions Cracked Rear Viewer Daily Grindhouse David Lynch Embracing The Melodrama Emma Stone exploitation Film film noir Film Review Films Gary Loggins grindhouse Halloween HBO Horror Horrorthon James Franco Leonardo DiCaprio Lifetime Lisa's Week In Review Lisa Marie's Grindhouse Trailers Lisa Marie Bowman movie Movie A Day Movies Music music video music video of the day netflix Oscar Oscars preview previews review Robert Kirkman Saoirse Ronan Scene I Love Scenes I Love Scenes That I Love scene that I love Shattered Politics show song song of the day teaser television The Daily Grindhouse The Walking Dead Through the Shattered Lens trailer trailers tv tv series TV Show Twin Peaks Universal Pictures What Lisa Watched Last Night Zombies
Follow the Cases
Follow the TSL Writers on Twitter! | {
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It's no secret that millions of Americans are approaching their retirement years with meager savings and high anxiety about their financial security. And a recent study from Merrill Lynch and Age Wave reveals steps that Americans are willing to take to get their retirement back on track.
57 percent report they want to live comfortably within their means.
39 percent say they want to have the financial resources to live the life they choose.
34 percent want to feel they could handle a major unexpected expense.
25 percent want to feel confident they won't outlive their money.
17 percent want to provide for their family if something happens to them.
Only 8 percent of survey respondents feel personal finances can be discussed openly, while the remainder consider the topic a private matter or one that can be discussed with a spouse or partner or only very close family and friends. It would certainly help if older workers and retirees would share their ideas and insights with their family and friends.
90 percent would be willing to cut back on their expenses. Perhaps they can focus on spending just enough to meet their basic living needs and what truly makes them happy.
79 percent would seek financial advice. In this case, they'll want to make sure their advisers are qualified and act in their best interests.
77 percent would increase the use of tax-protected retirement accounts.
75 percent would seek expert advice on how to pay lower taxes. Note that this may not be a good use of time for Americans with meager savings, since they could already be in a very low tax bracket when they retire.
66 percent would sell real estate or other personal belongings. Finding the best way to deploy home equity is a good use of time for older workers and retirees who own a home but have modest retirement savings.
64 percent would postpone taking Social Security. This is a smart move for many retirees.
43 percent would withdraw the cash value from a life insurance policy. Such people would want to explore their options: some policies allow the holder to convert the policy's cash value into a lifetime annuity.
In addition to taking these steps, older workers would be wise to develop a strategy for generating lifetime retirement income, explore their options for continuing to work and make sure they have adequate medical insurance that supplements Medicare.
1. http://travel.aarp.org/articles-tips/articles/info-09-2014/fall-foliage-trips-photo.html#slide3 2. Broadridge Investor Communication Solutions, Inc. Copyright, 2017 3. http://allrecipes.com/recipe/13801/apple-butter-spice-cake/ 4. http://www.cbsnews.com/news/retirement-planning-course-corrections-to-consider/5. https: //www.forbes.com/sites/robertlaura/2017/05/26/7-of-the-best-retirement-quotes-to-get-you-to-and-through-it/#5baea2db6c2b 6. gradientfinancialgroup.com Newsletter Insurance products and services are offered through Craig Colley | Coliday and is not affiliated with Gradient Securities, LLC. Some of these materials are provided for general information and educational purposes based upon publicly available information from sources believed to be reliable—we cannot assure the accuracy or completeness of these materials. The information in these materials may change at any time and without notice. The above information is not intended to provide, and should not be relied on for, financial, insurance, tax, legal, or accounting advice. | {
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My superpower is creativity and I like to use it to solve problems that seem impossible to solve. My secret identity affords me the oportunity to gather insights into learning so that I can design better ways for students to build upon their own capacities. By day I teach and learn. By night I am a husband, father of 3, kayaker, hiker, avid reader and student in business school. These are the stories of how I'm working to create a more human-centric experience in education. | {
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Published 04/23/2019 09:01:04 pm at 04/23/2019 09:01:04 pm in Wood Roofing.
wood roofing after every working day they left the roof and surrounding landscape as clean as they found it home gallery tamko heritage lb weathered wood.
types of roof shingles the complete guide wood shake roof shingles, home gallery tamko heritage lb weathered wood , wood roofing beautiful practical period homes wood roofing handsplit shakes, wood shingles roof repair replace installation services lexington lexington roofing and repair is one of the top roofing companies in kentucky if you need a new roof installation or you have a preexisting roofing , wood roofing services home remodeling fairfield county stephen c after every working day they left the roof and surrounding landscape as clean as they found it, gaf glenwood roofing shingles glenwood, wood shake roofing greensboro winstonsalem raleigh nc low slope specialty roofing, roofing shingles prices the cost of shingles angies list cedar wood roof shingles, weathered wood roofs carlson exteriors inc two story home with pebblestone clay siding and shakes white trim and weathered wood roof, home gallery tamko heritage lb weathered wood , plymouth roofing with landmark shingles in weathered wood wayne plymouthroofinglandmarkshinglesweatheredwoodwaynecountyroofreplacement . | {
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Win yourself some Frontierville goodies in our contests.
For general competition rules that apply to all the competitions click HERE.
Darnit, my homestead's been overrun by pesky lizards! Do me a favour and I might have some of them building materials for you to whip up a chicken coop! In fact I've got NINETY of each basic building supply, bricks, paint, drills, hammers and nails, to give to someone.
That'll be expandin yer coop all the way up to the biggest it can be, or even build two coops up that'll hold 50 chickens in each.Well, almost, I don't be havin' any of that new fangled chicken wire.
So, whatya need to be doing to get yer hands on the supplies?
I need your help to track em down 'cause my eyes aint what they used to be... Take a peek at this here photygraph and see if you can tell me where all nine of those beggers be hidin'!
Click once to open the image in a larger size, then again to make sure you are seeing the full size image.
While yer at it do an old man a favour and count all these durned lizards already in my shed willya? There all in the pic down below, so take a look as I need to be tellin' the sheriff the right number now!
One of y'all who helps out will get a whole mess of building materials this weekend for helpin'!
The contest will be open until Sunday March 6th at 8pm UK GMT, 12noon Pacific, 3pm EST in the US.
All right answers will be put into a random generator and the one who's picked out will get 90 of each basic building material, bricks, drills, paint, nails and hammers, enough to fully upgrade a chicken coop or built two from scratch up to the second upgrade.
Only fully completed forms will be entered in the draw.
The Good, The Bad and The Cuddly! RESULTS! | {
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This research explores the connections between campaign contributions, congressional behavior, and electoral outcomes. Previous research on the role of money in politics has focused primarily on the influence of political action committees and other organized interests, despite the fact that individual contributions account for over 50 percent of the donations members of Congress receive. This research ad- dresses the influence members' financial ties with affluent individual donors has on their roll call voting, bill sponsorship and primary election prospects. The results suggest big donors shift members further to the ideological right and decrease their likelihood of introducing direct government spending bills in Congress. These financial ties also influence the electoral landscape for incumbents in the primary election by giving Republican incumbents an electoral edge and increasing the chances Democratic incumbents face a tough primary election battle. This research suggests individual donors influence political outcomes with implications for policy outcomes, representation, and party polarization.
Socker, Erica Marie (2013). The Influence of Big Donors on Congressional Behavior and Electoral Prospects. Doctoral dissertation, Texas A & M University. Available electronically from http : / /hdl .handle .net /1969 .1 /151889. | {
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Buddha temple situated at the Manubankul village, North Eastern part of Sabroom Sub-Division of South Tripura. It is famous for its ancient Buddhist monastery.
Butterfly Park, Trishna, Main Entrance.
Nestled in the southern most part of Tripura, located 95 km away from capital Agartala is the Trishna Wildlife Sanctuary. It spreads over an area of 194.708 Sq Km of Wild & pristine patch of forest, which is the home of Indian Bison.
The new South Tripura District with its Head Quarter at Belonia was created with the objective of ensuring better delivery of public services to a population of 4,53,079, a major chunk of whom live in rural areas. The new district has 3 Sub-Divisions, 8 RD Blocks, 3 Nagar Pachayats, 90 GPs and 70 ADC Villages. The total geographical area of the District is 1514.322 Sq. Km. Although the district is situated in the southernmost tip of the State, it has the advantage of being connected with the State Capital through National Highway 44. The project for extension of railway line up to Sabroom Town via Belonia would further improve the transportation and communication link with the rest of the State. While Trishna Wildlife Sanctuary under Rajnagar Block and Pilak under Jolaibari have the potential to become major tourist attractions, Belonia and Sabroom Towns have the potential to become major export-import hub. | {
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Written Questions and Answers and Written Statements
Bahrain: Freedom of Expression:Written question - 128949
Written questions and answers
Written statements
Asked by David Linden
(Glasgow East)
Asked on: 21 February 2018
Bahrain: Freedom of Expression
To ask the Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs, what assessment he has made of the level of freedom of speech in Bahrain following the sentencing of the human rights activist Nabeel Rajab to five years in prison on 21 February 2018.
Answered by: Alistair Burt
Answered on: 01 March 2018
The Foreign and Commonwealth Office and our Embassy in Bahrain continue to monitor the case of Nabeel Rajab and have raised this with the Bahraini Government at the highest levels.
In my public statement of 21 February I expressed my concerns at the further five year sentence handed to Mr Rajab and re-emphasised the UK's encouragement to Bahrain to protect freedom of expression for all of its citizens in line with its international obligations. | {
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Talk to Tony (and Peter!): Tameside public's chance to grill Greater Manchester Police bosses
MM Staff
By Alex Carey
If you've got a burning issue that you've been wanting to grill the police about then now's your chance.
Both the Police and Crime Commissioner and Chief Constable of Greater Manchester Police are inviting Tameside residents to quiz them on police and crime matters on September 30.
Duckinfield Town Hall will open its doors to allow the public to ask their questions to Police and Crime Commissioner Tony Lloyd and Chief Constable Sir Peter Fahy.
Tony Lloyd said: "I've been really inspired by the turnout at these meetings so far and I'm confident Tameside will be no exception.
"I know how much local people care about their communities and want their voices to be heard and this meeting provides that opportunity. It's your chance to help shape local policing and tell me and the Chief Constable what we're doing right and what we're doing wrong."
'Talk to Tony' is a series of public meetings that gives every area of Greater Manchester the opportunity to scrutinise the performance of Greater Manchester Police (GMP).
Tameside will on Monday become be the eighth of ten Greater Manchester regions to hold their meeting in 2013.
The event that will begin at 6.30pm can also be followed online for anyone that is unable to attend in person. Visit gmpcc.org.uk/talktotony or on Twitter using the hashtag #talktotony, where you can also submit a question.
Tony Lloyd explained that the series of meetings are a great way of getting the people of Tameside to work together in forming a safe community.
He said: "It's my and the Chief Constable's vision to build the safest communities in Britain and this can only be achieved by making sure we work together and it's vital that communities are involved. That's why meetings like this are so important so I know how you feel in your communities and work with police, councils and other agencies to tackle your issues and concerns."
The Police and Crime Commissioner for Greater Manchester's website is being used by members of the public to express their opinions on the up-coming event.
Tameside resident Katy Robinson wrote on Tony Lloyd's wesite: "Consultations face to face to allow community members who are isolated, impoverished or not computer literate to be involved and engaged in consultations."
Fellow Tameside resident Amanda Howard said: "I shall definitely be there. Very interested to hear what will be done about maintaining falling crime figures (or so we are told) with so few officers."
For further information or to express your interest in attending the event visit http://www.gmpcc.org.uk or call 0161 604 7711.
Picture courtesy of York Labour, with thanks.
For more on this story and many others, follow Mancunian Matters on Twitter and Facebook.
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Chief ConstablecrimedukinfieldGreater Manchester PolicemeetingpolicePolice and Crime CommissionerSir Peter FahytamesideTony Lloyd | {
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Treasure Island Casino in Las Vegas: A Precious Gem in the Gaming Industry
Generally known as the heartland of the entire gaming universe, the city of Las Vegas owns one of the precious gems in casino gaming in the form of the Treasure Island hotel and casino. Definitely one of Nevada's prides when it comes to gaming and hospitality, this luxurious establishment has a diverse set of table games and machines to offer. It has made a strong impact in the gaming world with its quality service and operations.
With all its exposure in huge motion pictures and on television, people cannot doubt the popularity and renown that this elegant casino hotel has achieved in recent years. It was featured in various worldwide hits like "Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story," "Miss Congeniality 2," and "Knocked Up." It has also been one of the chosen locations for the computer game entitled Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas.
Just like all the top casino hotels in town, the Treasure Island Las Vegas owns a private club for its casino players. Because it falls under one of the classy casino resorts of the MGM Mirage, the members can also gain direct entry and participation to the other venues. At the same time, the rewards and benefits are great. Members can have exclusive access to first-class rooms, complimentary entertainment and dining, and special giveaways.
See Also: The Most Popular Casino Games
Worthy of innumerable praise and admiration, the Treasure Island Poker Room is the response of the establishment to the rising interest and demand of card players for exciting and competitive poker games. Frequent players consist of an excellent mix of amateurs and game experts, where they can choose from a wide array of exciting poker variations. The Texas Holdem, Omaha High, and Crazy Pineapple games are guaranteed to bring insurmountable fun and non-stop poker action to everyone.
In terms of exciting and state-of-the-art slot machines, the Treasure Island is not to be outdone in the competition sbobet casino. It houses some of the advanced slots that promise players excellent rewards and bonuses, especially for the very lucky players. The casino hotel is also offering a membership club for new players, which entitles them to exciting prizes, first-class amenities, and wonderful rewards.
Aside from the good gaming experience that this luxurious casino hotel can offer, the table games are amazing as well. Being hooked into these games is not surprising anymore especially with craps, roulettes, and blackjack present within the vicinity of the building. Players can also try other novel exciting games like the Let It Ride, Pai Gow, and Three-Card poker variations.
See Also: Easy Steps to Begin Playing Online Casino Games
Majority of the top casino hotels in Las Vegas, inclusive of the Treasure Island, support the campaign for responsible gaming. The casino hotel tries to instill the values of responsibility and temperance among its guests and visitors. All these are done without sacrificing the value of competition and the spirit of fair play. It is truly a gem for the highly progressive state of Nevada and the entire gaming industry. | {
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We have 9 automatic presses and over 27 years of experience in textile screen printing. Please contact us today, our friendly and knowledgeable staff would love to help you with your screen printing needs. You can also get an instant quote right now.
No setup fees for orders of 36 or more pieces.
Orders below 36 pieces will require a $100 setup and an additional $15 per screen.
We offer folding for $0.20 per garment.
Folding and bagging for $0.25 per tee and $0.35 for sweats.
Add your hang tags for $0.10 and size stickers for $0.10 per garment.
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Do you want Red ink on some garments and Blue on others? Get an ink color change for $5 per screen.
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Process/Simulated Process art separations $250 to $350, minimum order of 144 pcs.
Professionally decorated apparel starts with good artwork. Work with our talented designers to create your own custom graphics. You can also provide us with your own art and our artists will prepare it for screen printing or embroidery. When sending us artwork, we prefer to receive a vector format (.ai, .eps, and .pdf) with text converted to outlines. You can also submit artwork as a layered Photoshop file (.psd) sized at 300dpi and actual print dimensions. Anything outside of these guidelines, will require some prep work. However, we will work from whatever you can send us. An art fee may apply, even if you supply your own art. Artwork is charged at $25 per hour.
Digitizing: $35. Allow 3 work days for digitizing / art prep.
One color name /personalization: $5.00 per name for a one time setup charge and then $10.00 per name for the stitching. Standard Lead-Time is 5 work days for orders less than 288 pieces with existing tapes. Call for info on larger orders.
Tackle Twill / Applique is available but requires extra lead time and letter costs will apply in addition to the stitching cost above. | {
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Hi everyone- My name is Susan Brule.
Most parents have wondered at one time or another why kids don't come with an instruction booklet.
As program director for CHC's Maternal and Infant Early Childhood Home Visiting Program, I like to say we just might be the next best thing. I work with new moms or moms-to-be and their significant others in Meriden, Wallingford, Middletown and Waterbury and some small surrounding towns to support the growing family with educational materials, developmental screenings, parent/child activities, community resources, stress management and coping strategies. All the things moms or mom-to-be and their partners can really use as they greet a new baby in their lives.
I work with four certified parent educators: Raquel Abbasi, Maria Rosado, Janelly Torres and Dashaun Thomas, and we have worked very hard at becoming a cohesive team. At a recent Parent Connections group, we had eight parents and their little ones. It was one of our largest groups, and since it was still summer vacation, included several school age children. We provided lunch and an activity for parents and their kids. The group is a nice way for families to connect and exchange phone numbers to plan play dates. We had some parents who weren't sure about joining a group, but they did anyway. It takes courage to try something new.
I want to thank the parents and their kids for coming to our group. I'd like to welcome others to join us. I hope you will let me, Raquel, Maria, Janelly and Dashaun help you with the most difficult but most worthwhile job there is—being a parent. | {
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It was announced last week that the 2019 TCR UK series would not take place as a standalone race series but would instead be merged into the Touring Car Trophy (TCR) being promoted by Stewart Lines and his Maximum Motorsport group.
The TCT series aims to bring together touring cars of various different specifications into one 'Trophy' series, with the aim being predominantly to give older-specification S2000 and NGTC touring cars a home.
TCR cars will now also run in the TCT after an agreement was reached with WSC President Marcello Lotti.
The provisional calendar will see four UK circuits hosting the series, with Donington Park getting two events.
TCR UK had planned to visit Spa-Francorchamps in June as a championship round, but the new arrangement will see the Belgian event act as an invitational, non-points scoring round in TCT. | {
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Owl, Cat, or Toad. >.> A crow is not an Owl, Cat, or Toad.
I would think it might still work... it has been noted in the movies and books that some students have other pets. For example a noted one is Scabbers, a rat (well, animagus). I don't see why a bird might not work.
I dont see why there should be limits, or what the following problems would be, as long as it isnt dragins etc. | {
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Joe Preston believes that giving back to the community is the price you pay for living there, and it's the right thing to do. The former Member of Parliament (MP) served the Elgin-Middlesex-London, Ontario riding from 2004 to 2015 before retiring three years ago. Though he successfully ran and won four times, entering the world of politics wasn't something he thought much about.
A businessman at his core, Preston began working at The Wendy's Company in 1978 at the restaurant level, eventually moving to the corporate office shortly after, where his responsibilities in the Operations and Training department involved teaching on-boarding franchisees how to find success within the company. In 1990, he applied the lessons he taught to his own life, leaving head office to open his first Wendy's location in St. Thomas.
More recently, Preston started his own all natural and gluten-free company appropriately titled Living Alive Granola. Though he says starting a business from scratch is an adrenaline rush, he continues to operate his Wendy's location today, and stands by the security that comes with investing in the franchise business model.
So, for the better part of the last 30 years, Preston has successfully managed his Wendy's restaurant – even operating two other Wendy's restaurants along the way – and has actively worked to make positive change in his community.
No stranger to giving back, Preston and his operating partner, Marcy Pearse, are strong supporters of the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption and actively fundraise for the initiative at their St. Thomas location. The entrepreneur has also volunteered with various organizations from the Untied Way to the St. Thomas Chamber of Commerce, and knows no boundaries when it comes to community service.
Preston currently sits on the Chair of the Board of Directors for Farmtown Canada, which strives to eradicate human trafficking and rescue victims. He and former MP Joy Smith also developed legislation in Parliament and volunteered together at the Joy Smith Foundation, which also works to prevent human trafficking and educate Canadians on the topic.
It wasn't until the age of 48 that Preston decided to enter his name into the political mix with the intention of helping to create improved federal legislation that would benefit all Canadians. With no relevant experience or education in his back pocket, Preston was an outlier in the world of government, where newcomers typically begin their political careers at a young age.
But what he lacked in experience and education, he made up for in community involvement and a fundamental understanding that being conscious of ones surroundings is at the core of any successful politician and business owner.
He also says being aware of what is happening in your community is as important for small business owners as it is for someone looking for your vote. Just as a politician needs to be well versed in employment and housing issues affecting their constituents, franchisees should also make an effort to learn about these subjects in order to adapt their business goals to align with the needs of the community.
Today, Preston is known for sharing his industry knowledge with young entrepreneurs, mentoring them on the ins and outs of the world of business and even teaching them lessons they won't learn in business school. | {
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Personalized 1st Birthday Sailor Photo Square Favor Containers is rated 5.0 out of 5 by 3.
Rated 5 out of 5 by Halochild from Perfect, just what we hoped for! These favor boxes were perfect for our little Grandson's celebration. Added Skittles America mix candies for the sailor theme. Turned out cute as can be! Great price, would order again, for sure!
Rated 5 out of 5 by Vanessa1 from Cute! I bought these for my baby shower as favors just stuffed them with mints. So cute! | {
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23/08/2014 · Watch video · Do you want to remove all your recent searches? All recent searches will be deleted... I got the idea in my head to try stiffening lace, and I just had to try it on something. I think the idea came to me when I was making this Easter bunny craft, and I thought it would be neat make some pretty butterflies out of stiffened lace.
Butterflies are so beautiful and delicate that they are often the theme of a lot of fashion projects, such as making a brooch, hairpin, necklace and so on. They can be used in hairstyle too! Here's nice tutorial to make butterfly braid hairstyle. It looks so elegant and funny. If you …... I got the idea in my head to try stiffening lace, and I just had to try it on something. I think the idea came to me when I was making this Easter bunny craft, and I thought it would be neat make some pretty butterflies out of stiffened lace.
Whatever braiding hair you end up choosing make sure it matches your texture for a unified style. The key to getting this look is to work with large sections of your hair. You will want to braid tight enough so that you are effectively gripping your roots.
Recreate this hairstyle, and tag your own photos with #CGHButterflyHeadband on Instagram and Twitter! We will be reposting your photos this week! | {
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Walking on to a new car lot can be fun. You get to see all the latest technology and styling, and imagine yourself behind the wheel.
And then, after glancing at the sticker, reality sets in.
Looking was fun, but the sticker reminds that—before you can actually own that new car—you're going to have to play the "show me the money" game.
Having your funding secured for the purchase of a new home is just as important. After all, if you don't have the money needed to make buying a home a reality, what's the point of looking?
Having enough money on hand to pay cash for a home is great, but let's face it … not everyone can do this.
The alternative, then, is to get a loan.
The scenario above is a classic invitation to major Buyer disappointment.
It doesn't have to happen this way.
Colleen and I feel strongly that the first–and most important–steps in the home buying process are to contact us as your Agents and then speak with a Lender.
By finding out how much money you can borrow before you start looking, your search will be easier, as well as more targeted to properties that fit within your price range. If there are parts of your financial background that need work, a Lender can be a good resource for charting a course for you to follow so you can be approved.
If you're thinking of buying a home, a good Lender will answer all of your questions and make you feel comfortable with the entire process of obtaining financing. Since buying a home is the biggest purchase many people make, if you don't have this feeling of comfort, our advice is simple: Find another Lender.
Buyer can actually obtain needed funding.
If you try submitting an Offer without including either a loan pre-qualification or verification of funds (if paying cash), many Sellers simply won't deal with you.
We know of several good Lenders in the Birmingham area with a thorough knowledge of the mortgage profession, different loans, costs and how they work. These Lenders have a strong commitment to providing good service.
Fortunately, most of our Clients purchased their home the right way, having contacted us first and then following our advice on consulting with Lenders before we started helping them with their search.
As a result, they are now happy homeowners. | {
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Australian authors Book Reviews
Shell by Kristina Olssen [Book Review]
February 9, 2020 February 11, 2021 BookerTalk 11 Comments Australian fiction, Book Reviews, Kristina Olsson
An Exquisite, Haunting Novel From Australia
Shell is the third novel by the Australian author Kristina Olssen. Whoever selected that title made an inspired choice because it perfectly captures the fragility of her two protagonists. It also has an affinity with the principal design feature of the iconic Sydney Opera House whose construction forms a background to the novel.
The year is 1965. Construction of the opera house is mired in controversy amid complaints of spiralling costs and aversion to its unusual design. A newly-elected government begins to put pressure on the Danish-born architect Jørn Utzon to cut costs and speed up completion.
The Opera House project is not the only contentious issue occupying the attention of the media. The country has entered the war in Vietnam and young Australian men are being conscripted to alongside American allies.
It's against this background that we enter the lives of Axel Lundquist,, a Swedish glassmaker, and Pearl Keogh, a fiercely independent Australian journalist.
Keogh is ideologically opposed to the war, taking to the streets to voice her opinion in anti-war demonstrations. Though she has a social conscience she also has a more personal reason for her opposition. She has two young brothers who are the right age to be called up. She lost them when they disappeared into the welfare system after their mother died. Her nights are filled with nightmares that she may never find them again.
Her path converges with Axel Lundquist, a young Swedish glassmaker brought to Sydney to create a glass sculpture for the opera house.
ALives In The Gaps
Like Pearl, Lundquist has a gap, an absence, in his life. He views Utzon as an inspiration and is desperate to meet the man in the flesh. He wants to understand his vision and his inspiration. His desire borders on obsession, taking him on solitary walks around the harbour and to a remote coastal settlement as he follows up on reports of possible sitings. In the absence of a physical meeting with his guru, Lundquist must turn to the building itself for answers.
… what had begun as a mundane assembly of materials – sand, and lime and pebble – was now a thing of beauty, a ceiling of ships. Sitting here was like being underwater, looking up at the hulls of twenty boats floating side by side. Or the corrugations in mudflats left by a departing tide.
Until then he had thought concrete brutal. Used internally it was a material of expedience, easy and cheap. But here it was as tactile as fabric, evocative as wood.
As construction progresses, his appreciation deepens further that this is far more than just a building.
… he closed his eyes. And opened them to a vision: the new building lifting its wings above the land, the water, above all those heads that didn't know. not yet, what it might say about them. How free they were to become who they were, or could be.
Shell Will Grow On You
This is a novel that takes a little time to fully appreciate. The storyline is discontinuous and I was confused at times by some of the episodes involving Pearl. But gradually it hooked me in.
The book really comes alive when we get access to Lundquist's thought process as he imagines a sculpture matching the beauty and extraordinary characteristics of Utzon's design creation.
There were some particularly interesting insights on Australian attitudes to its cultural heritage. Lundquist grows to like Sydney, a city whose sandstone buildings look to him " like a painted set, a picture from a child's schoolbook". But he's disappointed that for all the bright veneer, parks and neat streets, the city has lost its connection to the past, the feeling that:
Beneath this layer of living, this past two hundred years, were the traces of that older civilisation, a thick network of paths and habitation, the tracks of people and animals.
He expands on this later on in the novel:
'Australians appeared to have no myths of their own, no stories to pass down. He'd read about the myths of indigenous people, the notion of a Dreaming and the intricate stories it comprised. He wondered if Utzon knew these legends, their history in this place. Had he known anything of Aboriginal people when he designed his building? As he sat down and drew shapes that could turn a place sacred? Turn its people poetic: their eyes to a harbour newly revealed by the building, its depths and colours new to them, and surprising. Perhaps that was what the architect was doing here: creating a kind of Dreaming, a shape and structure that would explain these people to themselves. Perhaps the building was just that: a secular bible, a Rosetta stone, a treaty. A story to be handed down. If people would bother to look. If they'd bother to see.'
Kristina Olsson has some exquisite turns of phrase; the Opera House for example is variously described as "a bowl, newly shattered", "bleached bones against the paling sky" and "as if the architect had once held a shell to his ear, and heard as well as seen the design". I've never visited Sydney myself but Olsson's precise descriptions of the magnificence of this structure had me desperately hoping I can get there soon.
Though I enjoyed the themes and warmed to the characters, there's no getting away from the fact that the knock out element of this novel really is the portrayal of that building. It towers over everything: an emerging beauty capable of producing a deep emotional reaction but also suggesting possibilities and potential.
As Lindquist describes it:
Everywhere he looked he saw what Utzon saw. The drama of harbour and horizon, and at night, the star-clotted sky. It held the shape of the possible, of a promise made and waiting to be kept.
I hadn't heard of Kristina Olssen until I saw Lisa's blog post on ANZLitLovers' blog I've learned that if Lisa describes a book as 'sensational' and her book of the year, then it's one I definitely should read. Thanks Lisa for giving me such a hauntingly beautiful reading experience.
Shell by Kristina Olsson: Footnotes
Kristina Olsson is an Australian journalist and teacher. Her first novel In One Skin was published in 2001. She followed this with the biography Kilroy Was Here, which told the story of Debbie Kilroy. In 2010 her novel The China Garden won the Barbara Jefferis Award, which is offered annually for Australian novels which depict women and girls positively, or empower the position of women in society.
I had planned to read Shell while on a holiday to Australia and New Zealand, thinking I would time if to coincide with my arrival in Sydney. But the plans went awry so I never got there, reading the book instead in a cold Welsh spring instead of a warm Australian autumn
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11 thoughts on "Shell by Kristina Olssen [Book Review]"
ThoughtsBecomeWords
I lived in another State at the time but from memory I recall the first concept designs were longer and lower but the finished building has higher peaks.
Great review, and a wonderful book! Controversy raged fiercely for years and I cannot write here some of the derisive terms those sound shells were given. While visually impressive I was never keen on the interior.
I've discovered that the architect left the project before it was completed and a different architect was brought in to finish it. Was the final design very different from the original concept?
Fascinating! I had not heard of that controversy either
It must have been so dispiriting for the architect. I wonder if he lived long enough to see how much impact his design has now had – for most of the visitors who go to Sydney, the opera house is a must see sight
Kate W
Lovely review. I started the book but was distracted by other things at the time so quite deliberately put it aside until I could give it my full attention. I must move it back to the top of the pile.
It did take some concentration at the beginning so you made the right decision.
Oh, I am so glad you liked it! our review is just wonderful:)
Thanks are really to you for highlighting this. I wouldn't have come across it in the normal course of things – one of the aspects of book blogging I love the most is the discovery of new to me authors
The quotes are lovely – definitely a book to look out for!
Sadly I don't think we will see this book being promoted in UK. As with all Australian published books, the cost is pretty high and they very rarely make it to paperback. I managed to get my copy reasonably priced via ebay but usually when I go looking for a New Zealand or Australian published novel, the cost is prohibitive, even second hand
Leave a Reply to ThoughtsBecomeWords Cancel reply | {
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El municipio de Liberty (en inglés: Liberty Township) es un municipio ubicado en el condado de Osborne en el estado estadounidense de Kansas. En el año 2010 tenía una población de 23 habitantes y una densidad poblacional de 0,25 personas por km².
Geografía
El municipio de Liberty se encuentra ubicado en las coordenadas . Según la Oficina del Censo de los Estados Unidos, el municipio tiene una superficie total de 92.95 km², de la cual 92,7 km² corresponden a tierra firme y (0,27 %) 0,25 km² es agua.
Demografía
Según el censo de 2010, había 23 personas residiendo en el municipio de Liberty. La densidad de población era de 0,25 hab./km². De los 23 habitantes, el municipio de Liberty estaba compuesto por el 86,96 % blancos, el 4,35 % eran asiáticos, el 4,35 % eran de otras razas y el 4,35 % eran de una mezcla de razas. Del total de la población el 4,35 % eran hispanos o latinos de cualquier raza.
Referencias
Enlaces externos
Municipios de Kansas
Localidades del condado de Osborne | {
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Opposition View: Plymouth Argyle v Stevenage
Home » Opinion » Opposition View: Plymouth Argyle v Stevenage
by Guest Writer | Dec 28, 2019 | Opinion | 0 comments
Plymouth Argyle meet Stevenage for the first time this season today. Ahead of the game, we spoke to Stevenage fan Reece from Boro FC Central, who can be found on Twitter, to get some thoughts for this weekend's Opposition View.
First of all, how did you get into supporting Stevenage?
It just came sort of naturally as a child. Don't think anything can beat supporting your local team. Went to see the FA trophy finals and since then it's become more obsessive and now I'm one of few doing every game home and away, much to my sins!
Are there any Stevenage players in particular we should be looking out for this weekend?
We are not a side frequently scoring goals at the minute, or all season, however our defensive record is up there with the best. Scott Cuthbert, Ben Nugent and Paul Digby al very experienced and have been fantastic this season which feels weird to say given the circumstances. If you pushed me for a player to be afraid of, I'd probably go for Dean Parrett at the minute.
Stevenage were many people's outside pick for the play-offs in pre-season, but it seems to have been a struggle so far. What has gone wrong?
Hard to find on specific things that has led to our downfall this season. We improved our coaching team and our squad and we find ourselves rock bottom. I think maybe the run at the end of last season possibly covered up some underlying issues that weren't addressed. Ilias Chair was superb for us last season and wasn't adequately replaced.
Injuries also cost us big time; at one point we had a full XI of players injured. When you have a rut, it's so difficult to get out and when it's at the start of the season, it turns toxic very quickly. Mark Sampson when he was caretaker went a long way to fix that but it wasn't quite enough to win us games. If you're not winning games, you won't get out the mess of the relegation battle.
Graham Westley has of course returned as manager. How do you think he'll get on with the current group of players?
Westley isn't stupid. He knows which buttons to press and when; the ship needed rocking somewhat. He'll be demanding but if they work for him, then he'll work for them. The squad isn't an untalented squad, however the mentality needs fixing and as seen by Westley in every spell he's had at the club, he creates a mentally strong dressing room that works for each other. There will be some clashes but it's time to separate the men from the boys.
What sort of tactical style do you expect to set up with on Saturday?
My prediction is we will set up with a diamond in midfield with two up top who will most likely be Jason Cowley and Elliot List. Pressing is the order of the day; they won't stop running until they've got the ball. The plan is quick transitions and then press high but keep shape. The midfield is where the game will be won or lost, don't expect a clean game either.
And are there any real weak links in the side you're worried about?
Goals. Our shot to goal ratio is 20:1. I think that stat tells the story of our season and at places like Plymouth or anywhere for that matter you can't miss that many chances and expect to get wins.
What first comes to mind when you think of Plymouth Argyle?
Tough place to go. No one ever likes going to Plymouth. Fantastic fanbase. It's hard not to think of the defensively solid team under Adams. What a team that was. Carey by some distance was best in the division. I think Ryan Lowe is trying to change the Plymouth culture which is equally terrifying given the players at your disposal. I'd be lying if the FA cup loss in 90 plus six at your place didn't come to mind. That hurt. It was a long way home that night.
Which Argyle player, if any, would you like to sign?
The large majority of them if I'm being honest! I know that it was between us and Plymouth for the loan signing of George Cooper, a player I really like and the sort of player we lack badly at the minute. But for pure goals, I'd plump for Dom Telford.
Do you have any predictions for League Two in general this year?
Obviously the relegation picture is hard to call at the minute with Macclesfield's troubles but I think Orient are in big trouble. I think Scunthorpe still have a say on the play-off picture and I do fancy Crewe to win the league. I've seen every team in the league bar Plymouth this season and Crewe were two times as good as anyone else this season.
And finally, what is your prediction for the game itself?
Tough game to call really due to Westley just recently coming in. We probably should have beaten Forest Green on Boxing Day but got a little unlucky. Plymouth seem to have found their stride. I'd take a point and run at the minute and I think that's how it will go. 1-1, Cooper and Parrett to score.
Argyle ride their luck to secure Mansfield victory
Player Ratings: Plymouth Argyle 3 Mansfield 1
Telford and McFadzean close to return, Taylor and Aimson still a few weeks away
FM20: An Argyle Journey – End of Season 1. Promotion?
FM20 – An Argyle Journey – Play-offs or automatics?
Follow Argyle Life on Twitter
Like Argyle Life on Facebook
http://argyle.life - The Alternative Plymouth Argyle Voice | {
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Well-known Star Queen Latifah is also a Caregiver
Caregiver Stories
Queen Latifah: A Caregiver, Too
The star shares how she's handled a new role since her mom's heart failure
by Amy Goyer, April 28, 2016 | Comments: 0
(Video) Queen Latifah Gets Real About Caregiving For Mom — Check out our video for more about Queen Latifah's special relationship with her mom, as well as more of her tips for caregivers.
AARP Membership: Join or Renew for Just $16 a Year
Queen Latifah is an award-winning actress (currently appearing in the movie Miracles From Heaven), rapper, singer, songwriter and television producer — as well as a family caregiver. I met with her recently to talk about caregiving and her work with the American Heart Association's new Red Steps Challenge to "rise above" heart failure, which afflicts some 6 million Americans.
It didn't feel like a typical celebrity interview because we discussed something important we have in common: We are both caregiving daughters. Our mothers live or have lived with heart failure — mine for 24 years until she passed away from other causes, and Latifah's mom, Rita Owens, having the chronic condition for many years.
The star's caregiving role came on suddenly about 12 years ago, after her mother, then working as a high school teacher in New Jersey, passed out at school one day and was rushed to the hospital. After many tests, Owens was diagnosed with heart failure — shocking to hear, but her heart improved as she got the care and support she needed.
She now manages the condition with medication and a defibrillator implanted in her chest, while maintaining a healthy, veggie-heavy diet. (Owens also battles scleroderma, an autoimmune disease that affects her breathing.)
Like many caregivers, Latifah is a busy working woman who travels a lot. She insisted that Owens move to Los Angeles with her so she could better manage her mom's care when she was doing a television show there. Now her mom is feeling better and has moved back to her home in New Jersey.
Latifah visits her frequently and remains very involved in her care, even from a distance. As she puts it, "I just start the day with mom and how's she doing: 'Do you need anything? What's going on?' "
She also leads a team of family members, close friends and health care providers who support her mom — a role that's earned her the title "the general."
She finds the label amusing, she says, because she's not usually the commanding type: "I'm not tough in that sense, but you do have to become stronger."
Queen Latifah and mom Rita Owens
Latifah's eyes sparkle, and she gets emotional when she talks about her mom. They are best friends, she says, and Owens inspires her because she is "so positive and strong, and I've seen her come through some really, really challenging moments. She never ceases to amaze me."
For Mother's Day this year, Latifah is planning a surprise for Owens "with my big celebrity friends who want to honor their mothers, as well."
What has Latifah learned from caring for her mom? She says it has made her much more conscientious about her own health. She and Owens are working to raise awareness about the signs and symptoms of heart failure and to encourage others to take heart-healthy steps through the Red Steps Challenge — symbolized by red socks. (Go to RiseAboveHF.org for more information.)
At the end of our conversation, when I thank Latifah for sharing her journey, her warm response touches my heart: "Thank you for everything you've done for your family and continue to be blessed, and keep blessing other people," she tells me. If you're a caregiver, you know how much her words mean.
She may have said it to me, but it's her message to all of us — her fellow caregivers. Thanks for all you do.
Update: Rita Owens passed away on March 21, 2018.
Amy Goyer is AARP's Family and Caregiving Expert and author of Juggling Life, Work and Caregiving. A recognized media authority, she has appeared on Today, The Doctors and Dr. Phil, and had interviews in The Wall Street Journal and People. Connect with Amy on Twitter, Facebook, Youtube, LinkedIn, amygoyer.com and in our Online Community.
9 notable caregivers
A day in the life of an American caregiver
In praise of caregiving dads
Learn about health discoveries, explore brain games and read great articles in the 'Your Health' Newsletter | {
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October 1, 2018 6:58AM PT
Studiocanal Acquires Library of 'The Intouchables' Producer
By Elsa Keslassy
Elsa Keslassy
International Correspondent @elsakeslassy FOLLOW
Elsa's Most Recent Stories
Scandinavia's NENT Group Pulls Plug on Non-Scripted, Sets Sights on Drama and Film
Distrib Films Acquires U.S. Rights to Studiocanal's 'The Perfect Nanny,' 'Someone Somewhere' (EXCLUSIVE)
CREDIT: Courtesy of TIFF
Studiocanal has acquired the library of Quad, the Paris-based production company behind Eric Toledano and Olivier Nakache's French comedy blockbuster "The Intouchables."
Besides "The Intouchables," Quad's library includes other films by Nakache and Toledano, such as "Samba" with Omar Sy and Charlotte Gainsbourg and "Nos Jours Heureux," as well as Alexandre Coffre's "Eyjafjallajökull" starring Dany Boon. The library acquired by Studiocanal comprises 12 titles in total.
Studiocanal boasts a vast library of more than 5,500 movies covering 100 years of film history. These titles include "Terminator 2," "Rambo," "Total Recall," "Voyage au Bout de l'Enfer," "Mulholland Drive," "The Pianist" and "A bout de souffle."
"We're very happy about this acquisition which allows us to enrich further Studiocanal's library, one of the world's most prestigious, with 5,500 titles from 60 countries," said Didier Lupfer, Studiocanal's managing director.
"We also have some of the most successful French films of the last few years which have traveled well internationally, as did 'The Intouchables,'" Lupfer added.
The executive said Studiocanal had the ambition to "promote a vast European film heritage by regrouping leading world cinema talents."
Quad was founded by Nicolas Duval-Adassovsky, who currently runs the company. Recent credits include Toledano and Nakache's latest film, "C'est La Vie," which played at Toronto and earned 10 Cesar (France's top film awards) nominations.
Paramount gave an early look at its "The SpongeBob Movie: Sponge Out of Water" trailer before it debuts during the Super Bowl. The new clip has everything from fast cars and flashbacks to Snoop Dogg and Keanu Reeves. The animated movie sees SpongeBob SquarePants and Patrick Star venture out of Bikini Bottom and head to [...] | {
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.. :changelog:
=======
History
=======
Pending Release
---------------
* New release notes here
* Added missing argument message and documents for management commands
1.2.7 (2016-12-01)
------------------
* Added three built-in condition sets for checking if today is before or after
a date - ``UTCTodayConditionSet``, ``AppTodayConditionSet``, and
``ActiveTimezoneTodayConditionSet``.
1.2.6 (2016-08-03)
------------------
* Set requirements to exclude ``django-jsonfield==1.0.0`` which is broken for
PostgreSQL - use ``1.0.1+`` instead.
* Made ``gargoyle.register()`` usable as a decorator
* Made ``gargoyle.unregister()`` return the boolean value of whether something
was unregistered.
* Fixed removing conditions where the value is the empty string.
1.2.5 (2016-05-09)
------------------
* Removed debug prints from ``conditions.py`` which spammed your WSGI logs.
1.2.4 (2016-05-02)
------------------
* Added a migration to tidy up ``bytes`` versus ``str`` for ``choices`` on
``Switch.status``. It's no-op as ``choices`` is in-memory only.
1.2.3 (2016-04-11)
------------------
* Bugfix for ``@switches`` which didn't work on ``TestCase`` classes properly
in 1.2.2.
1.2.2 (2016-04-11)
------------------
* Removed the South Migrations, since South doesn't support Django 1.7+, and
Gargoyle only supports Django 1.8+.
* Added all ``__future__`` imports to all files for Python 2.7/3
compatibility.
* Made ``@switches`` usable as a class decorator for ``unittest.TestCase``
classes as well, where it applies from ``setUpClass`` through all tests to
``tearDownClass``. This adds a dependency on ``contextdecorator`` on Python
2.7.
1.2.1 (2016-02-25)
------------------
* Simplified autodiscovery code to use ``AppConfig.ready()``. It's no longer
necessary to add a call to ``gargoyle.autodiscover()`` in your ``urls.py``,
when not using Nexus.
* Fixed url ``patterns`` warnings that appear on Django 1.9
1.2.0 (2016-02-12)
------------------
* Fixed the splitting of ``Range`` conditions, a merge of disqus/gargoyle#55,
thanks @matclayton.
* Fixed the parsing of ``Range`` conditions for the Nexus admin interface.
* Fixed the Nexus interface to work with Switches that contain dots in their
names, a merge of disqus/gargoyle#73, thanks @Raekkeri.
* Removed all inline javascript.
* Added ``ifnotswitch`` template tag, a merge of disqus/gargoyle#92, thanks
@mrfuxi.
* Fixed Nexus admin interface for Switches with spaces in their keys, an issue
reported in disqus/gargoyle#98, thanks @arnaudlimbourg.
1.1.1 (2016-01-15)
------------------
* Fix jQuery Templates
1.1.0 (2016-01-14)
------------------
*This version has a broken UI, please upgrade*
* Support for Django 1.9
* Use the YPlan fork of ``django-modeldict``
* Removed support for Django 1.7
* Added support for Python 3.4 and 3.5
1.0.1 (2015-12-09)
------------------
* Fix requirements to use ``nexus-yplan`` not ``nexus``
1.0.0 (2015-12-09)
------------------
* Forked by YPlan
* Django 1.8 compatibility - use Django migrations
0.11.0 (2015-02-03)
-------------------
* Better support for Django 1.6 and Django 1.7
* Dropped support for Django 1.2 and Django 1.3
* Use ``model_name`` in favour of ``module_name`` if available (deprecation in Django 1.6)
* DateTimeFields now utilize the auto_now=True kwarg
* Travis now tests on Django 1.6/Django 1.7
0.7.3 (2012-01-31)
------------------
* Bump ModelDict version to handle expiration in Celery tasks.
0.7.2 (2012-01-31)
------------------
* Correct issue with trying to serialize datetime objects.
0.7.1 (2012-01-31)
------------------
* Changed the behavior of gargoyle.testutils.switches to monkey patch
the is_active method which should solve scenarios where switches
are reloaded during the context.
0.7.0 (2012-01-27)
------------------
* Added confirmation message for enabling switches globally.
* Added date modified and sorts for switches on index view.
0.6.1 (2011-12-19)
------------------
* Require Nexus >= 0.2.0
0.6.0 (2011-12-16)
------------------
* Added basic switch inheritance.
* Added auto collapsing of switch details in interface.
* Added simple search filtering of switches in interface.
0.5.2 (2011-12-06)
------------------
* Improved display of Gargoyle dashboard widget.
0.5.1 (2011-12-06)
------------------
* Fixed switch_condition_removed signal to pass ``switch`` instance.
0.5.0 (2011-12-06)
------------------
* Updated signals to pass more useful information in each one (including the switch).
0.4.0
-----
* The percent field is now available on all ModelConditionSet's by default.
* Fixed a CSRF conflict issue with Nexus.
0.3.0 (2011-08-15)
------------------
- Added gargoyle.testutils.with_switches decorator
- Added gargoyle.testutils.SwitchContextManager
0.2.4
-----
- Updated autodiscovery code to resemble Django's newer example
- Updated django-modeldict to 1.1.6 to solve a threading issue with registration
- Added GARGOYLE_AUTO_CREATE setting to disable auto creation of new switches
- Added the ability to pass arbitrary objects to the ifswitch template tag.
0.2.3 (2011-07-12)
------------------
- Ensure HostConditionSet is registered
0.2.2 (2011-07-06)
------------------
- Moved tests outside of gargoyle namespace
0.2.1
-----
- UI tweaks
0.2.0
-----
- [Backwards Incompatible] SELECTIVE switches without conditions are now inactive
- Added ConditionSet.has_active_condition, and support for default NoneType instances
for global / environment checks.
- Added HostConditionSet which allows you to specify a switch for a single
server hostname
| {
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Adamantine: The Transatlantic Summer Tour!
Adamantine [adjective]
1. Made of adamant, or having the qualities of adamant; incapable of being broken, dissolved or penetrated.
2. Like the diamond in hardness or lustre
3. My third poetry collection!
Welcome to the first round of celebrations of the publication of Adamantine (Red Hen/Pighog Press, Pasadena), forthcoming July 11th in the US/Canada and December 11th in the UK. Containing tributes to an international range of artists and activists, and a lyric sequence responding to my breast cancer treatment, the book honours women's tenacity and lustre. While not eco-poetry, whether by serendipity or occult foresight, the image of the hourglass is a recurring motif in the book, which is offered in the spirit of global solidarity that Extinction Rebellion has helped ignite this year – a grassroots uprising which may yet save us and our precious home.
After a pre-launch reading in Brighton July 18th, I'll be touring North America with readings in New York City, Victoria, Vancouver, Saskatoon and Regina. Doing all that flying was not a decision I took lightly, but I'm also going over for a family reunion, and have paid my carbon offsets, so I hope all my XR mates can forgive me!
More UK events will follow in the winter and throughout 2020. Meantime I'm reading from the book and A Blade of Grass: New Palestinian Poetry at next weekend's Palestine Expo. Hope to see London friends and summer visitors there!
SUMMER CELEBRATIONS
[Full details on FB]
July 6th: Palestine Expo, 'Creatives Corner'.Olympia London. 12:15-12:40. Reading also from A Blade of Grass: New Palestinian Poetry, as part of this massive, weekend-long celebration of Palestinian culture. Tickets here.
July 18th: Paper, Needle, Rock. ONCA Gallery. 14 St George's Place, Brighton. 7-9 pm. Celebrating the US publication of Adamantine. With Helen Moore, launching her third collection The Mother Country, and Akila Richards, reading from her multimedia work 'Barrel', and Filigree: Contemporary Black British Poetry. OPEN MIC, details and tickets (£3 redeemable against cost of book) here.
Aug 7th: Westbeth Centre for the Arts, Manhattan. [TBC] 7 pm. With poets Farid Bitar, Rowyda Amin (TBC), Steve Bloom, Angelo Verga, and pianist Shahaba.
Aug 8th: Berl's Brooklyn Poetry Shop. 7 pm. With Red Hen poet Dolores Hayden, reading from her third collection Exuberance, a tribute to the early days of aviation.
Aug 10th. Garden Party, New Jersey. An afternoon reading for local artists and activists. Email me for details.
Aug 15th: Emily Carr House. Victoria. 2-4. With lemonade! The opening sequence of the book contains poems in honour of iconic Canadian artist Emily Carr and my late high school friend, writer Emily Givner. Emily's family will be in attendance, so this is a very special event on the tour for me.
Aug 18th: Summer Salon. Vancouver. With poet Miranda Pearson, reading from her forthcoming fifth collection Rail (McGill-Queens UP). Email me for venue details.
Aug 22nd: McNally Robinson Bookstore. Saskatoon. Time TBA. And the grand finale – the Saskatchewan leg of my tour. The last time I was in Saskatchewan was 2008, so this will be an emotional homecoming!
Aug 24th: Mercury Cafe. Regina. 3-5 pm. Organised by writer and literary maestro Brenda Niskala, of Sask Books, and presented by Saskatchewan Poet Laureate Bruce Rice.
Photo by Brenda Niskala, 2008
2018: The Year of Relearning How to Focus
Posted on December 31, 2018 by nfoyle
Driven by a giddy need to make up for lost time, my first full year post-cancer treatment was full tilt with travel, art galleries, books, family and friends. I also finally learned how to use my iPhone camera – you touch the screen to focus, doh! Fizzing with this epiphany, I even signed up for a iPhone photography course, way back in February, but what with my madcap work pace haven't had time to start it yet. I also remain confused by Instagram – it seems you can't use the app on a computer, only your phone, and I like curating albums, which Facebook, for all its multitude of sins, is pretty good at. Still, I did migrate from the insanely perplexing iPhotos (I spent an hour at a festival with an award-winning filmaker trying to clear storage space without deleting all my photos, and she gave up too), to the far more sensible Google Photos; and had fun playing around with cropping, filters, and light fixing. Exercising more was one of my main aims this year, and my new interest in photography motivated me to walk more in the UK. Photography also helped me communicate everything I learned on my travels to Iraq, Palestine and Northern Israel. While these were politically enlightening journeys, wielding a camera with more confidence helped me to keep an eye on the small glories as well as the big picture. Though in the case of nature, that might be the same thing . . .
I am still very much an amateur photographer, but my confidence in the art form got a boost from exhibiting a short series of my travel photos 'UN/Forgotten', in the group show Dystopia at SEAS (Socially Engaged Art Salon) in Brighton, speaking about their subjects – refugee camps in Lebanon, and Saddam Hussein's shadow over Babylon – and launching Stained Light: Volume Four of the Gaia Chronicles at the opening event. I was thrilled and moved to celebrate the conclusion of the series – which is, at heart, a tribute to the power of solidarity – at this collective event; given also that the title is a succinct definition of photography, it couldn't have been a more fitting venue. Thank you to everyone who came, and has since helped welcome the book with online reviews and star ratings – it's a marvellous feeling to know I have made people happy by finishing the series – and, for myself, to be open now to new creative adventures.
Writing-wise, 2019 will see the publication of my third poetry collection, Adamantine, forthcoming from Red Hen Press (Pasadena) in June. I'll be giving readings in North America, and will keep trying to up my happy snapper skills – definitely I will take the online photography course . . . Maybe even get a iPhone upgrade . . . Until then, should you be interested in surreal contemporary art, wildflowers, bugs, stained glass, London, Liverpool, Bomber Command and the Middle East, the lo rez images below will give you a taster of my themes, and this link will take you through to all the highlights of my wanderings in 2018.
But forgive my new-found hobbyist's hullabaloo – enjoy your New Year's Eve, and may 2019 prove a pivotal year for all of us – away from the chaos, division and acrimony that has engulfed Western politics, toward co-operation in defense of equality, human diversity, and this precious planet we all share.
'Wild Lamp', Yorkshire.
'"Chrysalis" by Lee Bul' (Hayward Gallery)
'Ramallah', Palestine.
'And the Halls of the Dead President's Palace Smell of Piss' – Babylon, Iraq.
'Plucked' – Brighton.
'Kiting on Otterspool Prom' – Liverpool.
Posted in Cancer Journey, Photography, Stained Light, Travels | Tagged Bomber Command, Iraq, Palestine, stained glass, wildflowers | Leave a comment
Rachel Searle and Naomi Foyle at the 'Banksy Dove', Bethlehem. Photo by Salah Abu Laban.
September's song is soaring, but the chords of summer echo on, not least my visit to the Occupied Palestinian Territories in late July for readings from A Blade of Grass: New Palestinian Poetry, the bilingual anthology I edited last year for Smokestack Books. Travelling with Rachel Searle, the Director of BlakeFest (Bognor Regis) – for whom I am consulting on the imminent Building Jerusalem event this Friday in this year's festival – Palestinian-American poet Farid S. Bitar, and performance artist/historian Catherine Charrett, I chaired two poetry events in East Jerusalem and Ramallah; visited with Jewish peace activists in Haifa; and, in the Occupied Galilee, met with poet and political prisoner Dareen Tatour on the eve of her sentencing. Rachel and I returned home sobered by the manifold injustices we had witnessed, but also inspired to 'see the world in a blade of grass', and motivated to continue creating poetic bridges between Palestine and West Sussex.
A Blade of Grass contains poems in English and Arabic by Palestinians from the homeland and the diaspora. Launches have been held in London, Chichester, and New York, but celebrations would not have been complete without events in Palestine. Readings in Ramallah and East Jerusalem were necessary because, due to travel restrictions imposed by the Israeli Occupation, most Palestinians living in the West Bank cannot get permits to come to a reading in East Jerusalem. And a private celebration at Dareen's house was also necessary: when the political prisoner cannot go the book launch, the book launch must go to the political prisoner!
Both public events featured celebrated locally-based poets Maya Abu Al Hayyat and Marwan Makhoul, and Farid Bitar of New York City, visiting his homeland for the first time in eleven years. The readings in East Jerusalem were hosted by Al Ma'mal Foundation, an art gallery housed in a converted tile factory in the Old City. In Ramallah the venue was the garden of the Khalil Sakakini Cultural Centre, an arts organisation and library located in an old Arab house where Palestine's beloved poet Mahmoud Darwish once had a writing desk. The legendary Educational Bookshop of East Jerusalem supplied the books for both events.
Farid Bitar, Naomi Foyle, Marwan Makhoul & May Abu Alhayyat launching A Blade of Grass at the Al Ma'mal Foundation, East Jerusalem.
Returning these poems to their origin in an occupied land made for an emotional visit. Of his time in Palestine, Farid Bitar told me: 'Visiting the homeland left indelible tattooed painful memories of intense moments: being held for hours crossing Jordan into Palestinian land, searching my knapsack at the Qalandia check point crossing from the West Bank into Jerusalem, being accused of having a set of knives while it was my set of drawing charcoals.'
Rachel, Catherine and I also got a glimpse of life under occupation, taking tours of Bethlehem with independent Palestinian guide Salah Abu Laban, and of East Jerusalem and the Old City with young Jewish guides from the Israeli Committee Against House Demolition (ICAHD). These tours showed us life on both sides of the apartheid wall that, in defiance of the internationally agreed 'green line', snakes through the West Bank, dividing leafy, lavishly funded illegal Jewish settlements from impoverished Palestinian neighbourhoods, which are deprived of social services including water, electricity, education, garbage disposal and healthcare.
For Rachel, the experience was sometimes overwhelming. 'It was a trip to build cultural links with Bognor but I felt like I was witnessing an 'impossibility',' she said. 'How is it that a 'friendly', civilized, democratic and oppressed State, has actually been systematically denying the Palestinians the most basic of human rights even in Jerusalem unnoticed by the mainstream for 70 years? A propaganda machine that works not only in Israel but in the UK and the US too. Blake's hapless soldiers just one brutal tool in the daily degradation cleverly systematized through the civil, legal and even tree-planting systems.'
The ever growing apartheid wall, seen here outside Bethlehem. Photo by Rachel Searle.
For me, my third visit to Palestine in six years revealed shocking new dimensions of what ICAHD terms the Israeli 'matrix of control'. After ten years of activism, I thought I knew how bad it was in Palestine, but that was a naive assumption. From one guide we learned that Area C, representing 60% of the West Bank, and under the terms of the Oslo Agreement already under Israeli civil and military control, is likely to be annexed soon. If so, the 160,000 Palestinian inhabitants will be made, not citizens, but 'permanent residents' of Israel (giving them no right to vote in national elections) and warehoused in impoverished villages and towns, killing off the Bedouin culture of the region, and burying the already moribund 'two-state solution' six feet under. Meanwhile, in Bethlehem, Salah pointed out a facial recognition gun mounted above the graffiti: an AI weapon that can be programmed to kill at a range of up to 1500 metres. Quite apart from the fact that extra-judicial assassinations are illegal, the gun has a 65% accuracy rate. It is in fact a prototype, being field tested on a civilian population. Confronted with this moral obscenity, I was brought to the verge of tears.
But while the obstacles to a just peace may seem as insurmountable as the wall, I took hope from the myriad forms of non-violent cultural resistance we encountered. The trip allowed Farid to visit his mother's grave for the first time 'putting closure on that chapter'; and made him 'proud to read from A Blade of Grass in Jerusalem & Ramallah, under the fig tree of Mahmoud Darwish.' Our guide in Bethlehem also embodied a creative response to violence and injustice. Salah, who spent four years of his adolescence in hospital and lost several fingers after picking up what he thought was a tennis ball, turned to poetry as a means of protest and self-expression, writing nearly three hundred poems as a young man. Now, through his hostel and tours, he welcomes foreigners with bear hugs of humour and warmth, educating them about the realities of Palestinian life.
In Bethlehem, Rachel, Catherine and I also met with Mazin Qumsiyeh, scientist, human rights activist and scholar, and, with his wife Jessie, co-founder of the Palestine Museum of Natural History, an eco-centre where Palestinians and international volunteers of all religious backgrounds work together to build respect for each other and the land. In Haifa, travelling with Farid, Rachel and I stayed with Jewish activists Yoav and Iris Bar, who have bought an old Arab house with the intention of finding the original owners and returning it to them. Haifa, a city in Northern Israel with a sizeable Arab population and a history of good Jewish-Arab relations, is also home to a new Palestinian-led campaign for One Democratic State, an inclusive vision long-endorsed by Mazin Qumsiyeh in his landmark book Sharing the Land of Canaan (Pluto Press, 2004).
Olive tree at the Palestine Museum of Natural History
For William Blake, Jerusalem represented peace and harmony: thus he wished to build the city in 'England's green and pleasant land'. I love the famous hymn, but when I hear it I always think it would be a good idea to build Jerusalem in Jerusalem first, and amidst all the violence engendered by the Israeli occupation it was inspiring to meet people who still hold fast to a dream of sharing the land – a hope for the future to be discussed by an interfaith panel on Sept 14th at the 'Building Jerusalem' event at BlakeFest Fringe. Intending to make the event an annual part of the festival, Rachel and I have begun conversations with Palestinian arts organisations we hope will develop into creative collaborations between Palestinian and West Sussex school children.
Our pilgrimage ended on a defiantly Blakean note with our visit to the village of Reineh to meet A Blade of Grass contributor and political prisoner Dareen Tatour. Dareen (36), has spent over two and a half years under house arrest on charges relating to her poem 'Resist, My People, Resist Them', and was convicted of incitement earlier this year. As Blake wrote, 'Poetry fettered, fetters the human race,' and Dareen's arrest has been denounced by International PEN, English PEN and other international human rights organisations. Thanks to Yoav, who communicates regularly with Dareen, Rachel, Farid and I were able to help cheer her up a bit on the day before her sentencing. After poetry readings at her family home, Dareen, who was allowed to go outside for two hours a day, gave us a tour of her beloved city, Nazareth, with its stray cats, angels and spice markets. The next day she was sentenced to five months in jail.
As a poet, painter, and the victim of legal injustice, Dareen has much in common with William Blake. It was fitting to end our journey following her through the stone streets of Nazareth, which shone, like her vision of a free Palestine, with a delicate but enduring light.
Naomi Foyle, Dareen Tatour and Farid Bitar – possibly laughing at the absurdity of being arrested for writing a poem . . .
Dareen Tatour in Nazareth, the afternoon before her sentencing.
Photo Diaries of the visit can be viewed here:
A BLADE OF GRASS IN PALESTINE 1: TEL AVIV/YAFO
A BLADE OF GRASS IN PALESTINE 2: JERUSALEM, THE OLD CITY
A BLADE OF GRASS IN PALESTINE 3: BETHLEHEM
A BLADE OF GRASS IN PALESTINE 4: EAST JERUSALEM
A BLADE OF GRASS IN PALESTINE 5: RAMALLAH
A BLADE OF GRASS IN PALESTINE 6: THE OCCUPIED GALILEE
All images by Naomi Foyle unless otherwise stated. Please use only with permission.
BlakeFest, part of the Big Blake Project, is a small locally organised festival in Bognor Regis that celebrates the life and legacy of William Blake who lived in the area 1800-1803. The festival has its roots in Blake's Beulah, a vision of which he had in Felpham, telling us that 'Heaven opens here on all sides her golden gates' , where he saw angels and wrote of building 'Jerusalem'. Aside from the festival, the project has worked at many levels; creating trails, publishing books to hosting poetry salons and art workshops. The aim is always the same: to regenerate Bognor Regis through cultural change.
Building Jerusalem is a public meeting, held as part of BlakeFest 2018, involving talks and a panel discussion exploring the relevance of William Blake's poem/hymn 'Jerusalem', and wider philosophy, to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and Britain's potential role in finding a solution to it. The event is an inter-faith and truth-seeking initiative and there will be no promotion of ideological or religious views that favour one faction of humanity over others. A talk from English literature scholar Dr David Fallon (University of Roehampton) will be followed by a panel discussion featuring Daud Pidcock (Muslim Council); Dr Atef Alshaer (University of London) author of Poetry and Politics in the Modern Arab World; Rabbi Alexandra Wright (London Liberal Jewish Synagogue) [TBC]; Canon Peter Challen (Southwark Cathedral) and Blake scholar Dr Luke Walker. The panel will be chaired by Dr Simon Mouatt (Associate Professor, Chichester University). ICT Lecture Theatre (F11) Chichester University, Bognor Regis Campus, PO21 1HR. Friday 14th September 2018, 7-9pm. Free entry, Donations welcome. For more information contact Simon Mouatt [email protected]
Al Ma'mal Foundation is a non-profit organisation based in a former Tile Factory in New Gate, in the Old City of Jerusalem, serving its surrounding community, their guests and the city's visitors through a programme of exhibitions, live music and workshops. Since 1998, Al Ma'mal has been a hub for art, cultural vibrancy and learning while building bridges with the world and honouring Jerusalem's own enduring qualities as a complex, culturally rich, ageless city.
Khalil Sakakini Cultural Centre is a leading Palestinian arts and culture organization that aims to create a pluralistic, critical liberating culture through research, query, and participation, and that provides an open space for the community to produce vibrant and liberating cultural content. Located in Ramallah, KSCC is housed in a renovated building dating back to the early 20th century. The centre is named after the Jerusalemite scholar, poet, and nationalist, Khalil Sakakini.
The Israeli Committee Against House Demolition (ICAHD) is a non-violent, direct-action group dedicated to ending the Israeli Occupation and achieving a just peace between Israelis and Palestinians. Over the past two decades ICAHD has focused its activism on Israel's policy of demolishing Palestinian homes (close to 50,000 in the OPT since 1967).
Free Bethlehem and the West Bank Tours, run by Salah Abu Laban, is a personal initiative that started in January 2015 with the aim of helping travellers discover Bethlehem and other cities in the West Bank, and educate themselves about the political, cultural, and historical aspects of the region. Free BAWT also runs the Bunksurfing Hostel and organizes hiking, camping and many other fun activities, and enjoys a solid 5 star reputation on Trip Advisor.
The One Democratic State Campaign (ODSC) is a Palestinian-Israeli initiative to establish a constitutional democracy between the sea and the river, including the right of return for Palestinian refugees. Currently based in Haifa, ODSC is a new initiative and will officially launch its movement this autumn. Meanwhile, it is building support through its website, Facebook page and articles in Mondoweiss.
The Palestine Institute for Biodiversity and Sustainability (PIBS) and the Palestine Museum of Natural History (PMNH), operate under the auspices of the University of Bethlehem, and were established in order to research, educate about, and conserve our natural world, culture and heritage and use the knowledge gained to promote responsible human interactions with our environment.
Some recent events: or, l'esprit d'escalier outwitted!
Posted on July 22, 2018 by nfoyle
I used to be a performance poet. Wearing an eyeliner moustache I'd throw myself around the stage like a deranged Russian count, or adopting an ersatz German accent I'd impersonate a formidable Frau on the warpath. I never got nervous before these appearances: it wasn't me up there, what was there to worry about? When I began writing SFF novels it came as rather a shock, therefore, to realise that only very rarely would I get invites to read my work, or even to discuss it. Instead, I was expected to come to conferences and festivals and talk about all sorts of other things, sometimes only tangentially related to my fiction, to audiences who – given I'm an SFF late starter – generally knew far more about those things than I did.
It took a good couple of years to adjust to this blow to my theatrical ego. Initially I would over-prepare and feel hugely anxious beforehand and afterwards. Not entirely without reason: I recall once sitting on a dais in a massive hotel conference hall, being asked what war in history should have turned out differently, and having to speak over a wave of muttered disagreement at my reply.* Not funny at the time! Gradually though, as I developed a keen interest in SFF and Islam, disability studies and gender, I've started to relax and enjoy myself at these kind of events. Though perhaps I have just developed yet another persona, Naomi the Diverse SFF novelist . . .
But that's another blog post altogether. This point of this one is to share the captured versions of some recent live events. Yes, I've got so comfortable blathering away I'm even fine now for events to be recorded. Mind you, I can't watch or listen to myself: I'm not bothered about what I look like or the sound of my voice – it's just too painful not to be able to edit what I've said! Still, it's nice that other people think these events are worth recording (and, in the case of poetry readings, watching it back does enable me to edit the written text). So in the interest of archiving the ephemeral and vanquishing the spirit of the staircase, I present here some recent poems and conversations, with the odd note on what I should have also said . . .
Poetry reading at the Underground Cafe, Eastbourne.
Filmed by Mister John. [The videos are all too long for WordPress, so I've included links to YouTube.]
This event coincided with the start of the 24 hour vigil to mark the anniversary of the Grenfell Tower fire (Jun 14 2018). In the first half I read my long poem 'Going on Crutches to Grenfell Tower' (12 minutes). If that's a bit long for you, you can also read the poem in London Grip.
I also read my epic ode to football, 'The World Cup' (4'30") which after this year's magnificent tournament, I might have to rewrite – certainly to include Pussy Riot's pitch invasion of the final match!
As Mister John said, these two videos are a little dark. The lighting was better in the second act, during which I read some shorter poems including 'Bernadette' – a sisterhood poem in honour of the effin' ineffable Bernadette Cremin.
Interview by Dan Jones for the British Science Fiction Association (The Artillery Arms, London)
Audio and video of the event (53 minutes) are available on the BSFA website, courtesy of the impeccable Chad Dixon. [Contains spoilers]
Dan Jones, possessor of an enviable day job at the UK Space Agency (yes, we have one!), is the author of Man O' War (Snow Books), the story of an AI 'pleasure model' called, er, Naomi . . . it therefore seemed inevitable that he would one day interview me about Seoul Survivors. It was fascinating to get his reaction to my creepy cyberchiller – and collect another genre tag for the book, which Dan has decided is 'tech-noir'. It was a great chat, ranging from the nature of villainy to the prospects of peace in the Korean peninsula, and my only real regret is not talking more about Korean SF and horror. I was gripped by Han Kang's Vegetarian, and am thrilled that Lee Bul is exhibiting in London right now – her headless Cyborgs were a big inspiration for Seoul Survivors, so why I forgot to mention her I do not know! I did enthuse incoherently over Korean football though – they had just humiliated Germany, so I think being gobsmacked was allowed – and also talked about Korean peace campaigners Nodutdol, so I hope I didn't do too badly by my host nation. I've since visited the Lee Bul show, a glamorous futuristic dreamworld which gave me a huge longing to return to Seoul. Meantime, though, I will be returning to the Artillery Arms in September to interview Dan about his novel, which I'm now extremely curious to read!
Islam and the Imagination: A talk with Samir Mahmoud, chaired by Remona Aly, at the Bradford Literature Festival.
[Video Forthcoming]
It's a shame this video hasn't been published yet by the organisers, because at this event I said nearly everything I wanted to say! I do wish I'd managed to praise the marvellous short story collection The Djinn Falls in Love, though, which I'd brought along especially and placed on a chair beside me, and then completely forgot to talk about. Editor Jared Shurin came up to me afterwards though, to say he'd tweeted a photo of it to his co-editor Mahvesh Murad, who'd replied 'I like the fourth speaker!'.
My hotel bed the night before the talk – I still do prepare a bit!
A Blade of Grass: New Palestinian Poetry on WBAI Radio 99.5FM, NYC
A celebration of the book I edited last year for Smokestack Books, featuring Palestinian-American poet Farid Bitar and members of Jewish Voice for Peace, NYC. Click through and search for Arts Express, July 12.
I'm not on this programme – but my introduction to A Blade of Grass is quoted, which was touching to hear at midnight across the ocean, especially on the 24th anniversary of my mother's death. My mother, Brenda Riches, was also a writer and editor, and listening to a old CBC radio interview with her at Christmas I realised how much she inspired my own philosophy of writing, in which editing plays a significant role. I was also simply moved to hear the poems I'd chosen voiced, the context clear, the community united and a Palestinian poet singing for his fallen sister.
So it's been a fulsome start to the summer. Next stop Jerusalem and Ramallah, for the Palestinian launches of A Blade of Grass. Watch this space!
*Boudica's last battle was the wrong answer, I guess, as the Romans left Britain eventually anyway. Still, perhaps if they'd left earlier England would be more like Britain's 'Celtic fringe', with less of an identity crisis and imperial complex? [Wave of muttered disagreement rises to a crescendo . . .]
Photo of me in the Lee Bul exhibition by Karlien van den Beukel.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged A Blade of Grass, BSFA, Chad Dixon, Dan Jones, Farid Bitar, Grenfell Tower, Samir Mahmoud, The Djinn Falls in Love, The World Cup | Leave a comment
Syria: Who to Trust?
Posted on April 14, 2018 by nfoyle
I haven't posted about Syria this week because I've been thinking a lot about what to say.
In recent weeks I've met people who've told me that:
1) Assad has to stay because otherwise Syria will end up being controlled by a US-Wahhabi-Zionist alliance, and Christianity will be wiped out in the Middle East – once there is peace, though, then he can removed from power by the UN;
2) that the White Helmets belong to ISIS;
3) that after the first gas attack in Ghouta Israeli gas canisters were found – that is to say, the attack was an IDF false flag, which is why the West never responded to it
4) that we don't know who is responsible for the attacks, or if gas has even been used.
I don't mention these claims because I want to debate them. I've already debated them in person. But as everyone is urgently discussing Syria right now, I will state my opinion of them:
1) Yes, it is complicated on the ground. But overwhelmingly, as Idrees Ahmad documents here, in his article Aleppo is Our Guernica, the killing is being done by the regime, on an industrial scale. To allow Assad to stay condones genocide. And to claim that the opposition is all American-Wahhabi-Zionists set on wiping out Christianity from the Middle East is fearmongering that absolves Christians of their duty to speak truth to power, and completely ignores the secular Syrian opposition – some of whom have joined Islamist militias simply because those outfits have weapons, and many of whom have successfully created neighbourhood councils and participatory democracies in rebel-held areas. Note also Annas, doctor in Ghouta, speaking about one of the earliest demonstrations: 'the "Great Friday" demonstration was held in solidarity with Easter. We wanted to encourage Christian Syrians to come out and participate.' (As quoted by Wendy Pearlman, in an email from The Syria Campaign). And if the UN can't get it together to remove Assad while he's murdering hundreds of thousands of people, I can't see how they are going to remove him after he's won the war.
2) has been thoroughly debunked by the Guardian.
3) is completely wild – I can't even find a reference to it online.
4) is what is always said after these attacks, and although the April 7th attack in Douma needs to be investigated, the general question has been sufficiently answered in the past. Here is an OPCW report on two chemical attacks last year, one in Umm Hawsh and one in Khan Shaykhun. The report assessed evidence from a variety of sources, and concluded that ISIL and Assad were respectively responsible for the attacks (the regime for Khan Shaykhun). As far as I can make out from their site, the OPCW is currently investigating the use, in general, of chemical weapons in Syria and they cannot comment on any more instances while investigations are on-going. At the same time, however, the report was part of a 2 year investigation that has now expired, and the UN is basically ineffective anyway because Russia blocks all its draft resolutions on Syria. However, from this shameful state of international inertia, it is at least clear that OPCW has concluded that Assad is not at all afraid of dropping chemical weapons on Syrians.
If your opinion differs radically to mine on these issues, please take some time to investigate the links I have posted. I am not an investigative journalist, but I respect the profession, and I have tried hard over the last seven years to sift through the news to find sources I trust on this volatile, heart-wrenching and, to most non-Syrians, very confusing issue.
I trust Pulse Media because the Scottish-Syrian editor, Robin Yassin-Kassab is embedded in a network of activists and has dedicated himself to publishing accounts of the conflict no-one else is covering – those of the revolutionaries, in their own words. He and activist Leila al-Shami are also the authors of Burning Country, a critically acclaimed book about the war, telling stories that the mainstream media simply ignore. Fellow editor of Pulse Media Idrees Ahmad, is a lecturer in journalism who has also written extensively on Syria, including the article linked to above, which contains a long list of verified information about regime atrocities in Syria.
I absolutely do not trust Assad or Vladimir Putin. While all news media is inevitably biased, there's a difference between slanting and omitting truths (as the BBC does on Palestine), and telling out-and-out lies. My 2014 visit to Ukraine demonstrated to me that the Russia media consistently blatantly lied about their military involvement in the country – Putin's 'toxic assault' on the truth is well documented. Like all Putin's political opponents, Russian independent journalists are routinely jailed on trumped up charges, beaten or killed. The Guardian article linked to above also reveals the extent of Kremlin trolling and fake news dissemination. That's why I don't watch RT, and don't for a second believe that the White Helmets gassed their own people.
It's terrible choice the world is facing – to establish as a precedent that a dictator may gas his own people with impunity, or to potentially spray oil on a bonfire. I've also spoken to people who are quite simply terrified and infuriated by the prospect of escalating the conflict, causing even more suffering for the Syrians, and possibly even a world war. Much as I believe the Leftist position of appeasement has utterly failed Syria, this position is one I do now have sympathy with.
I don't trust Trump and the Tories to intervene appropriately – that is to say, conducting targeted strikes against arms factories and military bases, and supplying the secular opposition with self defense equipment and weapons. Even targeted strikes risk raising the ante. In the end, not that my opinion matters one whit to anyone trapped in the inferno of East Ghouta, I agree most with Paul Mason, who essentially argues for 'Banks not Tanks' – hitting the Russians with economic and political sanctions, and bolstering our international multilateral institutions of justice and democracy. What if oligarchs suddenly couldn't buy London flats anymore, and no-one showed up at the World Cup this year? Unless things have changed dramatically by then, I won't be watching it, at least, much as I love it.
At the heart of this argument is a stress on the importance of due process. But due process has already been followed in the case of Khan Shaykhun. It is long past time for the world to take action. All the dire warnings about military intervention from our Left leaders need to be followed up with alternative plans for a robust political response, including demands to reform the UN. The UN was created (by the victors of WW2) after the failure of the League of Nations. Now that the UN is so manifestly failing, it should be, if not replaced, vitally restructured. Why should there be five permanent members of the Security Council, three of them Western powers, none from the global South? Why should they be able to veto anything at all, let alone resolutions about wars they are directly involved in?
But this is just a creative writer's blog post. The only thing I really can do right now that makes a drop of difference is to give money to Syrian relief charities. People are burning in hell, and other people are risking their lives to help them. The least I can do is help send them some medical supplies. It's not an adequate response to this unending tragedy, but currently I don't know what is. I work on Palestine, not because I don't care about Syria, but because the situation there is clear to me – the Palestinians are calling for BDS, which I can help create. In Syria, while previously I thought that intervention was needed, I fear that it's too late for that now, and the wrong hands and minds are at the controls. The Syria Campaign is calling for Europe and the US to enforce a ceasefire in Ghouta, but I just don't know any longer if I can join calls for the use of force in Syria. I do believe in cultural resistance, and using my position as an editor and lecturer to help give Syrian voices a platform, and a megaphone. Currently, apart from my own writing, I am still focused on promoting my Palestinian anthology and on looking after my health. I hope that the time will come soon for an opportunity to make good on that wish.
More than that, though, I hope against hope that somehow the world finds non-violent but effective ways to challenge and punish Assad and Putin, strengthen the moderate opposition, and support Syria's eventual transition to a democracy of its own people's making.
Posted in Politics, Syria | Tagged Syria | Leave a comment
April in London: Poetry & SF Events
Posted on April 8, 2018 by nfoyle
Shivering through the cruellest month? Didn't book your Eurostar ticket to Paris? Never mind, London is blossoming too, at least for this Brighton lilac – it would be lovely to see you at one or t'other (or both!) of these upcoming literary flowerings . . . a Red Hen Press poetry reading at the Betsey Trotwood pub in Farringdon Rd, and Spicing Up Sci Fi: The Dunes Strike Back, a panel discussion on Islam and the hybrid imagination at the British Library.
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Curated by Sindbad Sci-Fi, the event is being staged in partnership with MFest, the UK's inaugural annual arts festival of Muslim cultures and ideas.
Buy Tickets https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/spicing-up-sci-fi-the-dunes-strike-back-tickets-43553180736
£5 | Concessions £3
Exclusive 20% Early Bird discount code: MFestSINDBAD (valid until Friday 13th April)
A Blade of Grass: Launched!
Posted on November 18, 2017 by nfoyle
It's here! And it's a beaut: bursting with sharp, fresh and tender poems, and well and truly launched at a sell-out event on Thursday Nov 16th at P21 Gallery in London, a contemporary arts centre dedicated to the promotion of Arab culture. Thank you to the gallery for hosting us, to the University of Chichester for promoting the event with a press release to national media and a banner article on their website, to Andy Croft of Smokestack Books for training it down from Yorkshire for the gig, and most especially to poets Mustafa Abu Sneineh and Farid Bitar – who journeyed from New York City especially for the event – and translators Katharine Halls and Waleed Al-Bazoon for their depth-charged readings from A Blade of Grass: New Palestinian Poetry. Thank you also to everyone who came and made the launch such an uplifting occasion. While I was thrilled to realise that, in fact, I personally knew only about a fifth of the audience, it was tremendous to welcome friends in the crowd, some of whom had supported the book through the crowdfunding campaign, which raised £240 each for the legal campaigns of poets Ashraf Fayadh (jailed in Saudi Arabia) and Dareen Tatour (jailed in Israel). I thank also Rob, Keith and Lily in Brighton, who gifted me a stunning bouquet of roses, sunflowers and wild grasses to get the celebrations off in style, and it was a great pleasure to meet a young lad, William, from Farid's hostel, who came along out of curiosity and shook my hand firmly after the readings, thanking me for the enlightening evening. My belief is that poetry provides a way in to the Palestinian narrative for people who know little about it, or get 'turned off' by the news – and William's response was a heartening confirmation of the power of the lyrical word. Altogether it was an magical night, brimming with faith in humanity and art: I'm still relishing memories of dandling Mustafa and Rebecca's little Eskander on my knee, and admiring Farid's pop-up exhibition of spacious, wind-blown paintings, drawings and calligraphy, which he brought over the ocean in his suitcase. Also unforgettable was hearing Andy Croft read British poetry the riot act, and listening to the panellists field 'heretical questions' about classical meter in a pan-Arab context!
On a more sombre note, I'm glad too that I could honour an absent translator, the late Sarah Maguire, an award-winning poet and the founder of the Poetry Translation Centre, who very sadly died on November 2nd, the day before the book was published. I read Sarah's translation of 'The Lost Button' by Fatena Al Ghorra, plus the last lines of her own poem 'The Grass Church at Dilston Grove', which seem to herald the anthology, as well as foreshadow our loss:
Everything the grass has asked of me
on this earth, I have done
except give myself
except lie
under its sky of moving roots.
(From The Pomegranates of Kandahar)
Sarah has fulfilled that ultimate task now, but in giving herself so passionately, in life, to the cause of poetry in translation she has left a vital legacy, cracking open the bastion of British poetry to plant the seeds of human empathy and understanding across geopolitical and linguistic borders. Always a great friend of Palestine, she died on a date of enormous significance to Palestinians, the centenary of the Balfour Declaration, in which the UK government so wrongfully promised to support the creation of Israel in lands inhabited by other people. As I go forward, as the editor of A Blade of Grass, to help challenge the ever-escalating results of that disastrous document, and make this a century of justice for Palestine, I humbly feel I am picking up her grass-stained baton.
This is just the beginning of the festivities for A Blade of Grass. I've already had interest in 2018 events from New York, Cairo, and Jerusalem, and will be organising readings also in Brighton and Chichester. My dream is for all of the living contributors to the anthology to be able to read at an event, so hopefully the book's other translators Josh Calvo, Raphael Cohen, Tariq Al Haydar, Andrew Leber, Wejdan Shamala and Ahmed Taha and poets Fatena Al Ghorra, Maya Abu Al-Hayyat, Fady Joudah, Deema K. Shehabi, Naomi Shihab Nye, Marwan Makhoul, Sara Saleh and, when they are freed, Ashraf Fayadh and Dareen Tatour, will all have their turn on stage. For now, should you wish to buy the book, you can order it online direct from Smokestack Books, or at bookshops in the UK or North America – and, hurrah, the Educational Bookshop in East Jerusalem! xxx
Here I am with Mustafa Abu Sneineh and drawings by Farid Bitar.
With Farid Bitar
Waleed Al Bazoon and Farid Bitar
Reading from A Blade of Grass
Fuzzy happy people – poets and editor celebrating in the pub!
Back home with my gifts from Farid Bitar: freesias for freedom, and my name in delicate Arabic
Posted in Israel-Palestine, Poetry | Tagged A Blade of Grass: New Palestinian Poetry, Ashraf Fayadh, Dareen Tatour, Deema K. Shehabi, Fady Joudah, Farid Bitar, Fatena Al Ghorra, Katharine Halls, Marwan Makhoul, Mustafa Abu Sneineh, Naomi Shihab Nye, Sara Saleh, Sarah Maguire, Smokestack Books, Waleed Al Bazoon | 2 Comments
Disappearance without absence: Book Launch on National Poetry Day
Posted on September 7, 2017 by nfoyle
In my role as Associate Editor at Waterloo Press, I was honoured this year to help publish a book of profoundly moving poems, Disappearance without absence/Desapariencia no engaña, by Néstor Ponce, exquisitely translated by Max Ubelaker Andrade. Written in honour of the 'disappeared', the book is a testament to those thousands of individuals targeted for death and erasure by Argentina's military junta (1976-1983). Now on the shelf of every school and library in Argentina, its publication is part of an ongoing process of national and international remembering, mourning and justice-seeking. Thanks to the Sur Programme of the Argentine government, Waterloo Press is proud to enable English-speaking readers to share in this vital witnessing.
I am also very grateful to Elspeth Broady, a family friend and the Secretary of the Brighton and Hove Freedom From Torture Supporters Group, for offering to co-host the book's Brighton launch in the Chapel Royal on Sept 28th – which, as we discovered later, just so happens to be National Poetry Day, with the theme of 'Freedom'. It's becoming an international local event already: Elspeth and her husband Chris Sevink are generously hosting Néstor Ponce on a visit from France, where he is a leading Latin American Studies scholar, while my friend Helen Dixon, who lived in Nicaragua for twenty-two years, has kindly agreed to contribute her considerable linguistic, cultural and political acumen to the event. Please join us all for wine, nibbles, a bilingual poetry reading, discussion and Q&A. I just *so* wish Max could come – but unfortunately the local crowd-sourcing just couldn't stretch to a ticket from Massachusetts, where Max, a Borges scholar I had the pleasure of meeting at the Blind Creations conference, teaches Latin American Studies. But this is just the beginning of the book's journey out into the world, and hopefully I will have the chance to hear Max read his stunning translations at some point in the future.
Thursday Sept 28th, Chapel Royal
164 North St, BN1 1EA Brighton
Free entry, wine and nibbles, with suggested donations*
*Suggested donations: £6 entry to include a glass of wine.
All profit to benefit the work of Freedom From Torture.
Should you not be able to attend, the book is also available from me directly, or on Amazon.
Posted in Poetry | Tagged Argentina, Max Ubelaker Andrade, Nestor Ponce, The Disappeared | Leave a comment
No Enemy but Time: A New Pamphlet of Old Poems
Being cured of cancer last year gave me a powerful sense of priorities. It seems that keeping up with this blog wasn't one of them . . . Instead, in between a short course of radiotherapy and an unexpected return to hospital to treat a broken ankle (!), I've thrown myself into book production mode. Currently I'm finishing the final volume of The Gaia Chronicles for Jo Fletcher Books and editing an anthology of Palestinian poetry in translation for Smokestack Books, both of which will appear at the end of the year. In the spring I spent six weeks editing two collections for Waterloo Press, Disappearance without absence/Desapariencia no engaña by the Argentine poet Néstor Ponce, translated by Max Ubelaker Andrade, and Gratitude on the Coast of Death, David Swann's long-awaited second collection, which were published along with No Enemy but Time, my new pamphlet which I launched at the Belfast Book Festival in June. Launches for the two collections are being planned for the autumn, so I'll save that fanfare, and for now just officially introduce my own new title.
No Enemy but Time is my tribute to my close friend, the Northern Irish poet, journalist and cultural activist Mairtín Crawford (1967-2004), and his quietly remarkable mother Flo (1939-2011). The pamphlet contains a sequence of poems in memory of Mairtín, most written in the wake of his sudden death; and what I have called 'Some Loose Aislingi' or 'vision poems' – a traditional genre in which a woman symbolises a dream of Ireland. The title of the pamphlet is a phrase from the W.B. Yeats poem 'In Memory of Eva Gore Booth and Con Markiewicz', and my aislingi include a lyrical response from the famous sisters, rebuking his denigration of their political work; as well as an homage to the linnet, a reflection on the Belfast peace process, and an oral history of the Falls Rd and the Troubles, as told to me by Flo.
The pamphlet was clearly many years in the brewing, and time did seem set against it for a while – I'd initially hoped to publish the poems for the tenth anniversary of Mairtín's death, but the then-Irish publisher got sold, the poems languished, the momentum was lost, and then I got sick. Although I wrote a sequence of cancer poems during my treatment, as I recovered I felt an urgent need to bring these old poems into the light. My faithful collaborator John Luke Chapman – with whom I'd once co-authored a literary manifesto Mairtín published in his legendary magazine The Big Spoon – created a stunning cover photograph, and some more poems flowed. Then lo, just as I was preparing to ask Northern Irish poet Moyra Donaldson for a back cover quote, she emailed to tell me that the Crescent Arts Centre in Belfast had just established the Mairtín Crawford Award, a prize designed to do what he did in his teaching, editing and festival directorships – encourage new poets. Although I was on crutches from my broken ankle, with the help of EasyJet special assistance, and time my friend again at last, I was honoured to launch No Enemy but Time at the prize-giving ceremony, where Mairtín's friends read his own tender, playful and exuberant work, and the worthy winner, Rosamund Taylor, debuted her exquisite poems.
I hadn't been to Belfast since 2010, and it was my first time back since Flo's death. It was an emotional visit, that stirred some painful memories, but also deepened my connection to the city that Mairtín had first guided me through in 1994, the summer that my mother died. The poems about our relationship excavate layers of personal and political history, cross the ocean to Canada and New York, and ultimately look to the stars – Mairtín was an idealist and a futurist, an agitator and rebel who pushed every boundary out into the cosmos. It was heartening to hear from his friends that my poems brought them some closure and comfort, and I hope they also convey something of his magic to those who didn't know him.
You were known for being obsessed
with space:
scored an arts grant to visit NASA,
sat in the cockpits of rockets;
wrote poems about Jupiter
and UFOs, Moonmen and Mir;
worried about asteroids
falling on our heads.
I read your cover story
― 'Belfast Astronomers on Red Alert' ―
foolishly believed myself
a little safer on the Earth.
No Enemy but Time (Waterloo Press) is available at The Crescent Arts Centre, on Amazon, or email me ([email protected]) to arrange postal or hand delivery.
Posted in Poetry | Tagged Belfast Book Festival, Con Markievicz, Eva Gore Booth, Mairtin Crawford, Moyra Donaldson, The Crescent Arts Centre, W.B. Yeats | Leave a comment
Farewell to 2016 – and Cancer
What a year. When it comes to traumas we're spoiled for choice, but as Amnesty International and Greenpeace remind us, 2016 also brought many victories for humanity and the planet. Here at home, I've been celebrating the official All Clear, which clear as a bell, arrived with impeccable timing on Dec 23rd. I've still got follow-treatments to come, but to bid farewell to cancer, I'm looking back on ten books that have enriched my journey thus far through the 'kingdom of the sick'. What should you read during chemotherapy? I like to laugh, sure, but in my frail state I also wanted to see my suffering and that of the world reflected with compassion and insight. Thus the themes of illness, migration and climate change flow through this list of poetry, essays and fiction.
Of Mutability by Jo Shapcott (Faber and Faber, 2011). Spending five months on the strongest drugs Western medicine has to offer, it was hard to concentrate sometimes, but I took as my motto a line from Julia Darling's poem 'Chemotherapy': 'I have learned to drift and sip'. And thus in the stark nights of chemic insomnia I read poetry, sipping of its beauty and truth. This Costa Award-winning collection treats subjects ranging through breast cancer, war and modern architecture, Shapcott's deft allusive touch encompassing the world with airy room for the imagination to fly. The wonderful extended metaphor of 'Uncertainty is a Not a Good Dog' – no, it rushes ahead and rolls in the mud! – helped me accept the new psychological terrain I had just entered. I can get a little frustrated (understatement!) with English understatement, but sometimes the problem is with readers, not the poet. The Guardian reviewer didn't get the answer to Shapcott's 'Riddle', which you didn't need to have had chemotherapy to solve – it was placed opposite a poem called 'Bald'.
Excisions by Clare Best (Waterloo Press, 2011). Aware she was carrying the gene for breast cancer, Clare Best had an elective double mastectomy in her forties and declined reconstruction. Instead, tracing her journey in graceful, lucid poems, while fully acknowledging her grief at losing her 'sentenced flesh', she embraced the opportunity to lie closer to the earth, and feel her heart beat closer to her husband's. I helped edit this book for Waterloo Press, and had seen photographs of Clare's serene new shape. Having the imprint of her experience in my mind helped me to accept the possibility of mastectomy, and I turned again to the book immediately after my diagnosis. I can't quote more because I recently gave my copy away to another woman contemplating elective surgery, but writing this blog reminds me to reorder it for myself – an essential title for my library.
Writing My Way Through Cancer by Myra Schneider (Jessica Kingsley, 2003). Combining a journal of the author's experience with breast cancer with her own poems and writing exercises, this sensitive and rakingly honest book helped calm my own struggles with anxiety, and encouraged me to move between experience and vision in my own poems about the illness. Although I didn't in the end need a mastectomy, it was encouraging to read of Schneider's journey to acceptance of her new 'Amazon' shape. And I loved her poem 'Choosing Yellow', which in ranging the spectrum of this colour of sunshine and jaundice, gloriously evokes the paradox of coping with cancer: 'a bittersweet colour / which feeds emptiness in the middle of the night, / a state of mind that refuses fear.'
The Cancer Journals by Audre Lorde (Aunt Lute Books, 2007) This collection of essays by the late African-American poet Audre Lorde, who died of breast cancer in 1992 fourteen years after her diagnosis, was invigorating, bracing and sobering to read. Lorde, like my late mother (who died of colon cancer in 1992) had a mastectomy but refused chemotherapy: while I respect everyone's right to choose their own treatment, as someone who was helped far more than harmed by chemo I can't help but wonder if, even though far more arduous in the nineties, it might have helped them both survive. But cancer is a personal journey, and seeking alternative treatment in Germany, Lorde trod her path with famous dignity, eloquence and leadership. Refusing reconstruction because she didn't want to deny her encounter with mortality, or conform to cultural norms of female beauty she didn't, as a Black Lesbian identify with, Lorde challenged the medical establishment in important ways. When being prepped for a possible mastectomy, I'd been told that silicon implants can impede the effectiveness of breast cancer drugs, and when I read that Lorde was told by a nurse to wear a softie next time she came to the clinic because the sight of her asymmetry was 'bad for morale', I completely felt her rage. I also fully understood how her decision to own her scar empowered her: "Yet once I face death as a life process,' she wrote, 'what is there possibly left for me to fear? Who can ever really have power over me again?"
Becoming Earth by Eva Saulitis (Boreal Books, 2016). These autobiographical essays by a marine biologist about breast cancer and nature were another difficult read at times: knowing that the book didn't have a happy ending, and being unsure what direction my own treatment was taking me in, I had to take long breaks between sections. But I was always drawn back to Saulitis's fiercely delicate reflections, ranging from her youth in her home state of Michigan, where she grew up feasting on pesticide-coated fruit; and her work in Alaska, where she and husband observed a pod of orcas that hasn't calved since the Exxon Valdez oil spill; to her own body in its state of rapid decay. Thanks perhaps to Saulitis's involvement with Buddhism, the dominant mood is not anger, though, but elegy and acceptance. Whatever its cause, cancer, an overgrowth of cells, is not itself a pollutant but an entirely natural process – an insight Saulitis evokes in the image of a glut of dead salmon. "We have no dominion over what the world will do to us," she wrote. "We have no dominion over the wild darkness that surrounds us.… Death is nature. Nature is far from over . . . In the end—I must believe it—just like a salmon, I will know how to die, and though I die, though I lose my life, nature wins. Nature endures. It is strange, and it is hard, but it's comfort, and I'll take it."
Mood Indigo by Wendy Klein (Oversteps Books, 2016). As you can imagine, I quite often wanted an escape from cancer stories, and this collection beguiled me with its tender family truths, and restful long lines. In its careful respect for a temperamentally sensitive father, there is a touch of Robert Lowell about Klein's sequence 'Seen From Below'. Her highly regarded political poetry is well-represented here, but poems rooted in personal history also have a global reach: 'Tisch' unpacks a word that will keep a family '. . . stuck together / when the bombs begin to fall.' As a writer of the long poem myself, I also much admire the way Klein summons mystery from her wealth of well-orchestrated detail – keeping up a rhythmic soft-shoe between her lyric and narrative impulses.
Book of Longing by Leonard Cohen (Penguin, 2007). I wasn't grief-stricken by Cohen's death – he achieved a great age and had lived a charmed life. But in paying my respects and expressing my affection, I turned to his poems as well as his songs. Sometimes this book annoyed me – with his obsessive pen-and-ink self-portraits and endless lamentations over unattainable young women Cohen seemed too content to milk the myth of the solitary male genius, refusing his Muse greater empathy with a wider humanity. But then he rises to the summits of 'A Thousand Kisses Deep', a song that always makes me think of my mother, or attains the simplicity of 'Mission', a poem that could be his own eulogy. Cohen being the first to ruefully acknowledge his own flaws, this book ultimately makes loneliness, baldness and poetry seem worthwhile endeavours – all very reassuring for a single writer on chemo. Plus 'Something from the Early Seventies' was hilarious!
White Hunger by Aki Ollikainen, translated by Emily Jeremiah and Fleur Jeremiah (Peirene Press, 2015). Emily Jeremiah, a friend from my MA I worked with at Waterloo Press on her Finnish poetry translations, achieved great success with this short novel, which was long-listed for the Man Booker International this year. It deserved it. A spare translation of a historical novel about the 1867 famine in Finland, in its harrowing portrayal of starving peasants trudging through winter toward the mirage of St Petersburg, the book evokes the determination of today's refugees into Europe from the South – and their pain. Just when you think the agony in this book can't get any worse, it does. Like the futuristic novel it resembles, The Road, there is redemption of sorts in the end, but no glimpse of hope can erase the ghosts of those who did not survive. Reading White Hunger, like watching the news from Syria or Calais, was a humbling experience: what was my suffering in comparison? The book was also inspiring, though: by bringing the anonymous dead to life, literature can indeed connect the reader with all of humanity.
Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (Fourth Estate, 2014). For those lucky enough to have homes, long novels and chemo go together like sofas and snow, and this absorbing, informative, lyrical epic gave my side-effects an enormous sense of purpose. I learned a huge amount from Nigerian protagonist Ifemelu's reflections on race in America, and was riveted by Adichie's sharp yet compassionate eye for complexity. As plot devices Ifemelu's pursuit of the perfect rich feminist husband, and celebrity status as a blogger had a slightly fairy-tale quality, but at the same time these dreams come under lucid scrutiny in the book. The narrative, and Ifemelu's achievements, are also driven by trauma, and being an African woman in an individualist, racist and sexist country both gives her depression and allows her to acknowledge that mental health is not just a white Westerner's concern. Her own well-being – and her desire to win back her remarkably patient (and married) heart-throb Obinze – demands that she return to Nigeria and create a successful life there on her own terms. Meanwhile Obinze's sudden launch into the country's wealthy upper echelons is shadowed by his failed attempt to live in Britain – a chapter in which Adichie makes a powerful case for emotional migration: the freedom to move where we please.
The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann (Penguin, orig 1924). God, I loved this book! As I faded into skin and bones, it was such an pleasure to sink into a seven-hundred and fifty page novel in which illness is the norm and self-enwrapment in blankets an art-form, or at least a Winter Olympic sport. Amused at first by young Hans Castorp's self-regarding priggishness, I was ultimately moved by his long journey to become a sensitive mediator between his passionate friends, history and art, life and death. Like my cancer, the TB sanatorium became, for Hans, a spiritual retreat. The book also charts the build up to the first world war and although in my chemo fog I couldn't follow all the arguments of the novel's two voluble scholars (who between them trample the supposed differences between East and West into a bitter frenzy of intellectual envy), Mann's nuanced portrayals of Hans's milieu – the 'East' represented here by Russian and Jewish characters – throws rope bridges of humanity across politically engineered fault-lines. Finally, as a new inhabitant of the Kingdom of the Sick, I found Mann's insights into illness still ring true; as one character opines, the awe people hold for sick people is misplaced:
For the sick was precisely that; a sick man: with the nature and modified reactions of his state. Illness so adjusted its man that it and he could come to terms; there were sensory appeasements, short circuits, a merciful narcosis; nature came to the rescue with measures of spiritual and moral adaptation and relief, which the sound person naively failed to take into account.
Cancer and chemo became my new normal in 2016, and I accepted my condition because I had to. I honestly don't mind people telling me I am 'inspirational', but to end this list, and 2016, on a note of traditional resolve, I would be best pleased if that took the form of quitting smoking, reducing alcohol consumption or eating more vegetables! Happy New Year, everyone – and may more and more people tread the path of health, love and peace in 2017.
Posted in Book Reviews, Cancer Journey, Environmentalism, Poetry | Tagged Aki Ollikainen, Audre Lorde, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Clare Best, Emily Jeremiah, Eva Saulitis, Fleur Jeremiah, Jo Shapcott, Leonard Cohen, Myra Schneider, Thomas Mann, Wendy Klein | 4 Comments | {
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Dr. No. (1962) – British secret service agent, James Bond 007 is sent to Jamaica to investigate the disappearance of station chief John Strangways and his secretary. Various clues lead Bond to suspect the involvement of the mysterious Dr. No who operates from the nearby island of Crab Key and seems to govern through a cult of fear. On the island Bond meets shell diver Honey Rider. The two are captured and Bond encounters Dr. No and learns he is an agent of SPECTRE using the island as cover to run a high-tech operation to interfere with American rocket launches. Bond escapes and in a hand to hand battle kills Dr. No and sets off a chain reaction that destroys the base [DRNOm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
From Russia With Love (1963) – SPECTRE devise a plan to revenge themselves against Bond for the death of Dr. No while simultaneously setting the British and Russian Secret Services against each other. Using the fact that the defection of senior Russian officer Rosa Klebb to SPECTRE has been kept a secret, they recruit an attractive Russian cipher clerk, Tatania Romanov, to suggest that she will defect to the British and bring a Lektor decoder with her; but only if Bond goes to Turkey to personally help her defect. Knowing it's a trap, Bond works with Kerim Bey, head of Station T, Turkey, to organize the defection. On the Orient Express he comes face to face with SPECTRE assassin, Red Grant and the two are involved in a brutal fight, which Bond eventually wins. Believing they are safe Bond and Titania journey to Venice only to finally be confronted by Klebb [FRWLm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
Goldfinger (1964) – While recuperating in Miami, Bond is asked to observe the activities of Auric Goldfinger, and uncovers the fact that he is a cheat. Goldfinger kills his former assistant in Bond's bedroom by covering her all over with gold paint. Back in the UK Goldfinger's name comes up in association with a possible gold smuggling operation. Bond maneuvers himself to cross paths with Goldfinger and then trails him to Switzerland where he uncovers the gold smuggling process and a connection between Goldfinger and the Chinese. After being captured Bond is taken to Goldfinger's property in the United States, where he learns of Goldfinger's plans to detonate a nuclear device in the Fort Knox gold depository thereby destroying the US economy and tripling the value of his own gold holdings. With the help of Goldfinger's personal pilot, Pussy Galore, Bond smuggles out a message to the CIA and manages to foil the plot [GFm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
Thunderball (1965) – After SPECTRE hijack an military flight carrying atomic bombs, Bind realizes that strange activity he witnessed while attending the Shrublands Health Clinic may be connected to the case. He follows a lead to Bahamas were he encounters Emil Largo who Bond is convinced is a member of SPECTRE. Working with the CIA Bond finds the missing plane, but without the bombs onboard. Infiltrating Largo's team of divers, Bond locates the bombs and arranges for an assault team to intercept Largo when he moves the bombs [TBm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
You Only Live Twice (1967) – American and Russian space flights are being snatched from orbit, bringing the two super-powers to the brink of war. The British believe that the mysterious enemy spacecraft is being launched from Japan and Bond is sent to investigate. Working with the Japanese secret service, Bond uncovers a SPECTRE base hidden in a volcano. Bond also comes face to face with Blofeld, the head of SPECTRE for the first time. In a final attack on the base by Japanese secret service ninjas Blofeld escapes, but the base is destroyed saving the space program [YOLTm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
On Her Majesty's Secret Service (1969) – After saving the life of the Contessa di Vicenzo, Bond uses the connections of her father, Marc Ange-Draco, Head of the Union Corse crime syndicate, to trace Blofeld to a research institute in the Swiss Alps. After infiltrating the institute Bond discovers that Blofeld is brainwashing his patients to deliver biological weapons. Bond escapes with the help of Tracy di Vicenzo, who he proposes to, but she is captured by Blofeld and held at the institute. Bond and Draco organize an attack on the institute during which they rescue Tracy, but after a chase the injured Blofeld escapes. Bond and Tracy are married, but she is murdered on their wedding day in a drive-by shooting by Blofeld and his assistant Irma Blunt [OHMSSm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
Diamonds Are Forever (1971) – Desperate for revenge against Blofeld, Bond follows various clues and leads around the world until he comes face to face with his nemesis who has changed his appearance and is preparing a series of duplicates. Bond confronts and kills who he believes to be the real Blofeld. Returning to the service Bond is assigned to investigate a case of diamond smuggling by following the smugglers pipeline. His guide along the pipeline, that leads to Las Vegas, is attractive smuggler Tiffany Case. In Vegas they discover that the diamonds are being used to build a satellite laser weapon designed to destroy targets on the ground. Heading the project is Blofeld, under the cover of the organization owned by reclusive billionaire Willard Whyte. Bond rescues Whyte and the two attack Blofeld's command center on an oil-rig off the coast of California. Although apparently trapped on the burning rig, Blofeld's fate is uncertain [DAFm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
Live and Let Die (1973) – After three agents are killed within the space of twenty-four hours, Bond is assigned to investigate. Starting off in New York various clues lead him to the island nation of San Monique, and the connection between its Prime Minister and New York drug dealer Mr. Big. On the island Bond seduces Kanaga's soothsayer Solitaire and discovers acres of poppy fields, plus uncovering the fact that Kananga and Mr. Big are in fact the same person. After being captured and escaping Bond returns to the island, rescues Solitaire, destroys the poppy fields, and kills Kananga [LALDm]. Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
The Man With the Golden Gun (1974) – When the Secret Service receives a golden bullet engraved with Bond's 007 number, M pulls him off the case he is currently working on, the disappearance of a solar energy scientist. The golden bullet is the known calling card of the assassin Scaramanga, and Bond sets out to track him down. He traces Scramanaga to Hong Kong where he is surprised to find out that the assassin's real target was the missing solar scientist. After Scaramanga escapes Bond finds out that the bullet was sent by Scaramanga's aide, Miss Anders, who wants Bond to kill him. The trail eventually leads to Scaramanga's private island where he and Bond engage in a duel [MGGm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
The Spy Who Loved Me (1977) – The disappearance of British and Soviet nuclear submarines results in Bond being assigned to work alongside KGB agent Major Anya Amasova to resolve the case. They discover that the man responsible is marine tycoon Karl Stromberg who wants to destroy the surface world and restart civilization under the sea. Bond teams up with the crews of the captured submarines to thwart Stromberg's plans and destroy his ocean going headquarters [SWLMm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
Moonraker (1979) – After a space shuttle on loan to the British government is stolen, Bond's investigations brings him into the circle of the shuttle manufacturer Hugo Drax. Bond discovers that Drax is manufacturing a strain of nerve gas with which he plans to cleanse the earth and repopulate it with a race of perfect humans who will be protected in an orbital space station. Bond along shuttle pilot and CIA agent Dr. Holly Goodhead, blast off to the space station and disable its cloaking system allowing it to be attacked by US space marines. During the battle, Bond kills Drax and the space station is destroyed [MOONm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
For Your Eyes Only (1981) – When marine archaeologist Sir Timothy Havelock and his wife are murdered trying to recover a lost submarine tracking system from deep waters near Greece, their daughter vows revenge. He path crosses that of Bond who has been tasked with finding out who is behind the attack. Leads lead to Greek businessman and patriot Kristatos who tells Bond that the attack is the work of men working for the Greek smuggler, Columbo. In fact it is the other way around and Columbo wins Bond's trust and includes him in an attack on Kristatos's warehouse where Bond faces discovers diving equipment. He an Melina Havelock race to recover the sunken tracking device but are intercepted and captured by Kristatos. With Columbo's help Bond leads a small team to Kristatos's mountain top retreat where he destroys the device so that it can't be handed over to the KGB [FYEOm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
Octopussy (1983) – The murder of 009 leads uncovers a conspiracy between warmongering Russian General Orlov and Afhan prince Kamal Khan to use proceeds from stolen Russian Imperial crown jewels to fund a possible war. Khan has been using the traveling circus of the mysterious woman known only as Octopussy to smuggle the jewels around Europe, but she is unaware of his and Orlov's plans to use the circus to smuggle an atomic bomb onto an American airforce base in Germany hoping that its detonation will cause the German government to make the US forces leave thereby leaving the border undefended. Bond discovers the plot and manages to defuse the device with seconds to spare. The plot foiled he and Octopussy join forces in an attack on Kamal's palace [OPm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
A View to a Kill (1985) – After recovering a stolen microchip from Russian hands, Bond's investigations lead him to industrialist Max Zorin, and ex-KGB sleeper agent gone rogue. Zorin plans to destroy Silicon Valley thereby placing himself as the monopoly supplier of micro-chips. Bond manages to stop Zorin's plan and eventually kills Zorin after a climatic battle on top of the Golden Gate bridge [AVTAKm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
The Living Daylights (1987) – Bond is tricked into helping with the staged defection of KGB office General Koskov. It turns out that Koskov is actually in league with arms dealer, Brad Whitaker and the two are running a scheme to use diamonds stolen from the KGB to purchase drugs. When they try and trick Bond again, this time into assassinating the head of the KGB, their plan starts to come unraveled culminating in Bond destroying the drug shipment, and killing Whitaker, while Koskov is taken into custody by his former KGB colleagues [TLDm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
Licence to Kill (1989) – When Felix Lieter is maimed, and his new wife killed, by drug lord Franz Sanchez, Bond goes on a mission of personal vendetta to seek vengeance for his friends. Disavowed by M, Bond infiltrates Snachez's operations and then destroys them from the inside [LTKm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
GoldenEye (1995) – After a Russian satellite tracking station s destroyed by an electromagnetic pulse, Bond heads to Russia to investigate. He is stunned to find that the head of the criminal Janus syndicate behind the attack is former agent 006, and close friend Alec Trevelyn, who he believed had been killed on a mission nine years previously. Bond tracks the Janus team to Cuba where he discovers that Trevelyn plans to use a second EMP weapon to attack London. After a brutal personal fight Trevelyn in killed and Bond destroys the control station [GEYEm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
Tomorrow Never Dies (1997) – The secret service becomes suspicious of media mogul Elliot Carver when his newspaper's print information before they should know about it. Bond's investigations uncover that Carver is manipulating tensions in the South China Sea with the intention of sparking a war between Britain and China for media ratings. Bond and Chinese agent, Wai Lin, discover Carver's stealth ship, board it, and make it a target for both the British and Chinese fleets who destroy it [TNDm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
The World Is Not Enough (1999) – When industrialist Robert King is assassinated while inside MI6 headquarters M assigns Bond to guard his daughter, Elektra who she believes is being targeted by the terrorist known as Renard. In fact it is Elektra who is guiding Reneard's actions. She plans to explode a nuclear submarine in Istanbul harbor to drive the west to abandon their oil pipelines and use the King pipeline instead. Bond discovers the plan, rescues M, who King has kidnapped, and stops Renard from triggering the explosion on the submarine [TWINEm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
Die Another Day (2002) – Bond is captured after he is believed to have killed corrupt North Korean Colonel Moon. After being held and tortured for over a year he is suddenly released in exchange for the terrorist Zao, an associate of Moon's. Bond is believed to have been broken and is know considered compromised and useless as an agent. To prove his worth he goes after Zao and the trail leads him to rising British billionaire and media-darling Gustav Graves. It turns out that Graves is in fact Moon who has undergone a radical gene therapy to alter his appearance and mannerisms. Graves/Moon plans to use a newly developed satellite weapon to reunite Korea through force. Forcing his way on to Graves' command aircraft, Bond destroys the weapon control and kills Graves [DADm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
Casino Royale (2006) – After foiling an attempt to destroy a new airline, Bond is sent to confront the man behind the plot, Le Chiffre, known as the man who finances most of the world's terrorist activities. Their battle field is across the table at a high-stakes poker game. After Bond beats Le Chiffre he and his companion, treasury agent Vesper Lynd, are kidnapped and tortured, but Bond is rescued when a mysterious Mr. White arrives and kills Le Chiffre for playing fast and lose with his organizations funds. During his recuperation Bond falls in love with Lynd and the two set off on a extended vacation. Lynd eventually leaves clues that allow Bond to discover that she is in thrall to White's organization. She later commits suicide, and Bond finds and captures White [CR06m]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
Quantum of Solace (2008) – During interrogation, the mysterious Mr. White boasts about the extent of his organization, Quantum, just before M's bodyguard is revealed as a member and attacks M allowing White to escape. Bond's investigations into Quantum lead him to environmental industrialist Dominic Green who is planning on backing a military coup in exchange for securing a monopoly on the water rights in Bolivia. After exposing the leading members of Quantum and destroying Greene and his plans, Bond traces and confronts the Quantum agent who lured Vesper Lynd into the organization's trap [QOSm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
Skyfall (2012) – After an operation in Istanbul ends in disaster, Bond is missing and presumed to be dead. In the aftermath, questions are raised over M's ability to run the Secret Service, and she becomes the subject of a government review over her handling of the situation. The Service itself is attacked, prompting Bond's return to London. His presence assists MI6's investigation in uncovering a lead, and Bond is sent to Shanghai and Macau in pursuit of a mercenary named Patrice. There, he establishes a connection to Raoul Silva, a former MI6 agent who was captured and tortured by Chinese agents. Blaming M for his imprisonment, he sets in motion a plan to ruin her reputation before murdering her. Bond saves M and attempts to lure Silva into a trap, and while he is successful in repelling Silva's assault, M is mortally wounded. Bond returns to active duty under the command of the new M, Gareth Mallory [SKYFm]. – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
SPECTRE (2015) – A mysterious message from the former M puts Bond on the trail of a mysterious organization that has been manipulating both the criminal world, and the intelligence agencies around the world. His investigations reveal treachery within the halls of British Intelligence and a deep personal connection to the man behind it all, Ernst Stavro Blofeld [SPECm] – Podcasts: Movie review |Soundtrack review | Rookie Agents
NO TIME TO DIE (2021) – A retired James Bond is called back into action when an MI6-developed bio-weapon falls into the wrong hands. Accompanied by a new agent and old allies Bond must face both his past and an uncertain future in a climactic battle. Podcasts: Movie review | Soundtrack review |
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James Bond, 007, and associated trademarks are the intellectual property of Ian Fleming Publications, EON Productions and their subsidiaries and affiliates. No copyright infringement is intended or implied. THE JAMES BOND LEXICON: The Unofficial Guide to the World of 007 in Movies, Novels and Comics, is a scholarly source-work that has not been licensed or authorized by any person or entity associated with Ian Fleming Publications or EON Productions. | {
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vCommunity – Al Rasheed – A personal Blog about IT related subjects.
Al Rasheed – A personal Blog about IT related subjects.
Disclaimer: The views expressed anywhere on this site are strictly mine and not the opinions and views of anyone else. | {
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Agua Caliente Seeks to Diversify
Posted on April 15, 2010 by Rose Institute
The Coachella Valley is home to five tribes—Agua Caliente Band of Cahuilla Indians, Augustine Band of Mission Indians, Cabazon Band of Mission Indians, Torres-Martinez Band of Desert Cahuilla Indians, and Twenty-Nine Palms Band of Mission Indians.
Through development of casinos and other businesses, these tribes have contributed to the economy of the Coachella Valley. But the gaming industry has been hit by the current economic downturn. In 2008, revenues from tribal casinos in California were $7.3 billion, a 6 percent drop from 2007. Inland Empire Outlook met with Tom Davis, the Chief Planning and Development Officer for the Agua Caliente tribe, to discuss how the recession has affected its enterprises.
The Agua Caliente Band of Cahuilla Indians is a Palm Springs-based tribe with approximately 400 members and land covering 31,500 acres. The tribe launched its gaming business in 1995 when it opened its first casino in a tent in Palm Springs. Over the past 15 years, Agua Caliente's business operations have rapidly expanded to include two casinos, two hotels, a golf course, and a concert center. The Agua Caliente Casino in Rancho Mirage is a large operation, with over 45,000 square feet of gambling space, a 16-story hotel, and the convert venue called The Show. The tribe's other casino, the Spa Resort Casino, is located in downtown Palm Springs.
After more than a decade of rapid expansion, Agua Caliente, like other casino operators, is facing an uncertain period: fewer people are going to casinos, and those who do are spending less money. This softening demand is making it difficult for casinos to expand. Although Agua Caliente has the option to open a third casino or to renovate and further expand the existing Agua Caliente Casino, the tribe is currently not moving forward with either plan.
Agua Caliente and other casinos close to Los Angeles have not been hit as hard as those in Las Vegas or the fringe casinos in Reno. According to Mr. Davis, Agua Caliente has benefited from its unique market position as a destination resort that is an affordable option for Los Angeles residents. Coachella Valley casinos offer a comparable experience to a Las Vegas casino, but since they are closer to Los Angeles, they are a less expensive to travel to and are able to draw customers in the current economy.
In the longer term, Agua Caliente's casinos also stand to benefit from several new expansion projects, including the I-10 Bob Hope Drive/Ramon Road interchange construction project in Palm Springs. This project is estimated to cost around $35 million. The federal government is covering the majority of the construction costs through the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009. The new interchange will help decrease traffic congestion and thus help increase the revenue stream that the I-10 provides into the area. Agua Caliente is also investigating initial plans to build an open-air retail center on the west side of the I-10 Bob Hope Drive interchange.
By diversifying into other industries and engaging in new construction projects, tribes hope to minimize the impact of diminished casino revenues. Mr. Davis believes that diversification will be important for long-term sustainability for the Agua Caliente. "We have only been diversifying for about 10-15 years. Because of this, our investments were not enough to insulate us greatly from this economic downturn," said Mr. Davis, "but as our current projects are further developed and grow to their full potential, they will be able to act as a buffer against a bad economy in the future."
The tribe has already started diversifying in several ways: it owns leases on over 570 residential properties, two golf courses, and various other non-gaming related real estate. The tribe is dedicated to further diversification, particularly in the area of green technology, including wind power and industrial research. Agua Caliente is also in the process of developing more residential properties, the biggest of which is the construction of 100 town homes in the Village Traditions neighborhood. So far, the tribe has finished the first stage of construction with most of the completed units already sold. In addition, the tribe is hoping to develop homes in the Alexander Village Development, which aims to reproduce classic Hollywood homes from the 1950s and 1960s within a 21-acre community.
According to Mr. Davis, sustainable growth through diversification reflects the tribal "seven generations" principle by which current leaders keep future generations in mind.
← Riverside: An Innovative 'Capital City'
Inland Empire State Legislative Races in 2010 → | {
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Katie Trout takes top GBSLEP job as Arts Council boosts creative industries
by Paul Dale 01.Mar 2016
One of the officials who helped the Greater Birmingham and Solihull Local Enterprise Partnership get off the ground has been appointed its new director.
Katie Trout, who takes over with immediate effect from programme director Mike Carr, said she was looking forward to building on strong partnership working which would deliver record jobs and economic growth in the area.
I'm really excited to take on the role of Director of GBSLEP. I've been closely involved with the LEP since its inception and was part of the team that developed the original proposal to Government to form a LEP back in 2010.
Since then, I have helped the LEP to develop from being a partnership with no funding, no powers and limited influence to one that is setting the strategy for economic growth for the area, has negotiated a £379 million Growth Deal with Government and developed a £275 million Enterprise Zone Investment Plan.
The results of our strategy are now being felt on the ground with Local Growth Fund investments progressing in Solihull, East Staffordshire, Cannock Chase and Birmingham. The Growth Hub has been established to signpost businesses to support and finance to help them grow and local people are being supported into local jobs through collaboration with the Department for Work and Pensions.
The Institute for Translational Medicine, part funded through our City Deal, is putting Greater Birmingham on the map for clinical trials and the number of cranes in the city centre is testament to the confidence in the economy that the Enterprise Zone has helped to support.
Ms Trout said a key focus would be to work with partners to create an employer-led skills system that responds to the needs of businesses and provides local people with the skills they need to access jobs within the GBSLEP area.
News of the appointment came as it was announced that Arts Council England is investing £500,000 to help boost the GBSLEP area creative economy.
The money from the Arts Council's Creative Local Growth Fund has been awarded to Birmingham City University to support its STEAMHouse project. The university is one of nine organisations in England to be awarded funding.
STEAMHouse will put arts and culture at the heart of GBSLEP's strategy for innovation by melding arts and culture with science, technology, engineering and maths.
It will bring together academics, creative entrepreneurs, politicians and researchers to provide innovative business support for 270 creative enterprises, generate new research opportunities and create production and workshop spaces.
Anita Bhalla, GBSLEP board director and chair of Creative City, said:
We are delighted that Birmingham City University has been awarded Creative Local Growth Funding for the STEAMHouse project. The need to drive the skills base around Science, Technology, Engineering, Arts and Maths (STEAM) of the Greater Birmingham and Solihull (GBS) area is at the heart of the GBSLEP's Strategy for Growth.
STEAMHouse will complement and enhance existing regional facilities like iCentrum by creating incubator, collaboration, making and innovation space in Digbeth, in the centre of Birmingham, providing a catalyst for the creative industries.
STEAMHouse will deliver 10,000 jobs; create a new cluster of creative businesses; help bring empty properties and land back into productive economic use and support business growth creating new employment opportunities and safeguarding existing jobs.
Tags:
Anita BhallaArts Council EnglandBirmingham City CouncilGBSLEPGreater Birmingham and Solihull LEPKatie Trout
It might appear that Birmingham city council changes its chief executives more regularly than its
Britain's metro mayors should be given greater powers over housing, schools and jobs to truly
You could be forgiven for not realising we are in the foothills of the very
The Board of the West Midlands Combined Authority (WMCA) meets this morning for the first
The Panel set up to oversee improvements to Birmingham city council has disbanded itself and
⚏View More Articles ✉Send an E-Mail | {
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Ludwig Thiersch (né le , mort le ) est un peintre allemand.
Biographie
Né à Munich, fils de Friedrich Thiersch, il étudie la sculpture à l'Académie des beaux-arts de Munich, mais après quelques années se tourne vers la peinture. Il a comme professeurs Heinrich Maria von Hess, Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld, et Karl Schorn. En 1852, il voyage avec son père à Athènes, où il s'intéresse à l'art byzantin. Il se rend à Vienne en 1856, et à Saint-Pétersbourg en 1860, où il peint des fresques et des icônes. Il décora l'iconostase en marbre de l'église grecque Saint-Étienne de Paris.
Notes et références
Voir aussi
Liens externes
Peintre allemand du XIXe siècle
Naissance en avril 1825
Naissance à Munich
Naissance dans le royaume de Bavière
Décès en mai 1909
Décès à Munich
Décès dans le royaume de Bavière
Décès à 84 ans | {
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The Mayor of London has launched a consultation on his draft Health Inequalities Strategy 'Better Health For All Londoners' which aims to help create a healthier and fairer society and to make the healthier choice easier for everyone, including the most disadvantaged.
The London Plan commits the Mayor to working in partnership with other key stakeholders to reduce health inequalities by supporting the spatial implications of the Health Inequalities Strategy. In particular, the planning system has a key role to support the aims of the strategy to create healthy places, healthy communities and promote healthy habits.
The consultation runs until 30 November 2017 and further details can be found here. | {
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"King Jacob" wins three gold medals at HHSAA Track & Field Championships
Kau's Jacob Edwards is "King of the Hurdles"
Long Live the King!
Kau's Jacob Edwards retained his title as the "King of the Hurdles" by successfully defending the state crown at the Hawaii High School Athletic Association track and field championships held at Kamehameha-Kapalama on Saturday.
Edwards began by winning the 110 meter hurdles and later returned for a repeat performance by winning the 300 hurdles in a blistering time of 38.27 seconds, nearly two seconds ahead of his closest competitor.
Between his hurdle performances Edwards was claiming his third state medal by winning the triple jump and added a sixth place medal in the long jump to singlehandedly accumulate 31 team points for the Trojans.
"I'm grateful for how things turned out today," Edwards said. "My goal coming in was to keep my state hurdle titles and to try to survive the triple jump. I was really feeling it today in the 300, but I like all three of these events."
Edwards passed on two of his three triple jump attempts during the finals and watched as fellow Big Island Interscholastic Federation athletes performed. "It was a really cool meet to watch and I was excited for Kelson (Kawai from Kohala) in winning the high jump," Edwards said. "We're all part of a family and we cheer each other on during the state meet."
Anuenue's Joshua Gante leaped 45-05 on his final triple jump to close in on Edwards, but fell 1.25 inches short of passing the talented Trojan. "I knew I had the best jump from Friday and I wanted to rest between the hurdle events," Edwards said of his passing on two attempts.
Ku'uipo Nakoa
The BIIF's other defending state track & field champion, Hawaii Preparatory Academy's Ku'uipo Nakoa, won the gold medal in the 300 hurdles and the triple jump and needed to settle for silver medals in the long jump, and 100 hurdles, Nakoa's four medals added 36 points to HPA's total team score.
"I knew I was running against some amazing athletes," Nakoa said. "During the trials I felt intimidated, but today I blocked it out and focused, using tunnel vision."
Nakoa's runner-up status in the 100 hurdles and long jump was due to Kahuku's superstar Zhane Santiago who won gold in the long jump while setting a new state record for the 100 hurdles with a time of 14.92 seconds.
In the triple jump Nakoa had to come back from a mediocre trials performance to win the event during the finals in 38-08.25. "I knew what I had to do in the triple and I didn't even think about it, I just went for it," she said. "I had no idea that I had the winning jump until after the event was over and one of the girls came over to congratulate me."
Kaopua Sutton
Kamehameha's Kaopua Sutton came into the finals leading in the girl's discus with her preliminary toss of 134-4 inches which stood up in the finals to claim the gold medal.
"The conditions were just perfect on Friday," Sutton said. "The ring was smooth enough for me to gain rotational speed and the wind was just right. I thought I had better form during the finals as I threw another 134 feet, but yesterday (prelims) everything just clicked."
Kohala's Kelson Kawai brought home the gold in the boy's high jump when he cleared 6' 6". Kawai's previous best clearance this season was 6-4 as the 5 foot 7 inch leaper defied the laws of gravity. Kamehameha's Manta Dirks finished in a tie for fourth.
Kelson Kawai
"This might be the first time that Kohala has had a state champion," Coach Tom McCue said. "We're absolutely thrilled at what Kelson has accomplished – to jump 11 inches beyond his height is incredible."
Kawai cleared 6-6 on his first attempt, and then went after the 6-9 state record by asking that the bar be raised to 6-9.25. "I kept my head positive and I practiced a lot of mental imagery," Kawai said after winning the event. "I tried for the state record because I just wanted to see what I could do in my senior year."
"A lot of credit goes to my high jump coach, Maria Bunyi, as she helped me get to where I am," Kawai said.
Other BIIF finalist on Saturday:
Kamehameha's Francis Blas III finished third in the 110 hurdles and second in the 300 hurdles with teammate Everett "Maka" McKee in eighth for the 300. Teammates Manta Dirks was seventh in the triple jump and fifth in the long jump with Kaenan Akau fourth in the long. Not to be outdone Victoria Evans-Bautista captured third in the long jump for the Warrior girls.
HPA's Shane Brostek took third in the shot put and fourth in the discus – Kamehameha's David Kekuewa finished eighth in the shot.
In the 800 Keaau's Daniel Brooks took fifth for the boys while Waiakea's Kaitlyn Chock finished sixth for the girls.
Kamehameha sprinter Kana Silva finished fifth and Waiakea's Ka'imi Scott seventh in the boys 200 and Waiakea's Teisha Nacis was eighth in the girls 100.
Waiakea's Ka'imi Scott was fifth in the boys 400 and Keaau's Randi Estrada finished fifth for the girls.
Honokaa's Athena Oldfather was fifth in the girls 1500 with teammate Joshua Robinson finishing in sixth for the boys. (Island School – Kauai's Pierce Murphy established a new meet record for the 1500 with his time of 4:02.1)
High jump finals for the girls were held on Friday with Waiakea's Ericka Cushnie winning the silver medal and HPA's Mindy Campbell, the defending state champion, finishing in sixth.
Konawaena's Ua Ruedy third in the girls 300 hurdles.
Hilo's Shina Chung finished tied for fifth in the girl's pole vault. "I feel good about today," Chung said. "I still have two more years to get better. There is tough competition at the state meet."
The top six boys and top six girls in each of the track and field events took home medals and scored points for their respective schools.
Punahou claimed the girl's team championship, accumulating 95 points and surpassing runner up Radford with 63. The top BIIF girl's team was HPA with 37 points – 36 of those points coming from Nakoa.
Punahou also won the boy's team title with 70 points with runner-up Kamehameha-Kapalama 66.33. Tiny Kau, on the back of Jacob Edwards, finished fourth in the state with Edwards scoring all 31 points for the Trojans.
May 16, 2010 Posted by waynejoseph | High School Track & Field | BIIF track & field, Daniel Brooks, David Kekuewa, Ericka Cushnie, Francis Blas III, HHSAA Track & Field Championships, Jacob Edwards, Joshua Gante, Joshua Robinson, Ka'imi Scott, Kaitlyn Chock, Kana Silva, Kaopua Sutton, Kelson Kawai, King Jacob, King of the Hurdles, Ku'uipo Nakoa, Manta Dirks, Maria Bunyi, Mindy Campbell, Pierce Murphy, Randi Estrada, Shane Brostek, Shina Chung, Teisha Nacis, Tom McCue, Ua Ruedy, Victoria Evans Bautista, Zhane Santiago | 3 Comments
Kohala Duo Leads BIIF in High Jump
Kohala is a quant, quiet little village on the north end of the island, but something must be going on as they have produced two of the finest high jumpers in high school track.
Ethan Meikle and Kelson Kawai are making a name for themselves as the Cowboys from Kohala are leading the Big Island Interscholastic Federation for their ability to leap over a cross bar.
While most of the high jumpers in the BIIF are struggling to clear 5' 10" the Kohala duo jumped 6' 2" on their first attempt this past Saturday at Keaau.
Ethan Meikle
Meikle, who stands at 6' 2", cleared his own height for the first time in his track & field career. "My previous best this season was 6' 1" and last season I couldn't go higher than 5' 10"," he said.
Meikle credits a lot of his success to attending a high jump camp last summer. "I went to the Dwight Stone camp during the summer in Irvine, California," Meikle said. "From the camp I learned a lot of drills and how to improve my technique which I passed on to my coach here at Kohala."
Coaching Meikle and Kawai is Maria Bunyi who admits to being a student of the high jump. "I only started learning about high jump two years ago when the boys showed an interest in trying it," she said.
Since that time Bunyi has read everything she could on the high jump and has introduced a variety of drills to improve technique.
"The boys are dedicated and they work very hard," Bunyi said. "We work on technique and approach along with hip movement."
Besides working on a variety of polymeric skills Bunyi has also gotten the duo to take part In 90 minute yoga sessions twice per week to improve flexibility.
"We trust our coach as she knows what she's talking about," Kawai said. "Yoga, imagery, form drills, it all works."
Kawai, who stands at 5' 7", cleared 6' 2" earlier in the season before injuring his foot in the triple jump. "I needed to take a couple weeks off to allow that injury to heal," he said.
But after clearing 6' 2" on his first try Kawai checked into the triple jump event and on his first jump reinjured his foot. While teammate Meikle was attempting to clear 6' 4" Kawai could only watch as he limped across the field.
Both Kawai and Meikle lead the BIIF in the high jump and are tied for fourth in the state with their 6' 2" clearance. But Kawai believes that in order to win the state championship they will need to go a lot higher.
"I'd like to be the state champ, but it's going to take a jump of 6' 5" or higher," Kawai said. "Anything is possible if we put our mind to it."
Tia Greenwell
On the track it was Honokaa's Tialana Greenwell winning both distance races in convincing fashion. Greenwell, who has struggled during most of the track season, is the three time BIIF cross-country champion.
"I just haven't been feeling it this season," Greenwell admitted after winning the 3000. "Mentally I wasn't myself and there had been a lot of external pressure which brought my self confidence down."
But on Saturday it was the old Greenwell emerging to first win the 1500 meter run in 5 minutes 15.33 seconds with Hilo's Traci Palermo and Keaau's Deann Nishimura-Thornton close behind.
Then later in the evening Greenwell led the 3000 race from start to finish with teammate Athena Oldfather trying to keep pace, winning in the leagues fastest time of 11:36.
"I know I need to work a little harder to get to states, but after today my confidence is back and it feels good," Greenwell said.
Ua Ruedy
In a surprise race it was relative unknown, Konawaena freshman Ua Ruedy, running the girls 300 meter hurdles for the very first time and winning the event in 49.37 seconds, the fastest time in the BIIF this season.
"I just tried the hurdles last week and I think the 300 is something that I can be really good at," Ruedy said. "I like the 300 hurdles way better than the 100 hurdles because there is more space between the hurdles and I can gain more speed."
Ruedy ran the 300 like a seasoned runner and didn't miss a beat going over each hurdle on her right foot to lead the league on her very first try.
One of the best races of the day came towards the end of the venue when the boy's 200 meter dash featured some of the fastest runners on the island.
Waiakea's Ka'imi Scott got out of the blocks perfectly and pulled away from the talented field in the first half of the race. During the final 100 Keaau's Jesse Huihui came flying down the straight away to pull up to Scott's shoulder and out of nowhere came Kau's Jacob Edwards with a fierce kick.
Edwards, who earlier recorded the best triple jump distance in the state, had a slow start out of the blocks and looked to be out of the race, but the gritty senior made it a three way affair in what was a photo finish at the line.
Three one-hundredths of a second separated the three talented sprinters with Scott (22.47) getting the win followed by Edwards and Huihui. All three boys made state qualifying time for the 200.
"I've been working on my block starts all week," Scott said. "Getting out to a fast start is something that I've been practicing and it paid off today."
This Saturday the BIIF will conclude its regular season with an all-schools meet at Keaau. Field events began at 2 pm with running events starting at 3 pm.
April 26, 2010 Posted by waynejoseph | High School Track & Field | BIIF track & field, Dwight Stone, Ethan Meikle, Jacob Edwards, Jesse Huihui, Ka'imi Scott, Kelson Kawai, Maria Bunyi, Tialana Greenwell, Ua Ruedy | Leave a comment | {
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Q: Java compilation problem, Linux, project from Eclipse re-compile on Linux I am trying to recompile an existing Java project exported from Eclipse. It is necessary to recompile this because I am running simulations remotely on other machines where a different (older) version of Java is installed. I have tried recompiling my .java file which specifies the simulation in question. However, it appears that it is necessary to recompile all other classes etc as well. Has anyone got an idea how to do this WITHOUT using Eclipse (I am not the Admin on the other machines and thus Eclipse is unavailable to me) and not manually because the project is quite huge?
Thanks a lot for any suggestions!
A: I recommend you to always have an command line way to build an application. The usual way to do this in Java is using ANT (or Maven).
A: *
*As @Santiago Lezica says, Eclipse can generate an Ant file.
*I believe that Eclipse allows you to build for an older target platform than the one you are currently running. That way you can do all of your builds locally.
The second approach has the advantage that you can fix any problems arising from compiling for the older platforms (e.g. use of new language features, use of new classes / methods) from the comfort of your own ... workstation.
A: There is another option that you should consider: Tell Eclipse to generate code for the old Java version (see the compiler options). That way, you can create code that runs on Java 1.3, even if Eclipse uses Java 5.
A: Not sure what your requirements are, but you could set the compiler level for your projects at the (older) level of your Linux installs. This would cause Eclipse to recompile it at that version, instead of a newer version.
At my company we use IBM's Rational Application Developer (instead of pure Eclipse), but I am assuming the option is in the same spot. If you right-click on your project, you can go to the Java Compiler options and then set the compatibility to the level of that on Linux (1.3, 1.4, etc.).
Since compile Java byte-code is supposed to be portable (for the most part), this should get you past most of your problems.
Otherwise, the other option is to use something like Ant or Maven scripts (which can be kicked off by Eclipse) and then just use a property to set the compiler right before you run it. This way you don't have to switch properties on your projects all the time, if you truly do need "newer" compiled code and can't live with "older" code on both systems.
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Donald Trump's signature, which he enjoys displaying after signing bills and executive orders, is unusually big, sharp and jagged. It's like the lines a seismograph makes during an earthquake, or what a polygraph shows when you're telling a whopper. Lately it's looking bigger and sharper.
He's in a crisis he summoned. His numbers are down. He's dug himself in a hole. His foes, delighted at his struggle, refuse to help him get out—even as they claim concern that employees are going without pay and air-traffic controllers are calling in sick, even when the longer the shutdown, the likelier something really bad will happen.
They can't say that because they're not talking. Which is amazing in itself, and a scandal.
Nancy Pelosi's original excuse for disinviting Mr. Trump, security concerns, was lame and disingenuous, and being obviously those things it was also aggressive.
And all because she didn't want to sit behind him and stare at his hair. She didn't want to sit through an hour of listening to him while looking at the back of his head, which is what speakers do. If the speech had taken place as usual, Mr. Trump, being Mr. Trump, likely would have used the moment to put her on the spot—making some plea for agreement, having his Republicans jump to their feet in applause, turning around, pausing, daring her not to nod to his good-faith idea.
That would have been rude. He is rude. And now he has been punished. No speech! I'm not sure we fully appreciate that for a speaker of the House to tell a president of the United States that he is not welcome to make a State of the Union address is a shocking violation of norms. And it will lead to nothing good. A new precedent will have been set: You can disinvite a president if you hate him. And the future won't be short of hate.
I'm hearing a lot of "good riddance" about the speech, but that's shortsighted and historically ignorant. Yes, the event has devolved into kabuki in which stupid applause lines prompt rote cheering. Yes, it's too often a laundry list. The language has become phony as it attempts to be elevated: "Let us follow those better angels." My urging to speech-givers has been to hold the let-us. Plain, straight and honest is the way to go, and if you have a little wit that won't hurt either.
What's being overlooked is that the speech has a high policy purpose. It's not a celebration of the imperial presidency. In fact, it puts the president on the spot. The Founders were not stupid and knew what they were doing when, in the Constitution, they instructed the chief executive to report to Congress on the condition the country is in.
The speech is a public acknowledgment that America is both a democracy and a republic. Somehow we're never reminded. But that's the chief executive going down the street to Congress's house, asking to enter, and trying his best to persuade that coequal branch as the judiciary looks on.
The fact of the speech forces a White House to concentrate on what it thinks. Suddenly it must determine and put into words its priorities for the coming year. Suddenly it has a deadline. Suddenly it has to take its own sentiments seriously. The speech forces the president to decide, to focus, and not to take shelter in the day-to-day and whatever crisis just came over the transom.
The president is forced to take stock. He must state with at least some measure of credibility that "the State of the Union is . . ." Is what?
It matters what they say! Not only to the moment but to history.
As to its other purposes, the speech is a moment of enacted majesty. Not real majesty—real majesty would be Jackie Kennedy walking behind the caisson and behind her a street full of kings. But it's a night when our democracy struts its stuff. The president, Congress, the Supreme Court, the cabinet, the diplomatic corps, the military, the press in the gallery, all arrayed. The heroes in the balcony, reminding us not of our politics but of our humanity, of the fact that almost against the odds America keeps producing spectacular individuals. All are there acting out comity, dignity, stature. I don't really care if they feel these things. No one cares. We just want them to show it because children are watching, or at least taking a look as they pass a screen, and learning how adults in public act.
All this has value. A fracturing nation cannot afford to so blithely cast aside another of its traditions.
Everyone involved should have shown forbearance and courtesy, a greater seriousness about a worthy tradition as it was delayed but not canceled, knowing you maintain form because you know democracies are in some part held together by it.
The speaker has shamed herself by not negotiating to end the problem that caused the postponement.
The president wouldn't take a deal; now they won't make a deal. We live through the chaos that is, always, his signature move. | {
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Thank you for purchasing this Pocket Books eBook.
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## Contents
Acknowledgments
Historian's Note
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part Two
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part Three
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
About the Authors
This one's for David.
## Acknowledgments
Thanks to the many people who contributed, in some way, to this effort: Jonathan Frakes, Mitchell Ryan, Gene Roddenberry, and everyone who made Star Trek the phenomenon that it is; Marco Palmieri, Keith DeCandido, and the gang at the Star Trek editorial office; Paula Block; Ted Adams; Howard Morhaim; Lauren Murdoch; and my usual support network, Chris, Scott, Nancy, Shoshana, Tara, Jack, and my family.
## Historian's Note
This story commences in 2355, sixty-one years after the presumed death of Captain James T. Kirk aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise-B in Star Trek Generations. It concludes in 2357, seven years before the launch of the Enterprise-D in "Encounter at Farpoint."
## Part One
## June 2355
## Chapter 1
He put one foot in front of the other. That was all it took, one foot, then the next, occasionally a swerve or a sudden stop to dodge the other pedestrians who traversed San Francisco's sidewalks, and then, one cluster of citizens or another averted, he continued on toward his destination. In some spots where the streets of days gone by remained, he could easily have walked in those, thereby avoiding most of the foot traffic, but the idea didn't occur to him. His name was William Hall, he was a yeoman second class currently assigned to Starfleet Headquarters in San Francisco, and he was on a mission.
He did not let his mind drift toward the nature of his mission. His mind didn't drift much at all, for that matter; it was consumed with the process and not functioning much beyond that. One foot in front of the next. Turn left at that corner, up three blocks, cross the street. He came from Pine Bluff, Arkansas, which could have fit inside San Francisco a hundred times over. He'd been to other planets, he'd seen the stars, up close, but a San Francisco street was still, to him, alien and not a little intimidating, filled as it was with members of dozens of races, from planets almost beyond counting.
One foot.
Most of the other pedestrians were civilians; he wore one of the few uniforms he had seen since he started out on this mission.
One foot.
As he walked, the sun dipped behind tall buildings, throwing the busy streets into shadow. His destination loomed ahead, one of those same tall buildings. He noted it, and then his mind slipped back into its routine. One more clutch of pedestrians to bypass, gazes to avoid. He made a graceful sidestep to get around them: a family, nicely dressed, heading out to a restaurant for dinner, perhaps, or a play. Two boys and a girl, two older ones who must have been parents. He had parents, back in Pine Bluff.
At the building, he stood in front of the door. The door surveyed him for a moment, noting his uniform, his professional demeanor, scanning his retina and maybe, depending on how up-to-date the security system here was, his DNA. After a moment, an electronic voice asked him, "What is your business here?"
"Official Starfleet business," Petty Officer William Hall said. "Urgent and classified." The door didn't open. Very up-to-date, then. He held a small electronic tag up toward where the door's camera eyed him. He'd been told not to use this unless it was necessary, but it seemed that it was. Like a lot of things about this mission, he had been left in the dark about why he shouldn't use it frivolously.
But he didn't let his mind wander there, either. The door opened for the tag, as he'd been told it would, and he walked inside. There was a live guard in the lobby, middle-aged but fit, with a heavy mustache hiding his mouth, sitting behind a high counter and regarding him with curiosity. But William just showed him the tag and the guard gave a half-smile, a twitch of the bushy mustache, really, and then turned back to his monitors. When William reached the elevator, it opened for him, and he stepped inside. He told the elevator to take him to the nineteenth floor, and the doors closed and then they opened again a moment later and he was there. He stepped out.
The apartment number was 1907, he knew that much. The rest, he had been assured, would become clear when he needed to know it. He found 1907. It would be empty now.
In the corridor, he waited.
* * *
"Most people," Kyle Riker said, "achieve enlightenment, if at all, through living. Through the process of life, going through it, you know, a day at a time. That's most people. Me, I achieved it all at once, through surviving. That's all. Nothing to do with me, just the luck of the draw. But I survived, and what wisdom I have . . ."
He let the sentence trail off there. It didn't matter. The man he'd been talking to—talking at, running off at the mouth toward, he decided—had ceased to listen and was leaning toward the bartender, signaling for another Alvanian brandy. Kyle, drinking instead a sixty-year-old single malt from right there on Earth, recognized that he had probably reached his own limit. His limits were stricter these days than they had once been, and he was better about enforcing them. Had to be. He gripped the bar with both hands as he lowered himself from the stool, and with a wave at Inis, the shapely Deltan bartender who was two-thirds of the reason Kyle came here in the first place, he headed for the door.
You sound like an old fool, he mentally chided himself as he went. The bar was thirty-five stories up, with floor to ceiling windows facing west, and the sun, he could see as he walked out, was an enormous red ball sinking into the sea on the far side of the Golden Gate Bridge. It's sunset, he thought, that's the problem. There had been a time when he'd liked sunsets, but that had been before Starbase 311. As he went to the elevator that would take him down to the twentieth floor, from which he could tube across the street to his own building, he remembered another sunset when he'd had virtually the same conversation. He'd stopped himself, on that occasion, at about the same moment, and said, self-pityingly, "This is the kind of story a man should tell his son. If he had, you know, a son he could talk to. Because a boy needs to hear that his dad—"
"Kyle, dear," Katherine Pulaski had said then, interrupting him, "shut up." She had taken away his drink.
Too many painful memories associated with sunsets, he thought. But the wounds had been fresher then, the scars more raw. He was better now. Obviously not whole—you don't jabber at strangers in bars like you were doing if you're whole. But better, nonetheless.
When he rounded the bend toward his door, he saw a uniformed Starfleet officer, young and well-scrubbed but with a strangely vacant look in his pale green eyes, standing outside his apartment. A yeoman in a red duty uniform. Kyle had been drinking, but not really that much, and seeing this unexpected sight brought him around to sobriety fast. The yeoman started toward him.
"Are you Kyle Riker?" he asked. His voice sounded odd, as if he were distracted by something even as he voiced the question.
"Yes," Kyle said. Most of his work was for Starfleet. Maybe the young man was a messenger. But he didn't see a parcel, and couldn't imagine any message that would have to be delivered in person. Anyway, he had just been at headquarters before heading home—well, heading for the bar on the way to heading home, he admitted. If anyone had needed to tell him anything they could have done it there.
"I need to see you for a moment, Mr. Riker," the yeoman went on. His expression—or lack of one, to be more accurate, Kyle thought—didn't change. He didn't even blink. "Can we go inside?"
"I . . . sure, come on in." Kyle pressed his hand against the door and it swung open for him. "Can I ask what this is about?"
The yeoman nodded but didn't verbalize a response as he followed Kyle into the apartment. For a moment Kyle thought this was all the setup for some kind of elaborate practical joke. Friends would pop out from hiding places and wish him a happy birthday. Except that it wasn't his birthday, nowhere near it, and he didn't have friends with that kind of sense of humor. He didn't have that kind of sense of humor. That was something else he'd left on Starbase 311.
The yeoman came into his apartment and the door swung shut behind him. "I'd really like to know who you are, young man, and what this is all about," Kyle said, more forcefully than before. "Now, before we go any further."
He waited for an answer. But the man's face didn't change, and he didn't speak. Instead, he drew a phaser type-2 from a holster on his belt. Kyle threw himself to the floor, behind a couch, thinking, That's some message.
The yeoman fired, and the phaser's beam struck the wall in front of which Kyle had been standing a moment before, blowing a hole in it. Sparks flew, and a cloud of smoke roiled in the air. "Unauthorized weapons discharge," the apartment's computer said in its toneless robot voice.
Kyle rolled to the side and tucked his feet underneath himself, preparing to spring. "I know," he told the computer through clenched teeth.
The yeoman turned stiffly toward him, phaser still at the ready. Kyle jumped toward the young man, slamming into him with all the strength he could muster. They both went down, crashing onto a low table, and then the table tipped over and they rolled to the floor. Kyle caught the man's wrist and twisted, aiming the phaser anywhere but at himself.
As he did—panting from the exertion, blinking back sweat—he noticed that the yeoman's blank expression still had not changed. He could have been waiting for a transport, or watching a singularly unexciting game of chess. Kyle pounded the man's wrist against the edge of the overturned table, once, twice, again; and finally the phaser went flying from his hand. The man gave a soft grunt of pain, but that was the first sound he had made since they had come into the apartment.
"I am alerting the authorities," the computer said.
"Fine," Kyle barked back. He made the mistake of turning away from his opponent for a brief moment, and the man took advantage of the opportunity to reach out with his other hand, locking it around Kyle's throat. Kyle released the now-empty phaser hand and brought both his arms up, hard and fast, knocking the choking hand away. Regaining his feet, he waited for the yeoman to try to rise. When the man did so, his face still empty, Kyle shot out with a right jab to his chin, then a left hook, and another right that cut the flesh above his eye. The man took the blows, air puffing out of him, but showing no evidence of pain or fear.
Then, without warning, he blinked three times in rapid succession. His eyes seemed to focus suddenly, and he looked around, turning his head from left to right quickly. "What . . .?" he started to ask, and then he stopped, blinked once more, and pitched forward. Kyle stepped back as the man landed in a heap at his feet.
He didn't move. Kyle hesitated a moment, in case it was a trick, then knelt and touched his fingers to the guy's neck. He could find no pulse.
"You alerted the authorities?" Kyle asked the computer.
"They are on the way," was the response.
"Cancel them. Get Starfleet Security, not civilian authorities."
The computer didn't answer, but he knew it was already complying with his demand.
Carefully avoiding the dead man, Kyle sat down on his couch and waited.
His wait was not especially long. Starfleet sent four officers to his apartment, arriving less than fifteen minutes after the yeoman had fallen. They checked the body and confirmed what Kyle already knew. The young man was dead. One of the security officers, a seasoned human lieutenant with hair almost as silver as Kyle's own and heavy, hooded eyes, sat down on the couch next to Kyle while another called for a removal team to come for the body. He had introduced himself as Lieutenant Dugan.
"There'll be a hearing, I expect," he said. "But it looks as if the case for self-defense is pretty strong. Guy was in your house, discharged his phaser. I should arrest you, but given who you are, sir, I feel confident that you'll surrender yourself if I ask you to."
"Of course." It had gradually dawned on Kyle that this was probably coming. He was innocent, of course, of any misdeed. But until a thorough investigation proved that, he would be under some degree of suspicion, even though his story made sense. As they spoke, the other security officers were busying themselves around the apartment, checking the central computer, inspecting the wall that had been damaged, trying to recreate, as best they could, the sequence of events as Kyle had described it. While they worked, a coroner's team arrived to take the body, closing it into a kind of sled that then hovered waist-high so they could guide it from the apartment and out to a transport. They were quietly efficient. It was possible that Kyle's neighbors didn't even know what had happened.
An hour later they were all gone, and Kyle was left alone. He ordered the computer to repair the wall now that the forensic team was done examining it.
Lieutenant Dugan had recommended that he get some sleep, but Kyle knew that was impossible. Every time he closed his eyes he was back on 311. He could hear the emergency Klaxons, see the flashing red alert lights, taste the adrenaline and fear that had been in his mouth as he scrambled from room to room. No, sleep was the last thing he wanted to try just now. Instead he went to his bookshelves and withdrew a biography of Napoleon he'd been meaning to get to, then sat back on the couch to wait for daylight.
* * *
At the Starfleet Command plaza station, Kyle disembarked from the monorail and took the stair-lift down to plaza level. There, he had to pass through a security station where two alert-looking security officers scanned him. Instead of going to his own office, as he normally would have, he headed for the office to which Lieutenant Dugan had asked him to report. The office was in the main Headquarters building, seventh floor, on a long hallway lined with closed, numbered doors.
He was, he had to admit, a little relieved to find that the room really was just an office, and not a cell or a hearing chamber. Dugan sat behind an orderly desk, speaking to his computer, and he looked up when Kyle came in. "Mr. Riker," he said with a friendly tone. "Thanks for coming. Have a seat."
Kyle sat. The office, he noted, was sparely furnished, as if Dugan didn't really spend much time in it. Beside Dugan's desk there was a credenza with globes on it, depicting Earth, Jupiter, and Saturn, and two visitor's chairs. Holoimages hung on the walls—landscapes of planets Kyle couldn't identify but which clearly weren't Earth. The images changed as Kyle watched them, one planetscape dissolving into another in random sequence. "If I were to guess, Lieutenant Dugan, I'd say you were not all that happy about being chained to a desk. You seem to be a man who'd rather be in deep space."
"I've spent some time on a starship," Dugan admitted. "It's always fascinating. But there's nothing wrong with good old momma Earth, either."
"That's my attitude too," Kyle said. "Our own planet is almost infinite in its variety. I like a little trip off-world as much as the next guy, but I'm always glad to see her in the forward viewscreen when I come home."
Dugan glanced at a screen that Kyle couldn't see, and when he looked up again his expression was more serious. "Mr. Riker," he began. "I have a little more information now than I did last night, at your apartment."
"It'd be hard to have less."
Dugan chuckled. "That's true. The man who attacked you was named Yeoman Second Class William Hall. He was assigned here, at Headquarters. His primary duty was as an assistant clerk in Vice Admiral Bonner's command. The vice admiral's office has notified his next of kin, family back in Arkansas, I gather. Do you know Bonner?"
Kyle tried to picture him, and came up with a vague impression of a severe man in his fifties, with thick black hair and a pinched face. "I believe I've met him once or twice, but I don't really know him."
"He's very loyal to those in his command," Dugan said. "My impression is that he barely knew Yeoman Hall, but he's very concerned about what happened to him."
"So am I," Kyle confessed. "Do we know the cause of death?"
Dugan hesitated before answering, as if he needed to decide how much to reveal. "An autopsy was conducted last night. There's evidence of brain damage—some kind of interference with the operation of his brain's limbic system. More specifically, the hippocampus."
"Caused by what?"
"That we don't know," Dugan replied. "He's still being examined to see if that can be determined."
"And that could have killed him?" Kyle asked. "That damage?"
"Not by itself, no. But the force of your blows, in combination with the preexisting condition, possibly might have."
Kyle looked at the floor, carpeted in institutional blue. "So I did kill him."
"It's quite possible that you did, yes. Or contributed to his death, which would probably be more accurate. I'm sorry."
"So am I," Kyle said sadly. "I'd like to be able to contact his next of kin, if that's possible, to express my deep regret."
"I'll try to get you that information, sir. In the meantime, we've checked your computer's memory, and it confirms your version of events."
"I could have faked that," Kyle suggested.
"You could have," Dugan agreed, his narrow, hooded eyes fixed on Kyle's face. "But you would have had to work fast. We were there shortly after everything started happening. And the computer was recording events the whole time—it would have been pretty tricky of you to fake the record without any gaps in the real-time log."
Kyle had intentionally kept the computer recording everything, just for that reason. Once the authorities had been notified, he knew one of their first priorities would be to investigate what the computer had observed from the first phaser discharge on.
"Did Mr. Hall have any genuine reason for coming to see me?" Kyle asked. "Was he bringing a message from Bonner, or anyone else in the command?"
"Not that we've been able to determine," Dugan responded. "He went off duty at eighteen hundred hours, and last anyone knew he was headed to his home in Daly City. There seems to have been no Starfleet-related reason for him to even have still been in uniform, much less passing himself off as on official business. That's how he got through the door of your building, by the way. And he had a Starfleet keytag to make it seem on the level. It wasn't activated—wouldn't have got past a first-year cadet—but it was good enough to get into a century-old civilian apartment building."
Kyle felt defensive. "It's a nice place," he said quickly. "Lots of atmosphere."
"I'm sure," Dugan replied. "And substandard security."
"Which is normally not a problem," Kyle countered. "I've been living there for years. This is the first time I've been attacked. So statistically, it's still a good bet."
"Statistically, most people only get killed once," Dugan pointed out. "We're not charging you with anything, sir. And we'll keep investigating Yeoman Hall, to see if we can figure out what he was doing there. But if I were you, I'd be a little careful." He looked away, wordlessly dismissing Kyle.
"I will," Kyle assured him. "And thanks."
* * *
His own office on the twenty-third floor of the Headquarters skyscraper tower was, Kyle thought, a good deal more "lived-in"-looking than Lieutenant Dugan's. As he kept books at home, he also had a cabinet full of them here. One wall was entirely covered in old-fashioned paper maps. Some were antiques—a map of the battleground at Antietam, from the American Civil War, in which one of his ancestors had distinguished himself, for instance, and a map of San Francisco from the twentieth century. Others were nautical charts of the world's oceans, and still others two-dimensional printouts of stellar cartography—not especially practical, but he still enjoyed looking at them. He liked being able to see the lines on his maps and visualize himself at a particular point in time and space.
Just now, though, Kyle sat at his desk, chair turned away from it, looking at a shadowbox frame above the bookshelf in which there were some other items with a deeply personal meaning to him: his wife's wedding ring, the key to the first house they'd lived in, up in Alaska, and a holoimage of her outside that house, holding their baby boy, Will, in her arms. She had been standing in the shadow of a tall fir, but the sun's rays had fallen on her as if cast there by one of the ancient Dutch masters, picking her and the baby out and limning them clearly against the dark backdrop. Her hair was golden in that light, reminding Kyle of a honey jar in a window with the sun beaming through it, and her smile had been equally radiant.
Less than two years later, Annie was dead, leaving Kyle and young Will on their own.
Kyle turned away, suddenly. That was not why he'd come in here, he knew. He had to figure out why someone would want to kill him, not lose himself in a past that could never be reclaimed.
Starfleet was primarily a scientific, exploratory, and diplomatic agency, not a military one, but there were always conflicts brewing at various points around known space, and therefore always something to which Kyle should be paying attention. Recently, the U.S.S. Stargazer had found itself in some difficulty in the Maxia Zeta System, for instance. The ship had been nearly destroyed, but her crew had survived, drifting in a shuttlecraft for a few weeks until being rescued. Kyle was trying to draw together all the information he could on the attack in hopes of learning who had done it, and what its captain, one Jean-Luc Picard, might have done differently in its defense.
Could the attack have had something to do with that? Kyle wondered. The Stargazer's assailants were still unknown, and maybe they preferred to stay that way. Of course, Kyle Riker wasn't the only person working on that mystery, not by a long shot. He wasn't even the most high-profile. Why would they come after me? he asked himself. I'm the least of their worries.
Well, not the least, he mentally amended. He was good at what he did, and if—when—he found out who was behind the attack on the Stargazer, whoever had done it would be sorry they had survived. But even granting that, it still seemed unlikely that Yeoman Hall had been responsible for an attack so far away, or would have any connection to the mystery attackers.
Still, he noted "Maxia Zeta," down on his padd, and then turned his mind toward his next priority. But before he could continue, his office door tweedled at him.
"Come in," he said.
The door opened and two security officers—not Lieutenant Dugan—stood outside. Chief Petty Officer Maxwell Hsu, an aide to Admiral Owen Paris, stepped in, looking more than a little uncomfortable. "Mr. Riker, sir . . . the admiral would like to see you," he said haltingly.
"He normally just calls when he wants to see me. What makes this time different?" Kyle knew his directness would take the aide off guard, which was why he did it.
Maxwell cleared his throat and examined his feet. "I . . . I don't know the answer to that, sir," he said. "I just know that he asked me—" here he raised his hands slightly, as if to indicate the security officers waiting in the corridor. "—us . . . to come and escort you to him."
Kyle pushed his chair back, pressed his palms flat against the surface of his desk, and rose to his feet. "Well, then," he said with forced affability, "I guess we'd better find out what he wants."
They walked briskly through the halls, the security officers a couple of strides behind Kyle at all times, as if they thought he might make a break for it. He didn't know what it was about, but he knew he didn't like the feeling. First, that someone had tried to kill him, compounded by the fact that he had actually, albeit in self-defense, killed his assailant. And now this, being escorted through Starfleet Headquarters as if he were little more than a common criminal. It was infuriating.
And not a little terrifying.
Instead of Admiral Paris's office, they led him to a nearby conference room. Hsu motioned for Kyle to stay put while he poked his head inside. A moment later, he emerged and gestured Kyle in with a halfhearted smile. Kyle walked in, completely at a loss as to what he should expect.
If he'd had hours to think about it, he still would not have expected what he saw.
At the end of a long, oval table polished to a high gloss, Admiral Owen Paris sat rigidly upright, giving him an avuncular, sympathetic smile. To his right, on the table's side, Vice Admiral Bonner eyed him appraisingly. To Bonner's right, an assortment of Starfleet brass, human and non-, most known at least in passing to Kyle. Charlie Bender, F'lo'kith Smeth, Teresa Santangelo, and two others Kyle couldn't put names to.
Admiral Paris half-rose from his chair and swept his arm toward an empty chair, looking very lonely all by itself on the near side of the table. "Come in, Kyle, please," he said, his voice familiarly gruff. "I'm sorry for all the formality."
"I'm sure there's a good reason," Kyle offered, generously, he thought. He took a seat in the suggested chair.
"Do you know everyone?" Paris asked.
Kyle looked at the two strangers. "Almost," he replied. "I haven't had the pleasure."
"Right, sorry," Paris said. With appropriate arm movements, he added, "Captain Sistek and Captain Munro. Kyle Riker."
"Pleasure," Kyle muttered, convinced that it would not be.
The conference room was anonymously Starfleet—lots of gray and silver, with no windows and mostly undecorated walls. The wall behind Owen Paris had a large reproduction of Starfleet's arrowhead symbol mounted on it, and the wall Kyle faced had a holoimage of the old NCC-1701 Enterprise soaring through space. It looked like a room meant to emphasize that what was discussed in it was more important than the surroundings.
"The reason we've brought you here, Kyle," Paris began, "with all these people and all the special treatment, is that an accusation has been made against you. An accusation that, should it be true—and let me say at the outset that I don't believe it to be—but if I'm wrong and it were true, would be a very serious matter indeed."
"Does this have something to do with last night?" Kyle asked. "Because if it does—"
Owen Paris waved away his question. "No, not at all," he said. "I'm sure you had a terrible night because of that, and I guarantee we'll get to the bottom of it. But this is a completely separate matter."
"Okay, then," Kyle said. "Please excuse the interruption."
"Feel free to speak at any time," Paris told him. "This is not a formal hearing of any kind, just a—well, let's say a casual meeting to make you aware of what's going on."
"If I'm being accused of something, that doesn't sound very casual," Kyle pointed out.
"That may have been a poor word choice," Paris admitted. "There has been an accusation made, to Vice Admiral Bonner, but so far no evidence has been presented to support it. We're not at the stage of bringing formal charges, or doing anything other than launching an investigation that I suspect will be fruitless. But the matter, having been raised, can't be dropped without the investigation."
Kyle, not having slept to begin with, was beginning to lose patience with the way Paris was dancing around the issue. "So what's the accusation?" he asked.
Owen Paris looked at the others, as if wishing someone else would take the lead. No one did. Vice Admiral Bonner shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and the others remained still, looking at either Kyle or Owen and waiting for the admiral to continue.
Owen cleared his throat before going on. "The attack on Starbase 311," he said. "It's been theorized that you, being the only survivor, might have had something to do with it. That you were somehow in league with the Tholians."
Kyle couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I almost died in that attack!" he exclaimed. "I've had nearly two years of therapy. I still see those Tholians in my dreams, and sometimes when I'm awake, hunting me down, chasing me from room to room, killing with utter brutality."
"And yet, here you are," Vice Admiral Horace Bonner said. His voice was calm and even, with a musical ring to it. A tenor's voice, Kyle thought. Bonner had black hair, neatly cut and combed to the rear off his high forehead. His eyes were small but glimmered with intelligence, and his mouth, set now in a sort of half-frown, seemed extraordinarily wide for his narrow head. A strange-looking man, Kyle assessed, but not necessarily unpleasantly so.
"I'm sure you've heard the story," Kyle said impatiently. "If not, I'd be happy to tell it again. What's thirty thousand times, between friends?"
"We're all familiar with it," Owen assured him. "That's not at issue here."
"It sure sounds like it is," Kyle shot back. "Because in my version there is no part where I conspire with the Tholians to kill everyone on the base."
"It does seem odd, however, that you would have been spared," Bonner observed. "The Tholians went room to room, as you've said. They dismantled equipment, checked ventilation ducts and Jefferies tubes, even went so far as to blast holes in walls to make sure they weren't missing anyone. And yet, they left you alive."
"They thought I was dead," Kyle objected. "Hell, I thought I was dead. Take a look at my medical records. Ask Dr. Pulaski what shape I was in when she started working on me."
"Hardly an impartial witness," Captain Sistek put in. She was a Vulcan, with typical Vulcan features—straight black hair, slanted eyebrows, pointed ears. The only thing Kyle found unique about her was her nose, which was long and aquiline. She spoke with her head tilted back a little, giving the impression that she was sighting down it, as if it were some kind of weapon.
"My . . . relationship with Katherine began when I was in therapy," Kyle insisted. "Not before. I was hardly in any position to romance her when they took me off the starbase, unless she has an odd attraction to jellyfish. I was near-dead, more than half the bones in my body were broken, I had lost enormous amounts of blood. Katherine herself said that she had never seen anyone so badly injured. If I was in cahoots with the Tholians, they sure are lousy allies."
" 'With friends like that,' eh?" Owen quoted.
"Exactly," Kyle said. "I'd like to know just who is making this charge."
"Should it ever go beyond this stage, to a formal complaint, you will have that opportunity," Owen promised him. "But for now, that person's identity will remain confidential."
He kept up a strong front, but inside, Kyle was shaken. The attack the night before had been one thing—the threat of physical violence was unpleasant, but he had survived violence before. A body could be mended. But this threatened to attack his career, the very thing that had carried him through those bad days after the destruction of 311. Kyle had, for most of his adult life, defined himself through his career. He was an asset to Starfleet, an important cog in the big wheel that kept the peace and explored the galaxy. Without Starfleet, he would be lost.
And it could get worse yet. There could be prison time, if he were found guilty of treason. Starfleet justice was fair but firm. If whoever was behind this had somehow trumped up evidence against him, then he could be looking at a hard fall.
"So," Kyle said, working to keep his concern out of his voice. "Where do we go from here?"
"As I said, there'll be an investigation," Owen replied crisply. "I'll keep you informed of its progress as we go. If formal charges are to be brought, I'll let you know that as well. Kyle, this is not a railroad job, and no one is out to get you. But we need to follow procedure. I'm sure you can understand that."
"I understand," Kyle said. Something else had been nagging at him, and suddenly he realized what it was. He decided not to bring it up now, though, but to hold back in case it was something he could use later on. Vice Admiral Bonner had seemingly known details that he had never reported—at least, that he didn't remember having told anyone, though his first few weeks in therapy were pretty fuzzy in his mind—about the attack. He had described the Tholians looking into the ventilation units and Jefferies tubes, but he was pretty sure he had never shared the fact that they had torn apart equipment and walls looking for more victims. That meant that Bonner's source, whoever it was, had some good information—information no one alive should have had.
His future was looking more bleak by the minute.
"We're dismissed, then," Owen said. "Thank you for your cooperation, Kyle."
The meeting broke up, and Kyle started back toward his office, without escorts and without a backward glance. But Owen Paris caught up to him before he'd gotten very far from the conference room. He tried on a wan smile, but it didn't fit well and he dropped it. "Kyle," he said, taking Kyle's arm in his hand. "I want you to know I feel terrible about this."
Kyle nodded. He just wanted to close his eyes and drift off to sleep right there. He wouldn't go back to his own office after all, he decided, but he'd go home and get some sleep, if he could. If the Tholians in his brain let him. "I know, Owen," he said. "You have to do what you have to do."
"That's right." Owen sounded gratified to be let off the hook so easily. "Say, Kyle. Today's Father's Day. Have you heard from Will? I saw him in class yesterday. He's a terrific lad."
"Will?" Kyle asked. He recognized the sound of his own son's name, but was so tired, so distracted that he almost didn't make the connection. "No. He's in town?"
"Of course he is," Owen answered with a chuckle. "You have had a bad night, I see. Will's at the Academy. Second year. He's in my survival class."
"That's right," Kyle said, trying to cover. "You're right, Owen, I'm exhausted. I'm surprised I know my own name. I'm sure Will's much too busy to remember something like Father's Day, anyway. Boy's got much more important things on his mind."
"Well, he's swamped with work, I can tell you that," Owen said. "Second-year students don't have much free time." He released Kyle's arm and started back up the hall, then stopped again. "You take care, Kyle. If there's anything I can do for you, just let me know."
"I'll do that, Owen. Thank you. And give my best to Thomas."
"I'm on my way home to spend some time with him now," Owen replied. His son Tom was about ten years younger than Will, Kyle remembered.
Kyle continued down the corridor then, mentally berating himself for his ignorance. You should have known Will was at the Academy, he thought. Or you should have remembered, if you did know. He thought maybe he'd heard something about it before, and just forgotten. But the last couple of years had been hard ones for him, and most everything that wasn't immediately crucial to his survival had gone by the wayside in favor of the physical and emotional therapy he had needed to get back on track.
Anyway, Kyle Riker had long ago fallen into the habit of compartmentalizing his life. Recovery was in one compartment, work in another. Family was in another one, by itself. And that one, he didn't go into often.
Not often at all.
## Chapter 2
"You might want to do some strategizing," Admiral Paris told the class. "No cheating, no going into the city ahead of time and planting supplies or anything. It won't help anyway, because you won't know what you're looking for until tomorrow morning, when you get out there. But you can talk amongst yourselves, figure out how you're going to approach the teamwork aspect of the project. As an away team on a starship, you would prep for a mission in that way before you left the relative safety of the ship. And, of course, you would gather as much intelligence as you could about your destination. In this case, we're assuming that intelligence is very limited. So that's your assignment for tonight—think strategy."
He turned away from the class and returned to the podium in the front of the room, his standard signal that the lecture was over for today. Will Riker quickly scanned the notes he'd typed into his padd, making sure he had caught all the major points and could understand his own shorthand. Dennis Haynes, whose room neighbored Will's, tossed him a cheerful grin. "This sounds like fun, doesn't it? At least, it resembles fun more than most assignments do."
Will was already almost to the classroom door, but he paused to let Dennis catch up. Before his friend reached him, Admiral Paris wagged a finger at him. "Mr. Riker, if you don't mind, I'd like a word with you before you go."
Dennis shrugged and Will said, "I'll see you a little later." Felicia Mendoza, another member of their Zeta Squadron, had joined Dennis for the trek across campus, back to their quarters. Will cast a brief, longing glance at their retreating forms, then turned back to the admiral.
"Yes, sir?"
Admiral Paris leaned against the podium. Will hoped that didn't mean he was making himself comfortable for a long conversation—he really wanted to get back to his room and get started on some of the homework. It seemed to get more and more difficult as the year went on. He was only in his second year at the Academy, which meant he still had a lot of struggling to look forward to. "I saw your father earlier, Will," the admiral said. His tone was sympathetic, not accusatory, Will noted. "Have you talked to him lately?"
"Not real recently, no sir."
"I get the impression that you two aren't particularly close."
"Not terribly, sir."
"Nonetheless, today, as you might be aware, is Father's Day. It's a custom on this planet, a day on which people honor their fathers, without whom they wouldn't be here. You've heard of it?"
"Yes, sir." Will shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Where's the anvil? he wondered. This felt like one of those times, as in the old Earth cartoons his squadron member Estresor Fil watched incessantly, when an anvil was surely going to fall on his head.
"So I thought that perhaps it would be a good idea for you to maybe go see him, give him a call. You know. Honor your father."
"Yes, sir," Will said again. "I'll try to do that, sir."
The expression on Admiral Paris's face showed that he understood just how little truth there was in Will's promise. He even started to shake his head sadly, but then caught himself and turned it into some other head motion, as if he were looking around the room to see if any of the cadets had forgotten anything.
I guess that's the anvil, Will thought. The old man's disapproval. I can live with that.
"Is there anything else, sir?" he asked.
"That's it, Mr. Riker. Good day."
"Thank you, sir." Will turned and hurried from the room, which had become suddenly hot and oppressive.
Will didn't talk to Kyle Riker. He didn't, on those rare occasions when he thought of him at all, think of him with any special fondness, and he certainly didn't think of him as "Dad" or "Pop" or any of the other endearing nicknames people had for their fathers. Kyle Riker was a person his mom had known once, a genetic donor, a man with whom he'd shared a few pleasant moments of his childhood, and a whole lot of stiff, awkward times. When he thought about those days, he thought mostly of the long silences, or of times when Kyle Riker would stare at him, as if trying to fathom how his young brain worked. The connection between them was biological, not emotional.
Father's Day. Will let out a bitter laugh, then glanced about quickly to see if anyone in the spectacular garden had noticed. Coast clear, though. There were a couple of cadets coming toward him, but they were engaged in conversation, and far enough away that they probably couldn't have heard him.
Kyle Riker had raised Will from infancy, if "raised" was the word for it. Will tended to doubt it. "Tolerated," maybe. Certainly, he had fed and sheltered the boy. But he was never cut out for parenthood. Having to do it by himself, after Will's mother had died during his second year, had proven far too difficult a task for him. Finally, during Will's fifteenth year, he had given up altogether. His work for Starfleet had been taking him away more and more anyway, and at that point he took an extended off-world posting, leaving Will behind for good.
So Father's Day, while it might mean something to others, was pretty much a nonoccasion to Will. There had been times when he'd even considered losing the Riker name. He'd decided against that—what else would he call himself? He'd have to make something up, and that wasn't the kind of thing he believed himself to be good at. If raising myself taught me anything, he'd tell people, it's pragmatism. I don't like to waste my time with a lot of foolish nonsense.
Ignoring the sky overhead, pink bruising into indigo, ignoring the fresh, sweet scent of dozens of trees, grasses, and flowering plants, ignoring even the gentle breeze that blew in off the bay, fluttering leaves and flags alike, Will Riker turned his focus away from all extraneous distractions and headed for home. Tomorrow was his final project in Admiral Paris's survival class, and it would be demanding, challenging, and crucial. The whole squadron succeeded or failed together. And there were plenty of stresses in the squadron that would work against them if they weren't careful. Paris was right; strategy would be key. Strategy and teamwork.
When he got back to the dorm, he went to Dennis's room. The redheaded, ruddy-faced cadet kept a worktable and chairs directly in front of his bay window, and he and Felicia Mendoza were sitting in them. On the couch sat Estresor Fil, a petite green Zimonian female, about the color of a fir tree, who barely passed the minimum height and weight requirements for Starfleet duty. Boon, a Coridanian, the lanky, laconic son of two miners from that underpopulated world, squatted on the floor at the foot of the couch. His skin color, common among some Coridanians, always reminded Will of an old brick storefront he had seen in Valdez, during his youth, both in texture and color. McGill's Hardware, he remembered. He'd loved the smell inside there.
"Come on in, Will," Dennis Haynes said. He was a gregarious fellow, every bit as sociable as Will was reserved. They seemed, at a glance, like polar opposites in almost every way, but had become fast friends in spite of that. Or because of it—Will had never been able to decide for sure.
"Sorry if I'm late," Will said, entering the room and helping himself to one of the chairs scooted up near the worktable. The sky had gone dark outside, and the lights of the Academy grounds and the city beyond twinkled in the distance.
"How could you be late?" Estresor Fil asked. "There was no particular meeting time scheduled."
The Zimonian seemed to Will to take everything said to her with the same degree of seriousness, as if mentioning that the day was warm or a dog was cute carried the exact same weight as a warning of a poisonous insect or a Romulan with a phaser. Add to that no sense of humor at all and a tendency to lecture rather than discuss, and you had Estresor Fil, who was Will's least favorite member of Zeta Squadron, by far. She was so formal that she insisted both her names be used at all times.
She was also, he had to admit, brilliant.
Most of the work a cadet did at the Academy was done solo, but for those occasions when group efforts were needed, cadets were formed into five-person squadrons, and Zeta was his. Any Starfleet assignment was likely to be a team situation, so the cadets broke into their squadrons fairly often. There were good points and bad to this arrangement, of course. The starship atmosphere was fairly authentic, because most everyone on a starship worked with others. But it also meant relying on other people. Will was none too comfortable with that—he liked to have his fate in his own hands.
Once Will was seated, Boon looked at the group and took command, as he had a tendency to do. He was, he had told them often, grooming himself for a captaincy, and sooner would be better than later. Will thought his personal style was at odds with his ambition—he never liked to speak in public, for instance, and didn't believe in using three words if one would do even in private. But in spite of his reticence, he was a good student and was seemingly driven by an urge that not even Will, who was plenty ambitious himself, could comprehend. "Okay, folks," he said. "We have a challenge ahead of us tomorrow. Everybody ready?"
"Since we really can't prepare," Felicia replied, her dark eyes flashing as she tossed out a smile, "we're probably as ready as we're going to be."
"There's always preparation to be done, right?" Estresor Fil argued. "Admiral Paris told us enough to begin our planning. We know where we'll be, and we know what our goal is. We might as well get started on whatever we can, while we have some time. Besides, he told us to, and that's good enough for me."
"In the abstract," Will pointed out. "But not with any specifics."
"That's true," Dennis added. "We know we'll be in San Francisco. But we don't know what part—or even if we'll all be together."
"I think we have to assume that we won't be together, at first," Felicia said. "We'll need to find each other. Without using combadges."
"Why don't we go over what we do know?" Estresor Fil suggested. "And then we'll have a more definitive sense of what we don't know."
Will nodded. " 'Know your enemy and know yourself; in a hundred battles you will never be in peril.' "
"Is that more of your ancient Chinese wisdom, Will?" Felicia asked. Her accent was vaguely Latin American, and Will liked the way she pronounced certain words. She was as tall as Will, half again the height of the diminutive Estresor Fil, with an athletic, sculpted body. When she spoke, it was usually with a forthrightness Will admired, and in any physical effort she was likely to excel.
"Sun Tzu," Will answered with a nod. He'd been reading a lot of the military strategists of Earth's past, including Sun Tzu, Epameinondas, Carl von Clausewitz, Antoine Henri Jomini, and others.
Boon blew out an exasperated sigh and began a speech as long as any Will had ever heard from him. "If we could stick to the matter at hand," he said. "Estresor Fil is right, as is Sun Tzu, I suppose. We'll have very little information until we actually start, so there's only so much we can plan ahead. But we know these things, I think. We're going on an urban survival test. We will be spending a week in San Francisco. We aren't allowed to identify ourselves as cadets, we'll be out of uniform and incognito. We can't break any laws. We'll be following clues which will lead us to other clues, in a sort of scavenger hunt, to demonstrate our ability to infiltrate, for example, an enemy alien city."
"Should be a piece of cake," Dennis said.
"But that's where what we don't know comes in," Will countered. "We don't know if we'll be transported into the city together, or separately, so we might need to track each other down. We don't know precisely what sorts of clues we'll be looking for, or how we'll know the first one when we see it. We don't know if there will be other obstacles planted in our path, although knowing Admiral Paris, I think we should count on it. We don't even know exactly how the project ends—if we solve all the clues and find whatever it is we're supposed to find, do we come in early? Or do we still wait out the week?"
"At least we can't do worse than Captain Kirk," Dennis said with a laugh. " 'Do you still use money?' " Some seventy years back, the legendary Kirk and his bridge crew, which included Ambassador Spock, had traveled back in time to the late twentieth century and had to survive in a San Francisco three hundred years removed from their own experiences. That very mission was the inspiration for this particular Academy exercise.
"They survived, didn't they?" Estresor Fil shot back. "And they saved the world. And your whales. I would certainly consider that a success by any reckoning."
"You're right," Dennis agreed, still chuckling. "They pulled it off. And we don't even have to travel back into the past to do it, so I'm sure we'll be just fine."
"Who's in command?" Boon asked. Even though the others had voted him Squadron Leader, when they faced group activities they rotated command positions so that everyone got a fair chance to lead.
"It's our final project," Felicia Mendoza pointed out. "I thought you'd be champing at the bit. Are you suggesting otherwise?"
"I'm not suggesting anything," Boon said. "Certainly I'm the best qualified. But if somebody else has a particular interest in the job, that's fine too."
There was a moment of silence as all the cadets in the room glanced around at one another. Will felt a number of eyes on him and thought that maybe he should challenge Boon for the leadership position this time. Boon generally believed that he was born to lead, and took that role whenever the opportunity came up. But Will was convinced that on a starship, anyone could be thrust by circumstance into the captain's chair, and no one who graduated from Starfleet Academy should be unfamiliar with the demands of the job.
"I think it should be Dennis," he said at last, breaking the silence. The look on Boon's face was one for the books—crestfallen and amazement battling for supremacy, with fury threatening to break through at any time. He actually bit his lower lip, trying to control his expression.
"Dennis?" Boon asked, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice. "Why?"
"Because he hasn't been in charge on any of our group projects to date," Will said. "And this is the last group project before the end of the year. Everyone needs to get a taste of leadership, and this will be his last chance with this squadron." What he didn't add was that he knew Dennis would never have nominated himself for the position. He was a get-along, go-along kind of guy, never wanting to make waves, always content to be in the back of the pack as long as he was included. Starfleet needed people like that, of course—there were a lot of crew members to every captain, and a lot of captains to every admiral—but every crew member would perform better if he or she understood the captain's position too.
"Will, I don't know—" Dennis began, but Felicia cut him off.
"I second the nomination," she said. "Will's right. It really is your turn, Dennis."
Dennis's cheeks flushed, but he went silent. Estresor Fil was the next to speak. "Dennis can do the job as well as anyone else," she insisted.
Boon looked defeated. "If that's what you guys think, well, it's fine with me." His tone indicated that it wasn't fine, but that he wasn't about to make a big deal about it this time. "Just keep in mind, it's the final project of the year, and it's Admiral Paris's pet project. So it's going to be a big part of our grades in his class."
The others expressed their assent, so finally Dennis, cheeks crimsoning until they almost matched Boon's, accepted. "Okay," he said enthusiastically. "I'll do it. With all of us working together, I think this one will be a breeze."
I wouldn't be so sure, Will thought, thinking about stories he'd heard of past years. There seemed to be a lot that could go wrong with these missions. He wasn't going to say anything that might undermine Dennis's confidence, though. Especially since he was the one who had put Dennis's abilities on the line by nominating him.
But I guess we'll find out tomorrow.
## Chapter 3
He knows. Kyle Riker knows now that he is a target. In some ways, that will make the rest of it easier. So far, we've had to operate in absolute secrecy, to make our moves slowly and quietly, keeping everything under wraps until the timing was right. But now, everything can be done in the open. Riker can be made to suffer—has to be made to suffer—as others have suffered on his account.
And now that he knows, the real joy can begin. Watching Riker fall apart—watching him withdraw from everyone and everything, watching him desperately trying to protect himself from unknown dangers, will be the greatest pleasure we have known.
But what if he—?
He won't. He can't. He can only react, becoming more and more fearful and uncertain, until we allow him to die.
To die. We do like the sound of that.
Yes, we do.
* * *
Engineer Lars Gunnarson was sleepy. He knew, of course, what his shift was, and that it required him to work during the night when most of the people he knew were sleeping. But knowing it didn't make sleeping during the day a whole lot easier. There was light outside, and noise, and things going on that he wanted to be part of. So he got what sleep he could, and often came to work more tired than he should have.
But, he rationalized, it's not like the transporter is often used during my shift anyway. I have to keep it maintained and running, and on those rare occasions when it's needed I have to operate it. He thought he could live up to those requirements on an abbreviated sleeping schedule, at least until he rotated back to days, which he greatly preferred. And he was glad that he was here on Earth, at Starfleet Command, instead of out on a starship, where who knew what kinds of demands might be made of him.
But he had received one reprimand for dozing off on the job. Another would get him booted down a rank and lose him this assignment, which came with a certain amount of autonomy that he enjoyed. So he struggled to stay awake and aware, just in case. He was doing that, on this occasion, by poring over a manual for impulse engines, which he had not yet had the dubious pleasure of working on. The material was dense and, obviously, quite technical, and when he heard footsteps just outside the transporter room, he was in the middle of a very difficult paragraph. When the door whooshed open, he still hadn't made it to the end, and he was trying to grasp the concepts firmly in his mind. "Be right with you," he said, battling to maintain his focus on the page.
Suddenly the thought that whoever had entered might be an officer swept into his head, and he began to turn, ready to offer a salute and an apology if necessary. But he had barely begun to spin around when he caught a flash of a red uniform sleeve coming toward him. He tried to raise a hand to dodge but he was too late. An impact, a bright flash of light, and then Lars Gunnarson's world went dark.
* * *
Sleep, in the weeks and months after the attack on Starbase 311, had been a virtual stranger to Kyle Riker. When exhaustion finally overtook him and he succumbed, dreams almost invariably followed—nightmares that left him thrashing about and screaming, waking up in a bed drenched in cold sweat, heart hammering, throat dry. Then another extended period of wakefulness would occur, when closing his eyes and drifting off seemed almost as terrifying as being back on the starbase during the assault. Finally, the cycle would repeat; sleep would come, and with it the dreams.
Under the skillful care of Kate Pulaski, his physical injuries were healed, bones knitted, internal organs mended on a cellular level. Meters of damaged veins had been replaced by synthetic ones, and one ruined kidney was removed, with an artificial one substituted in its place. The body, Kate had explained, is basically a complex machine, and machines can be fixed. Sometimes they were better than they had been, when all their parts were strictly organic.
But the mind, she had said, is a different story altogether. Certainly there were specific physical repairs that could be made to the brain, but there were limits to what those could accomplish. And Kyle fought against some of those. Memories of the most terrible parts of the Tholian attack, for instance, could have been wiped from his memory by careful surgical manipulation of his brain. Kyle had refused. He was a military strategist, and the lessons learned from the Tholian attack—and the disastrous, limited defense—on Starbase 311, were not lessons he wanted to forget. He would, he insisted, learn to live with the memories, but he would not lose them.
And he was right. It took time, and a hellish amount of hard work, with Kate and a whole team of counselors and therapists, but he eventually made a kind of peace with his own inner turmoil and as he did, the bad dreams became more and more rare. He learned, once again, to welcome sleep, to accept it as a refuge from the demands of the day, and to consider dreams a kind of nightly vacation from real life and concerns. Some nights, still, it was harder to achieve sleep than others, and some nights the nightmares returned. But they were unusual, now, and not the norm.
This night, because of the stresses of the day, Kyle had suspected that it might be hard to let go and allow sleep to come, and he'd been correct. But it had come, finally, and he had slipped into a solid slumber, without dreams. When he heard the familiar hum of a transporter beam, he thought at first that it was a dream. He was groggy and thickheaded, and he tried to just roll over in his bed, away from the sound.
But his eyes flickered open as he did, and he saw the glow reflected on the wall near his bed. Instantly awake, he shot up and looked toward where the beam was just fading away, expecting to see another attacker coming at him. The room was empty, though. Maybe it had just been a dream, after all. He blinked a couple of times, trying to see through the darkness of the beam's aftermath.
Not empty, after all. Where the beam had been, there was something on the floor. He couldn't make out the details, in the dark room, but what he could see was a low, flat disk, just a little smaller than the holographic target in a game of velocity. Unlike a velocity disk, though, this one wasn't floating through the air, but sitting on his floor with solidity and some kind of purpose.
What purpose it might have struck Kyle, and he leapt from the bed, running for the open door of his bedroom. Beyond the door was a short hallway, with a bathroom and a room that he used as an office, and then leading into his large living room. He had just cleared the bathroom door, heading for the living room, calling out to the apartment's computer, when the bomb went off.
The first thing Kyle noticed was a flash of light and his own shadow cast before him, stark and hard-edged against the suddenly bright room ahead. The flash was succeeded simultaneously by a deafening roar and a shock wave that lifted him off the floor and hurled him against the living room's far wall. He slammed into it hard, just about where his shadow had been, trying to turn to hit it shoulder-first but without enough time. Instead, his left arm and the left side of his face made contact, and then he fell off the wall and onto the floor. Finally, a wave of searing heat struck him, burning his right side.
The apartment's computer took over then. A sprinkler came on in the bedroom, extinguishing the fire, and a force field contained the worst of the heat there. The computer informed him that authorities had been notified, for the second time in two nights. This time, Kyle didn't argue with it. He lay on the floor, bleeding and burned, until they arrived.
* * *
"You're a lucky man, Mr. Riker."
He sat up in the biobed and looked at the doctor, who was just putting away his dermal regenerator after having used it on Kyle's burns. "Every time somebody tells me that, I'm lying in an infirmary somewhere," Kyle said with a bitter grin. "I'm beginning to think luck isn't all it's cracked up to be."
Dr. Trbovich smiled back at him. He was a kindly looking, slightly stout, avuncular fellow with a shock of white hair and an infectious grin. His blue coat was snug around the waist and ribs. "You had a bomb go off in your apartment. You didn't suffer any broken bones. You had some cuts and burns, all of which were easy enough to fix up. You'll be sore for a few days, probably, but you're still here to complain about it. If you hadn't woken up, you'd be much worse off than you are. I count that as pretty fortunate."
"I suppose," Kyle agreed, wincing at a stabbing pain in his ribs as he reached for his shirt. One of the emergency medical technicians who had brought him in had been kind enough to grab a fresh jumpsuit and a padd from his office for him, since his clothes had been torched in the fire and the pajamas he'd worn had needed to be cut from his body. "But more fortunate still are all those people who slept through the night without anyone trying to blow them up."
"Well, yeah," the doctor said. "I can't disagree with that. You'll be fine, though. You should rest here for another couple of hours, just so I can monitor your progress. Then you should take it easy for a few days. I'd like to see you again in a week so I can check your progress, okay?"
"Got it," Kyle assured him. He pushed his hands through his sleeves and then sat on the biobed until the doctor left the room to go check on other patients.
What he hadn't told the doctor was that, in the bomb's aftermath and in the ambulance shuttle that brought him to Starfleet Command from his ruined apartment, his mind had been full of horrific images. Tholians, intense heat barely contained within their shielded suits, features completely hidden, bizarre sticklike weapons emitting fuzzy red rays that spread death and destruction everywhere. For a moment, in the shuttle, Kyle had been convinced that the medic sitting next to him would turn and reveal a red, crystalline face glowing with heat, and he'd felt about himself for a weapon he could use in his own defense. The moment had passed, though, and reason had returned.
Now, though, he didn't think himself capable of simply sitting calmly in the infirmary. His mind was racing. The bomb, combined with all the other stressors of the past couple of days, had brought back the flashbacks. Kyle knew this was a danger signal. But it wasn't something he wanted to talk about with a strange doctor, someone he didn't know. Especially given the threat to his career from whatever trumped-up charges he might be facing on the starbase attack—if his credibility was to be questioned, the idea that he was seeing perfectly innocent medics as Tholian killers wouldn't be advantageous.
He didn't want to sit around the infirmary, and he couldn't help thinking of himself as a target there anyway. A bomb had been transported into his apartment. Certainly, there were transporters in civilian hands, and in the hands of enemy alien races. But the majority of transporter technology in and around San Francisco belonged to Starfleet. Add to that the fact that the assassin who had visited his home the other night had been from Starfleet, and he had to be concerned about his safety, even right here in the middle of the Starfleet Headquarters complex.
Maybe especially here.
With the friendly doctor examining another patient, Kyle finished dressing and hurried from the room. The hallways carried the same slightly sweet, antiseptic odor as infirmaries everywhere—and Kyle had been in enough over the past couple of years to become very accustomed to it. Doctors and nurses strolled through the hallways, talking and laughing, but there didn't seem to be much sense of urgency. This time of night, Kyle figured, most people—with the exception of cases like his, of course—were either sound asleep at home or in their biobeds, and emergencies were rare.
He turned a corner, hoping to put more distance between himself and Dr. Trbovich, when he saw a familiar figure virtually blocking the entire hallway. The man was large, with broad shoulders and a muscular neck. Close-cropped, wiry hair clung to his head. He wore the gold uniform of engineering, and even from behind, Kyle could recognize Benjamin Sisko.
"Ben?" he asked, incredulous at seeing the man here. Ben Sisko had just graduated from the Academy a year ago. Ben was a protégé of Curzon Dax; the ambassador had introduced him to Kyle on the Livingston a few months back.
The man turned and, in fact, it was Ben Sisko, who wore an ensign's single gold collar pip. But he looked terrible—his face drawn and sallow. If he hadn't had rich brown skin, Kyle thought he'd have looked positively green.
"Mr. Riker," Ben said. His voice sounded as shaky as Kyle's legs felt. "What are you doing here?" He indicated a bandage over Kyle's left eye. "Are you okay?"
"A little misunderstanding with an explosive device," Kyle explained. "Nothing too serious. What about you? Aren't you still posted to the Livingston?"
"Yes," Ben said, tugging at his uniform collar. He flashed white teeth in a quick smile. "But they let me come back for this. Jennifer just had our baby."
"You're kidding," Kyle said, sharing Ben's grin. He put out a hand, which Ben enveloped with his own, and they shook hard. "Congratulations, Ben, that's great!"
"Yeah," Ben said. "It's a boy. We're calling him Jake."
"That's a fine name."
"Thanks. I can't sleep, though—Jennifer was in labor for almost twenty hours, and now she's snoozing but I'm just too excited."
"I don't blame you a bit," Kyle said.
Ben looked at the floor. "Do you—do you want to see him?" He spoke almost shyly, though with his deep voice the effect was a little odd.
Kyle realized that this was the first time since the bomb went off that he'd stopped thinking about his own problems, and was glad to continue that trend for a while longer. "Sure," he said gladly. "I'd love to."
Ben started down the hall. "They're right in here," he said, stopping at the door to a private room. He said "Open," and the door obeyed. Inside, the room was mostly dark, with a soft glow coming from one light in a corner. Kyle followed Ben Sisko in.
Jennifer Sisko slept soundly in a comfortable bed, her baby snuggled up on her chest, wrapped in a blanket. All Kyle could see of the boy was a dark circle of a face, but he seemed to be a handsome baby—not that Kyle would have expected anything less than that from the union of Ben and Jennifer, as attractive a couple as one could hope for.
Ben's face was in shadows as he stood with his back to the light, spine straight despite his exhaustion, and hands clasped behind his back, looking down at his wife and son, but in it Kyle could see a range of powerful feelings. Love, gratitude, relief, and respect, he thought. Then he remembered what Admiral Paris had told him, what seemed ages ago now. "What time was he born?"
Ben looked at a chronometer on the wall as if it had recorded the moment. "Twenty-three fifty-four," he said.
"So, yesterday. Just. Congratulations, Ben. Your son was born on Father's Day."
Ben broke into a broad smile. "I guess you're right."
"It really is a kind of miracle, Ben," Kyle said.
Benjamin Sisko nodded gravely. "Yes. Definitely a miracle. I just . . . I can't even begin to find the words that describe what I'm feeling right now."
"You don't need to, Ben. I've been in your shoes."
Ben nodded again and they stood in silence for a few moments, watching the mother and child sleep. But while they observed quietly, Kyle heard voices out in the hall. The one that caught his attention belonged to Dr. Trbovich, but instead of his usually folksy self, his voice was raised in something like alarm.
"Surely this can wait," he said insistently. "The patient is resting after a very serious incident. I don't want him disturbed."
Kyle glanced up at Ben, catching his eye. Ben shrugged but both men kept quiet, listening.
"I'm sorry, Doctor," another voice said firmly. "We need to take custody immediately. We have medical facilities in the brig if he's still in need of treatment."
The brig? Kyle wondered. Why . . .?
"You can't just walk in and take away one of my patients," Dr. Trbovich declared. "I won't have it."
"This warrant says we can," a third voice chimed in. "Now, where is Kyle Riker?"
## Chapter 4
Ben Sisko walked over to the room's doorway, and Kyle's heart jumped in his chest. The man was going to turn him in! But instead, Ben spoke in a soft voice. "Close."
The door slid shut, and Ben turned to Kyle, his expression curious. "What's this all about, Mr. Riker?" he asked in an anxious whisper.
Kyle blew out the breath he'd been holding. "I'm not sure, Ben. There's some sort of . . . it seems ridiculous to say 'conspiracy,' but that's what it's looking like . . . against me. A couple of nights ago a Starfleet crewman tried to kill me in my apartment. Ridiculous charges have been leveled against me by some anonymous source, who went straight to the admiralty. And tonight someone beamed a bomb into my place, nearly finishing the job. I know I haven't done anything to merit being arrested by Starfleet Security, so I have to believe that if I let those men in the hall take me away, I won't be coming back."
"But . . . that's crazy," Ben said. "Starfleet doesn't just make people disappear. There are rules, procedures. Due process."
"Normally, I'd agree with you," Kyle told him. "This isn't normal, though. There's something going on, something that isn't right. I don't know what it is or who's behind it. But whoever it is wants my head."
He watched Ben carefully as the younger man processed this data. Out in the hall, they could still faintly hear the security officers arguing with Dr. Trbovich.
"Ben, you don't know me that well, but I hope you know I'm an honest man," Kyle pleaded. "I just want to stay free of all this until I can figure out what's going on. Even if they don't kill me, if they lock me up I won't have a chance to defend my name. But since there have been two attempts on my life in the past two nights, both seemingly with Starfleet participation, I think killing me is the likeliest outcome."
Ben glanced at the door. The voices had faded away down the corridor. He looked back at Kyle and nodded his head. "You're right, Mr. Riker. I don't know you that well. But Curzon has spoken highly of you, and I've learned to trust the old man. So I'll give you the benefit of the doubt here."
Kyle let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He'd only met the Trill ambassador a few times, and was now very grateful that he had left a good impression on him.
"It sounds like you're being railroaded," Ben continued, "and I can't go along with that. I'll do what I can to get you out of here, and then you're on your own. Fair?"
"More than I could ask for, Ben. I won't forget it."
"I have temporary quarters nearby," Ben said. "I'll grab you a uniform from there. Then together we can walk out, and maybe you won't be spotted. Just wait in here till I get back—no one's going to disturb a sleeping mother and baby."
"I'll be here."
Ben turned and went out the door, leaving Kyle alone with Jennifer and young Jake Sisko. He turned down the light, so that anyone who peeked in would have a harder time seeing the unexpected visitor inside. As he waited, he watched Jennifer Sisko sleep, her arms gently cradling her son, even in sleep her maternal instinct to cherish and protect kicking in.
He had felt like that, in the days after Will had been born. The delivery had been hard on Annie, Kyle's wife, and for the first several days after the boy's birth Kyle had needed to take care of both of them. He had risen to the task, though, tending to everyone's needs, throwing himself into the job wholeheartedly. Even after Annie was feeling better, he stayed home with them, happy just to be in their company. Nobody got much sleep those first few weeks, but he didn't care. Even the cries of his son had been magical to him. Kyle watched young Will carefully, not wanting to miss a moment of his development, as the boy became able to sit up, then to crawl, and finally to take a few steps on his own. He had exulted in his son's first words, and then his first attempts at whole sentences.
But as time wore on—especially after Annie got sick again, and Kyle's primary focus had to be on caring for her—the luster of having a new son faded. Daily life got in the way, Kyle had decided. He still loved his son, but other parts of life kept interfering, and that pure paternal bliss was diluted somehow. He wondered, now, how that happened. How the sheer joy of looking at his son's face changed, through familiarity, into something different, something lesser.
He wondered if it happened to all fathers, or if it was just a failing in him.
He had not reached any conclusions when Ben Sisko returned with a bundle in his hands. As soon as he was inside with the door closed, he tossed it to Kyle. "They're still out there," he said. "Scurrying around the corridors looking for you. The doctors aren't helping them, but they aren't stopping them anymore, either. I ran into one of the nurses, and told her I was bringing Jennifer some spare clothes. I think she bought it."
Kyle looked at Ben, and then down at his own body. Ben was considerably larger than he was. Instead of taking off his own dun-colored jumpsuit, he pulled on the uniform over his clothing. "I appreciate this, Ben," he said, tugging the oversized tunic down over his head and shoulders. "I really do."
"I know," Ben said confidently. "And I want you to do one thing for me in return."
"Name it," Kyle said.
"Let me know how this works out. When you've got it all settled, I mean."
"I will," Kyle assured him. "Hopefully it'll be all cleared up before you're a captain someplace."
Ben laughed. It was a sound that, under other circumstances, Kyle thought, might be very intimidating. "I don't know if there's any big hurry, then," he said, "but we'll call it a deal."
With Kyle fully dressed in Ben's spare uniform, Ben opened the door and the two of them strode confidently into the hallway, as if leaving a conference room or an officer's lounge instead of a recovery room. A nurse passed them in the hall without a second glance, even though, to Kyle, the bad fit of the uniform seemed like a beacon.
They didn't slow when they reached the corner, but instead made a sharp right turn and kept going. When they passed another intersection, Kyle caught a glimpse of the two security officers coming toward them. He tensed, felt himself sweating beneath the extra layers of fabric. But he kept Sisko's bulk between himself and them and continued on. The security team didn't seem to think twice about them. But then, they knew Kyle Riker was a civilian, so two officers in uniform would not raise a flag.
One turbolift and two minutes later, and the two men were outside the building in the cool night air. A gentle breeze felt good on Kyle's flushed face. "There you go," Ben said. "I'd better get back to my family."
"You do that," Kyle agreed. "Keep them close, always." He fingered the uniform's collar. "I'll, uhh . . . send this back to you."
"Take your time."
Ben put out his hand and Kyle took it in both of his. "Thank you, Ben. You made the right call."
"Curzon's a pretty good judge of character, Mr. Riker," Ben replied. "I already knew that."
He turned on his heel and went back inside. Kyle was alone, with who knew how many enemies around him.
Very much alone, he thought.
* * *
They came for him on the air tram. This time of night, the car was empty except for him, and there were only a couple of other passengers on the transport at all. He wasn't sure where he would go; he just wanted to put some distance between himself and Starfleet Command. He closed his eyes, willing his body to relax after the tension back at the infirmary. But after riding for about twenty minutes, he heard it—the familiar hiss of breathing apparatus that allowed them to function in an M-Class atmosphere. He snapped to attention and saw three of them boarding his car, their suits disguising superheated crystalline bodies, multicolored masks hiding their hideous faces. They pointed long, crooked sticks at him and he knew they were about to fire.
Panicked, he dove from his seat, hitting the floor and rolling beneath a seat farther down the aisle and hunched there, breathing heavily, waiting for the worst. The red rays he expected didn't come, though. After a few moments, he dared to open his eyes. Two elderly civilians, both human, both somewhat astonished, stared at him with concern etching their features. "Are you okay, son?" one of them asked. Both of them kept their distance, Kyle noted, as if afraid to come too close.
"I don't . . . the Tholians . . ." Kyle was dumfounded.
"Haven't seen any Tholians around here," the other one said with a chuckle. "I think we'd notice if there were any."
"I expect so," Kyle agreed. Humiliated, he crawled out from under the seat. Not that it would have provided him with any protection, he thought, studying it so he didn't have to look at the people who assumed he'd gone completely insane. Not against those weapons they carried. He remembered those weapons, and the fierce damage they could do, entirely too well.
Realizing that he was still badly dressed in Ben Sisko's uniform, he jumped off the transport at the next station rather than let the old couple get a longer look at him. He wasn't sure where he was, but that was for the best. They're starting again, he knew. The flashbacks.
He needed medical attention, or psychiatric help. But they were looking for him at the infirmary. Starfleet Command wasn't a safe place for him now. No place was safe, really—at least, no place that Starfleet controlled, or where they had operatives. As he exited the station on a stair-lift to the street, he felt a stab of fear. What might be waiting on the street? A Starfleet assassin? A force of Tholian warriors? Something else, equally deadly, that he didn't even know to watch for?
When he reached the street, which was dark and empty, he realized he was still carrying his padd, and it suddenly occurred to him that each padd had global positioning technology built in. A user could immediately locate his own coordinates via satellite. But conversely, that meant that someone else—someone at Starfleet, for instance, with access to the satellite, could locate the user. The mouth of an alley gaped ahead, and Kyle turned down it, looked all around to be sure he wasn't observed, and then raised his padd, intending to hurl it full force into a blank brick wall.
He stopped his arm at the peak of his motion, though, when a different idea dawned on him. Instead of throwing the thing he sat down in the alley, back against one of the high walls, and spent a few minutes reprogramming it. When he was finished, instead of accurately signaling its position, it would send signals to satellites chosen at random, in orbit all around the world. Anyone who tried to track it would find themselves hopelessly confused. Satisfied then that his padd would no longer give away his location, he tucked it into a pocket and hurried away from the alley.
As he walked quickly through the city's nighttime streets, Kyle hoped that whoever was looking for him developed a massive migraine from trying to use his own padd against him. Once he had figured out who was after him, and why, he hoped to give them a much worse headache.
At the very least.
## Chapter 5
A sharp knock at Will's door woke him from a sound sleep. He glanced at the chron near his bed. Four-forty in the morning. Who . . .?
"Yes?" he called, hoping his animosity was clear in his voice.
"Will Riker?"
"That's right." He spoke these words defiantly. Anyone who would be rude enough to come around at this hour—especially today, of all days, when he was about to embark on his final project for Admiral Paris's survival class—was going to be told off, Riker style. "Who's there?"
"Starfleet security, cadet. Please open the door."
"Come in," Riker called, the vocal command unlocking the door. Two gold-shirted officers pulled down the old-fashioned handle to open the door and enter. One of them looked at Will, his hand resting on the butt of his phaser pistol, while the other glanced about the room. "Looking for something?" Will asked, sitting up on the edge of his bed.
"We're looking for your father, Cadet. Mr. Kyle Riker. Have you seen him recently?"
Will couldn't restrain the laugh. "That depends. What's recent to you?" he asked. "Five years?"
The security officer looked surprised. "He's your father. He works here at Starfleet Headquarters."
"And your point is . . .?"
The second security officer, the one giving Will's small quarters the once over, seemed satisfied by his search. "He's not here."
"I told you that," Will said. "He's never been here."
"Have you heard from him? Tonight?"
Will shook his head vigorously. "You don't seem to get the point," he said. "We don't talk. At all."
"So you'd have no idea where he is right now?"
Will glanced at the chron, as if for emphasis. "Since he's not crazy, as far as I know, I would guess he's home in bed. Wherever that is."
"He's not there," the security man said.
"Well, I wouldn't know anything about that."
"Do you know where he might go? Any favorite places, anyone he'd turn to in an emergency?"
These guys just don't have a clue, Will thought. And they're supposed to be providing security? "I have no idea," he said. "Listen to me—Kyle Riker and I haven't seen or spoken to each other in five years. I don't know who his friends are, I don't know where he spends his time. I just don't know. The last time I saw him was in Alaska, if that helps."
The second security officer touched the first one on the arm. "Come on, he's got nothing."
The first one paused, as if unwilling to admit defeat, but then he gave a little shrug and turned away. "If you hear from him, contact security immediately," he called over his shoulder as they left the room.
Yeah, Will thought. Because that's likely to happen.
He looked at his bunk again, and he looked at the time. Almost o-five hundred. They were to report to the Academy's transporter room by six-thirty. Other squadrons were being transported into the city at different times during the morning. It was foolish to think he'd get back to sleep now, and even if he did he'd have to get up soon anyway. Instead of trying, he went into his bathroom for a hot shower. It might, he knew, be his last for a while.
* * *
At the appointed hour—stifling a yawn, his eyes burning from lack of sleep—Will met his squadron mates in the transporter room. Estresor Fil looked excited, for her: her eyes open wide and sparkling with some inner light, her lips parted in something that looked like a smile-in-training. Boon lounged against an operator console, apparently as barely awake as Will himself, although with Boon that was more or less his natural state. Felicia and Dennis chatted happily between themselves, in low tones.
He had thought that perhaps Admiral Paris would be here to see them off, but he wasn't. Instead, there were only a pair of engineers and a security officer. The campus had been buzzing with word of an attack on a lone engineer in a Starfleet Command transporter room late the night before. Will had missed most of the rumors, his mind on other things, and intentionally made an effort not to listen to them because he was already overtired and knew that he needed to be able to devote all his attention to the mission at hand. But he figured it explained the extra precautions in this room, on this morning.
Felicia looked up from her hushed conversation with Dennis and noticed Will in the doorway. She smiled at him and beckoned him over. Dennis turned, too, at Felicia's gesture, tossing Will a friendly grin of his own. "Glad you could join us, Will," he said, sarcasm leavened by good-natured humor.
"I seem to be developing a bad habit," Will said. "I never used to be late to everything."
"You're not late," Felicia assured him. "We're early. Just too excited about the project, I guess."
Will bit back another yawn. He was excited too, and should have been early, but everything had taken extra effort this morning, from getting his breakfast, to dressing, to making his way here to the transporter room. He didn't want to have to explain why, though. If the old man had gotten himself into some kind of trouble, it was no concern of Will's. The last thing he wanted was for his squadron to think that he would be distracted by his father's problems, whatever they may be.
"As long as I didn't hold anything up," he said. He recognized that much of his concern was due to his own impatience. Just this last project stood between him and summer break, which would be followed by his penultimate Academy year. Two more, and after that he could sign onto a starship and get off this planet for a while.
"Not at all," Dennis assured him. "But now that we're all here . . ." He addressed the pair of engineers. "We're ready, I guess. Whenever you are."
One of the engineers, a Bolian with an unusual fringe of brown hair around the back of his blue, bifurcated head, stepped forward then and examined the cadets. "No phasers, no tricorders, no padds, no combadges. You aren't hiding anything from me, are you?"
"Not at all," Dennis assured them. Boon, Will noted, hadn't changed his position or his slumped posture, as if the whole process was so boring he could barely stay awake.
"Then I have one thing for you." The Bolian handed Dennis a sealed envelope.
"Paper," Estresor Fil noted. "How . . . antiquated."
"You won't have instruments with which to read anything else," the engineer explained.
"We're supposed to consider ourselves crash-landed in hostile territory," Dennis added. "Without our technology to rely on."
"That's what they tell us," the other engineer, a human female with swept-up blond hair, said. "Step onto the pads, please."
The five cadets did as instructed. Boon was the last one in place. Will thought he seemed reluctant, maybe even resentful. Because we put Dennis in charge? he wondered. Maybe I shouldn't have done that—it's Boon's last chance to lead this squadron, and I took it away from him. But it had been the squadron's tradition to do so from time to time, so it shouldn't have been entirely unexpected. And Boon himself had brought it up.
Will didn't have a chance to worry about it any longer, though. As soon as Boon was in position, the engineers began their process. "Coordinates locked," said the human, and the Bolian, nodding, touched his keypad.
"Good luck," the Bolian said. As he did, he began to fade from view, and Will realized that the annular confinement beam was surrounding him, beginning the process of converting his molecules into energy that could be sent to a specific, predetermined point. He had aced his transporter theory class last year, and he had been transported numerous times. But that experience hadn't quite soothed his concerns. He knew full well that the technology was safe and time-tested, but at the same time there was something just a bit wrong about it that he wasn't able to get used to.
He didn't have time to worry about it for more than a few seconds, though, before he found himself rematerializing someplace else. After a perfunctory self-examination to make sure all his parts had shown up when he did, he glanced about, looking for any of his squadron mates. But there were no transporter beams evident, and no one around. He was alone.
* * *
Dennis Haynes recognized his location, and, if it hadn't been too much like a bad joke, he would have described the sensation in his gut as a sinking feeling. He was looking across water—a lot of water—toward Fisherman's Wharf and the Embarcadero. Which could only mean that he'd been beamed to Alcatraz.
And Alcatraz was an island. An island that had formerly been used as a prison, at that. It had, of course, been a prison because it was difficult to get from there to the mainland without a boat.
Sadly, Dennis hadn't been able to bring one with him.
What he did have with him was a paper envelope. He sat on the jagged rocks at the island's edge and tore it open, appreciating the forethought that had gone into using such an old-fashioned technology. They'd been correct—he wouldn't have been able to read anything except paper, here.
Of course, if he couldn't get off the island, it wouldn't matter much what the words on the paper said. He'd be unable to communicate with his squadron, and they'd all fail the project—and the class. He looked toward the mainland again. He could swim it, maybe. But it'd be bitter cold, and he figured the chances were fifty-fifty that he'd drown in the effort. That, he decided, would be a last resort.
Seriously last. The more he contemplated it, the laster it got.
Tearing his gaze away from the waves, he removed a sheet of paper from inside the envelope. A stiff breeze from off the water tore at it, threatening to yank it from his grip. But the paper—really, he knew, a polymer with many of the same characteristics as the old-fashioned stuff, whose name this material shared out of convenience—held firm against the wind's worst efforts. Written on it was a single sentence. "At the feet of these twins, find your first checkpoint."
Short, sweet, and almost completely unhelpful, Dennis thought. He knew from the reports of previous years that finding the checkpoints was often the most difficult part of the assignment. And it wouldn't have helped if he'd been given coordinates and a map, if he couldn't get off this damn rock. The squadron had agreed to meet at the peak of Nob Hill, as quickly as possible after being transported into the city, because it was a more or less central location. Already, Dennis was sure, the others would be rushing to the meeting point. But he, their leader for this project, wouldn't be there.
Well, he thought, forcing himself to his feet and casting his gaze about the rocky outcrop. Things certainly look bad, but I'm not ready to admit defeat quite yet.
I might as well have walked here, Estresor Fil thought with mild disappointment. She had beamed in at the near end of the Golden Gate Bridge, which was barely a stone's throw from the Academy itself. She hadn't been sent far at all, but she had a good distance ahead of her to get to the meeting point. Cutting through Academy grounds would shorten the trip, though of course she couldn't do that. She was in civilian clothes and carried no Starfleet identification, and stepping onto Academy or Starfleet Command grounds was cause for instant disqualification.
Even the nearest tram station was the Academy stop, so she couldn't catch a transport there. She started walking, giving the Academy a wide berth, toward the nearest public station. With her short legs, it would take her a good while to get there. But at least the project was under way.
* * *
"Hey! Watch it!"
Felicia Mendoza spun around. She had materialized on a busy sidewalk, and a small knot of pedestrians had to part, like a river flowing around a rock, to get around her as she gathered her bearings. One of the men fixed her with an angry glare, as if it had been her fault where she wound up. Not that he'd have any way of knowing it wasn't, of course.
But she wasn't sure what her location was. She was in an urban canyon, with towers of steel around her, but there were many places in San Francisco that could be so described. Felicia wasn't very familiar with the city—she came from El Salvador, and had moved here only to attend the Academy. She had spent one summer interning at Jupiter Station, and knew that distant locale far better than she did this earthly one.
Getting her bearings wouldn't be an insurmountable problem, she knew. San Francisco was a temporary home to many tourists and out-of-towners, and the city's heads took great pains to make it a comfortable place to visit. Kiosks located every few blocks showed transit information, complete with maps and schedules. All she had to do was find the nearest one and she'd be on her way to the meeting point. She was anxious to hear where everyone else had landed, and what their first goal was.
So far, this whole thing seemed like a great deal of fun. She didn't necessarily expect that it would stay that way. But it might. Being an ordinarily optimistic type anyway, she was willing to accept that small chance.
With a smile on her lips and a spring in her step, she started up the block.
* * *
Boon's feet were soaked. He found this extremely annoying, because it meant that someone had entered coordinates wrong, or there had been a transporter malfunction, or the transporter crew was just plain trying to make life difficult for him. The first two scenarios could have resulted in death or horrific injury, so all things considered, finding himself standing up to his ankles in the freezing surf of the Pacific Ocean wasn't really as bad as it might have been. But he didn't think it was either of those two problems—great care was always taken with transporter use, and the crew would not have been haphazard about where they sent a cadet on an Academy project.
Which meant that it was intentional. That ticked him off no end. He didn't know if it was because he was a Coridanian, or if they simply chose random cadets to harass, just because they could, but the motive didn't matter to him. He tried to remember their names, so he could make life miserable for them once he was a senior officer, but the names wouldn't come to him.
He waded ashore. The beach was a dozen or so meters of rocky sand, and he trudged across it, water streaming from his legs and a scowl on his brick-red face.
When this is over, he thought, I'm going to have a serious talk with a certain transporter crew.
Will thought for a moment that a mistake had been made. They were all supposed to be beamed into San Francisco, but he was in a deep forest somewhere. Early sunlight slanted between trunks and leaves, highlighting dust motes and the last traces of morning fog. The air had a rich, fecund aroma he had been used to, in his youth, but had almost forgotten—the tang of pines, the dusky dry smell of summer grass in an arid clime. Tall trees surrounded him and the brush was so thick he couldn't even see through it. Branches scratching at his hands and tugging at his clothing, he forced his way through the heaviest of it.
A few minutes of working his way out of the tangle brought him to a clearing and an explanation. Thick grass and low shrubs had grown over an old road here, splitting the roadway and hiding it until Will was literally standing on top of it. He looked at the sweep of the road as it curved out of sight, and it brought back half-remembered pictures he'd seen. He was, he believed, deep inside Golden Gate Park, which had been closed to vehicles for more than a century and allowed to grow wild.
He was alone here, so the question of whether they would all beam in together had been answered. Picking a meeting place had been the simplest precaution, but he was glad they had made the effort. A good portion of this first day might be spent by the squadron members trying to find their way to the Nob Hill location. And for all he knew, others might be even farther away than he was, or in more remote locations. Nob Hill would be a good hike, for him, but not too difficult.
He noted the position of the morning sun, and then started east, toward it, following the broken, overgrown road away from the ocean and into the city.
## Chapter 6
Another failure. That Riker has more lives than a damned Antillean feenetchluk.
And how many is that? How much longer do we have to play this game?
The feenetchluk has eleven redundant nervous and circulatory systems that reconfigure themselves in the event of serious injury. You think you've killed one but it just shuts down for a few moments, and then comes back at you, scared and angry but not dead. Hence the saying.
Maybe it is just dumb luck, though. Maybe he should be playing dabo someplace, since he seems to survive every attack we throw at him, not by effort of will or any particular ability, but through simple twists of fortune.
Or by simply refusing to concede.
Perhaps. Luck or lives, it doesn't matter. What matters is that he's scared now. Fearing for his life, his safety, his career. That means he's off balance, and therefore right where we want him. He'll start making mistakes. We can keep this up indefinitely, playing him, making him suffer.
As we have suffered.
Exactly. In the end, that's better than killing him right away. His suffering is so delicious, so . . . right. And we know that he can't run from us. He can't hide, not for long. No matter where he goes, we will have our pleasure.
Yes . . . that's the perfect word to describe it. Our pleasure is Riker's pain, and his death our ultimate release.
* * *
San Francisco's civilian spaceport, at the edge of the bay, never slept. All day and all night transport vehicles from all across the planet rumbled into the port, laden with goods destined for distant planets, and those same vehicles, equally burdened, left with imported goods for markets on Earth. Lights burned through the dark of night, engines roared, the voices of working men and women mixed with the clatter and whine of the servos and gears of robotic helpers. Cargo and tourists alike left from this port, ferried to orbital platforms from which the big ships, the deep spacefaring craft, would launch.
Kyle made his way here by a roundabout path, taking underground transport part of the distance, then getting off and walking for a while, then catching an air tram for another segment. If anyone's gaze fell on him for more than a few moments he changed course or mode of travel. A few times, he thought Tholians had spotted him, but he managed to both avoid them and convince himself that he was merely seeing things, that there were no Tholians trying to kill him, here on Earth. Although plenty of humans were doing their best to make up for that shortage, it seemed.
Finally, as the eastern sky turned from slate gray to pale blue, he approached the great port, thrilling a little as he always did to the rhythmic bustle of enterprise and the stirring adventure of people traveling to the farthest reaches of the universe. He loved his home planet, but his work had taken him off it enough times that he was comfortable in space or on good old terra firma, and the idea of travel always held the promise of the new and unexpected.
This time, though, he wasn't traveling for fun or business, but for survival. Since it seemed certain that whoever was after him—for whatever reason he couldn't fathom—had access to Starfleet technology and personnel, then no place in San Francisco was safe for him. With Starfleet headquartered here, its influence was everywhere. For that matter, there were precious few places on Earth where he'd be beyond their grasp. Alaska beckoned, since that state still contained untamed places where a man might hide. But that would probably be the first place they'd look for him once they realized he'd slipped their noose here, and he might not even make it to the back country before they found him again.
You've become paranoid, he told himself. Convinced that you're the focal point of a massive Starfleet conspiracy. It's crazy.
But crazy or not, it seemed that the evidence pointed toward the truth of his fears. Maybe the conspiracy wasn't as far-reaching as he thought. Its size didn't matter—he would be equally dead if there were one person after him or a thousand, if they were allowed to catch him. And his fears were paranoia only to a point—perhaps there weren't Tholians tracking him through the city's streets, but the attempts on his life were continuing. Surrendering to Starfleet authority would be, he had to believe, tantamount to suicide.
No, if he was going to stay safe long enough to figure out who was trying to kill him, he would have to be off the planet. He was certain of that. His only safety lay in a combination of distance and anonymity, neither of which could be long achieved Earthside. The rankest beginner to military strategy learned that you had to know the strength of your enemy. An ounce of intelligence was worth a pound of lead, to use the archaic analogy of tacticians of old. Starfleet, Kyle knew, was plenty strong, but he wasn't yet convinced that it was all of Starfleet after him. Just some of it, person or persons unknown. Until he could reason out who was his enemy, and why, though, he had to assume that all Starfleet personnel were dangerous.
Even at the civilian spaceport there were Starfleet officers to avoid, he discovered. New recruits came through here, as did Starfleet personnel traveling on personal business, or vacation. Starfleet inspectors examined cargo and kept track of the coming and going of ships, alongside the civilian authorities. It seemed that everywhere Kyle looked, he saw uniforms. Dodging them all was patently impossible, so Kyle inserted himself into the middle of a large group of tourists, laughing and joking among themselves, headed for an outbound shuttle. Hidden in the center of the group, he made his way past a small cluster of Security officers. Once he was beyond them and through the doors of the vast passenger terminal, he slipped away from the jovial crowd and headed quickly down a side corridor, where the people weren't so well dressed or so loud. Here, even the lights seemed dimmer, and the sound of his own footsteps echoed in the emptier space. Freight deals were made down this hallway, cargo consigned, but those were usually deals done quietly, between the interested parties. No crowds of spacefaring tourists came down this way, and Kyle felt exposed as he wandered, trying to move with purpose even though he didn't know precisely where he was going.
Down this side hall there were several offices, mostly just glorified counters over which deals were made, some decorated with holoimages of ships in flight or extraterrestrial landscapes. Humans staffed some of these offices, but not all. At this hour, most negotiations had long since been done, and the real action was out at the loading docks, so humans and aliens alike sat on stools or chairs, staring at the walls and waiting for shift changes. With no particular knowledge or experience to draw from, Kyle picked one more or less at random. It was a company he had never heard of, which was exactly the kind he had been looking for. The sign on the wall above the counter said INTAGLIO SHIPPING AND FREIGHT, and the man leaning on the counter looked as if he was giving up on the struggle to stay awake. His skin was a prunelike color, so dark it could have been brown or a deep purple, his hair a startlingly canary yellow against that skin, and his eyes were small and hooded. Kyle suspected he was part human and part something else that he couldn't even guess at.
"Help you?" the man asked sleepily. He barely glanced at Kyle.
"I need to take a trip," Kyle told him.
"We're a freight mover, not a travel agency."
"I'm not looking for scenery," Kyle said flatly. "Or companionship. Just distance."
The man straightened now, taking his elbow off the counter. "That a fact?"
"That's right. In fact, the fewer fellow passengers the better. Surely you've got a berth on something, going somewhere."
"Well," the man said with a yellow-toothed smile, "if you're going to be picky . . ."
"I can be demanding," Kyle said. "I demand discretion and privacy. But those are my only nonnegotiable needs. Beyond that, you'll find I'm very flexible."
The man hummed a couple of times, looking Kyle up and down as if expecting him to metamorphose into something else right before his eyes. All he would see, Kyle knew, was a fit, square-jawed man whose once-dark hair, now mostly well on its way toward gray, was undoubtedly somewhat mussed from the night's activity, dressed in a civilian jumpsuit, who hadn't had nearly enough sleep in the past couple of nights. Finally, apparently satisfied with his examination, the man clasped his hands together. "I happen to know a ship's captain," he said, "for whom discretion is practically a religion. This same captain is about to embark on a long voyage, and might, I suppose, have some space on her ship for an unexpected passenger. But this particular captain, I'm afraid, has a bit of a gambling problem. She is well recompensed for her labors, but somehow can always seem to use a few more credits than she has."
Kyle had expected nothing less. "I can pay," he declared. In fact, this was what he had hoped for. The Federation had largely evolved beyond such things as greed and bribery. The fact that this ship's captain was amenable to both implied that she was outside the Federation mainstream, maybe not from a member world at all.
The man's smile broadened at Kyle's willingness. "Then we should talk further," he said. "By all means."
## Chapter 7
For a moment, Will thought he was the first one to reach the rendezvous point at the corners of Sacramento and Jones. This city, like Paris and Vienna and New York, had been laid out with an efficiency and a consideration of the landscape that had made their plans virtually unchanging over the centuries. While the buildings themselves sometimes came down and new ones went up, the basic grids of the streets had been the same since the days when horse-drawn carriages were the only vehicular traffic. These days, the traffic on the streets was virtually all pedestrian, with only the rarest vehicles passing by.
From this intersection, Will could look down the hill in four directions and see for what seemed like kilometers in each one, could see the rising and falling of the city's many hills, the homes and businesses crowding the streets, tall skyscrapers claiming extra height by virtue of being built on the crests. A gentle breeze from the west seemed to carry the scent of the sea to him, though he thought that was probably an illusion. More likely there was a seafood restaurant down the block preparing some lunchtime fare.
After standing there for a few minutes, turning to admire the view and also search for his squadron-mates, he realized that Estresor Fil watched him from a shadowed doorway alcove, a serious expression on her small green face. Since she didn't seem interested in coming to meet him, he went to her.
"Been waiting long?" he asked when he reached her position.
"Twenty-eight minutes, eleven seconds," she replied. She hadn't had to consult a timepiece of any kind to know that.
He gestured at the doorway. "Are you, ahh, hiding from someone?"
"This is supposed to be a survival exercise," she explained. "We've been instructed to remain unobtrusive. Standing out there gawking hardly seems unobtrusive to me."
Will shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "It seems a little more natural than hiding in a doorway. Don't you think it's a pretty great view?"
"I hadn't given it any thought at all," she told him. "It's a view. I don't see how one would judge any given view as greater or lesser than any other."
"Unless it was a view from which you could see what's-his-name, that sailor. Popeye, or something, right?"
"That's different," Estresor Fil said quickly. "That's a cultural study, not simply an empty aesthetic enterprise. If you were studying the view to scout for dangers, perhaps, or landmarks, then I could understand you. But just admiring it because you can see a long way? I'm sorry, I just can't comprehend."
"Are you sure you're not part Vulcan?" he asked with a grin.
"Absolutely certain," she replied, as stone-faced as ever. Her expression—eyes wide, narrow lips pressed firmly together in a straight line, tiny nub of a nose barely more than a pinch of flesh—rarely seemed to change, even though Will knew he had seen her happy and sad and worried. It wasn't that she didn't feel strong emotions, but her face didn't seem to be up to the job of showing them. "Why do you ask?"
He decided to drop it. Vulcans believed in logic, but that didn't mean that humor was completely alien to them. "No reason. Have you seen any of the others since you've been skulking in the doorway?"
"I have not. We're the first."
"I wish we could use combadges," Will sighed.
"That would contradict the point of the project," Estresor Fil argued. "We're supposed to be in a hostile city, relying on just our wits and what we've learned of urban survival, not our technology."
"But if we really were infiltrating a hostile city we'd still have our combadges, our padds, and our phasers," Will insisted. "Right?"
"We might," Estresor Fil relented. "But there might be some technology that jammed our combadges, or would allow the enemy to locate us when we used them. By the same token, our weapons might have been removed from us during capture, and we've just broken free. We need to follow the admiral's rules."
Will gave up and nodded. Admiral Paris had already been over all this, of course, and Will had expected nothing different. But he could complain about it nonetheless. Admiral Paris was a nut for the Prime Directive, as well, and Will knew that it was his philosophy that if an away team had landed in a primitive city of some kind, the use of any technology beyond the level of which the locals had attained would be forbidden. So really, there was no way combadges would be allowed on this project. They'd just have to wait until the others showed up, no matter how long that might be.
But with only Estresor Fil for company, he hoped it was soon.
* * *
Dennis Haynes made his way around the cold, abandoned island, sticking to the rugged coastline as well as he could. The old prison still dominated the interior, its thick walls crumbling now with age but still somehow sinister in appearance. Struts sticking up like grasping fingers indicated a tower of some kind, long since fallen. He couldn't help being made a little nervous by the idea of so many desperate and dangerous people being kept behind those walls, even though it had happened a long time ago. And he couldn't shake the disturbing knowledge that the prison had been built here because getting back to the city from this spot was no simple matter. He couldn't remember if Alcatraz was a prison from which there had been no escapes, or just not many.
Either way, it didn't bode well for him.
He had made nearly a complete circuit when he spotted the boat. It was an ancient contraption, made of real wood, it seemed, and it had been dragged onto a gravelly stretch of beach, leaving a furrowed path to the waterline behind it. No footprints led away from it, though, so there was no way of knowing how long it had been sitting in that spot. A day, a year, a decade? On closer examination he saw that its oarlocks were rusted. He touched one, to see if it would still swivel, but as he turned it the wood around it broke away, rotten and soft. Even if the thing would still float, then, he couldn't control it and it would be unlikely to support his weight. He'd sink before he even got started. He felt even more dejected than before. The sun was rising high into the sky and he couldn't get to his friends.
Trying to shrug off despair, he continued his journey. Around the bend from where he'd found the boat, his spirits lifted when he saw a dock, modern and in good repair. Of course, you idiot, he berated himself. You can still take a tour to Alcatraz, so there must be some way of getting to the island. He didn't know how often the tours came, though he seemed to remember that they were at least daily, if not several in a day. All he needed to do, then, was to join the next one that came when it returned to the city.
Of course, how was he to explain how he'd wound up here, without breaking the rules of the assignment?
The only answer was, he couldn't. He'd have to do what so many prisoners in times past had failed to do—he'd have to break out of Alcatraz.
But to do that, he'd first have to get inside. Casting an eye toward the city, he saw the familiar profile of a tourist skimmer heading toward the island. Not much time, then, he thought. Swallowing his anxiety, he started up the hill toward those forbidding walls.
The path from the dock into the prison was clear and unbarred, since it was traveled only by tour groups on organized outings. That made getting inside the facility easy enough. The outer wall, topped by a tall fence corroded and torn by wind and weather, stood open for him. Chunks of stone were piled against the wall where they had fallen under the relentless pressure of the elements on this exposed outcrop, but the wall itself was still impressively thick. Beyond this wall, which encircled the facility—he had passed another building, closer to the shore, which had seemed to be administrative rather than confining—the prison itself reared up, solid and grim, with narrow windows set into the aged concrete.
He continued into the prison itself. Here, too, the doors were open, and he passed through into a semi-contained space. Sky showed through holes in the ceiling and walls, but he could still get a sense of how imposing the place must have been in its heyday. Or either of its heydays, he mentally corrected himself. He knew the prison had been closed sometime in the mid-twentieth century, but then reopened again for a time late in the twenty-first, in the hard times after the war.
As he explored, the quiet outside was broken by the buzzing sound of the skimmer approaching the island. He had to hurry, had to find a place where he could hide. The first section of the prison seemed to be a processing area, where prisoners were booked into the system. The cells were farther back, beyond more sets of doors and bars. But a quick look around the cells proved to Dennis that there was no hiding there—anyone walking down the hallways between cells could see every inch of them, bunks and sinks and toilets, mold-encrusted walls still showing graffiti from ages gone by.
Which only made sense, he realized. Surely the guards would have needed clear sightlines throughout the cells. He turned back, his anxiety building. From outside he could hear voices already, as the tour guide led the group toward the prison. Once at the processing area, he passed through an open door and ducked down behind a chest-high counter, pressing himself up against the far side. As long as no one came through the door into this area, he would be safe, but there was no place to hide if the group decided to check out the office. The floor here was filthy, caked with years of refuse, bird droppings, and neglect, and it stank. But he could take it if he didn't have to wait too long, he figured. And really, how long could a tour of this place take? There wasn't really so much to see inside.
He could barely make out the guide's words, so hard was his heart pounding in his ears as the tour came through. He worked to still his breathing, willing himself to become as invisible as he possibly could. The guide's voice turned into a pleasant drone as she led her group through this section and into the cell block, and when they were gone, Dennis allowed himself to relax a bit.
But the hard part, he knew, was still ahead.
After thirty minutes or so, he heard voices approaching again, and he resumed his hiding position. Now was when he most risked discovery, he feared. They'd been through the cells, they were more casual about being here, and the chance that someone might decide to step away from the tour and come behind the counter was increased. Once again, when they came near he slowed his breathing. He trembled from fear of discovery, and clenched his fists between his knees to keep his limbs from rapping against the floor or the side of the counter.
This time, the guide's voice was quiet, as she'd already explained the function of this part of the prison. But the tourists were talking loudly, certainly drowning out any noises Dennis might have made. He stayed where he was until their voices began to fade, as the group made its way back outside, and then he cautiously raised his head above the protective counter. He saw people—humans and aliens, as well—walking from the inside's dimness into bright light, blinking and shading their eyes. But no one turned back to look behind them, so he slipped from his hiding spot and hurried to the door, taking up the back of the line as they headed down the slope to the waiting skimmer. As they approached the dock, he moved up, nodding casually to those who caught his eye, pretending he had been with them all along. If anyone thought different, no one mentioned it.
On the skimmer, he took a seat on a long plastisteel bench. His worst moment came when the guide looked out at the group and asked, "Are we all here? We wouldn't want to leave anyone behind." He was afraid she might count heads, in which case he'd be found out. But she accepted the murmurs of affirmation that came from the crowd, and the skimmer pulled out, skipping across the choppy surf like a cast stone, the city growing ever larger in the front viewscreen.
Dennis started to calm down, finally, as the craft neared the port on the San Francisco side of the bay. The beginning of this project had been inauspicious, he thought, but it was getting better all the time.
He had escaped from Alcatraz.
* * *
Waiting for the others in their chosen alcove, Will began to get into the spirit of the mission. No one went in or out the doorway—Estresor Fil had chosen well; the corner storefront had windows chemically opaqued and appeared to be an empty space—but some of the passersby glared at him and Estresor Fil with suspicion. He couldn't blame them—anyone who had been past more than once would realize that they'd been hanging around for a long time, without leaving or apparently having any real reason to be there. After an hour of it he was starting to feel as if they really were in a hostile city where his life could be in genuine danger.
But the meeting place they'd agreed on was this intersection. They could cross the street to a different corner, but the other corners were even busier, with open businesses where they would be in the way. Here, at least, they were out of the sun and shielded from casual view to some degree.
Just a few minutes past the hour, he saw Felicia Mendoza, strolling languidly up the other side of Jones Street wearing a loose royal blue top with black pants and boots, looking as if she didn't have a care in the world. He started to say something to Estresor Fil about it, but then realized that she fit right in with those around her, whereas if she'd been moving with definite purpose she would have stood out among the crowd. He had realized that at first glance he'd thought she was a strikingly attractive woman, but it hadn't sunk in that she was Felicia until he looked more closely.
She hadn't seen them, and was crossing Sacramento. She knew this was the meeting point, so she would surely come back this way, he hoped. But when he stepped out of the alcove to look for her, she was out of sight, already over the crest of the hill. He caught Estresor Fil's wide-eyed, unchanging but somehow accusatory gaze, and went after Felicia.
When he caught up with her, she had crossed Jones and was heading back up Sacramento, toward him. "Felicia," he said. "I'm glad I caught you."
She smiled, her big brown eyes seeming to twinkle at him. " 'Caught' me?" she echoed. "I was coming to you."
"So you saw us?" he asked.
"In your oh-so-secret doorway hideout? Of course. Did you think I was going to dash across the street straight to you? We're supposed to be exercising some discretion, right?"
He turned around so they were both walking the right direction, back toward Estresor Fil. "Well, yes," he said. "Which you did, very nicely."
She looked sideways at him, her rich black hair falling across her cheek. Seeing her like this, in civilian clothes, acting the part of a casual San Franciscan instead of the frequently harried cadet she really was, Will decided he had never quite realized just how lovely she was. "Thank you," she said, and her voice was as clear and pure as a ringing bell.
By the time they got back to Estresor Fil's alcove, Boon had arrived and was lounging against the wall as if he didn't have the strength to stand up. This was just Boon's typical posture, though, except when he was in uniform and required to stand straight and tall. After a while, most cadets learned to hold their correct posture all the time, but for Boon it was only an obligation of service and would apparently never be a habit.
"I didn't see you when I passed by," Felicia said to him.
"Just got here."
"Where did you beam in?" Will asked him.
"Up to my ankles in the Pacific Ocean," Boon complained. "Anyone else get wet?"
"I didn't," Estresor Fil said.
"I wasn't too far away at all, as it turned out," Felicia said. "So I took a walk around the neighborhood, familiarizing myself with the local landmarks."
"So it's just me. It's always me," Boon said morosely.
"Your life is so hard," Felicia sighed.
"But we don't know where Dennis is," Will pointed out. "For all we know, he has it worse than you."
"Fat chance," Boon opined.
They waited another hour, and then some. Finally, Estresor Fil spotted Dennis on his way, and eight minutes later he reached them. After an overly long explanation of his plight and his solution to it, he produced what they'd all been waiting for—the first clue of their project.
They all looked at the document blankly. "Twins?" Boon asked. "What twins?"
## Chapter 8
"That's kind of the point, isn't it?" Felicia responded. "We're supposed to figure the clues out. If it was easy, it wouldn't really be a challenge, now would it?"
Boon looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "I don't know about you, but I'm already tired of this," he said. "It's nonsense. Running all over the place when it'd be so much easier to use transporters. Figuring out clues. I think my feet are still pruney from the water, and they hurt."
"I would suggest you quit, Boon," Estresor Fil told him. "Except that we're a squadron, and your failure would affect all of us. So perhaps you should just take it in stride and shut up."
The Coridanian looked stricken then. Will, always curious about Estresor Fil's ways and motivations, wondered if she was really just being blunt, or if she had intentionally tried to wound him, hoping, perhaps, that it would inspire him to greater effort. And less whining, he thought, that would be good too. Boon fancied himself a great leader and a starship captain in the making, but Will figured that any captain who bitched and moaned as much as Boon did would be begging for mutiny, probably within the first few days of his command.
He had to admit that while the complaining was annoying, Boon really did have a lot of good qualities—he was smart, made decisions fast and well, could think on his feet, and could inspire the loyalty of those around him. Until the sour attitude took over, and then all that loyalty was gone. Perhaps if Boon had been chosen as the leader of this final project, he'd have stowed the negativity and would already be leading them toward their objective. Dennis, obviously worn out from his ordeal so far, wasn't exactly taking the helm and inspiring confidence, so maybe Boon would have been the better choice. But Will didn't want to let Dennis's chance at leadership vanish. He decided to spur his friend on. "Do you have any ideas, Dennis? You've had the clue the longest."
Dennis, sitting on the ground in the doorway headquarters, shook his head sadly. "I tried to come up with something, but at the same time I was trying to figure out how to get off the island. I thought that should take precedence, since if I couldn't do that none of you would get a shot at the clue either. So I didn't really make much progress, I'm afraid."
"Are you sure there's not more to it?" Boon asked. "How do we find the right pair of twins in a city this size? Must be crawling with twins."
Felicia flashed her smile again, the one that Will was finding more intriguing all the time. "Maybe it's not human twins," she suggested. "There are maps every few blocks. If the twins are a natural feature, or one of the main city attractions, they'll be on there."
"Worth a look, anyway," Dennis agreed. He forced himself wearily to his feet. "You guys have been waiting around here for long enough as it is. Let's find us one of those maps and see if we can locate some twins."
A kiosk three blocks down Jones Street had city maps and transport schedules for the whole region. When Dennis entered "twins" on the keypad, nothing came up. But when Estresor Fil called up a city overview, the twins were suddenly apparent to all. Twin Peaks were two round-topped, still undeveloped hills—two of the tallest points in the city, it turned out, even higher than Nob Hill. Will requested a history of them, in case it would help identify where at the feet of the twins they might expect to find the checkpoint, and learned that one of the hills—there were actually more than two, all in the same vicinity, though the two called Twin Peaks were the tallest—had once held a broadcasting tower from which signals could be sent through the air to homes all over the San Francisco Bay Area, and that on clear days the view from the Peaks was considered one of the best in the region. None of which helped a bit when it came to locating their checkpoint.
They had all done enough walking, except for Estresor Fil, who had been standing more or less in one place for hours now. But majority ruled and they hopped an underground transport to the Twin Peaks area. They would have, Will suspected, plenty of walking ahead of them yet, especially if they had to circumnavigate the base of the hills in order to find the spot they needed.
He, for one, was more than happy to sit down for a while.
* * *
As the map had indicated, the burnished brown hillsides of Twin Peaks were undeveloped, left open for hikers and view seekers to enjoy, Estresor Fil's opinion on the latter notwithstanding. But the city came right up to its edge, with houses and commercial buildings hemming it in on all sides. In many spots, the members of Zeta Squadron couldn't even see where the hillside began because it was behind private homes, with no access to the public. They had to try to peer over fences and between narrowly spaced houses to see if they could locate anything that might be their checkpoint.
After making a complete circuit, they still had no idea what they were looking for. "Maybe we interpreted the clue wrong," Dennis said glumly. He had stopped walking and just stood on the sidewalk, holding his envelope between two fingers like it had become something unpleasant. "Maybe these are the wrong twins."
"Yeah, and maybe this is a stupid project," Boon added. "I mean, if we really were an away team in hostile territory, we wouldn't have checkpoints to look for, would we?"
"Probably not," Will agreed. "But we would have a mission of some kind. We'd be gathering information about the place, or we'd be trying to locate a contact, or something. We wouldn't just land someplace for no reason at all."
"Will's right," Felicia said. "So is Dennis—it's possible that we picked the wrong twins. But the assignment is as close to realistic as it can be, without risking whole classes of cadets by sending them to actual hostile cities."
"I guess," Boon said reluctantly.
"Perhaps we've been too literal about the clue," Estresor Fil suggested. "Maybe it means something other than the foot of the hills. Is there a cobbler or something like that nearby?"
Will considered this for a moment. She was right—it was unlikely that Admiral Paris wouldn't have worked in a twist or two. So they had to look for the less likely possibilities, even the opposite of what appeared to be the meaning. "Maybe we should be looking up," he announced.
"Up?" Boon repeated. "You're not making any sense, Riker."
"Not at first glance," Will agreed. "But 'feet' has multiple meanings, and one of them is as a unit of measurement. Once used, among other things, to indicate altitude."
"Good point, Will," Felicia said, touching his upper arm for emphasis. "I agree. We should go up."
Boon shrugged. "I guess we can't do any worse than we are down here. Except for the climbing part, I mean."
They split into two teams, Will and Felicia taking one hill, and Dennis, Boon and Estresor Fil on the other. As they climbed, the late afternoon sun bore down on them. Up here there was only stunted shrubbery, and nothing to shade them from its rays. Will commented on it, and Felicia just laughed at him. "This is nothing compared to summers at home," she said. "We have heat, humidity, bugs—this is like paradise, here."
"Climate-controlled paradise," Will reminded her. "Nothing like this in Alaska, I can tell you."
"We have cold, too, in the mountains," Felicia said. "But maybe not like in Alaska."
"Maybe not," Will agreed. He picked his way up a faint trail, sidestepping the low brush as he rose. "Valdez is in the southern part of the state, well below the Arctic Circle, and it's pretty nice this time of year. Buggy, too. Come winter, though, it's a different story. The sun comes up around ten in the morning and has set by five in the afternoon. In between, it never warms up. There's snow everywhere—you don't see the ground until the spring thaw, and then everything that was snow is mud."
"It doesn't sound like you miss it much," she said.
"I love it," Will told her. "But I couldn't wait to get away from it. Now that I'm here, I can't wait to get off the planet."
She shielded her eyes against the sun and looked across the way at the group climbing the other hill. "We're ahead," she said happily. "Maybe this summer—what are you doing for the summer?"
Will nodded eagerly. "I've already got my assignment," he said. "I'm going to Saturn. I'm so anxious to get going I could explode."
"That's great, Will," Felicia enthused. "You didn't get off-planet last summer, did you?" she asked him.
"Just for a couple of weeks, to New Berlin. But I spent most of the summer in Paris. I'm due for some time off-world, that's for sure."
"You'll love it out there," she said. "Two more years after this and you'll be assigned to a starship, and do great things."
"Unless," he pointed out, "we can't find our first checkpoint and we fail miserably at this assignment. In which case maybe they'll just give us all the boot, and I can go back to Alaska and clean fish." They were almost to the top now, and while the views were spectacular, they hadn't seen anything promising. Their boots were getting caked with brown dust, but that was all they'd accomplished.
Suddenly Felicia grabbed his arm, squeezing his biceps tightly and holding on perhaps a little longer than she had to. He found that he didn't mind. "Look, Will!" she shouted. He followed her pointing hand and saw what she meant. On a flat area near the summit was a dark cylinder, obviously not a natural feature but something left there. Or transported there, Will thought, which was more likely, especially considering the lack of footprints around it.
He and Felicia rushed to the cylinder and found that it had a Starfleet insignia embossed onto it. On one side was a keypad, but otherwise its surface was blank. "What do you think we do with it?" he asked.
"Try your ID code," Felicia suggested.
Every cadet was assigned an identity code to be used throughout their years at the Academy. Will nodded and entered his code onto the keypad. This was met by a whirring noise, and a previously invisible slot appeared on the cylinder. From the slot, a new strip of paper emerged.
"What does it say?" Felicia asked with excitement.
" 'Congratulations, Zeta Squadron,' " Will read. " 'You've achieved checkpoint number one. Your next challenge will be to span the globe to find an artist, who will direct you from there.' "
"An artist?" Felicia frowned. "What does that mean?"
Will shrugged, palms up. "Beats me," he said. He glanced over his shoulder at the other part of their team, still climbing the second peak unaware of the discovery. "But I guess we can tell the others to come down now. Unless you want to let Boon hike around and grumble a while longer."
## Chapter 9
The captain's office was dimly lit and suffused with a burning rubber smell that reminded Kyle of old skunk. He found himself wanting to hold his breath, but knew that was impractical. Anyway, he'd have to get used to the odor since he was going to be on the ship for a while. The captain was a Kreel'n, he'd been told. Without that small warning he wouldn't have known what to expect, and having never met a Kreel'n—rumors, of course, but that was all—he was still barely prepared for the reality of it.
"Captain?" he asked hesitantly when he entered. He had been told to enter but he couldn't see her anywhere when he went in. Unlike the neat and tidy equivalents he had seen on Starfleet vessels, this room was barely contained chaos; seemingly a storeroom for old electronic parts, a workspace, a library, and an office all in one, with no apparent division between one function and another.
"Come in, Mr. Barrow," a voice like a rusted hinge squeaked at him. "I am here, at my desk."
Kyle tried to follow the voice through the gloom and clutter. He had chosen the pseudonym Barrow, on a whim, because it was both an Alaskan city he had visited on a few occasions and the name of one of the most infamous fugitives in American history, Clyde Barrow, better known in association with his partner Bonnie Parker. If you're going to be on the lam, he'd thought, you might as well make the best of it. So he had become Kyle Barrow, man of mystery.
Finally, he saw a flat surface—mostly buried under stacks of objects whose purposes he could only make the wildest guess at—and behind the stacks, a pair of black, lifeless eyes in an oddly shaped head. He stepped forward and more of the captain came into view. Her head most closely resembled, in Kyle's experience, a pickle or a cucumber, but larger, with a greater diameter. Her skin was a dark green, and her eyes, half a dozen of them, encircled most of her head at about three-quarters of its height. Above them were nodes and ridges running lengthwise; below the eyes some perforations that might have been aural, olfactory, or some other type of organs, and below those a definite mouth, unlipped and toothless but with a tongue capable of speaking English, though with an unpleasant rasp.
"Welcome to the Morning Star, Mr. Barrow," she said, rising from her seat and extending a hand toward Kyle. "I'm Captain S'K'lee."
Kyle stepped forward and took the proffered hand, shaking and then releasing it. It had, as far as he could tell, ten fingers, maybe a dozen, all narrow and wormlike, with no apparent joints. Like her head, it was a dark green, or seemed to be in the dim light. Her uniform was a simple pale green tunic, belted at what must have been her waist, though there was only a third of her entire height below it. He couldn't see her legs, or whatever was beneath the belt, and she quickly lowered herself back down behind the desk.
"Thank you for the welcome, and for the berth," Kyle said. "I appreciate your fitting me in at short notice."
"Better to have a passenger than not have a passenger, right?" S'K'lee asked. "Especially a paying one."
Kyle was not used to such blatant discussion of finances, but he understood that, primitive as it was, some races still functioned on a monetary basis. He had already arranged the transfer of the agreed-upon number of credits, through an intermediary suggested by the agent back at the freight company to assure anonymity. "I trust the payment was satisfactory?" he asked.
"Yes, quite. If it hadn't been, you would not now be aboard my ship," she said. "You do understand that this may be quite a long trip with a number of stops?"
"I do."
"May I ask your ultimate destination?"
"You can ask," Kyle said. "But I can't answer. And I wouldn't even if I had one in mind."
"Understood," S'K'lee said quickly. "Then I suppose it would be pointless to ask what the purpose of your journey is, or if, by taking you, I am opening myself up to any possible legal actions?"
"You'd be correct," Kyle told her, "in that it would be pointless to ask. Is that a problem?"
"Not at all, not at all." S'K'lee shook her head rapidly, which had the effect of making her many black eyes seem to blur into a single oval shape. "I simply like to know where things stand."
"Of course," Kyle said. He had expected discretion, and was relieved to have his expectation confirmed.
"Have you seen your quarters?"
"Not yet," Kyle replied. "But I'm sure they'll be fine." After the shuttle had docked at the orbital platform, Kyle had arranged for some changes of clothes and personal grooming items, then had come straight to the Morning Star. He still held in his left hand the bundle he had acquired.
"You'll be escorted there directly," S'K'lee assured him. "Cargo areas, engineering, environmental, and tactical operations areas are off limits to passengers. The bridge is accessible to you only by special request. Otherwise, you are free to move about the ship at will."
"Thank you."
"If you'd like to disembark at any stop, simply tell a member of the crew and arrangements will be made."
"Sounds good," Kyle said. "I look forward to the trip."
"It won't be comfortable, but it'll be long," S'K'lee told him with a grating, huffing noise that he guessed was her version of laughter. When she finished, she asked, "Is there anything else you'd like to know, about the ship? About me?"
There was, in fact, but he was hesitant to bring it up. She had already evidenced her sensitivity to his privacy; he didn't want to disregard hers.
"There is one thing," she said, "that most of your kind seems to want to know about Kreel'n ships' captains. If you're curious, feel free to ask. I assure you it isn't a problem for me to talk about."
"I'm sure we will," he answered. "At a later date."
She made a grimace that he could only assume was a smile. "Very well, very well. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Barrow. I trust you'll have as pleasant a voyage as is possible, under the circumstances. I need to prepare myself now—I like to pilot out of the dock myself. I'll arrange for someone to escort you to your quarters."
"Thank you, Captain S'K'lee," Kyle said. Behind him, the door shushed open and he knew he was dismissed. He stepped through it and there was already a crewman coming toward him. This was also a Kreel'n, a male he guessed, though he wasn't at all sure, with a deeper chest and broader shoulders and a head that was more squash-shaped than cucumber. He saw now that the Kreel'n did indeed have very short legs for their body size—this one was as tall as he was, but its legs were no longer than his were from the knee down.
"Right this way, Mr. Barrow," it said, sweeping its wriggling mass of fingers in the direction from which it had just waddled.
Unlike the captain—and this was what he so desperately wanted to ask her about, though he had sensed, and apparently correctly, that in spite of her invitation it was really something that ought to wait until he knew her better—this Kreel'n's eyes had the glimmer of life and intelligence in them. The stories he had heard about Kreel'n captains, which he had been unwilling to credit until just now, seemed to be true, though he couldn't imagine why it would be a good idea.
They were, so the rumors went, surgically blinded before assuming their commands. Six eyes, none of which worked.
Maybe there was some sense to it, but for the life of him Kyle couldn't fathom what it was.
His cabin was as promised—not particularly comfortable, but adequate for his very basic needs. Since the Morning Star was of Kreel'n design, it was probably handy that in spite of their physiological differences humans and Kreel'n were about the same size. The room had a bed, toilet facilities that would meet his requirements, and a replicator. At the end of the bed was a trunk in which he could store his few belongings. The trunk's lid was flat and could, he supposed, be used as a seat as well.
As in the captain's office, the lighting was dim when he entered, but after examining the controls for a few moments he was able to override the default setting and increase the brightness a bit. The light glowed from walls that were otherwise unadorned, instead of being concentrated in specific fixtures.
All in all, there wasn't much to entertain him on a long trip, he figured. But he hadn't even begun to see the rest of the ship. As much as he intended to keep to himself, in order to preserve his privacy, he guessed he'd be spending some amount of time in the public areas. Maybe they had a gym or a holodeck, or both. A library would be good as well. Kyle wanted a lot of time to think, to reflect. But he also wanted to stay sharp, in body and mind, for the conflict that was sure to come.
He stowed his small bundle and then turned to the replicator for a cup of coffee. It would not, he knew, be as good as the real thing he brewed back home. That was a pleasure he'd have to forgo for a while, in the interest of survival. When he withdrew his cup from the replicator, it was the right color, and the aroma was good. Steam wafted from the surface. He brought it to his lips and sampled it.
Replicator coffee, he thought, disappointed in spite of himself. The same the universe over. As he drank, a Klaxon blared throughout the ship, signaling its imminent departure. Kyle sat down on top of the trunk, bracing himself for any sudden jolts, especially considering the pilot's disability. But the launch was as smooth as any he'd experienced. He sat on the trunk at the end of his new bed and sipped his coffee, realizing he hadn't had any solid food in hours. Once they were well under way, he'd do something about that. For now, though, he was content to drink his java knowing that his most immediate troubles were slipping farther and farther away with every passing moment.
He needed sleep as well—it had been many hours since he'd slept, with the exception of a few fitful moments on the shuttle—but his mind was racing too fast for that to be a possibility anytime soon. Everything that had happened was still too fresh. The attacks on him were predominant in his thinking, of course, but other issues, more personal still, beat a discordant counterpoint. Running into Ben Sisko and seeing Jennifer and brand-new Jake, born on Father's Day, so soon after being reminded by Admiral Paris that his own son Will was on the Academy campus less than a kilometer away, had been surprisingly jarring. He remembered the simultaneous joy and fear at Will's birth and Annie's illness. He had fond memories of times with Will, watching the boy grow up from day to day, learning new skills, forming a personality all his own. The boy had always been bright and quick-witted, and there had been days when father and son had both collapsed into puddles of hysterical laughter at Will's antics and jokes.
But there had been dark days, too, when the pressure of Kyle's own inadequacy as a father had weighed heavily on his shoulders. Days when Will had questions Kyle could not answer, needs Kyle could not begin to meet. Sometimes he thought his son a completely alien being, unable to be understood in the least. Other times—worse times, in some cases—he thought he was raising a carbon copy of himself, having handed down to his heir his own faults and weaknesses.
You did what you could, he told himself, sipping from his steaming mug. Given who you were—who you are—you made your best possible effort.
He had told himself that many times, over the years. As always, he wondered if it was true. Wasn't there something more he could have given of himself, some other heroic effort he could have made had he only thought of it? Was there some other expert to whom he could have turned for advice and guidance? If he had stayed, instead of leaving—running away, he now understood, as he was running again—during Will's fifteenth year, could they have reached some new plateau of understanding and acceptance?
Kyle shook his head fiercely. Those were questions of the past. While the past could be visited, with considerable difficulty, it could not be substantively changed, so it did no good to dwell on those matters. Kyle had never considered himself a great intellect, but he was a great problem solver. He didn't like wrestling with issues that had no solutions. Instead, he did what he always did at such times, visualized his mind as a series of boxes. He took his thoughts of young Will Riker, tucked them deep into one of those boxes, and closed the lid on them.
## Chapter 10
By the time they had all come down from the hills of Twin Peaks, the sun was sinking toward the ocean and the air was getting colder. "I'm hungry," Dennis Haynes said when they met up. "What about the rest of you?"
"I could stand something to eat," Boon replied.
"Me too," Estresor Fil said. For her, food was often a matter of urgency. With her tiny size and fast metabolism, every meal was processed quickly, and she couldn't wait too long for the next. Even as they'd made their way to Twin Peaks she had snacked now and again. When she needed food her patience grew short and so, Will had noticed, did her sentences. "Really hungry."
"We should eat something, and find some shelter for the night," Dennis suggested. "We can brainstorm on the new clue while we rest and hit it first thing in the morning."
Will was glad to see that Dennis was finally taking a leadership position. "Do you think the other squadrons are doing one a day?" he wondered.
"That's what it should average out to, anyway," Dennis reminded him. "Five clues, five days, right?"
"That's true," Felicia said. "So we might as well pace ourselves."
"Does anyone have any ideas for a place to sleep?" Dennis asked.
"There are several public shelters," Estresor Fil pointed out. "That we can find after we eat."
Dennis laughed, getting the point. "Okay, let's go feed ourselves," he said, starting back toward the city itself. Everyone else followed.
"I think we should avoid the public shelters, though," Will suggested. "The other squadrons might be there."
"So?"
"So you really think they won't try to sabotage us if they see us?"
"We could do the same to them," Boon offered.
"I'd rather try to win fairly," Felicia put in. "Without doing anything to hurt anyone else's chances, just by being the best."
Boon pretended to stifle a yawn. "That's no fun, Felicia."
She shot him an angry glare. "You may not think so, Boon. But it's the way I'd like to play it, and I think it's the way Admiral Paris wants it. If you don't think so, maybe you should reconsider a Starfleet career."
Boon stopped in the middle of the street, pulling himself up to his considerable height, and loomed over Felicia. "Don't be so sure of yourself," he said, his voice low and rumbling. Will wondered if he should intercede, but then decided that if Boon moved from menacing to actual violence, Felicia would be able to handle him. "Sure, they talk about fair play and honor and integrity and all that stuff, but you think they really mean it? When the chips are down and it's them or you, you'd better do whatever is necessary to make sure you walk away and they don't."
"You don't know what you're talking about!" Dennis said. "Starfleet doesn't just talk about integrity; they personify it."
"They're right, Boon," Will said. "If you don't think so, you don't know much about Starfleet's history."
Boon shook his head, scoffing at the others. "Some people are so naÏve," he said. "I'll tell you what, when I'm sitting in that captain's chair, I hope I don't have any dreamers like you all on my crew to worry about."
"With an attitude like that," Will replied, "I don't think you'll ever have to worry about being in the captain's chair at all." He was surprised that this side of Boon had never emerged before. But then, he hadn't know the Coridanian that long, just during this school year. And none of their group projects had forced them to spend as much time together as this one would. Any personality conflicts that were simmering beneath the surface would surely come out during the week's forced intimacy.
Boon leaned forward threateningly and Will braced himself, believing that the Coridanian was going to attack him instead of Felicia. Boon had height and reach on him, Will knew, and if it was going to be a fight it would be a brutal one that he would either win quickly or not at all.
Before either male could surrender to the testosterone that fueled them, however, Estresor Fil inserted her tiny form between them. "I need to eat," she implored. "Now."
Will held Boon's yellow eyes for a few more seconds, then ticked his head toward the diminutive Zimonian. "She's right," he said. "We need to get her fed—all of us, really—and we need to stick together. You willing to do that?"
Boon breathed heavily, but Will could see his body relax, his fists unclench. "Yeah, okay," he said, sounding a bit reluctant to call off the fight. Will had the sense that their reckoning was merely postponed, not canceled.
With the tension dissipated, though not eliminated, they turned once again to the question of food. Finding some was not difficult—no one went hungry in San Francisco—and they ate at an outdoor table. Boon and Will sat at opposite ends, but the group kept the conversation away from the recent incident between them. Dennis steered it back toward the question of lodging for the night.
"If we're going to avoid public shelters," he said, with a furtive glance toward Boon, "then we're going to have to come up with some alternative. I don't want to spend the night on the streets, and we can't go back to our rooms at the Academy."
"Let's approach it as if we really were on a mission," Will suggested. "We'd want to stay someplace discreet, where the local authorities wouldn't notice us. We wouldn't want to interact much with the locals, if we could help it, until we had the lay of the land better. Since we spent most of today trying to meet up and then climbing mountains, we didn't really get to do that."
"I know a place," Felicia offered.
"Where?" Dennis asked her. "I hope it doesn't involve any more climbing."
"Remember that doorway that Estresor Fil found this morning? No one went in or out. The windows were all blacked over. I think it's an empty space, and obviously it's not getting much use, if any."
"You want to break in?" Dennis asked, surprised.
"Exactly. We don't have to hurt anything. We just go in, sleep, and leave in the morning."
"That's illegal," Estresor Fil pointed out.
"So?" Boon asked, the first word he'd said since he and Will had faced off on the street. "Like she said, we wouldn't hurt anything. If we were on an away mission in hostile territory, we wouldn't hesitate to break a few minor laws to save our own skins."
"I suppose," Estresor Fil said, more loquacious now that her stomach was full. "Although I don't feel very comfortable with the idea. Weren't we specifically forbidden from breaking laws?"
"There are laws and there are laws," Boon argued. "In San Francisco, anyone who doesn't have a place to sleep is entitled to go to one of the public shelters. That's why they have them. But if we don't want to do that—and if we were on a secret mission here, that would be the last place we'd want to show up—then we have to bunk someplace else. We don't want to stay in a tourist hotel, again since we're supposed to be here secretly. Either we make friends with one of the locals, in a hurry, or we go with Felicia's idea."
"We don't seem to have a lot of options," Will agreed. "And it does seem like if you're trying to hide from the authorities, going to a shelter run by those same authorities is a bad idea."
"It's hard to argue with that," Dennis admitted. "I still don't think I like the idea, but—"
"You got any better ones?" Boon interrupted.
"That's precisely the problem," Estresor Fil put in, having apparently been won over. "Either we don't break any of Admiral Paris's rules but we do the single thing that would most likely result in our capture, or we break rules judiciously and carry out our assignment."
When she finished, all eyes went to Dennis.
"I don't like it," he said at last. "But since I can't, in fact, think of anything better, I agree that it seems like the best of our limited options."
By the time they'd finished their dinner, the sky had gone dark.
They caught an underground transport back to Nob Hill, checking the route maps to see if there were any obvious clues to an artist who spanned the globe. There weren't, so they continued back to the corner at which they'd met earlier that day, and with which Will and Estresor Fil had become so familiar. At the doorway alcove, Boon took the lead in the breaking-and-entering process. He said he'd done it several times, at home on the hardrock mining planet of Coridan.
"Security might be a little better here," Dennis suggested in a nervous whisper.
"Are you calling Coridan some kind of primitive backwater?" Boon demanded.
"No, not at all," Dennis said quickly, backing away a step as if Boon's words had carried physical force.
"Look, Boon," Will said, stepping up and forgetting his earlier resolve. "I don't know if your problem is that we elected Dennis to lead the squadron on this mission, or what. But you're acting like someone with a chip on his shoulder the size of the moon. If you can't leave your personal feelings behind and carry on with the mission, then you should just tell us now so we can report back to Admiral Paris that we failed."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Riker?" Boon asked with a snarl. "You sabotage everything you ever do, guaranteeing you'll never succeed at anything so you won't really be tested. You'd just love to shoot a hole in this project right off the bat."
The accusation stunned Will. He had never thought of himself as self-destructive, and he doubted that Boon knew him better than he knew himself. But at the same time, he knew that sometimes others saw unpleasant traits in people that they couldn't see in themselves. He decided to shelve any further examination of the issue, to consider later. Right now, they had a building to break into.
"Never mind my psychological shortcomings, Counselor," he shot back. "Can you open that door or not?"
Boon had already turned away from the others and had the faceplate removed from the keypad. "Yeah, just give me a few minutes to reprogram this," he said. Will tried to watch but Boon blocked his view with his broad shoulders and quickly moving hands. "This one's easy. I've seen some with multiple redundant alarm systems, but this—well, I guess there's nothing in here worth taking."
"That's okay," Felicia said, sounding maybe a little nervous that she'd suggested this in the first place. "We're not taking anything. Is there a lot of crime on Coridan?"
"A fair bit," Boon said. He closed the faceplate and put his palm against the keypad, and the door irised open for him. "All that dilithium, you know, and other valuable minerals. Left us wide open for all sorts of folks to come around and take whatever they could get their hands on." He stepped to the side and bowed toward the doorway, indicating that the others should enter first. As he did so, he looked right at Felicia. "Of course, if I read you right, you were asking if I committed a lot of crime on Coridan. Which, of course, is impossible—I wouldn't have been accepted into the Academy if I'd had a criminal record, now, would I?"
Will knew, of course, that a criminal record was something you acquired only after you'd been caught. In the past few hours, he had learned not to underestimate Boon in any way—including, it seemed, his skills at illegal entry.
The inside of the building was primarily a single empty room, with bare walls and floor. A few support beams broke up the emptiness, but that was all. It had been, or would be, a shop of some kind, but currently it was nothing at all except temporary shelter for five Starfleet cadets, tired and excited and a little scared, all at the same time. At the back of the large vacant space they found a separate storage area with a working bathroom, which the cadets took turns with. Running water was more than Will had dared to hope for.
Since they'd come empty-handed, there were no blankets or pillows to make the bare floors more comfortable, but they were so tired from the day's events that it hardly seemed to matter. Will chose a spot at some distance from the others, with a view of the door. He could be a heavy sleeper, he knew, and if anyone came in the door he wanted to be close enough to hear it right away. He had just closed his eyes, though, when he heard someone come close to him and take a seat on the floor. He opened his eyes again, to see Felicia smiling down at him in the dim light.
"I just wanted to say I'm sorry that you got into it with Boon," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "We need to stick together if we're going to succeed at this project."
"I'm not the one who has to be convinced of that," Will replied. As soon as he said it, he realized it might sound harsher than he had meant it to. "I'm sorry," he quickly added. "I guess I've underestimated him. I always knew he was kind of pushy and headstrong, but I didn't understand the full extent of it. I hope it doesn't come to violence, but if he insists on a fight, then he'll get one."
She put a gentle, soothing hand on his shoulder. "You've got to try to avoid that," she said. "For all our sakes. Do you think we'll get a passing grade on this project if you two pummel each other half to death? Besides," she appended, her voice softening, "I really would hate to see you get hurt. I wouldn't mind seeing Boon taken down a few pegs, I guess. He could use the lesson. But it would bother me if you were injured in the process."
In the near dark of the empty space, it was hard to tell for sure, but Will thought that her cheeks might be crimsoning with this confession. He wasn't quite sure how to respond. "I can take care of myself," he said, knowing even as he spoke that it was the wrong thing to say, too dismissive of her concerns, too tinged with self-serving braggadocio to be at all meaningful. "I mean, I would try not to do anything that could jeopardize our grades, and I kind of like myself unbruised and unbroken. Don't worry, Felicia. I'll do my best to keep things calm."
She released his shoulder now, after a final, firm squeeze. "See that you do, Mr. Riker," she commanded. "I kind of like you that way myself."
Then she moved away and Will settled in, resting his head on his shirt, thinking that all in all, it had been a pretty eventful day. Even this late in the year, his squadron mates were full of surprises—none more so than Boon and Felicia; Boon for his unexpected truculence and Felicia for her sudden attention.
He couldn't even guess at what the next days might bring, but as he drifted off to sleep he figured they'd be challenging, if nothing else.
## Chapter 11
There was one other human passenger on the Morning Star, Kyle soon learned, He was exploring the corridors; two days out from the dock, he still barely had the hang of the huge ship's layout, and he was pretty sure he'd made at least a couple of wrong turns.
The ship was nothing but functional, and even then more for Kreel'n than humans. The corridors were narrow and low-ceilinged, with handrails for the top-heavy beings further crowding the available space. Floors, in many places, were simple gridwork, providing access to the miles of tubes and wires and circuits that kept the ship in flight. Doors were opened by a complex system of push buttons—easy for the multifingered Kreel'n, but a little tricky for Kyle.
On this particular morning, Kyle had been looking for the gym he'd been told was on the fourth deck below his—all the decks were identified by Kreel'n symbols which looked like nothing more than squiggles to him, so he had to count every time he went up or down the ladders, on which the rungs were far too close together for his long legs. The ship had no turbolifts, he learned to his surprise.
He had found the gym, but it hadn't taken long to discover that none of the equipment inside it was suitable for his physiology. He'd have to settle for the exercises he could perform in his own quarters, without equipment, supplemented by runs or walks through the long corridors.
Heading back to his quarters, he had indeed taken a wrong turn somewhere—he thought probably at one of the several points where five or six passageways converged on one another in a star pattern—and, trying to backtrack, had found himself in a part of the ship he hadn't yet seen. Here, pipes hung down from the metal ceiling, suspended by thin steel straps, and the burning rubber smell that he was already getting used to was largely obscured by a harsh oily stench. Even the air seemed thicker in this area. Kyle found himself blinking as the atmosphere stung his eyes. He turned a corner too fast and smacked his head against a low-hanging section of pipe.
"Ow!" he shouted involuntarily. He rubbed the sore spot, certain that a bump would appear before long, hoping he hadn't broken the skin so that whatever was crusting the outside of the pipe wouldn't get into his blood. He was starting to duck underneath the pipe when a door opened before him and a human man smiled at him.
"I thought that sounded like a human voice," the man said. "I'd heard rumors that there was another one of us about, but wasn't sure, given the size and design of this tub, that we'd get a chance to meet one another." His accent sounded indefinitely continental, as if he'd lived many places and spoke a plethora of languages, all of which contributed a little something to his English. "It's nice to hear once in a while." He was still standing in the doorway, hands gripping the jambs on either side of him, sort of leaning out into the hall but ready to flee back inside at a moment's notice. He was a friendly-looking fellow, Kyle thought, with a thick black beard that merged with the tufts of black chest hair visible above his open shirt. He had little hair on the upper part of his head, though, and what there was he kept cropped close to the scalp. His smiling face was broad, with a large red nose, small red eyes, and puffy, rosy cheeks. He looked to Kyle like a young, disheveled Santa Claus. The illusion carried down to his belly, which was immense. His expansive shirt was checked, red and white, and his pants were pale blue. His feet, Kyle noted, were bare.
"My name's Barrow. Kyle Barrow," Kyle lied.
"Of course it is. I'm John Abbott. Double b, double t, that's how it's spelled." The man was quite possibly the most cheerful fellow Kyle had ever seen. "You came from Earth, right?"
"Of course," Kyle confirmed. "Didn't you?"
John Abbott shook his huge head. "No, no. I mean, once I did, originally, certainly. Not recently, though. No, I've been here and there, moving about quite a bit, you know? I've been on board the Morning Star for quite a spell now. Quite a ways before I leave her, too."
"Where are you headed?"
John cocked his head sideways and shot Kyle an admonishing glare. "That's the first question you learn not to ask on a ship like this," he explained.
"I guess I've still got to learn the ropes," Kyle offered. "Sorry. Maybe I can buy you a drink sometime and you can tell me what else I shouldn't ask. There is a lounge someplace, isn't there?"
"There's a crew lounge," John told him. "But you wouldn't want to go there. The Kreel'n are all very nice, to your face, but get a few of them together—especially with some spirits in them—and you'll learn what they're really like, quickly enough. Not a pleasant time, that, not at all."
"And if a couple of human guys wanted to get a drink, pass the time, where would they do that?" Kyle could barely believe he was asking the question. He'd planned to be the solitary traveler, the mystery man, keeping to himself and letting no one get close to him. But now, with just two days of solitude under his belt, he was already trying to force a connection with the first human who'd spoken more than two words to him. He was, he knew, generally a sociable person, who had made friends at bases, space stations, and taverns across the galaxies, so the enforced solitude was hard.
John Abbott looked at the ceiling as if giving considerable thought to the question. "Well, there would be your quarters. And then there would be my quarters. And that's about it. You wouldn't want to drink too much anywhere else on this blasted ship because you'd have the damndest time finding your way back to where you were supposed to be. And—as with the crew lounge—you wouldn't want to be wandering about without the fullest use of your faculties. You don't know who, or what, you might encounter."
Kyle could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Are you saying we're not safe on this ship, John?"
John gave him a big wink. "Oh, you're safe enough, I'd guess. S'K'lee has no doubt given orders to keep your hide in one piece. But there are those on the crew who hate humans, make no mistake about that, and if you should cross one of them at a time and place when he thought he could get away with it, then I wouldn't want to swear to anything."
Having said that, he stepped away from the doorway, moving with the surprising, almost dainty grace that some large men master as a way of dealing with their bulk. "Come on in, Kyle Barrow, and let's get acquainted. My replicator can whip up some twelve-year-old scotch just as unconvincingly as yours can, I'm sure."
Kyle followed him into the room, which was at least twice the size of his own quarters, but equally impersonal. Most of the extra room was just floor space, as if John Abbott might want to host large parties from time to time. He did have three chairs and a table, though, with a computer stationed at one end of it. He went to the wall-mounted replicator. "Name your poison, Kyle."
"That scotch you mentioned sounds fine," Kyle said. Even in here, the oily smell of the corridor hung on. "A little touch of home. You'll have to draw me a map back to my bunk, though."
John Abbott laughed, a booming sound that echoed in the big space. "Coming right up," he said. "As far as the map, well, don't worry, I'll make sure you get home in one piece. Home being a relative term, of course."
A minute later he brought two glasses over to the table and bade Kyle sit down. He followed suit, again impressing Kyle with his almost balletic grace. After a sip from his own drink, he leaned forward conspiratorially. "Can we talk frankly, Kyle? Because if we can't, it's going to be a damnably long voyage, that's for sure."
"Of course," Kyle said, knowing even as he did so that he'd have to watch his step. He didn't want to give away too much to a stranger, even one who seemed as friendly and unthreatening as this.
"Don't trust anyone on this vessel," he said. "S'K'lee let you on because you paid her price, but she'd sell you out to the first buyer who could top it. She's already got your credits, so there's no percentage in taking your side from now on. I don't think she'd put you in harm's way, as I said before, unless there was something in it for her. But you have only bought a ticket, not any kind of loyalty."
"It sounds like you know her pretty well," Kyle observed. "If she's so bad, why have you flown with her for so long?"
"Because I know what to expect with her," John replied. "I don't expect more than a berth on a fast ship that's largely ignored by the rest of the universe, and I get exactly what I expect. She knows I mean her no harm, and I try not to be too much trouble. I watch my step and I keep out of the way. I'd advise you to do the same."
"Still, it seems like a hard way to live."
"Isn't it what you wanted when you booked passage?" John asked, and Kyle realized the man was right. "If you had wanted companionship, you'd have gone on a tourist flight. If you wanted efficiency, a man such as yourself, I'd guess you've got Starfleet connections and you could have hitched a ride on one of their boats. No, you came for the quiet, for the privacy. And you'll get it. I'm just trying to warn you, it comes with a price that isn't paid in credits. You don't want to trust anyone with your secret, whatever it is—no, don't deny it, Kyle Barrow, I know you've got one. Well, that's good. You can't trust anyone with your secret on this ship, because here, just as much as anywhere else, your secret is safe with no one but yourself."
"I take it you have a secret too," Kyle said. "Since you're on board with me."
"I said everybody has a secret. That includes me, of course. I'm not telling you mine, no matter how long we're on this bucket of bolts together."
"I'm not asking."
"See that you don't." John's voice was serious now, almost grim, Kyle thought. He was surprised at the turn the conversation had taken so quickly. This wasn't a casual get-acquainted chat anymore, but had become a life-and-death discussion when he wasn't looking. "Let me tell you something else, too, Kyle—it is Kyle, isn't it?"
Kyle nodded. "Yes, of course."
"I thought as much. Next time you pick a name, don't use your real one."
"I didn't mean it was—" Kyle began, but John cut him off.
"I know, but I also know that it is," he said. "Don't fret, I don't know who you really are and I don't care, believe me. But I know what you were thinking when you chose it. 'If I use my real first name, then I won't have to worry about not answering when someone calls me by it. As long as I change my last name I'll be safe.' But the fact is, you've just given them—whoever 'they' are, whoever you're on this ship hiding from—half of your identity. If your real first name is Kyle then you should call yourself Met'ridunk or Bob, something completely different. Trust me, for the first few weeks you'll be so hyperconscious that you'll answer to anything, and by the time you're comfortable with it, it will have become habit. Go as far away from your real name as possible. I hope you did a better job with Barrow."
"I think so," Kyle said. He hadn't even touched his scotch yet. He thought he'd been doing pretty well, but John Abbott—or whoever he was, since that clearly wasn't his real name either—was making him feel like the rankest of amateurs.
"Well, you can remain Kyle Barrow for the duration of your time on the Morning Star, and have plenty of time to come up with a name for the next place," John said. "If you're willing to accept help, I can even scare up some convincing identification for whatever name you select. Of course, then I'd know your next name. If it were me, I wouldn't trust me for a second. But the offer's there, if you'd like the assistance."
"Thanks, I think," Kyle said. "I'll consider it."
"Good man. I'd pass on it too," John reiterated. "Next thing, did you tell S'K'lee where you're getting off?"
"I don't even know myself yet."
"That's fine, that's good. If you do tell her anything, be sure you don't actually get off there. If you pick a spot and we actually go there, then you've got to stay on, even if it means renegotiating your fare. If you pick a spot that we might be headed for, you've got to find a way off before we stop there. If you're careful enough, you could be gone for days before she even knows it. It's harder with cargo, do you have any cargo on board? Don't tell me what it is."
"No, no cargo," Kyle assured him, shaking his head.
"Good, good. Travel light, it's the best way. Me, I've got cargo. Makes it a good deal more difficult to slip away unnoticed, I can tell you."
Kyle finally took a sip of the scotch, which was better than John had given him any reason to expect. He liked the warm sensation it made going down. "This is the good stuff," he said.
"Good as it gets. You live with the stink of this ship long enough, you'll find that anything that would taste remotely pleasant is just wonderful, simply because it takes you away from the odor. Do your quarters smell this bad?"
"No," Kyle replied, taking another drink. Once he had swallowed, he continued. "No, there's a bit of the smell of Kreel'n around, but nothing like this."
"I'm close to the engine room," John explained. "Kreel'n are notoriously inept mechanically, and they're some of the messiest creatures you could ever imagine. I'm surprised they can keep the ship aloft, even with the help of the other aliens they've got working for them."
"Do you socialize with the crew?" Kyle asked him. "Other than Kreel'n, I mean."
John looked shocked at the question. "You may get the idea that I don't like the Kreel'n," he said. "That's not true. Or not precisely true, anyway. In point of fact, I don't like much of anyone. The Kreel'n are okay with me in that they leave me alone and don't pry into my affairs, but you'd never see me calling one a friend. No, the last thing you'll ever see on this ship is me having a pleasant conversation with the crew. I'd sooner take a long walk out the airlock."
"What about other passengers?" Kyle pressed. "Are there any you've gotten to know?"
John laughed again. "Besides you, you mean?" When Kyle nodded, he went on with a wide smile. "We're it, Mr. Barrow. We are it."
## Chapter 12
The days passed quickly for Will and Zeta Squadron. Boon corralled his own obstreperous nature, with only the occasional pointed reminder from his comrades. Dennis took on an ever-stronger leadership role, including delegating authority when it served the team. Will, as it turned out, showed a knack for analyzing and solving the puzzles with which they were faced, though he left it to Dennis to implement the solutions once he arrived at them. The artist spanning the globe turned out to be a museum's exhibition of a historical robot painter, mounted on a giant trackball—painted like the Earth—so it could work on multiple canvases simultaneously. Other clues led to Coit Tower on Telegraph Hill, and the understory of the two-level Bay Bridge, no longer open to vehicular traffic but left standing as a historical landmark.
* * *
The clue they had found at the bridge had seemed, at first, as incomprehensible as all the others. "Gone Fishing," it had said, and, "To bring them home means bringing yourselves home." Dennis had turned, under the latticework of shadows cast by the upper level of the bridge, to look at all the water visible from this point—water that, they all knew, surrounded San Francisco on three sides—and said, "Fish? There's nothing but fish around us!"
It was only while performing aikido moves in a heavygrav environment inside the gym that Will had reached a breakthrough. When their workouts were done and they had showered, he gathered the others together and told them what he'd come to believe. "It's the easiest one of all if you just take it at face value," he told them excitedly. "Bringing the fish home. If you go fishing in a boat, you bring them home at a dock, right? Which narrows down our search to where there are working docks. But what if you don't do the fishing yourself, and you still want to bring some home? You go to a fish market."
"That almost seems too obvious," Dennis countered.
"Right," Will agreed. "That's the beauty of it. These other clues have been so convoluted, who'd expect us to get an easy one at this point? We could spend all day trying to figure out some ridiculously complex meaning to this one, but I think this is really where it's pointing us."
"You could be right, Will," Felicia said. "It'd be a way of throwing us off the track. Using our expectations against us."
"I don't know," Boon said. "If you're wrong we could waste a lot of time. We need to wrap this up today and get back to the Academy. First back, highest marks."
"But if you don't have any different interpretations, Boon," Estresor Fil put in, "we might as well try Will's, right?"
"I guess," Boon admitted. Will figured Boon's hesitation was just because the idea had been Will's and not his own. Not that he had contributed much during this exercise, other than wearisome negativity and the occasional judicious application of criminal tendencies. Will found himself glad that his encounters with Boon over the past year had been minimal, and that there hadn't been more extensive group projects like this one. Far from being captain material, Boon seemed like he'd be a detriment to any starship.
"Let's get moving, then," Dennis suggested. "The sooner we finish, the sooner we're home."
* * *
San Francisco's Fish Market, on the site of the city's old Fisherman's Wharf, was a massive complex where dozens of boats, hovercraft, and skimmers brought thousands of pounds of fish every day for the citizens of San Francisco. Fresh seafood had always been a tradition in the city, and remained so to this day.
Will smelled the market before he could see it. The unique and powerful odor of so many fish—dead and not—concentrated in one place created an olfactory wall that was unmistakable. A stranger, beamed into San Francisco for the first time, would have been able to find her way to the Fish Market from anyplace within a kilometer of it. When they passed the invisible barrier, Will wrinkled his nose and smiled at his comrades. "We're nearly there," he said.
"Will?" Dennis ventured. "I've been to the Fish Market before. It's huge. Do you have any idea how we'll find the checkpoint when we get there?"
Will flashed him a smile. "I have no idea. I figured we'd cross that bridge when we got to it."
"As long as there's a plan," Felicia put in. She walked next to Will almost all the time now, and had been sleeping next to him at night. She had never suggested anything further, though, and except for casual—and slightly more than casual—physical contact from time to time, they hadn't really touched in any meaningful way. A few days ago, Will had been sure he'd been reading her signals correctly, but now he wasn't as certain. He'd had a couple of girlfriends before, but they had been brief affairs, not at all serious, and having been raised in an all-male household, he sometimes thought of women as a race every bit as different from him as Andorians or Vulcans. Maybe if he'd had sisters, or at least a mother, he would have some idea of what to say and how to act around them. As it was, he had to make it all up. He definitely wanted something to happen—from the moment he'd started looking at Felicia in that light, instead of merely as an extraordinarily gifted cadet who happened to be female, he had wanted to be with her.
But where do you go from here, Will?
He didn't know the answer to that, any more than he knew where in the vast Fish Market they should look for their checkpoint.
There were, as Dennis had pointed out, hundreds of stalls in the Fish Market. Some offered only one specific type of seafood—Will saw stalls for squid, for shrimp, prawns, lobsters, roe, salmon, and many others—while others offered more variety. It seemed that every craft, or every fisher who went out to sea, had his or her own stall. The wares were displayed on metal trays so cold to the touch that Will had once thought his skin would stick or break off if he dared to finger them, only to find out later that safety regulations required that they be cold enough to keep the fish fresh but not to injure curious humans. Some stalls even had large saltwater tanks where live fish, eels, and octopuses swam and waited to be taken away by some consumer or professional chef. Around each stall, humans and aliens of virtually every description loitered, examining the day's catch—sniffing, touching, eyeing, comparing a swordfish at one with a tuna at the next.
"Dennis has a point, Will," Estresor Fil offered after they'd been walking amongst the stalls for a while. "This place is big, and crowded. Are we sure this is what the clue points to? And is there anything in it that might narrow things down more for us?"
Will had been trying to figure out that very question, but so far he'd had no luck. "I just don't know," he replied honestly. "We could hope we just get lucky and spot it, but other than that . . ."
"I've got it!" Felicia interrupted. "It is in the clue, after all. 'Bringing them home means bringing yourselves home.' We just need to look at it more precisely than we've been doing. This is where everybody in the city comes to bring fish home. But our home, for now at least, is the Academy. And aren't there a few vendors here from whom the Academy traditionally gets its seafood, for cadet and staff meals?"
"I think you're right," Dennis replied. "The Academy chefs like to work with people they know and trust. They contract with those particular vendors."
"Do you happen to remember any of their names?" Estresor Fil asked.
Felicia and Dennis searched one another's faces for a moment, as if the answer might be written there. "I guess not," Dennis finally ventured.
"Then we're right back where we were before," Boon said glumly.
"Not necessarily," Will pointed out. "At least we have something to look for. We've all seen deliveries come into the Academy. We've all seen the chefs. Instead of looking at all the fish, we need to look at the people. If we see anyone who looks familiar then we know we're getting somewhere."
"We hope we're getting somewhere," Boon, always the pessimist, countered.
Will was tired of arguing with Boon, who never had any better ideas to offer but nonetheless didn't hesitate to criticize others'. Ignoring the Coridanian, he turned to Felicia. "Good job," he said. "I think you've solved it."
She returned his smile with one he could feel in his gut. She looked straight into his eyes and they held that for a moment, with Will finally breaking her gaze only so they could renew their search. As they walked, she moved over toward him and let her shoulder bump against his. Once again, Will wished he knew the right thing to say, but as usual it wouldn't come to him.
Having rearranged their search parameters, it only took a few minutes to find a familiar face. But it wasn't one of the faces they were expecting. Instead, Will saw the smoldering, dark eyes and thick crop of black hair of his friend and fellow cadet, Paul Rice. Paul was on a competing squadron, but Will had shouted out his name before he caught himself. It was only then that he noticed the rest of Omega Squadron: Hasimi Thorp, Naghmeh Zand, Ross Donaldson, and Kul Tun Osir, standing behind Paul at the booth. Paul set down the checkpoint canister he'd been holding and smiled at Will.
"Cadet Riker," he said. "Just a little behind the pack, as usual."
"Damn it," Boon muttered from behind Will.
"I guess maybe we are," Will said. He picked up the canister from where Paul had set it. Inside the stall, he thought he recognized one of the women who occasionally made deliveries to the Academy's mess hall. "We're doing the best we can, though." He started to punch his identification code into the canister's keypad.
"So how many more checkpoints do you have to make?" Paul asked him. "We've only got two to go."
Will couldn't hide the surprise that transformed his face. "Two?" he asked. He felt Felicia nudge him in the ribs, but it was too late. Anyway, he figured it didn't really matter now. "This is our last," he admitted. "We're done."
"Done?" Paul echoed. He sounded startled.
"Well, this is the last day, after all," Will said.
"Yeah, but a couple of them took us more than a day," Paul replied. "You guys must have had easy ones."
"I don't know about that," Felicia put in. "Maybe we're just better at this than you are."
"Maybe they cheat," Hasimi Thorp suggested. He was a squat, stocky native of Inferna Prime, with charcoal black skin and blazing orange eyes. He was a head taller than Estresor Fil, but at least double her weight.
"Will wouldn't cheat," Paul answered firmly. "I know him better than that. I don't know about the others, though."
"We didn't cheat," Will said. "None of us."
"Come on," Ross chimed in. "How else could you guys be so far ahead of us?"
The two squadrons were facing one another now, and Fish Market customers stepped aside for them. Boon shouldered his way to the front of Zeta Squadron's pack. "Maybe you're just stupid," he said. "Did you consider that possibility?"
"Stupid?" Kul Tun Osir came from Quazulu VIII, where intelligence was highly valued, and he usually placed first, or nearly so, in his classes at the Academy. "I must have misheard you. You wouldn't have called us stupid, would you?"
"I think your hearing's just fine," Boon shot back.
"Boon," Dennis said, urgent warning in his tone. Boon ignored him, though.
"Anyone who thinks we cheated is blatantly stupid," Boon continued. "And anyone who's so far from done on the last day is doubly so."
Hasimi Thorp moved on Boon then, faster than anyone could prevent. Will and Paul eyed one another helplessly, both realizing at the same moment that their friendship couldn't put the brakes on what hot words had inflamed. Hasimi snatched a large frozen fish by the tail off the nearest display table and smacked Boon's face with it. Boon, stunned by the assault for a moment, gathered his wits and responded, scooping up another fish and throwing it at Hasimi. Naghmeh reacted quickly, grabbing two fish and tossing them both at Boon's head.
Chaos broke loose, as every member of both squadrons—except Will and Paul, who fruitlessly tried to bring their friends under control—started pelting one another with cold wet seafood. Felicia was cod-walloped, flounder flew, grouper and herring were hurled. Naghmeh pummeled Dennis with a sea bass, while Estresor Fil chucked fistfuls of king crab legs at her. Will recognized what was happening—stress, pressure, and all the tensions of the week exploding into insane release. He was a little worried about injury—those half-frozen fish could be hard, and already he could see blood flowing where Dennis and Ross had been cut—but he figured all in all they would have some innocent fun that would dissipate their anxieties. He was almost tempted to join in.
But that was before he saw the uniformed police officers circling them, phasers out—set to stun, Will hoped, considering the nonlethal nature of the combat. "Guys!" he shouted, and then much louder, "Zeta Squadron, attention!"
That did the trick, for his group at least. They snapped to, well trained enough to respond appropriately to the command. Their sudden surrender alerted Omega Squadron to the presence of the police, as well. Fish were returned to their rightful spots on the display tables, but the damage was done: seafood parts littered the ground, and the cadets—even Paul and Will, who had stood by without participating—were covered in scales and guts and fishy residue.
One of the police officers, who seemed to be in charge, separated herself from the pack and stepped forward, holstering her weapon. "What's going on here?" she demanded, her nose wrinkling involuntarily at the stink.
"Sir, we're cadets from Starfleet Academy," Paul explained quickly. "We're on a special project, and, well, I guess we got carried away with the competitive spirit. Obviously, we'll reimburse for any damages."
"You will at that," the police officer agreed. "And if I had my way, you'd serve some time as well. But if you're all from the Academy, I think I'll just turn you over to Starfleet Security and let them deal with you. Save me some time and trouble."
"Just wonderful," Boon muttered, but Estresor Fil silenced him by stomping down on his instep.
"You shut up, Boon," she hissed. "You got us into this."
The police officers herded both squadrons to a waiting transport vehicle. Just before leaving the Fish Market stall, Will set down the canister he had held onto throughout the whole fish fight, and pocketed the slip of paper that had issued from it. He had already memorized its brief message: "Congratulations, Zeta Squadron, on the successful completion of your mission."
* * *
Superintendent Vyrek perused her ten charges with the keen eye of an experienced appraiser. They all stood shoulder to shoulder, at attention, in her office, feeling her gaze bore into them as she paced a slow, even circle around them. She hadn't spoken yet. The longer she dragged out the time before she did speak, Will knew, the worse it would be. And she would speak eventually, there was no question of that.
Admiral Paris, who waited in a corner of the large office, just might have a few words to say as well.
Finally, the Vulcan superintendent broke her silence. "I am surprised at you," she said. "Some more than others, but nonetheless, as squadrons overall, yours are among the last two I would have expected to engage in . . . would 'hijinks' be the appropriate term? . . . like these. Mr. Boon, Zeta Squadron is under your command, is it not?"
"Yes, sir, normally that is, sir," Boon answered. "But sometimes on group projects we elect a leader just for that project, so everyone gets a chance, sir. On this one, Cadet Haynes was in charge."
"Dennis Haynes?" Superintendent Vyrek asked with surprise. "You have never been involved with anything like this in your time with us. Or at your previous school, if you don't count—which I won't—that one incident when you were eleven."
Does she know everything about us? Will wondered. He'd heard rumors that she had a virtually eidetic memory—that she read through each cadet's file once a year, and remembered everything she saw. He had always discounted the rumors, though. Until just now.
"No, sir, I haven't," Dennis replied. "And I'm sorry that this happ—"
She cut him off mid-word. "Did I ask for a response, Mr. Haynes?"
He hesitated, as if unsure if she had this time either. "No, sir," he finally said.
"That is correct. I am merely expressing my shock and dismay at this outrageous behavior, not asking you to explain—or worse, make some feeble and doomed attempt to excuse—it."
Dennis remained silent, but his cheeks went crimson. Superintendent Vyrek continued her journey around the group, looking each cadet up and down, sometimes moving closer to peer at a fish-inflicted bruise or scrape.
"Is there anything remotely logical about battling with seafood, Admiral Paris, to your knowledge?"
Admiral Paris looked surprised to be spoken to, and Will had the impression that he wasn't much more comfortable in the superintendent's presence than the cadets were. "I confess that I don't see the logic in it, Admiral Vyrek," he replied.
"Nor do I," the Vulcan said. "And yet, it happened. These cadets—second-year cadets, not raw freshmen—engaged in it. Creating a disturbance, damaging property, wasting food—that police officer said she was tempted to charge them with incitement to riot. How does one explain such behavior?"
Will swallowed hard. "May I speak, sir?" he asked.
"Cadet Riker. If you can enlighten me, I would be delighted to have you speak. You, I am sorry to say, I am not terribly surprised to hear were involved in such an unfortunate affair, given your history of altercations with fellow students."
Those "altercations" she mentioned had been a series of fights Will had found himself having shortly after his father had abandoned him. He'd had a chip on his shoulder and a short fuse, and it had been a bad combination. But that had been well before he'd even applied to the Academy, and the fact that the superintendent knew about it gave even more credence to the eidetic memory theory. Not to mention confirming the "permanence" of permanent records.
"I don't think our behavior can be excused, sir," he said. "But it can be explained, to a certain extent. We were all under a significant amount of stress, with the end of our project looming, and the various personality conflicts that arise whenever a group of people is banded together closely for a number of days. We made a mistake, let our emotions get the better of us, and cut loose. We shouldn't have done it. Had we thought it through we never would have done it. But we weren't thinking, we were only reacting."
"That sounds correct," Superintendent Vyrek said. "Especially the fact that you were not thinking, any of you."
"Yes, sir," Will agreed.
"Interestingly, my understanding from the officer is that you were not taking part, Mr. Riker. Nor was Mr. Rice. Is this true?"
Will wanted to glance at Paul but he forced his head to remain still, eyes front. "Yes, sir. We were not fighting. However, we were apparently not doing enough to restrain our fellow cadets, either."
"Should you have done more? Was that your duty?"
"Sir, if the fight had been with deadly weapons instead of fish, then it would certainly have been an abrogation of duty to let our fellow cadets become involved. I think that the principle is the same, regardless of the weaponry."
"I have to agree with you, Mr. Riker. You and Cadet Rice are every bit as responsible as those who were flinging fish. You will all jointly work to reimburse the fishmongers whose stand you destroyed. There will, of course, be notations on your permanent records. And your summer plans will be altered—none of you will be going off-world this summer, so I hope you were not looking forward too strongly to any long trips. Admiral Paris?"
Will felt his heart sinking as the admiral stepped forward to face his students. "I won't apply any further punishment to what the superintendent has outlined," he said. "However, as Omega Squadron didn't finish the assignment, the five of you will be repeating my survival class next year. Zeta Squadron, you completed your assignment—narrowly—before the altercation started, so your grades will stand. Congratulations to you."
"Thank you, sir," Boon said on behalf of the squadron.
"Have any of you anything to add?" Superintendent Vyrek asked. When the cadets remained silent, she fixed them with her sternest glare and said, "Dismissed."
They began to file from the office, but Will, last in the line, felt Admiral Paris's firm grasp on his arm. "Will," he said. "I'd like a moment."
"Of course, sir," Will replied. The others glanced back at him, but kept going out the door. Will couldn't blame them—he felt the compulsion to flee as well, but knew that he had to see what Paris wanted. When they were gone and Superintendent Vyrek had taken her seat, the admiral fixed Will with a somber gaze.
"I understand that you and your father aren't close, Will," he said. "But I'm a little worried about him. He's been the apparent target of a couple of recent attacks. After the last one, he vanished from our infirmary and hasn't been seen since. He hasn't shown up at his office, and whenever we've checked his apartment he hasn't been there either. Have you heard anything from him?"
"No, sir," Will answered. "Before we left on the project, a couple of security officers came to my room looking for him. I told them the same thing."
"Before you left?" Admiral Paris echoed.
"That's right, sir. Early that morning."
"Interesting," the older man said. "And you don't have any idea where he might have gone?"
"As you said, sir, we don't talk much."
"Yes, that's right. Well, then," Admiral Paris said, "we'll keep looking for him. Try not to worry though, Will. He's a tough one, your dad. He's survived more than a few close calls in his time, and wherever he is, I'm sure he can take care of himself."
"Yes, sir," Will said.
"That's all. You're dismissed."
The door had barely closed behind Will when he heard Admiral Paris burst into gales of laughter. It sounded as if the superintendent, notwithstanding her reticent nature, was joining in. "Fish, Owen!" he heard the Vulcan say through the door. "Have you ever heard of such a thing? Fish!"
## Chapter 13
As they walked away from the superintendent's office, out of the climate-controlled air and into the always-brisk San Francisco twilight, Boon grumbled and Estresor Fil expressed no emotion whatsoever and Dennis Haynes smiled, as if he'd expected the punishment to be far worse. Will, though . . . Felicia tried to put a word to the look on his face, before he'd been stopped at the door by Admiral Paris. He had looked bereft, as if a bomb had snatched away his family and friends in a single instant. She had never seen him so grim. Generally speaking, she liked his face—liked it a lot, in fact. He had sparkling, intelligent blue eyes, and a mouth that was serious but could turn funny, even goofy, in a flash, perfect cheekbones, and the cleft in his chin exuded masculinity, to her.
But in the superintendent's office, his lips had been pressed together in a tight, bloodless line, his eyes stared straight ahead blindly, and he seemed to have lost all color. She was nearly overwhelmed by a desire to mother him, to minister to his needs and assure him that everything would be all right if only he would let her take care of him. Not that he was the dependent type—that's what made her want to do it, to play against what she knew was an independent, even solitary nature.
"We got off easy," Dennis said, his voice low as if in awe of what had occurred. "They could have expelled us."
"For getting in a fight?" Boon countered, disbelief giving his tone a harsh edge. "They'd have to expel half the student body, every year. Part of what they're teaching us to do is fight."
"When it's the right thing to do, Boon," Felicia said, feeling herself drawn into the argument in spite of herself. "As a last resort, and not just for fun."
Boon laughed. "It was fun, though, wasn't it?"
"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed yourself," she said. "Next time, spare me the pleasure."
She turned back toward the office, hoping to see Will, maybe accompany him someplace away from the others where they could talk, even make some plans for the summer now that they'd be on the same planet. But she didn't see him behind them. Felicia stopped walking, turned in a slow circle, and finally spotted him, heading away from their dorm and away from the group, over one of the low Japanese garden-style bridges.
"I think he wants to be alone," Estresor Fil noted. "It's not an uncommon response. I think I have a Flintstones episode that might be instructive." She had stopped too, Felicia realized, and was looking at her with those big emerald eyes. Her blank face reminded Felicia of a puppy's, to which people always seemed to impart whatever feelings they wanted to see there. She wondered suddenly if Estresor Fil had a crush on her. Why else would she have let the other guys go on without her?
Because she wants to make sure you're okay, stupid, she answered herself. It has nothing to do with a crush. Not every person's interest in every other person is romantic.
That, she realized, glancing at Will's distant, retreating form, was a lesson she had learned many times over.
* * *
No Saturn. Will could scarcely believe the dumb luck. He'd already been tagged as a research assistant on a scientific project taking place there, and had been looking forward to it for months, and now, with the flinging of a few fish—flinging in which he hadn't even taken part—it was gone, vapor through his fingers.
He figured the rest of his squadron had already gone home by the time he was released from Superintendent Vyrek's office, but he wasn't ready to face people he knew yet. Instead, he wandered alone across the Academy campus in the dying light. Boothby, the groundskeeper, looked at him with sad eyes and slowly shook his head, wispy white hair fluttering with the motion. So word is already out, Will thought. That didn't take long, did it? Helping himself to a seat on one of the benches stationed at intervals along the paths, he watched the whirl of Academy life pass him by for a while. A cluster of cadets joked and laughed, Geordi La Forge—with his distinctive VISOR, everybody knew who Geordi was—at their center. Will knew that it was ridiculous to think he'd never be that happy again, but at this precise moment he had a hard time imagining any other fate.
He was still sitting on the bench, stewing in his own juices, as his father would have put it back in the days when they'd spoken to one another, when a first-year cadet named Arnis, a Trill female, sat down next to him. Though Arnis and Will had been friendly, they had not been especially close until both were picked for the Saturn team this coming summer. After that they'd spent a lot of time together, planning for the summer, studying the research project and the living conditions they'd face, and making guesses about their futures. She was an attractive young woman who kept her dark hair trimmed close, displaying the distinctive Trill spotting along her temples, cheeks and neck in all its glory. As she sat, she frowned at Will. "I'm so sorry, Will."
"So you've already heard, too? Is there anyone on this campus who doesn't know yet?"
"It's pretty much all anyone's talking about," Arnis told him. "You guys—you and Omega Squadron—are just about famous."
"Infamous, maybe," Will countered.
"Either way, it seems like everyone knows your names. You'll be signing autographs before long."
"So all you have to do to make yourself well-known is to be escorted back to campus in the custody of Starfleet Security," Will said bitterly. "After having caused property damage and wasted enough seafood to feed a large family for a month."
"Maybe it's not something to message home about," Arnis said. "Although, in your case, I guess you don't do a whole lot of messaging home to begin with. But, you know, maybe it's better to be known than not known. In time, people might forget why they know your name, but they won't forget your name. It could be a good thing, in the long run."
Will shrugged. "Going to Saturn would have been a good thing in the short run," he said. "Tomorrow I'll learn what my replacement posting will be, but I doubt it'll be nearly as interesting as that would have been."
"Oh, I'm sure Saturn will be boring as anything," Arnis said. Then, with a laugh, she admitted, "Okay, it won't be. But I'll pretend it is, for your sake."
He tried to smile but had a feeling it wasn't coming off quite right. "Thanks," he said. "It's just—you know, sometimes it doesn't feel like anything ever works out for me here on Earth. I don't think I was meant to be here. My destiny is out there somewhere, among the stars. Down here I'm just too landlocked."
"Will, that's not true," Arnis said sorrowfully. "You've had a rough time, I guess. But you've also got an exemplary record here at the Academy. The way you whipped that Tholian ship in the battle sim? That may go down in Academy history just as much as your little fish fray does. Okay, you got a black spot today, but overall it's still a record to be proud of. When you graduate, you'll be assigned to a starship right away, with your record, and then you're on your way."
Will knew, intellectually, that Arnis was right. But he couldn't shake the cloud of pessimism that hung over him with the near-arrest, the loss of his summer plans, and now the mystery of whatever had become of his father. It wouldn't be the first time the old man had walked away from responsibility, but Kyle Riker took his job, if nothing else, seriously, so it was odd that they hadn't heard from him. "Thanks, Arnis," he said without notable enthusiasm. "You'll keep me posted, right? Let me know what Saturn's like?"
"Of course I will," she promised. She looked out at the sky, which had grown dark while they talked, and stood up. "Hey, I'm meeting some people in the mess hall. Do you want to come with?"
Will hadn't thought about dinner, but now that she mentioned it he did notice the first stirrings of hunger. "The mess hall? Do you know what they're serving tonight?"
She hesitated for a moment. "Um . . . I think it's fish."
"I'll just get something in my room," Will said. "Thanks anyway."
Arnis gave him a half-smile and retreated to join her other friends. Zeta Squadron had scattered after the superintendent's rebuke, and Will—not for the first time in his young life—found himself feeling utterly alone.
* * *
Kyle sat on his bunk, back up against the bulkhead and his padd balanced on his lap. It wasn't very comfortable, but he was learning that nothing about the Morning Star had been designed for the comfort of humans. But then, there were precious few humans on the ship to be inconvenienced. He kept reminding himself that he had chosen a freighter specifically so he wouldn't have a lot of people around.
Well, he thought, you got what you wanted. In spades.
Ever since leaving Earth, the Starbase 311 flashbacks had lessened in frequency and severity. For that, he was profoundly grateful. But after having spent several days in no company but his own, he had decided that the best thing to do was to confront those memories in an organized way.
Someone at Starfleet, he had no doubt, was trying to ruin him at the very least, and more likely to kill him as well as ruin his reputation. He had gone over, in his own mind, all the Starfleet-related jobs he had done for the past few years, and couldn't quite make the intuitive leap from any of those to his becoming a target. That left only Starbase 311 and the Tholian massacre that had taken place there. That was the wild card, the life event that seemed most likely to have brought him to the attention of his unseen enemy.
Had the whole attack on the starbase been designed to kill him, he wondered? Was the only survivor of the assault really the target? Was someone now trying to finish the job left undone two years before? It seemed unlikely, but he had to consider every possibility. And to do that, he had to try to recall those details he had intentionally boxed away, forever, he had hoped. Somewhere in that incident the key to what was happening to him now might be buried, and if it was there he had to turn it up. So he scanned the records on his padd of his work there, and he worked on remembering.
The Tholian Assembly took the concept of territoriality to new heights. There were various theories espoused for this, but the fact was that Federation relations with the Tholians had always been marginal at best, and very little was known about their forbidding world—a Class-Y planet incapable of sustaining human life—or their culture. Tholians were believed to have very short lifespans, possibly measured in months, although there was speculation that they passed on their consciousness in some kind of crystal memory formation from one generation to the next. Whatever the psychosocial reasons, though, they didn't tend to stray far from their own territory, and they didn't like it when others encroached. That was, in fact, a huge understatement—they defended their own territory with rabid determination. As a result, most other cultures tried to keep their distance lest they raise the ire of the Tholians.
Which, given the expansive nature of the Federation, was bound to happen someday. Starbase 311, a free-floating space station, was primarily a scientific field station, in the far outreaches of the Alpha Quadrant. While its stated purposes were science and research, the fact of the matter was that it was the closest Federation outpost to Tholian space and therefore of political and possibly military significance as well. If the Tholians would accept a starbase so near Tholian space, what else might they accept? Whole regions of the Alpha Quadrant were unexplored due to the Federation's unwillingness to test the Tholian comfort zone, so 311 was intended from the outset to be somewhat of a test case.
Because of its military potential, Kyle had been assigned to the starbase to examine the situation for himself. If the Tholians permitted the starbase to function unmolested, then there might be room for further expansion, and Kyle's role was to help arrive at that determination. If, on the other hand, the Tholians objected to 311's presence, Kyle would be on the scene to help strategize a Starfleet response. Either way, his strategic expertise was needed there, and he went where he was needed.
He was there for only a couple of months, as it turned out. A couple of months—but for everyone else on the starbase, their final months. Sitting on his bunk on the Kreel'n ship, he brought up the list of those who had served on Starbase 311 alongside him. Humans, Deltans, Rigelians, Andorians, Vulcans, Saurians . . . the sons and daughters of at least a dozen worlds had died that day. Looking at the names brought back flashes of memory. Li Tang, brilliant and sarcastic; Wulthrim, whose laughter could shake the starbase on its axis, Sul Sul Getreden, acerbic and humorless but with an unexpected poetic streak that showed through even on scientific reports. And so many more.
Combing the records on his padd, he noticed something he had forgotten about completely. Most of the scientists were fairly open about their research, and enjoyed talking about it even with those who might not thoroughly understand their stories. But there was a small group of scientists who claimed their work was classified at levels even beyond that at which Kyle was cleared, and this group remained secretive about their experiments the whole time Kyle was on the station. Other researchers began to suspect that they were up to something they shouldn't be—genetic engineering experiments, strictly forbidden by Federation law, was the rumor. Now that he thought about it, he remembered the conversation he had with Simon Urs-Sistal, the half-Aurelian physicist who had confided in him.
"I'm just not sure what to do about it," Simon had said to him. They'd been sitting together at a table in the starbase's lounge, some distance away from anyone else, hunched over their drinks and talking in low tones. Kyle had known from the outset that this was a conversation Simon wanted to have in private, but he said it had to be in a public place, because anyone's quarters might be bugged. That had piqued Kyle's curiosity, and the story Simon told once they huddled in the lounge had more than lived up to it.
"Report it," Kyle said simply. "What else can you do?"
"The thing is, these are only suspicions," Simon said. Aurelians were humanoid but with a skull crest that came to a point at the top rear of their heads, and Simon had inherited that feature from his Aurelian mother. In times of stress—as now—he had a tendency to scratch at the base of the crest, as if to soothe an itch. "I can't prove a bit of it. What Roone and Heidl and the others are up to in there, none of us know for sure. But that in itself concerns us."
"Because the rest of you know what you're all working on?" Kyle asked.
"Exactly," Simon replied. "I'm assessing the intersection of pulse theory with superstrings—the idea that subatomic pulses can travel on the superstrings that bind all matter in the universe. Theoretically, this could give us instantaneous communication across vast distances, and possibly even, at some point, virtually unlimited transporter potential. Much faster and more efficient than subspace communication. I stress that it's all very theoretical at this point. I'm interested in pure research, not necessarily the practical applications of the research, and this is a good place to do it. But the point is that everyone knows what I'm working on. We talk, we share ideas. A biogeneticist might have a brainstorm that will help me in my work, and by the same token I might give her an idea as well."
Simon paused, scratching at his crest like he was trying to excavate it. His sunken eyes looked into Kyle's meaningfully. Kyle was silent—Simon had a lot on his mind, and he'd spill it, given time—and waited. Finally, Simon continued. "But those guys—Heidl especially, but also Roone and what's his name, Latriso Bistwinela—they're so secretive you'd think they were working for the other side. They're not, I'm sure—they came on Starfleet ships, and their research seems to have Federation support—but their attitude is such that it worries me. And then, from what little I've been able to glean by talking to other researchers, I'm not sure the Federation is precisely sure what it's supporting in that lab."
"What do you mean?" asked Kyle.
"This far from home, it's very hard for the Federation to keep real tabs on anything. Yes, we send back reports and data, but reports can say anything we want them to, and data can be doctored. Falsified. I could say I'm working with subatomic pulses in deep space, while really I could be spending my days with holodeck simulations of Orion slave girls. It's unlikely that anyone at Federation headquarters understands much of what my data shows anyway, so they believe what I tell them, for the most part."
"So you think that team is working on something other than what they say they're working on?"
"That's the thing, Kyle. They don't even have a cover story. It would be the easiest thing in the world for them to tell us they're performing some simple experiment or other. But we might ask them how it's going, or offer suggestions. They don't seem to want even that much interaction with the rest of us, so they just don't say anything. But Jenkins and Kauffman see the bills of lading from materials that arrive on every Starfleet vessel, and those materials suggest that there might be some genetic manipulation going on."
"Which is frowned upon," Kyle suggested.
"Which is absolutely illegal." Simon had raised his voice unconsciously, and now he glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. "Illegal," he repeated, more softly.
"Which is why you should report it."
"Yes, yes," Simon agreed. "I should. I will, Kyle. I mean, I have no definitive proof. But I have my beliefs, and those of several other prominent scientists on this base. We can ask that Roone and his crew be investigated—not that they've necessarily done anything wrong, but if they haven't then they have nothing to fear, right?"
"Makes sense to me," Kyle had said.
And report it, Simon had, Kyle remembered. The Federation officials had taken it seriously enough that a hearing had been scheduled, and Starfleet sent a ship out to 311 with an investigative team on board. The team had arrived at the starbase, and the starship—the Berlin, an Excelsior-class ship, Kyle recalled—had made arrangements to come back in several days to pick the team up.
But the day after the team arrived—the day the scientists were to explain what they'd been working on—was also the day the Tholians attacked. At the time, Kyle thought the attack had been prompted by the Berlin's visit, as if the Tholians, barely able to tolerate a starbase, had been set off by the unexpected arrival of a heavy cruiser, instead of the smaller Oberth-class ships usually used to supply the station.
Whatever had prompted the attack, it had come suddenly and without notice, almost as soon as the Berlin was too far away to return in time to help. Tholian warship activity in the sector was commonplace, as would be expected so close to their well-defended boundaries, so no one gave much thought to the approach of six ships until they crossed out of Tholian Assembly space and neared 311.
Kyle had been sleeping in his quarters when the Tholians had come close enough to raise alarms. He'd been called to the starbase's command center, and by the time the turbolift got him there a red alert had been issued. Klaxons blared, flashing red lights declared a state of emergency, and Starfleet officers ran to their battle stations. This was precisely why Kyle was stationed here.
But the assumption had been that any Tholian incursion would come after a breakdown in negotiations, or after some aggressive posturing on their part. None of their battle simulations had included a seemingly unprecipitated attack out of thin air. Starbase 311, being primarily science and research oriented, had shields and phaser banks and photon torpedoes, but that was the extent of their defensive systems.
When Kyle reached the command center, the first of the Tholian ships were heaving into view near the starbase. Powerful red lights from their ships shone brightly—Kyle's first thought was that they were already firing, but it turned out not to be weapons fire. He was never sure what it was—just illuminating their target, he guessed. But so much about the Tholians would remain a mystery to him. Whatever it was, when the first one appeared, Commander Bisbee, the ranking officer, looked at the red circle of light and said, "Looks like sunset over the Pacific."
"I don't like the sound of that," Kyle had rejoined. "Sounds too final."
Then the other ships pulled into position. Kyle had immediately started shouting suggestions to Bisbee, and Bisbee had instituted those as orders. Two Tholian ships were quickly knocked out of commission.
Two more, though, had started spinning an updated version of the famous Tholian web around the starbase. This web, instead of being a simple energy construct, had the additional effect of disrupting the station's electronic systems. A message had gone out to the Berlin as one of the very first acts when the Tholians approached, but no one was at all sure if it had been received or if further messages were going out. Then other systems began failing—shields, intrabase communications, environment, weapons. As the Tholians began constricting their web, the starbase was rocked violently back and forth, slamming occupants and equipment alike into walls and floors. Sparks flew and control consoles burst into flames, and Kyle saw an ensign he knew cut in half by a computer bank ripped from its moorings and hurled into the young officer, crushing her against a bulkhead.
The two remaining Tholian ships pounded the starbase with phasers and plasma cannons. Kyle watched in horror as those around him died. Commander Bisbee was standing too close to a tactical systems control panel when it exploded, and a shard of tripolymer composite sliced through his carotid, fountaining blood across the room. The same explosion blinded Aikins, the security chief.
Starbase 311 consisted of two main rings built around a central core, which held power generation facilities. Kyle had often thought of it as two rings on a single finger, with just a little space between them. The upper ring was operational, and included engineering, navigation, and tactical departments, while the lower ring was the province of the scientists and researchers for whom the station had been built. During the attack, when comm systems were coming in and going out seemingly at random, Kyle heard a few moments of absolute panic as the Tholian cannons focused on the lower ring. Someone—he had always thought it was Simon, though he could never be sure—had tried to take control of the situation, though it was already hopeless. "Take cover!" the frightened voice had commanded. "Get behind something and hold on! It'll be over in a few minutes!"
Other voices had screamed dissent, but the voice Kyle believed was Simon's had overruled them. "I'm telling you, your best chance is to move into—"
But then that part of the lower ring had been breached. For a second Kyle heard the screaming of metal and polymers, then a great whooshing sound, and then nothing at all. Everyone in that chamber had been blown out into the vacuum of space.
And still the Tholians came. Kyle thought there might yet be a chance if they could focus the starbase's phaser arrays on the energy generators the Tholians used to create the web, but that would have required scanning the attacking ships to find those generators, and the scanners had all been knocked out of commission by the web. As had the phaser arrays, for that matter.
Even as he ticked through the possibilities in his head, Kyle realized that there was almost no one left alive to carry out any strategy he might create. Then the command center was rocked by a singularly powerful blast and Kyle's feet went out from under him. His head smashed against an ops console and then against something else—bulkhead or floor or ceiling, he had no idea. He saw a brilliant flash of light, then he saw nothing for an indeterminable period of time.
When he woke up, he tasted blood. He pushed himself to a sitting position and blinked his eyes open, spat blood onto the floor, fighting off a wave of nausea. Command was full of smoke; his lungs burned with it.
But at least he could sit up. Everyone else was dead.
On a flickering viewscreen he could see a Tholian ship, its red lights completely washing the starbase, so near that a tiny portion of the ship blocked the entire screen. He tried to ignore the frightening image as he stumbled from one corpse to the next, checking for pulses, listening for any faint breath. It was no good, though. Kyle's heart was the only one that still pounded: so loud he thought the Tholians would hear it from their ships. And he was in bad shape, himself—his left arm and shoulder had been crushed, his scalp lacerated. Burns covered much of his body, and he felt unbelievably thirsty. Something had torn open his right leg almost to the bone.
Giving up on the command center, he left it, limping into the hallways to see if there was anyone alive elsewhere on the ship. He had barely taken a dozen steps when he heard what was unmistakably a human voice. But it was raised in an inhuman scream. Kyle stumbled toward it, drawing a phaser pistol he'd strapped on at the first sign of trouble. As he rounded a corner, he saw Lieutenant Michaud on her knees, tears streaming down her face, and behind her, a Tholian pointing what looked like a crooked stick at her. But it was a crooked stick that spat death in the form of a searing red ray. While Kyle watched, helpless, Michaud's chest exploded, blood and gore spilling onto the floor even as she fell.
Kyle trained his phaser on the Tholian and squeezed the trigger. The Tholian was large, completely enclosed in a thermal suit that would enable it to survive in what must have been, to it, wretched cold. Its helmet was a faceted, crystalline mass of planes that Kyle couldn't even really focus on; it was like trying to pick out one plane of a diamond that was spinning in a centrifuge. But he held his phaser on it, and the creature buckled, emitting a terrible, screeching noise that Kyle thought would surely rupture his eardrums, and died. When its suit burst with an explosive boom it issued a blast of heat so powerful that Kyle could feel it, like a desert wind.
Another Tholian, alerted by the first one's death shriek, appeared at the other end of the hall and took aim at Kyle. But Kyle fired first, and this one fell too. To ease the spatial dissonance that could be caused by living inside a doughnut, the inner hallways of the rings had been constructed as short, straight segments with definite corners. Kyle approached the next corner with caution, and peeked around it, over the corpse of the Tholian he had just shot. His phaser was held in two hands, to steady it against his own shaking. The alien's internal heat, leaking out through the phaser hole in its suit, was already almost unbearable, and as soon as he had determined that the coast was clear, Kyle hobbled, as fast as his broken body would carry him, to the next corner.
And that was when he knew he was doomed. A pack of them loomed at the far end, all bizarre-looking and carrying those sinister sticks. Kyle stayed close to his corner and fired into the pack. He knew he hit several, but the red beams started shredding the wall that was his only protection, and after a moment he turned and ran. He couldn't get near the last corner he had passed—the Tholian was already so hot that the polymer bulkheads were melting around it. Instead, he slipped through a door that led to the central core, the "finger" of the space station.
He tried to run, but he was weakening. Behind him, he heard the Tholians following. He kept listening for voices: human voices, friendly ones, anything but the strident screeching of the Tholians, but he heard none. Instead of running, he took refuge in a Jefferies tube, descending several levels and then tucking himself away, phaser at the ready, and waiting.
It seemed to take hours. He could hear the Tholians moving through the core, blasting through walls, knocking down doors, tearing open the tubes. Every now and then he thought he heard a non-Tholian voice, but each time he did it was screaming in agony, until he no longer wanted to hear them. He began to hope that everyone was already dead so their suffering would end. He began to wonder if he should finish himself, as well: if a phaser blast to the head would be less painful than sitting and waiting and finally succumbing to one of those sticks.
But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He was Kyle Riker, a survivor from way back, from a long line of survivors. His great-great-grandfather, the stories went, had led the residents of a small Wyoming town safely through the grim days of World War III, fighting off the marauding bands of refugees that had combed the nation's wild places in those days, as well as the radiation poisoning that had killed millions. The town had lost two residents, both to exposure during a particularly long, cold winter, but otherwise they had all made it through the worst days. Eventually, of course, Jamie Riker had died of old age, and many of those under his protection had gone as well, of natural causes, mostly. But the legend lived on—a Riker had persevered and kept his town alive when the rest of the world was going mad. Kyle already had failed to live up to that example, though—if the starbase was his town, he had utterly missed the mark.
Even so, he was unable to just give up. It wasn't in his nature.
And finally, they found him again. They breached the tube twenty meters from him, and he started firing as soon as the first Tholian showed his ugly crystalline face mask. At the same time, he tried to stand, to run again, but his injured muscles had frozen up, locked him in place. Stuck where he was, in a half-crouch, he tried to raise his phaser again, but it was so heavy, so heavy . . ..
Just as the red beam from a Tholian stick weapon struck him, he stumbled and fell flat, the beam slicing across his back as he landed facedown on the surface of the Jefferies tube.
## Chapter 14
Kyle lost consciousness again, so he didn't see precisely when or why the Tholians left. Maybe they thought they'd killed him. Maybe the Berlin had come too near and it was time for them to retreat. At any rate, they'd sent their message, loud and clear. Don't get too close to us, they had said. From now on, Starfleet would pay attention.
Kyle had remained comatose through the whole journey on the Berlin. He hadn't come around until he'd been transferred to an infirmary in San Francisco, where his care had been taken over by Dr. Katherine Pulaski. She credited his own will to live for his incredible survival, in the face of enough wounds to kill several times over. He had always credited her medical skills. Yes, he had wanted to live, but until she came along he didn't have the tools to fight for life. She taught him those, and more—she gave him another reason to live, one he hadn't had since Annie had died eighteen years before.
Kate Pulaski had brought a unique combination of medical and psychological insights to his case, leavened with good humor and a powerful dose of humiliation. "You can do better than that!" he remembered her barking one day during physical therapy, when he'd wanted to give up after a dozen achingly slow laps around his room.
"I can't take another step," he had protested meekly.
"My niece can walk faster than that, and she's not even a year old yet," Kate countered tartly. "And she does it without complaining, which is something you might think about."
Kyle remembered smiling at her, although that meant lifting his head, which was also painful. "You're the devil," he had insisted. "And . . ." he searched his mind for an adequate insult, but couldn't come up with anything he hadn't already used during that session. "And you're named after a fire-fighting tool."
"It's named after me," she shot back. "Well, an ancestor, on my father's side. He's been dead for hundreds of years and I'm sure he can walk faster than you, too. Now get at least another lap done before you break down and cry like a baby."
He had complained, but he had done the lap. And the next one, and the one after that. Kate had a way to keep spurring him on to new achievements, and the persistence to not let him quit until he really couldn't go on. She had brought him back from the edge of the grave, there was no doubt of that.
Now, thinking about Kate, about Simon and Commander Bisbee and Lieutenant Michaud and Li Tang and the rest of the brave souls who had died on Starbase 311, Kyle felt his eyes threaten to fill with unexpected tears. He blinked them back, glad there was no one here to see this. It was undignified, a man crying for the dead and the lost, all these years later. An observer might see him and assume he was crying because of his memories of himself, wounded and broken, so weak that his doctor, whom he came to love, had to help him take baby steps, had to support his weight and guide him to a window so that he could see that he really had come home. Or that observer might think he was crying for that doctor, whose love he won and as quickly threw away. Their love had flamed hot for a year, a little more, but then, once he had the strength to function without her, he had somehow come to believe that she was holding him back. He wanted a career again, he wanted to matter to Starfleet, he wanted to apply the hard lessons he had learned on Starbase 311 to his craft. Being with Katherine Pulaski could only get in the way of that, tie him down, and so he had driven her away.
He dabbed at his eyes, smiling wryly at his own foolishness, and picked up the padd again. Something he had seen, scouring the records before he had distracted himself with his own memories . . .
He found it. Most of the logs of Starbase 311 had been destroyed in the Tholian attack, but portions had survived, and there was one he had never paid attention to before. A shuttle hangar log showed that in the moments before the red alert, someone had tried to launch one of the shuttles. A mechanical failure had kept it grounded, and then once the attack came, all docking bays and hangars were closed to prevent enemy incursion. There was no record as to who had tried to flee the station moments before the Tholians came, or why. But it was curious, just the same. Did someone know the attack was imminent? Who might have known that, and who would have had good reason to run?
When an idea occurred to Kyle, he tried cross-referencing with the bits of remaining logs he could access. He had also downloaded the inspection reports of the Starfleet Corps of Engineers team that went to the ruins of 311 and decommissioned her, and he checked and cross-checked those as well.
What he discovered surprised him. Heidl, Roone, and Bistwinela had not been near their lab when the attack came. Heidl's body had been found near the shuttle hangar, Roone and Bistwinela outside the transporter room. More strangely still, when the S.C.E. team had made it into what was left of their lab, it had been dismantled. The Tholians had damaged it, as they had the rest of the station, but none of the apparatus or data that had presumably been in there before the attack was there after. The data, in fact, was never found.
Kyle felt a chill run up the back of his neck. Those three had been up to something, he thought. Something bad—something dangerous. Had they conspired with the Tholians, or was the timing of the attack coincidental? They were all dead; at this point, he would never know. But it caused him to wonder how much else he didn't know about Starbase 311, and the rest of the Federation as well.
He set the padd aside and stared toward a rusty patch on the wall opposite his bunk, eyes unseeing. No matter what he learned, or figured out, now, it would be a while before he could investigate further or bring it to anyone's attention.
A long while indeed.
* * *
He had just fallen asleep—sleep being one of the few ways of passing the time available to him on the Morning Star, in addition to talking now and then with John Abbott, exercising in his room, and his twice-daily runs up and down the long halls, with some ladder climbing thrown in for good measure—when he heard his voice being called. He hadn't even realized that his quarters had a comm system, although it only made sense.
"Mr. Barrow," he heard again. The creaking voice could only belong to a Kreel'n.
"Yes, what is it?" Kyle answered, assuming that whoever it was could hear him.
"This is Captain S'K'lee," the captain's voice said. "I thought perhaps you'd like to visit the bridge?"
Kyle didn't think twice. He could sleep anytime. Anyway, day and night meant nothing on board the ship. In his quarters he could turn the lights up or down at will, and the rest of the vessel was uniformly dark. And he didn't know anyone except Abbott, barely could tell one Kreel'n from the next, so similar did they look to his untrained eye, so he couldn't measure time of day by crew members' shifts. As the weeks had passed, trying to keep track of time had seemed less and less important. He slept when he was tired, he ate when he was hungry, and the rest of the time he tried to keep occupied, mentally, physically, or both. "I would be most interested," he replied, grateful for the diversion.
"Come up, then," S'K'lee told him. "I will expect you shortly." There was a barely audible click as she broke the connection. Like most of the other systems on this ship, communications seemed to be operated with fairly ancient technology. Kyle wouldn't have been too surprised to look underneath the Morning Star and see a couple of sets of wheels there for landings.
But the door opened when he worked the complicated opening mechanism, so he stepped into the dim, utilitarian corridor and tried to remember where the bridge was. He had only a vague mental image of the ship's layout, even after all his days on board. The ship didn't seem to have anywhere near the clean lines of the Starfleet vessels he was used to, but instead it was bulky, almost boxy, with a massive, squared-off bow, tapering slightly toward the stern. He'd been told that she could move fast when she needed to but he had a hard time believing it.
The bridge, he knew, was in a separate dome section that jutted out from the top, not far back from the bow, breaking the line of the ship like an afterthought. Which meant that Kyle had to work his way in that direction. Assuming the artificial gravity was standard, the ladders would take him up. If, however, that assumption was wrong, he might be going in entirely the wrong direction.
But he was in luck. The ship's gravity was indeed Earthlike, and what felt like up to him was indeed up. After several minutes of searching he found what must have been the topmost deck, and then he ran across one of the more humanoid crew members in the corridor, a female with sleek fur like a panther's, black spots underneath. "I'm looking for the bridge," he said. "Captain S'K'lee invited me up."
She looked at him for a moment as if surprised he could speak at all, then tilted her head toward the ceiling and wandered away. He wasn't sure if she was indicating that he should continue going up, or if it was some form of shrug. At any rate, he was back on his own again, and he roamed through the corridor until he heard a familiar voice behind him.
"Mr. Barrow," John Abbott boomed jovially.
"Mr. Abbott," Kyle said. "I'm looking for the bridge."
"S'K'lee must be having a party," John said. "She's asked me up as well."
"I've been curious," Kyle said. "Have you ever seen S'K'lee pilot the ship?"
"Of course, many times," Abbott replied.
"How does she do it?" Kyle wondered. "You know, being blind."
"That, my friend, is something she'll have to explain to you. It's beyond me. Just follow me, and all will be revealed."
He led Kyle up the corridor he'd been walking down, then fiddled with a gearlike contraption on the wall that Kyle would have had no idea how to use. With a soft hiss, a panel slid open, revealing a wide staircase—its stairs short and close together, like the ship's ladder rungs—leading up to a large, domed space that Kyle knew must be the bridge.
"Guests on the bridge," Abbott shouted when they were halfway up. Kyle was just able to see crew members, mostly Kreel'n of course, moving about the bridge or working at various stations. The control panels he could see looked much as they had on other starships he'd visited, if a little more primitive. The walls and ceiling of the dome were all transparent and the spacescape beyond was quite beautiful.
Captain S'K'lee spun around in her chair, which was positioned in the dead center of the round room. "Welcome," she squeaked.
"Captain," John said before Kyle could even open his mouth. "Mr. Barrow here doesn't believe you can fly this bucket."
Kyle shot the man an angry glance. "That's not precisely the way I put it," he explained quickly. "I just asked how you could pilot, since, as I understand it, ships' captains voluntarily undergo surgical blinding."
S'K'lee made her laughing noise again, long and loud. "Visiting a museum once, when I was much younger, I put on a special helmet that reputedly approximated the visual acuity of humans," she said when she had brought her laughter under control. "I was astonished that you even think you can see. By our standards, you're quite blind yourself, even at your optimum."
She could be right, he supposed. With six eyes ringing half their heads, at the very least a Kreel'n's field of vision would be much greater. And he supposed there could be advantages to depth perception, possibly making them more adept at judging distances, and maybe better able to shift from close to distant focus.
"Even so," he said. "At least I can look out the viewscreen and see what's ahead of me." John Abbott, he noted, stood by silently, occasionally nodding to himself. He'd heard all this before.
"Your way of seeing—even our way—just gets in the way when doing complicated flying," S'K'lee said. "My ship's instruments tell me everything I need to know. In a tricky situation, the momentary gap between perception and response could be fatal, if I relied on my vision. But when I rely on the ship's perceptions and responses, the possibility of error is all but eliminated. Seeing would only endanger the ship and crew, making me more likely to trust my own senses instead of my instruments, if they should be at odds. Hence, the blinding procedure."
"Still," Kyle said. "If the ship's crew can see, it must be a bit harrowing to them when you're at the helm in a tight spot."
S'K'lee fixed some of her dead black eyes on him as if she were looking at him. "They trust," she said simply. "They trust."
Kyle glanced about at the ship's officers, going about their routines now. They looked capable enough, and he'd had no problems with S'K'lee's flying when they left the space station. And certainly in his years, he'd encountered much stranger things. "Thank you," he said. "For the explanation."
"I'm afraid I have something else to explain to you," S'K'lee said. Kyle was no expert, but the tone of her scratchy, squealy voice seemed to have changed a little. He couldn't make out what this change might signify, though.
"What is it?"
"You can't see it," S'K'lee said with a grimace that Kyle took to be a smile, "because it's beneath us just now. But we've been hailed by a Starfleet ship—the LaSalle, I believe its captain said it was."
Kyle felt his heart slam against his ribcage like a wild beast vying for release. Suddenly dizzy, he reached for the nearest control podium and held on for support. Hoping no one had noticed, he glanced over at John Abbott, who still watched S'K'lee, apparently unconcerned.
"Hailed?" Kyle managed to croak out. "Why?"
"According to its captain, we're harboring a fugitive," S'K'lee said. "I, of course, told them we were doing no such thing and invited them to beam aboard and search us if they chose."
"And their response?" John asked.
"They'll have a security squad here in ten minutes," S'K'lee replied. "I stalled them for a while, but I thought it best to warn you both. Just in case."
"I'm sure it's some kind of mistake," John said.
"Of course," S'K'lee agreed.
"I'll return to my cabin, then."
"As you wish," S'K'lee told him. "And you, Mr. Barrow?"
"I . . . uh, I'll do the same," Kyle said. He felt like his world was turning upside down, like the temporary sense of security he had enjoyed had been suddenly shattered. In a blurry haze, he followed John Abbott off the bridge and down a succession of ladders. Finally, John looked back at him, as if surprised to see that he was still there.
"You passed your deck a while back, Barrow," he said abruptly. He seemed a bit winded now, though Kyle thought that might have been because he'd been hurrying down ladders barely wide enough for his bulk.
"Oh," Kyle said dumbly. "I . . . I guess I lost count."
"Got you a bit nervous?" John asked with a grin.
"Well, you know. The idea that there might be a fugitive on the ship, it's a little frightening."
John touched his chin and nodded. "It certainly is," he said.
"I guess I should go back up then. To my own cabin," Kyle said.
"I suppose. When this is all over, we'll have a drink and laugh about it."
"It's a deal," Kyle agreed. He climbed back up to his own deck and found his own cramped quarters. But should I bother going in? he wondered, half-panicked. Should I run? To where? Surely they've already scanned the ship, they know there are only two human passengers aboard. If I ran, all I could do would be to get myself lost, but I couldn't hide from them for long.
He sat down on the edge of his bed, breathing deeply and trying to calm his fears. The captain hadn't specified that the fugitive was human, had she? Starfleet might have any number of reasons for seeking out anyone on board such a big vessel. And at least he hadn't begun having Tholian flashbacks again, he realized with some satisfaction. There was that much to be grateful for.
But he couldn't shake the certainty that they had come for him. He was still sitting there, trying not to think about what the Starfleet Security team might have in store for him, when there was a knock at the door to his room. "Come in," he said, and the door hissed open.
Two uniformed security officers, one an average-sized human female and the other a yellow-skinned being so tall he had to stoop his shoulders to avoid hitting his massive, shaggy head against the passageway's ceiling, peered at him through the open door but didn't enter. "Mr. Barrow?" the human woman asked.
"That's right," Kyle said.
"Mind if we ask you a few questions?"
"That depends," he answered, plastering a quick grin on his face to defuse the defensiveness of his response. "What about?"
"Did you know the man who called himself John Abbott?"
Kyle picked up on the past tense reference right away. "What do you mean, 'did' I? Of course I know him."
"How well?"
"Has something happened to him?" Kyle demanded.
The shaggy yellow creature spoke for the first time, his voice deep and rumbling with menace. "Please just answer our questions, Mr. Barrow. It'll be easier on everyone."
The woman flicked her eyes toward her partner, and Kyle got the impression that their working styles were not always in smooth confluence. "I'm afraid that Mr. Abbott took his own life," she explained, sounding sympathetic. "When he heard we had come for him."
"Took his own life? Why?" Kyle asked, already forgetting the tall one's warning.
The woman blew out a sigh. "How well did you know him?" she asked again.
"Just casually," Kyle replied. "We were the only humans on the ship. We had a few drinks together, had a chat from time to time. I didn't know him before we met during the trip, and wouldn't consider him a friend. But I'm sorry to hear that he's dead. Was he in some kind of trouble?"
"You could say that," the tall yellow officer said. "Abbott was a killer. In his cargo, we've found parts belonging to at least a dozen different bodies. But the captain of this ship says that a couple of her crew members have gone missing in recent weeks, and now she's worried that he might have been continuing his spree on board."
"You don't mind if we have a look around in here?" the woman asked. Her tricorder had already appeared in her hand.
Kyle stepped away from the door to let them in. The yellow alien had to bend over uncomfortably far to fit beneath the low jamb, ducking like a palm tree in a hurricane, or a snow-laden fir. "Not at all," he said, his mind racing to determine if there were anything in the room that might point to his real identity. As long as they didn't try to access his padd, he thought he'd be okay.
Both officers ran their tricorders across the room—scanning for body parts, Kyle guessed, though he couldn't be sure if any of their outlandish story had even been true. When they were finished they locked eyes and shared a shrug.
"You're not making this up?" Kyle asked. "About Abbott and the bodies?"
"It's not our job to tell spooky stories," the yellow one said. "Abbott wouldn't have told you any, would he? Maybe let on where he stashed his newest victims?"
Kyle shook his head grimly. "This is the first I've heard of anything like that," he said. "He seemed like a nice enough fellow to me."
"That's what they always say about the worst ones," the woman told her companion. "Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Barrow. Sorry to disturb you. Enjoy the rest of your trip."
They both stepped from the room, the tall one scrunching himself down again to get out, and the door closed behind them. In the wake of their visit, Kyle found himself at once astonished and terrified. He had known that Abbott was a phony name, of course, but had thought maybe the man was a smuggler or something. Certainly nothing as sinister as a killer.
As he sat back down on the bed, he realized that the other thing Abbott had been was the only other human being he had spoken with on the Morning Star. Now there was no one on the ship but the crew, mostly Kreel'n, who had shown no indication of wanting to interact with him at all.
You wanted to be left alone, he told himself. Congratulations. It doesn't get much more alone than this.
* * *
Where is he?
He's everywhere. He's nowhere.
What does that mean?
No one has seen him. There have been no records of his showing up anyplace—he hasn't been home, he hasn't been to his office, he hasn't been near Headquarters. But his padd's GPS shows that he's everyplace from Venus to Taipei to Taurus II. Every reading comes from someplace different. It's as if he's completely vanished.
That's impossible!
Exactly my point. We've lost him, or he's lost himself. Either way . . .
But . . . but I want him! I want to see him squirm, see him suffer. I want him crushed! There's a high price that needs to be paid, and Kyle Riker is the one to pay it!
I'm not resting . . . I won't rest, until he's found. And punished.
Yes, punished . . .
## Part Two
## February—May 2356
## Chapter 15
The sun set late on Hazimot, which was one of many reasons why Kyle liked it there. Eighteen hours of sunlight in a row reminded him of the Alaskan summer, that golden time of year when you remembered why you put up with Alaskan winters. Of course, Hazimot was hotter than Alaska, even Valdez in midsummer. It had its sun, technically a star known as Iamme IV, and then it had a secondary sun, Myetra, much farther away but still near enough to cast light and some warmth down on Hazimot's arid surface. The conflicting gravitational fields gave all the system's planets skewed orbits, and there were long winters on Hazimot that were much colder than Alaska's. But the next one wouldn't come around for about twelve earth years, and Kyle didn't plan to stay that long.
Kyle was walking home from work through the twilight streets of Cozzen, one of the largest cities in the nation of Cyre, with Clantis, a Cyrian coworker. The day had been long and wearying and as Kyle walked he felt a heaviness of limbs and a weariness of muscle that left him at once tired, sore, and satisfied. Clantis, taller than him and broad, with a deep chest and massive shoulders that made him well suited to hard physical labor, had skin the color and texture of hammered copper. The months on Hazimot had bronzed Kyle's as well, but he figured he'd never achieve the look that Clantis had.
When they reached the intersection where Kyle went one way and Clantis another, the Cyrian regarded Kyle with a bemused expression and shook his head slowly. "I can't believe you still live in that hole," he said. "You make enough, don't you, to get a real place? In a neighborhood where you don't have to fear for your life every day?"
Kyle shrugged. He had always had a facility for languages, and Cyrian had been easy for him to learn. "I guess it just suits me."
"Suits the vermin who get into your food and bedding," Clantis argued. "Not you. You're a smart guy, a hard worker. You could do better, easy."
Clantis's own home was a low, domed house in a neighborhood of similar structures, all built in the shadow of one of the great walls that surrounded Cozzen. It had seven rooms and was technologically current. Kyle, on the other hand, still lived in the place he'd found upon first arriving in Cozzen, so many months before. His building was half a dozen stories tall, one of many in its cramped district, a warren of narrow streets and abandoned buildings turned squatters' hovels. Kyle shared his building with a changing cast of characters, twenty or so at any given time. But rent was free and, more important, no one asked difficult questions there or pried into one another's private affairs. Hazimot had a fairly substantial human population, and the natives were humanoid enough that blending in was easy.
"I suppose," Kyle said, noncommittal. "But I'm happy, so why worry about it?"
"Happy?" Clantis echoed. The two had grown fairly close, working side by side on the interminable public redevelopment projects that were so common in the city, and walking home together most days. Close enough, Kyle thought, that he seems to be taking my life choices personally now.
That's not good. Next thing, he might start wondering about my past.
"I don't see how you can claim to be happy," Clantis continued. "Living down there with the dregs, the losers and maggots that feed on society's droppings."
"It's not quite that bad," Kyle said with a chuckle. "Like you say, I'm a smart guy. I wouldn't put up with it if it was as bad as you describe."
"Everyone has their own standards," Clantis admitted.
"Exactly. I'll see you tomorrow, Clantis."
"See you then, Joe."
Kyle tossed off a casual wave and headed into the neighborhood called The End, because it had, once upon a time, been at the end of a long road that connected several of Cyre's cities. The name had stuck, and now had quite different connotations. Kyle's own name had not passed his lips since he left the Morning Star to live here; instead he had called himself Joe Brady, because it was a bland name with absolutely no resonance for him. Except for the fact that he was a mass murderer, Kyle had been a little sorry that John Abbott hadn't lived longer—while it had lasted, their relationship had been an educational one.
Kyle tried to clear his head before venturing into The End. The mazelike streets were unmarked, for the most part, the buildings nearly identical. There were vehicles on the streets, sometimes moving faster than was safe, and few sidewalks, no specially designated pedestrian areas. And, as Clantis had hinted at, it wasn't the safest neighborhood in the city. Kyle had seen dangerous neighborhoods on a number of planets, in fact, and with the possible benefit that there didn't seem to be any Tholian neighbors here, this was one of the worst.
Which made it, of course, perfect. Or as nearly so as he could hope.
Most buildings on Hazimot, it seemed, were round, or at least rounded off. By the time Kyle had been on the planet a few days, he had understood why. Another effect of the dual suns was wind, and lots of it. It slipped around the curved buildings, where more squared-off ones would have resisted and eventually been damaged in the process. When the winds blew on Hazimot, everything bowed to them.
This golden evening, though, the air was still, and The End was quiet as Kyle walked its confusing streets. A few of the locals were out, standing on the streets or sitting on the stairs of their buildings, dodging the sweltering heat that could build up inside. They watched him pass, most without comment, though there was an occasional hand raised in greeting. Poverty was rampant in this neighborhood, and most of those Kyle saw didn't have jobs to take them out of it during the long hot days, or much inside to keep them occupied at night.
After the death of John Abbott, Kyle had studied up on the Class-M planets that the Morning Star would be visiting. Hazimot had met his requirements in a number of ways. It was not a Federation planet, nor would it be anytime soon, Kyle was certain. It was politically unstable, with armed and economic conflict among a few superpowers and a host of lesser ones. Within Cyre there was an enormous gap between rich and poor, and the scramble for money was one of the society's most prevalent features. Kyle was reminded of the Gilded Age of the early twentieth-century United States, just before the Great Depression helped even things out.
It was not, by any means, an ideal place to live. But that made it good for Kyle. He was unlikely to run into anyone he knew, and it was unlikelier still that anyone who knew him would look for him here. Since one needed money to buy goods here, he worked, but instead of a military or government job, as he had at home, he worked at menial labor. He was paid in cash daily by contractors working for the city. If he showed up and worked, he was paid, but if he didn't that was okay too. No one sought him out, until he'd made friends with Clantis, which had happened more or less by accident. Now, if he skipped a day, Clantis noticed. Clantis invited him home, asked him over for meals with his family, took an interest in his welfare. That was just the kind of thing Kyle didn't want.
At one point, five streets came together in a starburst pattern, and the most direct route home was straight across the middle of the star. But as Kyle stepped toward the center of the intersection, a two-person transport came hurtling down the street, skating just centimeters above the surface, kicking up dust and small stones as it charged. Kyle dodged, slamming back into the nearest building, and felt the wind tear at him as it passed. He started out again, but saw a police transport coming behind, half a dozen officers inside. Living in The End, Kyle had learned the poor person's instinctive distrust of law enforcement, of police who enforced the laws made by the rich for the benefit of the rich. He hadn't, to his knowledge, broken any of the laws of the city, but still he shied away from the oncoming vehicle.
For that matter, he realized, he hadn't been breaking any laws back home when the Starfleet officers started gunning for him. So maybe that wasn't necessarily a good indicator.
As he stood there, eyes downcast, the police officers cruised past him. A dropfly, attracted by his stillness, landed on his cheek. He twitched a couple of times and the thing flew away without biting. He was glad—raising a hand toward it might have alerted the cops, and in this neighborhood you didn't want to do that if you could help it. When the police had gone from sight, he continued toward the place he had started to think of as home.
* * *
"Tough day in the ditches?" Elxenten asked when he saw Kyle climbing the three wide, curving steps toward the front door of their building. He had, in fact, been building walls all day, but the first day he'd met Elx he'd been filthy and bedraggled after a day of digging ditches for a sewage system, and that had been the Cyrian's standard greeting ever since. He shot a grin at the older man, who'd done his share of ditchdigging over the years.
"That's right," he said. "Everything okay on the home front?"
Elxenten scratched his grizzled chin and laughed. "Yeah, no trouble here."
That, Kyle had learned, was Elx's highest praise. "No trouble" was as good as his life got. He had lived on Hazimot for what Kyle estimated would have been forty Earth years, but he looked at least seventy. His hair was pure white, and sparse, and a thin coating of white fuzz covered his chin and cheeks. Like Clantis, he had copper-colored skin, but this was copper that had been tarnished for too long. "Glad to hear it," Kyle said.
"Michelle's grilling up some hesturn, if you're hungry."
"Hesturn?" Kyle echoed. "Must have been a good day." Hesturn was a kind of fish that lived in the local creeks. They were hard to catch, though, and, while considered fairly common in most parts of Cozzen, they were rare enough in The End to be notable.
"Yeah, it was," Elx said. "You should've seen her when she came in, carrying five of the ugly beasts in a bag like it was treasure, a smile as bright as Iamme on her face."
"Sorry I missed that," Kyle replied. Michelle, a human who'd been here for a few years, was a lovely woman, especially, Kyle believed, when she smiled.
"She's probably sorry you did too," Elx told him. "Lady's sweet on you, Joe."
Kyle laughed. "Right," he said sarcastically. "Because I'm such a good catch."
Elx fixed him with a clear-eyed gaze, and rose up from his seat on the steps. "Steady worker. Honest man, far as I can tell. No obvious addictions. Don't get into a lot of fights. What's wrong with that?"
"You'd have to ask Michelle," Kyle answered. "If I was her, I'd go for me in a heartbeat."
Elx clapped a hand on Kyle's shoulder that almost knocked him to the floor. As was typical with Cyrian men, Elxenten was big and powerful, with the overdeveloped shoulder muscles that made him look like he was wearing padding. "Maybe I'll just do that. After I've got a gut full of her hesturn. Let's go on back."
Kyle reached the door first and held it open for Elx, who nodded his appreciation as he passed. The building had been, in its heyday, a mundane apartment building, and still served essentially that same function today with the exception that nobody collected any rent. The front room was a lobby area, its gold paint flaked and peeling. There wasn't a corner in the place; every wall swooped and arced in reflection of the outside curvature. It was, Kyle thought, an interesting contrast to Starbase 311, which went to such trouble to hide its curved nature. Stairways wound up from the lobby to the various apartments above, and through the lobby there was a courtyard, shared with the other buildings clustered around. It was here, on a heavy grating over an open fire pit, that Michelle was grilling her fish. Kyle could see her through the small-paned double doors, the evening's last slanted rays of light slipping through a space between two buildings and striking her honey-colored hair like a fireball bursting into life. She saw him watching her and laughed, waving her tongs at him like an admonishing finger. It had been a long time since he'd known a woman so alive.
"I told you," Elx murmured behind him.
"It's just wishful thinking," Kyle rejoined. "You're too old for her so you want to live vicariously through me. But you can't do that unless I'm living in the first place."
"Got that right."
"Listen, I need a shower before I'm fit company for anyone, man, woman, or child," Kyle said. "Do me a favor, tell her I'll be along in a few minutes."
"Unless I forget about living vicariously and just run off with her myself," Elx said.
"If you do that, more power to you," Kyle offered. He had a strong hunch that Michelle and Elx would still be in the courtyard, with some of the other neighbors, when he came back downstairs. Unless he hurried, though, it was anyone's guess if there would be any of that hesturn left, and when Elx opened the double doors the scent wafted in with a cloud of smoke, sweet and intense. Kyle could almost taste the tender pink flesh of the creature, and he had to force himself to keep heading toward his own apartment and the shower he so badly needed. Between the heat, the hard work, and the wind that blew almost constantly, he came home filthy every day. The winds dried his sweat almost instantly but kept him coated with a layer of the city's dirt.
The squatters who lived in this building tried to keep it clean, but there were limits. They could only rely on the strength of their own group effort to keep out others, who might not be so careful. And no one, having turned to living here when they were unable to afford a place of their own, wanted to then impose exclusivity on it. Anyone who wanted to sleep here was welcome to do so, as long as basic rules of behavior were followed. Fortunately, there were plenty of empty buildings in The End and a few other, similar neighborhoods scattered around Cozzen.
But there was a tendency for trash and litter to build up in the common areas, and Kyle had to walk through some as he climbed the stairs to the third floor, where his place was. He kept his own apartment as clean as any he'd ever lived in, which meant that it would withstand inspection from the pickiest Starfleet admiral there was, and he made a mental note to pick up the refuse on the stairway when he came back down to get some of that hesturn.
On such an arid planet, water was a precious commodity, and it was therefore carefully regulated. Every building had its share, even those that were officially empty, because to deny access to water was tantamount to a death penalty. In return, Hazimot's citizens learned to use it sparingly. In most homes of the middle and upper classes, sonic showers were commonplace. Power derived from sun and wind was cheap and abundant, so even these squatters' tenements had power as well. As Kyle entered, his apartment recognized that the daylight was fading and lights turned on. He went to the flat's bedroom and stripped off his filthy work clothes, then into the bathroom for a quick shower.
When that was done he put on a tunic and some baggy pants of a light, cool local fabric. The clothing was meant to be comfortable in heat and still protect against the winds, and it did a good job of both. He didn't have the build of a Hazimotian, but other than that he looked like he belonged here, and he found that he liked it that way. Kyle was pleased that he had found a niche here and fit into it so well. He worked because he believed in work, believed that a person had to do a job of some kind to contribute to society. He made a little money, and most of that he contributed, anonymously, to local charities, since he didn't need much to live on.
But it still bothered him that he was so far from his real job, from Starfleet. They needed him, he was convinced, needed the services that only he could provide. On the Morning Star, during his month of solitude before he had disembarked on Hazimot, he had wracked his brain trying to fathom why he would have become a target. He had made plenty of enemies among Starfleet's foes, but there was nothing—nothing—that should have made him an enemy of Starfleet. So there was something more going on, and he couldn't figure out what it might be. He had gone over every job he'd done, every conflict on which he'd advised. And he kept coming up blank. If there was no reason for Starfleet itself to want him out of the way, he reasoned, then that left someone within Starfleet, acting for reasons of his or her own. Which meant, since he was no threat to Starfleet, that there was someone in the organization's ranks pursuing a private agenda. Which, since that agenda ran counter to Starfleet's interests, was treasonous.
Except for being unable to solve that problem, though, as the time had passed, he had felt himself healing more. He wished, from time to time, that he could talk to Kate, could describe to her how he was getting better and seek her counsel for continued improvement. The Tholian attack flashbacks faded, and he realized that there would come a day when he would even forget the details of that terrible event, as it drifted further into the past. The unreasoning fear that had propelled him off-planet had faded too. Now, he stayed away as a strategic ploy, not out of blind panic. But he remained at a standstill—he didn't want to go home until he had a plan, and he couldn't come up with a good plan until he had some sense of what he was facing.
Dressed and dried by the crisp, hot air, he went back downstairs, collecting the trash from the staircase as he went and tossing it into a recycling unit at the bottom. It was a simple chore; he couldn't understand why some folks didn't bother to do it at all.
The odor of the grilled hesturn had filled the lobby now, and other residents were coming down to see what was going on. Kyle nodded hello to a few of them, Templesmith and Blevins and Xuana, and joined the procession through the double doors out of the lobby. The suns had gone down and the firepit provided the only light, casting shadows that danced throughout the circular courtyard. Michelle had pulled her day's catch off the fire and was bent over a table, cutting them into sections, one strand of her long blond hair clamped between her lips as she concentrated.
"Smells delicious," Kyle told her as he approached.
She glanced up at him, tossing him a quick smile, then turned back to her work. "I think it is," she said. "It's just that people keep showing up, and it's getting harder and harder to get the pieces to equal sizes."
"Well, they shouldn't all be equal," Kyle said. "You caught them all, right? You should help yourself to as much as you want."
"I'm just trying to get close," Michelle insisted. "I'll have plenty, Joe, don't you worry about me."
In the light from the fire, he could see that she looked older than he had first thought. Time, work, and worry had etched lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes. But she was beautiful, there was no getting around that. Her eyes were like Annie's had been, blue as an Alaskan lake, her forehead wide and smooth, her rose petal-pink lips full. Occasionally in the time Kyle had known her, a shadow had seemed to cross her face, and her brow furrowed, eyes narrowing and lips pressing together. There was, he felt sure, something troubling her, something dark and private. He found himself wanting to know, wanting to help, and he didn't even know how to ask her about it. But then, most of those living in The End had secrets. He was certainly no exception to that rule.
Instead of prying, he found a chair in the balmy courtyard and, surrounded by the casual conversation and easy laughter of his new neighbors, he joined with the others in eating her fish.
## Chapter 16
Drake Kimball, though he had retired from Starfleet a decade before, looked every inch the military officer he had once been. His silver hair was cut short and impeccably combed, his clothing was as crisp and neat as any dress uniform, and his bearing and posture were textbook perfection. He sometimes paced as he delivered his military history lectures, for which he never used notes, but his attitude was always formal, as if he were on parade.
"Every battle is brand new," he said as he stood at the front of the classroom, hands clasped behind his back. "But the elements that make it up have been around forever. The flank, the feint, the siege . . . these have been practiced since the first bipeds picked up sticks and attacked the band next door. You are not, ladies and gentlemen, likely to invent any new maneuvers, any new tactics, in the course of your Starfleet careers. So the key to success is in how you apply the old ones, how you combine them to new effect. And that means being thoroughly conversant in them."
This was nothing new to Will. Kimball had said basically the same thing on the first day of class, expressing the importance of knowing military history inside and out. For his part, Will was sure he'd finish this class near the top. He'd studied the history of strategy and tactics on his own, ever since his father had told him bedtime stories of Napoleon and Alexander and Hannibal. He had realized early on that he would never be the biggest kid in school, or the strongest, or the fastest. But he could still be big and strong and fast enough, and he could amplify his own skills by the application of strategic thinking.
"You have, ladies and gentlemen, occasionally pleased me, and sometimes disappointed me, with the essays I expect from you," Kimball continued. "This one will be a little different than most. Rather than examining a particular battle or the work of a master tactician, I want you to research an individual soldier. I want you to delve into the life and career of a man or woman who fought on the fields of battle, famous, infamous, or unknown, and I want you to tell me, in this essay, what that particular soldier did, right or wrong, that resulted in victory or defeat. If the soldier you're studying survived, I expect to discover why. If not, why not. Understood?"
There was a chorus of "Yes, sir" from the assembled students. Kimball gave a due date and a few more detailed instructions, and dismissed the class. Will met up with Dennis Haynes on the way out of class. "This should be kind of interesting," Dennis said. "A little different, like the old man said."
"Do you have any ideas yet?" Will asked him. "Anyone you'd like to research?"
"The first thought that came to mind was James T. Kirk," Dennis told him. "But then, I figure he'll get a dozen of those."
"You're better off picking someone less well known," Will agreed. "Less competition for original ideas, less chance that Kimball will have already reached his own conclusions."
"Harder to find source material, though," Dennis said as they walked across the open campus. "If I pick someone who's not well known."
"There are ways around that," Will told him. The sky was the color of lead, and cloudless, and the air carried that metallic, charged tang that it sometimes did when it seemed as if the weather might assert itself.
"What about you?" Dennis asked him. "Got any ideas? You're always so good at coming up with creative twists."
"I've got a couple of possibilities in mind," Will said. This was a lie, though. He had made up his mind as soon as Kimball had described the assignment. He owned, thanks to his father, the diary of an ancestor named Thaddius Riker, who had fought in the American Civil War. That's who he was going to write about—his own kin.
He and Dennis were continuing across campus toward their next class when Will noticed a familiar, dark-haired shape walking toward them. "It's Felicia," Dennis said.
"So it is," Will noted. He hadn't talked to Felicia much since the end of the last school year. He had thought that maybe she was interested in him, during Admiral Paris's survival project. But after the project's disastrous end, he had come out the superintendent's office and she had been gone, halfway across the Quad, lost in conversation with Estresor Fil. He had kind of expected her to be waiting for him, and when she wasn't he became convinced that his typical luck with women was holding, and he had only imagined that she might be attracted to him. Embarrassed by his own ineptitude, and moody and depressed at being, once again, stuck on Earth all summer, he had avoided contact with almost everyone he knew. The longer he had gone without talking to anyone, the more shy he had been when he'd seen them again. With Paul and Dennis and some of the others, he had fallen quickly back into old routines once school started up again. But with Felicia, he had never been able to overcome that double dose of awkwardness. And this year, they had no classes together. The few times he'd run into her it had been with a lot of people around, and he'd managed to avoid having an actual conversation with her.
Now as she approached, he saw on her lovely face a sly half-grin.
"Excuse me," she said, projecting a naivete that he knew was an act, but which he found somehow appealing anyway. "You look a lot like a young man I used to know. His name was Will Riker. Have you ever heard of him?"
Will had to laugh. "Yes, Felicia," he said. "Yes, I'm a big fat loser. I admit it. I'm sorry."
"I was thinking along those same lines, Cadet Riker," she said. "Though a little stronger, perhaps. Hello, Dennis."
"Hi, Felicia."
"I don't suppose you'd mind leaving Cadet Riker and me alone for a little while," she said, still directing her words to Dennis. "Will and I need to talk about how he's going to atone for his foolish and, may I say, ungentlemanly behavior."
Dennis seemed a bit flabbergasted, but she had made it clear that she was demanding this, not really asking, and he responded with his typical good humor. "I . . . uh, sure. I'll leave you two alone. Send Will's pieces back in a bag when you're done with him."
"I'll do that, and thank you for your consideration." She stood with her hands on her hips, watching Dennis get beyond earshot, then faced Will. Her stance was determined, and Will figured he was in for a severe admonishment. Which I no doubt deserve, he thought. Not that that'll make it any easier to hear. She pointed to a nearby bench, and they both sat down.
"Felicia, I—" he began, hoping to ward off the brunt of her attack with some kind of excuse. But he didn't really have one, and she didn't give him a chance to get it out anyway.
"Be quiet, William Riker, and let me talk. I get the distinct impression that you've been avoiding me, ever since September. I also have the feeling that if I hadn't made a point of 'accidentally' being outside your classroom today, I still wouldn't have seen you. What I'd like to know is what terrible crime I committed to deserve this exclusion from your life, because I must have done something."
"You . . ." Will began, and then he stopped because he didn't know where else to go. "It isn't anything you did, Felicia," he said. As he spoke he watched a bird struggle to lift a crust of bread nearly as large as it was. He knew how the bird felt. "I . . . I had a rough summer, I guess. And then that kind of led into a rough year. I've been busy, you know, trying to knuckle down and get my grades up."
"Even so . . ."
Will shrugged. "I guess I'm not always good at understanding women."
Felicia stared at him, open-mouthed, as if he had just emerged from a particularly disgusting cocoon. "Understanding women? It isn't like we're a separate species, much less a nonhumanoid alien life-form, Will. We're just like you, only with some different parts."
He felt duly chastised. "I guess it's those different parts that throw me off."
"You don't have to let them. It's those different parts that make things interesting. Anyway, how would you feel if you knew I had avoided you for the last six months?"
"I didn't realize you hadn't been," Will offered. "I mean, I wasn't so much avoiding you as just not seeking you out. And I thought . . ." He stopped, once again not quite sure how much he wanted to say, or in what direction he really wanted to take the conversation. "I think I thought you weren't interested in me. In being friends with me."
"Well, you were wrong. And I have looked for you, a few times. But after you didn't answer my messages during the summer, and then during the school year you never seemed to be where I could find you. I got the feeling you just didn't want to be bothered. At least, not by me."
Will found that he was smiling for the first time since they'd taken their seats on the bench. "So I'm not the only one who doesn't always understand other people."
"People are hard to understand if they don't communicate," she said. "But yes, apparently I misjudged you as well. Will you forgive me?"
"I think there's going to have to be some mutual forgiving," Will suggested.
"Maybe we should just start over from the beginning," Felicia said. She offered her hand. "Hello, Cadet. I'm Felicia Mendoza, from El Salvador, Earth."
"William T. Riker," he said with a smile. "Valdez, Alaska, Earth."
"Can we be friends, Cadet Riker?"
"I think I'd like that, Cadet Mendoza." He felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders that had been there since the end of school last year. The awfulness of the summer had been compounded, he knew, by his confusion over Felicia's feelings—or, as he understood now, his misjudgment of Felicia's feelings. He still didn't quite know what had happened, but he thought that it might be better just to let the details slip away, rather than dredging them up and having to undergo the discomfort of facing them specifically. For now, the softness of her hand in his, her warm smile and the light that danced in her brown eyes and the way a strand of her dark hair rested against her olive cheek, where it had escaped her ponytail, all conspired to make him believe that he had come out of a long tunnel into a glorious day.
* * *
When Felicia had dismissed him—and he'd been a little hurt by then, because, after all, who wouldn't want to be the other person in that triangle, the one that Felicia sent somebody away in favor of?—Dennis had taken the opportunity to go back to his room and start searching for a soldier he could research. But his eyes kept glazing over as he tried to focus on his computer screen, his attention kept being drawn to the city beyond the window. The occasional shuttlecraft flashed by, lights blinking in the darkness, and the nighttime illumination of the city spoke of thousands of lives being lived out there.
Felicia was a beauty, there was no doubt of that. But it was to Will, not Felicia, that his thoughts kept wandering. William Riker had something, some quality, that Dennis couldn't put his finger on.
It wasn't just that Felicia obviously preferred Will to him, though they'd both known her for about the same length of time. Certainly Will was a handsome guy, and Dennis was a little surprised he didn't have girlfriends all over the place. But what got to Dennis was that, although Will struggled, he always seemed to come out fine in the end. He had turned his grades around, and now seemed to be on course to finish this year near the top of their class. His other, nonacademic pursuits—athletics and extracurricular activities—were career builders that could take Will far in Starfleet. He was popular, and had made contacts among faculty, staff, and fellow students that would help him immensely in the years to come. He had never made it look effortless, but he made it look possible.
Dennis, on the other hand, felt as if he were drowning, like the water got deeper every day and he could barely see the sky above its surface anymore.
He had just turned back to the computer screen, intent now on finding someone he could study up on, of turning at least this one assignment into a success instead of adding it to the pile of work not-quite-done that threatened to swamp him and drown his career before it started, when there was a knock on his door. "Come in," he called.
Estresor Fil opened his door and walked in. He waved her toward his couch, and she sat down, her feet no longer touching the floor when she eased her bottom all the way back into it. "Hello, Dennis," she said as she made herself comfortable.
"Hi, Estresor Fil. What are you up to?"
She seemed surprised by the question. "Visiting," she pointed out.
"Of course," he said. "I meant . . . never mind." He was, in fact, a little surprised by her appearance. They were friends, certainly, but rarely saw one another outside their group.
"Am I disturbing your work?"
He sighed. "If I had been actually working, you might be. But so far, not."
"You would let me know if I were, right?" she asked.
"Yes, Estresor Fil. Don't worry about that. Is there some particular reason for your visit, or is it just a social call?"
She considered the question for a moment, causing Dennis to believe there was something more to it than a simple drop-in. Maybe she was uncomfortable talking about it, though. Which, given her ordinarily blunt nature, probably narrowed down the likely topics considerably.
"Social call," she finally said. "Or possibly not . . . I do, in fact, find myself in need of some assistance. Dennis, how much do you know about love and romance? Earth-style, I mean."
Dennis had had a few casual girlfriends over the years, but hardly considered himself an expert on such things. And then there was the question of why she had come to him with such a thing. Did Estresor Fil have a crush on him? He wasn't quite sure how he would feel about that. Complimented, certainly, but she looked just a bit too much like a praying mantis for him to be able to return the compliment. "Not really that much, I guess. I mean, I know the basics, in principle, but when it comes to putting them into practice I'm as useless as the next guy. Why do you ask?"
"It's just all so confusing to me. I try to figure these things out by myself when I can. And there's an episode of Squirrely Squid that is really quite helpful, I think." Dennis wasn't sure what a primitive holotoon series for children would really have to say about adult love and romance, but he knew Estresor Fil too well to point that out and he kept his doubts to himself. "But even with that, there are some things I just don't understand."
"Like what?" Dennis asked. He didn't have high hopes, but he'd be helpful if he could.
Estresor Fil crossed her ankles and broke eye contact, another indicator that she was oddly uncomfortable. "How do you tell? If someone likes you, I mean?"
Dennis had struggled with that one his whole life. Who didn't? After third or fourth grade when there was a lot of arm-punching going on—although at the time, he remembered, he had not correctly interpreted the punching either, he had been pretty much lost unless a girl actually came to him and more or less confessed her attraction. "I guess you just sort of have to know it. By the way they talk to you, the way they look at you. If they touch you a lot, you know, just casually. Or sometimes you have to come right out and ask them, I think. And always be prepared to get turned down."
"That's just so silly," Estresor Fil said. "It's so much easier for Zimonians. If we're interested in someone, that way, we simply display ourselves. If they are interested in us, they will come over and say so. If not, they pretend they didn't see the display and there's no more discussion of it. But there is no ambiguity, no wondering or trying to guess."
"By 'display,' you mean . . .?"
"Of reproductive organs," she said, matter-of-factly.
"Yeah, that's what I was afraid of. I don't think that would go over well here," Dennis warned her. "Especially at the Academy."
"Oh, I know that," Estresor Fil reassured him. "I wasn't suggesting it, just pointing out that our way is vastly preferable to yours. When you leave it all up to guesswork, mind reading, and so on, I think you are just creating barriers to happiness. Particularly since there are so few genuine mind readers among you."
"Maybe so," Dennis admitted. "But the other way might be just a little bit distracting to those around you. Is there . . . some special person you're interested in?"
Estresor Fil still couldn't meet his eyes. "Yes," she admitted after a long moment. "All of you—humans, I mean—looked sort of funny to me when I first got here. So tall, with skin colors that are so bland, and such odd facial features. I think part of why I like your cartoons so much is that there's such variety in the characters, far more than in your actual species. But I have come to see that there is beauty among you, and one person in particular has caught my interest. I think I might be in love, but I'm not really sure how you tell. And I am definitely not sure how to tell if that person loves you back."
"If you could come up with a certain answer to that one," Dennis said, "you'd be the most popular being on the planet."
"I feel . . . shy . . . about telling you who it is," Estresor Fil said, almost in a whisper.
Dennis wanted to put her at ease if he could. Even though she had definitely unsettled him with this whole line of conversation. "Don't feel like you have to, if you're not comfortable."
"But I want to talk to someone, Dennis. Someone who may be able to help answer my questions and concerns."
"And you think I'll be able to do that?" he asked.
"Possibly. But I find myself oddly embarrassed."
Dennis wasn't sure how someone whose idea of the proper way to express romantic attraction involved the public display of reproductive organs could be embarrassed about speaking a name, but decided that was a matter for sociologists, not for him. "I'm not very judgmental," he assured her. "And I promise I won't laugh or anything. If you want to talk, I'm here to talk to."
She took a deep breath, which he found a very human thing to do, and let it out slowly. "Very well. I find myself quite taken with Felicia Mendoza. Do you think that she would ever return my interest, Dennis?"
Felicia? Dennis was in shock. He had always assumed that Felicia and Will would get together at some point, and when she had chased him away to corral Will this afternoon, he thought maybe that point would come sooner rather than later. He'd never really talked to Felicia about her love life, but he had never seen any signs, at least that he recognized, that she was attracted to the diminutive green alien with the huge popping eyes.
He could feel her gaze on him, and now he couldn't bring himself to meet it. "Am I just being foolish, Dennis?" she asked. "Do you think . . ." He could hear the hurt in her voice as she considered the possibility.
"I . . . I really don't know, Estresor Fil." That was the truth, at least. "I don't know what Felicia is looking for, that way, or who. If anyone. I've never really discussed it with her."
"So there's a chance?" Now her voice sounded hopeful, and he didn't want to be responsible for dashing that hope.
"A chance? Of course there is," he promised her. "There's always a chance." I think.
* * *
Riker?
Nothing. Nothing at all.
But the search continues?
Of course it does.
Friends, family, interviewed? All known prior whereabouts examined?
Except Starbase 311, of course.
Of course.
Otherwise, yes. The son, Will Riker, knows nothing. Neither does the woman.
Pulaski? The doctor?
That's right. She hasn't heard from him. She's not happy about it. They were together only a brief while. He seems to have hurt her badly.
No surprise. It's the kind of man he is. Cold, unfeeling.
It was hard to tell if she was angrier about the fact that he vanished without telling her, or about the fact that she was being asked about him.
She's a good doctor? This Pulaski?
One of our best.
Then let her live.
Are you sure? He might still have some feelings for her.
Her punishment, for caring about Riker, will come when she learns of his death.
Fitting.
It's all fitting. That's the point. It isn't truly justice if it doesn't fit the crime.
That's all I want. Justice.
That's all any of us want. Justice. And Riker's head in a box.
## Chapter 17
"The land here is as God-forsaken as ever a man has set eyes upon. It is swampe, most of it, with almost no solid erth to walk on. With every step your boots sink deeper into the muck and fill with brackish water. The swampe stinks and is ful of bugs and even gaters which can bite a man before he sees it coming. Fore the last three days and nights I have never been dry but always wet and misirabel. Priv. Rector pulled a leech from my neck, afternoon yesterday, and then found four on his own legs, under his trous., drinking his blood. We are only days from Savanna, they say, where the Navy waits for us. But the days and nights are cold and we are hungry and ready to fight.
"Its a good thing the taste of our victories in Atlanta and since still remain in our mouths, and the cheers of the slaves who follow us from place to place, to drive us on through this because in a long and hard campaign I cant remember the boys ever beeing so unhappy and fed up. We know what we do is importent and Gen. Wm. Sherman, or Uncle Billy as the boys call him, keeps telling us so. I just keep going, try not to complane, and some of the boys have started calling me Old Iron Boots because they say nothing can stop me from taking the next step. Maybe they are right. Anyhow I guess its all a man can do is to keep marching. We havent seen a Johnny Reb to shoot for two days so we just keep pushing threw the swampe trying to keep powder dry and muskets ready."
Will closed the old book and carefully set it down on his desk. He'd meant to just skim through it, but he found that the stories Thaddius Riker told—despite his rather primitive literary skills—were fascinating. Riker had accompanied Major General William Tecumseh Sherman on his long fight to Atlanta, and at this point in the tale, they had moved on after putting that city to the torch, headed for Savannah and the sea. Will knew enough about military history to realize that Sherman's assault on Atlanta and then Savannah proved more than successful, that it was a turning point in the war, capturing one of the Confederacy's most vital supply centers and cutting Southern rail links. Additionally, by leaving detachments behind to maintain his own supply lines all the way back up to Nashville, Sherman had cut off the South's western states from the capital in Richmond. The move had been bold, brilliant, and extraordinarily effective.
Sherman, it was said, had coined the phrase "War is hell," and Old Iron Boots Riker's diary seemed to confirm that assessment. An earlier entry, about a friend of Thaddius's whose arm had been amputated in a field hospital by a drunken surgeon using a dull, rusted bayonet, had been as good a description of hell as any Will ever hoped to read. Will's ancestor had indeed been through hell, but he had survived it.
Anyway, reading the diary had helped to take Will out of his own life and concerns, which was good because otherwise he'd have been thinking of nothing but Felicia day and night. There was nothing wrong with thinking about Felicia, he resolved, but there had to be limits, even to that. He wasn't opposed to having a social life, even a romantic one, but he was at the Academy to do a job, to prepare himself for service to Starfleet, and even Felicia Mendoza had to take second place to that.
Will found the diary hard to read: its brittle pages flaked and chipped as he turned them, and Thaddius Riker's handwriting was cramped and spidery. Sometimes blotches of water, ink, or something that Will thought might be blood obscured words or even whole sections. But even so, no matter where he dipped in, he found himself lost in his ancestor's exploits, and only occasional mental images of Felicia's radiant smile or the way her strong body filled out her Academy uniform could haul him back to the twenty-fourth century. For the past couple of days he had been turning to the diary as often as he could make the time, in between classes, other work, and little bits of social time.
William Sherman had been the kind of general Will could appreciate, and there were times, reading about "Uncle Billy," that he wondered if his own parents had named him for Thaddius's friend. After taking Atlanta, Sherman had chased General Hood around the South for a while. Tiring of that exercise, he had returned to his original plan for after Atlanta's defeat—the march to Savannah. He moved in the exact opposite direction from Hood, leading his sixty-two thousand troops toward the sea. He left behind him all sources of supplies and communication—completely on his own, behind enemy lines, but with the intention of routing the enemy and showing them why it was a bad idea to continue fighting. All the way across Georgia they marched, torching fields, killing stock, liberating slaves, and generally making Confederate sympathizers curse Sherman's name for years to come. The plan was reckless, foolish, utterly wrongheaded, and absolutely the right thing to do.
Thaddius Riker, at the head of the New York 102nd, was with Sherman for the whole thing. They had fought through the hills and forests of northern Georgia together; before and after taking Atlanta they had fought at Kennesaw Mountain and Allatoona and Rome. Thaddius Riker had taken a minié ball in the shoulder at a battle in a place called Pine Mountain, and had fallen, inside Confederate territory. Only the aid of a mysterious stranger helped him get back behind Federal lines, probably saving his life. "I had never seen this fellow before," Thaddius had written. "But he came along at just the moment when I needed someone. Without him, I would not be here writing these words today. Later I tried to find him agin, to thank him, but he had vanished back into whatever regiment he came from. Whoever he may be, I owe my life to him, and he has my thanks forever."
But it was near another small town called Garner's Ridge that Thaddius showed his own strategic thinking.
Cut off from supply lines, Sherman's men had to live off the land. As Sherman pointed out, if millions of Southerners could do it, his force of several thousand could too. But it meant raiding farmhouses, barnyards, and fields as well as hunting native animals. As an additional benefit, any crops or livestock the Union Army didn't leave behind was food the Confederate Army couldn't eat when they came in pursuit.
To further that end, Sherman sent his troops on foraging missions as they cut their swath to the sea. These foragers had express orders not to loot or pillage civilian homes, but to cause as much damage as they could to supply depots or arms warehouses, to put the torch to crops, to free slaves and to supply the Federals whenever possible. According to Thaddius's diary, these orders were frequently ignored. "I seen three boys come around the bend this morning," he scrawled at one point. "One wore a long white dress with bows and a bustle, over his uniform, with necklaces that looked like gold tied around his head. The next had outfited himself with a fine beaver top hat and a gentleman's coat. The last one was covered in muck, and held a squealing baby pig in his arms."
Thaddius himself, it seemed, had taken Sherman's instructions to heart. He kept the New York 102nd in line and under control. Outside the tiny town of Garner's Ridge, he had led a foraging party of seven, trusted men all. They had come across a large, wealthy plantation, with manicured fields and lawns surrounding an enormous white house. As the men approached the farmhouse, a blonde woman who Old Iron Boots described as "a natural Southern beautey" stepped onto the wide porch with a rifle in her hands, pointing it at the men.
"I reckon you gentlemen are lost," she said bravely. "Y'all are in the Confederacy now, and those blue coats are not very popular."
"No, ma'am," Jim Railsback, a sergeant in Thaddius Riker's regiment replied. "We ain't lost at all. It's just that the Confederacy is shrinking around you."
"Well, this plantation is still a part of it, and I would appreciate it if you all were on your way."
"We can't do that, ma'am," Thaddius said. "We need to have us a look around, see if you have any provisions here that we can use. General Sherman's army is a hungry one, ma'am. We won't come in your house or cause you any grief, we can avoid it, but if you've got a smokehouse or anything in your barn we'll find it and help ourselves. You try to use that rifle you'll find yourself asking for a lot of trouble you don't want."
Thaddius believed she was thinking it over, but then another soldier, called only Frankie in the diary, shouted, "Window, sir!"
Guns were drawn and pointed at a downstairs window, where Thaddius saw only a fluttering of curtain. "Who's inside, ma'am? Soldiers? Children?"
"My children are soldiers," the woman said, and now Thaddius could see that she was older than he had thought at first, but still trim and attractive. "Fifteen and nineteen, and if they don't beat you, their children will."
"You really think the war's goin' to last that long?" Railsback asked.
"Never mind that," Thaddius Riker snapped. "Who's inside the house? Speak up or we'll have to go in and see for ourselves."
The woman shrugged. "It's just the darkies," she said. "They're hiding from you too. They've heard that y'all are tools of the devil, and it's the gospel truth."
Even as she spoke, though, the door opened behind her and Thaddius saw a black man step onto the porch. He was nervous, glancing at the Union soldiers and then at the ground, afraid to meet anyone's eye. "Lucius," the woman said. "Get back in the house and make sure the others do too."
But Lucius ignored her command and came down the stairs, past his mistress and toward Thaddius. He was barefoot, and his pants and shirt had been patched so many times it was hard to tell what color they'd originally been. "Y'all are real," he said. "I been told I'd see devils in blue coats for so long I was expectin' horns and tails. But you men, you look like God's own angels to me. Are y'all men or angels?"
"We're men," Thaddius said. "Just men who are tired and hungry and trying to live through this damn war. Is there anyone else in the house?"
"My family, sir," Lucius said. "My wife and our baby. Rest is in the pen, 'round back."
"No more white men, no soldiers?"
"No, sir. Miz Lily's husband was killed, and her boys are off with General Hood, hear tell. Ain't been around in some weeks."
"And there are more slaves, in a pen, you say?"
"Yes, sir."
"Show me. You have a problem with that, ma'am?"
"Besides the fact that y'all are interfering with my private property?" she countered.
"Where I'm standing, old Lucius looks like a man," Thaddius said. "You're going to have to get over the idea that men are property you can buy and sell."
She shifted the rifle in her grasp. "Not as long as I draw breath."
"You'd best put down that gun," Thaddius said. "Or you won't have to worry about breathing for much longer. I told you we're not here to hurt you or your kin, or damage your house. But we can't hold with keeping human beings in a pen."
"If I had a dog I suppose you'd take that too."
"That would depend on the dog," Railsback offered helpfully. "Yesterday we shot a hound that was used for tracking escaped slaves."
"Y'all killed old Clarence?" Lucius asked, breaking into a grin for the first time. He displayed a ragged scar on his calf. "I wisht I'd'a been there for that. Dog has left his mark on me a few times."
"I don't know as it was Clarence," Thaddius said. "But if it wasn't, we'll find him too. I'll even give you the pleasure of pulling the trigger. Now let's see that pen."
Miz Lily didn't stand in their way, so Lucius led the others to a low wooden structure behind the barn. It was unpainted, as if the slaves held inside were even less important than the animals in the neat, whitewashed barn. When Railsback broke off the padlock on the door and Lucius pulled it open, the stink washed over Thaddius like a wave. Inside, there were nineteen slaves, men, women, and children, in a space that might have accommodated six. They had wooden pails for toilets, a barrel with some water in it, and straw for beds. The men had been tied to beams with leather straps.
"These kind gentlemen is here to free us," Lucius said. "Miz Lily don't want none of it, but they won't back down from her. It was a sight, I'll tell you."
The people inside burst into laughter and thanks, and some even began to cry, pray, or both. Children ran out into the yard and dashed in wild circles, exuberant at being let out of the pen without a chore assigned to them. One of the women told Lucius that she'd go into the big house to get his family out. He warned her to be careful of Miz Lily, but Frankie volunteered to go along to make sure she didn't try anything.
"Where we gone go, suh?" one of the women asked Thaddius.
"Anywhere you want, I reckon," he told her with a grin.
"Ain't got nowhere special in mind," she said. "But most places we go, someone will just catch us up again."
"But you're free now," he said.
"You think so, and I might think so," the woman argued. "Are most other folks in these parts gone think so?"
"I see your point," Thaddius admitted. This had become a problem already—freed slaves, with no place better to go and no guarantee of safety anywhere in Georgia, had taken to following Sherman's army around. But that meant more mouths to feed, slower progress, and more targets for Johnny Reb. There was no good solution to the problem, but Thaddius didn't feel right about turning these people away now that he'd rescued them from a slave pen. "I reckon you can stay with us awhile if you've a mind to."
The slave pen had been put to the torch and the smokehouse raided for stores of beef and pork. Livestock was shot and fire set to the edges of the fields and then, with twenty-two former slaves in tow, the foragers went to rejoin their regiment.
The trouble started on a wooden bridge over a slow, narrow river. From a copse of trees on the far side, shots rang out, and Private Joyce, one of Thaddius Riker's men, was hit in the gut. He fell, and the rest flattened themselves, drawing their weapons. Thaddius waved the ex-slaves down. But then gunfire came from behind them, up a hillside that banked down toward the river.
"They got us pinned down here," Railsback muttered. "It'll be like target practice for 'em to pick us off."
"That's because we're on the wrong side of the bridge," Thaddius said.
"But they're on both sides!"
"I'm talking about over and under," Thaddius explained. "We're over. We need to be under. Give 'em some hell, boys!" he shouted. "And let's get wet!"
The men all started shooting then, setting up a covering barrage that drove the rebs back into the trees and those up on the hill into hiding while the Federals dove from the bridge into the lazily moving river. The water wasn't very deep and the men were able to keep their guns and powder above its surface. In the shade of the bridge, they were at least somewhat protected from those on the hill, and the cut of the riverbank kept those in the trees from being able to see them, much less shoot them. But when the freed slaves joined them under the bridge, it became crowded, and the soldiers on the hill were able to pick off the people around the edges. Two of the slaves were hit, and Frankie took a ball in the shoulder, shattering bone and spraying blood into the water.
Thaddius knew this was only a temporary measure. They couldn't stay in this water indefinitely, and the bridge would only offer protection for so long. It was just wood and eventually the Confederate shot would chew through it. Besides, when the men from the trees came to the river's edge they'd be easy targets. He needed a plan, and he needed it fast.
"How many men you think they have?" he asked Railsback.
"Can't be too many. We didn't think they had any forces around here. My guess is this is a small patrol that spotted us and thought they'd make some trouble. A dozen, maybe, six in the trees and six up top."
"That's what I'm thinking too," Thaddius said. "Which means they still outnumber us two to one and have the tactical advantage."
"Unless you count the Negroes," Railsback pointed out.
"They don't have guns, but I was just getting to that," Thaddius said. "How well can you swim?"
"I swim fine, I guess. What do you have in mind, sir?"
"Well, when we go underwater our rifles won't do us any good. So we leave them behind with whatever of those slaves can shoot, and we just take bayonets."
"Bayonets, sir? Against a dozen men? Or what we hope is only a dozen men?"
"I know the odds aren't great," Thaddius Riker said with a smile. "But that's their own fault for joining the Confederate Army."
He recruited another soldier and three of the strongest, healthiest former slaves, including Lucius. Each man was assigned a bayonet, and a secondary hunting knife. Rifles were left with those who would stay behind. At Thaddius's signal, the little force under the bridge began firing up the hill, distracting the rebels up there, and Thaddius, Railsback, Clancy, and three ex-slaves dove under the water, swimming for all they were worth. They swam underneath until their lungs were fit to burst, then came up close to the near bank, where they hoped the men up the hill wouldn't be able to see them. Then they ducked under again, and swam another distance downriver. Finally, they dragged themselves out and up the bank, dripping, cold, and weighted down with all the water they'd taken on.
Thaddius led the men by example and hand signal. They climbed up the far side of the hill, and within a short while were slipping down behind the armed rebels, who had taken up positions behind large rocks and downed trees. But those bulwarks protected them only from bullets fired from below. At Thaddius's signal, his tiny force attacked. There were eight rebels, not six. One of them got off a shot, which tore through the wrist of one of the ex-slaves. But the bayonets did their dirty work, and in a few short moments the Confederates were all on the ground, bleeding into the dirt.
The wounded slave grinned at Thaddius in spite of his injury. "I ain't had so much fun in years," he said. "Y'all get to do this every day?"
"Not quite like this," Thaddius replied. "But if you can handle a gun as well as you do that bayonet you might could find a place in this army."
"Be a little tricky with but one wing," the man said. "But I'll gladly give it a try." He took a musket from one of the Confederate corpses and balanced it on a boulder, sighting down it toward the copse of trees. As Thaddius had hoped, the rebs there had grown restless and were creeping toward the riverbank, where they figured they would have easy pickings at those stuck in the water.
"Let's see what you can do," Thaddius urged. He helped himself to a gun and the other men did the same. The former slave fired first, and his target dropped. The others began firing, and the Confederates, all in the open now, were disposed of quickly. By the time Thaddius and his men came down from the hill, the rest of the Federals and freed slaves were out of the water, wringing out their clothes, stamping their feet, and helping themselves to weapons and ammunition from the rebel corpses.
Will Riker liked the tale because it demonstrated a trait that Thaddius Riker had in common with William Tecumseh Sherman, and one that he hoped he had as well—the ability to look unconventionally at a difficult situation and find a unique solution. Most leaders wouldn't have abandoned their guns and attacked a larger force with lesser weapons. But without that creative response, the story of Thaddius Riker might well have ended in that cold, slow Georgia creek near Garner's Ridge.
Maybe that was what he needed with Felicia, he realized. The two had talked for hours the other night, after they had made their peace. Since then he had seen her a couple more times, but usually in groups. They had touched a few times, hands coming together, but there had been little forward progress in the direction that Will had decided he wanted to go. He still didn't know if it was what Felicia wanted, but he was more convinced than ever that it might be. He just needed to find out. And since he didn't know quite how to go about it, he needed a creative way to force the issue.
As he got ready for bed, and then later in his bed as he tried to find his way to sleep, he worked on coming up with just that.
## Chapter 18
Sometimes in the evenings as the suns drifted one by one toward the horizon and the winds churned through the twisting streets, the atmosphere in The End was that of a carnival, loud and joyous and full of color. Kyle walked the streets on one of these long twilights. A couple of blocks from home he encountered a crowd spilling out of buildings, jamming the sidewalk and overflowing into the street. Kyle shouldered through the mob, alternately smelling perfume, sweat, roasting meat from a nearby spit, and alcohol on breath and in bottles. Ahead the laughter was raucous and shouts rang out, whoops of delight and encouragement. He couldn't quite tell what they were shouting about so he kept going through the crowd, past the mostly adult men and women, human and otherwise, who composed it. When he was finally near the front he could see the source of the commotion.
In a small clearing—the crowd was just as dense, or more so, on the other side of it—two Cyrians faced one another, bare-chested, their loose cotton slacks belted at the waist. They were big and muscular, though one had an enormous roll of flesh that hung over his belt, and both were tattooed, with brilliant splashes of color, yellows and reds and peacock blues and a green that reminded Kyle of forested mountainsides back home, snaking across chests and arms and backs. A fight, Kyle thought, but the two men were smiling, grinning like drunken fools, and Kyle realized they were drunk but not fighting. This was a different kind of competition altogether.
A streetlight, rare in The End, cast a circle of illumination over the whole scene. The taller of the two Cyrians, the one with the flat stomach, pulled back his own hair, which fell below his shoulders in thick waves. Where his ear was—no, where his ear should have been, Kyle realized—there was instead a flap of skin that looked like a shaven cat's ear, punctured by at least a dozen gold hoops all the way around the rim. Kyle decided the fellow must have surgically altered it, since every other Cyrian ear he'd noticed had looked just like human ears. The crowd loved the ear, though, and responded with gales of laughter and shouts of joy. Kyle wondered what he'd missed so far, before he'd been able to see what all the excitement was about.
The second one, with the gigantic gut, had a bald head and Kyle could see both of his ears. They were studded and pierced but otherwise normal. This man smiled broadly, and then opened his mouth wider, and wider. When it seemed like his head would split open, he stuck out his tongue—or unrolled his tongue, to be more precise, Kyle thought. It was at least thirty centimeters long and bright red, and when he wagged it at his opponent it seemed to be prehensile. At the end of it—which was forked into three distinct points—were three silver rings. The man stiffened his tongue and held it at its most extreme distance, then raised his arms. The crowd, understanding the gesture, quieted, and then the man clapped the tiny rings together as if they were chimes. The bell-like tinkling floated over the crowd, and then was lost again in the thunderous roar of approval that followed.
Now, glancing away from the main event, Kyle saw that money was changing hands. He had thought this was a fight, initially, and in fact it was a kind of contest. And these people were betting on it. He didn't understand the rules and couldn't be sure how to tell the winner or the loser, but the man with the tongue had certainly made some points. As he scanned the crowd—many of whom, he realized, were similarly tattooed and pierced—he recognized a couple of faces. Jackdaw, a human who lived in his building, a man with golden brown skin, a thick, long shock of straight black hair and a beard that strangled his neck and chin like a malevolent hand, stood across from him, on the other side of the contestants. Next to him was Cetra ski Toram, a native of Hazimot but from the nation of Muftrih, half a world away. She was ancient, with cobalt blue skin and long white hair and sunken eyes that always seemed to be looking below the surface. Kyle had never seen her smile but she was doing so now, mouth open in a grin that revealed just how few teeth she had remaining. Behind her stooped form was Michelle, who had never told Kyle her last name, if she even had one. She caught Kyle's gaze and waved. He returned the wave, but then she was lost again in a new uproar.
Kyle returned his attention to the combatants in the clearing, and saw that the tall one with the long hair was raising his right shoulder, already huge and bulbous as most Cyrian shoulders were. But this man worked it up, higher and higher, lowering the opposite one at the same time, until his shoulder was higher than the top of his head. The crowd fell silent, awed by the spectacle. There must have been a hundred onlookers now, and not a whisper could be heard.
But the Cyrian wasn't done. When his shoulder could go no higher, the weird muscles that Kyle had never quite understood seemed to bulge and separate, and then his entire arm dropped off. The crowd roared, and Kyle realized it was an illusion, but barely. A thin stalk of gristly muscle still connected arm to shoulder, but that was all. His hand hung almost to the ground, and in fact, his fingers stretched and picked up a pebble, which he then threw at his opponent, bouncing it off the man's round stomach. A chorus of cheers and laughter greeted this act, and the tall Cyrian reeled his arm back in.
Kyle saw money changing hands again. Apparently, from the snatches of conversation he heard, this would be a hard stunt to top. "But wait," some said. "Lefeertsin isn't done yet." Kyle had gathered that the fat man was Lefeertsin, and the thin one Gal. Their names, he thought off-handedly, match their sizes.
Gal stood, recomposed now, and accepted the congratulations of his fans with a proud smile. He looked like someone who believed he had already won the match. But Lefeertsin apparently disagreed. He stood up to his full height, which wasn't much shorter than Gal, and hoisted his vast stomach up with both hands, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. Then, much as Gal's shoulder had, the rolls of flab seemed to peel themselves away as if each were controlled by its own independent musculature. Kyle was reminded of a flower opening, although only in two directions, with some petals lifting up and others falling away. When the stomach rolls had finished, the crowd fell silent again. There, in the center of the stomach now that the extraneous fat had cleared itself away, was a giant eye, at least the size of Kyle's hand from fingertip to wrist. It was bright green and seemed to have all the parts of a regular human eye. There were gasps from the crowd, but no applause yet, as if something more were expected.
Then Lefeertsin let out a loud belch and the eye winked at Gal.
The crowd went mad with delight. Spectators cheered and laughed and danced, or simply stayed in place and hopped up and down. A cry of "Lef! Lef! Lef!" started up, building and building. More money changed hands, as Lefeertsin was the obvious winner now, but no one seemed chagrined to have lost or especially delighted to have won, beyond the enjoyment they took in the performance itself. People bumped into Kyle, and one Cyrian woman hugged him to her abundant bosom, then released him with a pinch on the rear.
Kyle was starting to push through the mob, trying to get to Michelle and the others, when the mood suddenly turned. There was a hush and smiles were replaced in an instant with scowls. On the edges of the crowd, people began to melt away into nearby buildings. For a moment Kyle didn't know why things had changed so suddenly, but when he looked in the direction nearly everyone else was, he understood.
Rolling down the street toward them was a squadron of police vehicles. Armored officers ran behind the vehicles, shields up, energy weapons at the ready. It looked like a war, like an invasion, more than a police action.
Someone grabbed his arm and Kyle started, so intent was he on the oncoming police. "Joe, come on. Let's go!"
It was Michelle, her brow furrowed with anxiety, her eyes narrow and frightened. "Michelle, what's . . .?"
"Let's go," she repeated urgently. "Now!"
"But . . . were we doing something wrong?"
She tugged at his arm again, then released it and started to back away. It was obvious that she was leaving, whether he went with her or not. Behind her, Cetra and Jackdaw waited with a couple of others Kyle didn't know. She had given Kyle the chance—more of a chance than the others seemed comfortable with, judging from the worried expressions on their faces—and either he'd take it or not. Michelle met his eyes once more and then turned to run. "Wait," Kyle shouted, but he ran after them.
He had expected Cetra ski Toram to be slow, but the old woman surprised him with her speed and agility. As they rounded a bend Kyle glanced back over his shoulder. Behind them, many of the people in the crowd either hadn't been able to run away in time or had chosen to stand their ground, and the police were tearing through them. Their energy weapons emitted bright blue bursts that vaporized flesh and bone, and everywhere they shot, blood splattered. People were screaming, begging for mercy, but the police showed none. Those who weren't shooting used their shields as rams or clubs, chopping and bashing with them. Some of The End's residents tried to fight back, but they were outnumbered and outgunned.
Kyle stood there, rapt. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. None of those people had been doing anything wrong. Even if the competition had been illegal for some reason, no one had been hurt by it. It had been a party, a street fair, improvisational theater. Michelle tugged on his arm again. "If you stay here, you'll die like those others," she warned him. "Please, Joe, come with us. It's the only way."
He shook his head as if by clearing it he could make the horrific carnage go away. But it didn't. The street ran with red and blue blood, mixing into vibrant purples, black where it vanished into shadow.
"Yes, okay," Kyle said. He felt detached, in shock. As he ran hand in hand with Michelle he expected the Tholian flashbacks to start up again. But they didn't. This fresh horror was bad enough on its own. Out of the light, they kept running, past buildings so dark and silent they seemed already to be mourning the fallen. Finally, Jackdaw led the way into a building Kyle had never seen before, a collapsing wretch of a place with boarded-up doors and windows. Jackdaw entered through a side door, where a flat object Kyle only recognized at the last moment as a bed leaned up against a gaping doorway. Jackdaw and Michelle slid the bed far enough over for them to gain entry, and then they pulled it back into place, disguising the opening from the outside.
Inside, they were met in a small, poorly lit room by a handful of others. Kyle recognized a couple of people who he had noticed in the crowd outside, and who must have run here faster—not bothering to wait for him. The other two he had never seen before. One was human, two Hazimotian, and the last barely humanoid but of no species Kyle had seen before. It had what was recognizably a head and what seemed to be legs in the correct places, but that was all he could make out; the rest was a gelatinous blob that seemed to have other life-forms moving about beneath it, like fish swimming in a thick semi-opaque sea.
Michelle clung again to Kyle's hand. "This is Joe Brady," she said to the others. "He's new here."
"And you brought him with you because . . .?" one of the Hazimotians asked. She was a female, from either Stindi or Wachivus, Kyle guessed, though without much certainty. Not Cyrian, for sure. Her voice was deep and threatening, and she looked as if she'd as soon shoot Kyle as admit him into whatever inner sanctum this was.
"Because he wasn't part of what happened out there and I didn't want to see him die for no reason," Michelle said. "Besides, I trust him."
Kyle was surprised by that pronouncement. He liked Michelle, but their relationship was superficial at best. She barely knew him, really. As if she could read his mind, she turned to him and said, "I size people up quickly, Joe, and I have a lot of faith in my own instincts."
"What . . . what the hell was all that about?" Kyle asked. He flailed his arm back toward the direction from which they'd come, as if anyone could see the carnage from here. "And what is this place? Who are you all?"
"Easy now, Joe," Jackdaw said. He was a small man, whipthin and nasally, and his thick mane of black hair seemed like it should belong to someone else. He talked fast, as if trying to get too many ideas out at once. "One point at a time, okay, and we'll get all this cleared up. You're a guest here, you know."
"I appreciate that," Kyle said, still agitated from the attack and wondering what was going on. "I'm just not altogether sure that I'm a guest by choice."
"I had pegged you as a survivor, Joe," Michelle said with a frown. "If I was wrong, I'll be disappointed."
"You have no idea." Kyle tried on a grin but it didn't quite work. "I definitely qualify on that count."
"Well, if you hadn't come with us, you'd probably be dead," she said. "So you should just count your blessings and let us explain things to you."
"Have a seat, all of you," one of the Hazimotians who had been here from the beginning said. This one, a male sitting cross-legged on the bare tile floor, looked Muftrihan, like Cetra, but much younger, with pale yellow hair and tiny black eyes. "You're making me nervous, looming around like that."
The others had been sitting on ramshackle chairs, which were the only furniture in the place. It looked like a meeting room more than a dwelling, but with walls that had been shredded by time and misuse and a rough-hewn floor that squeaked with nearly every movement. The air was close and musty smelling. Jackdaw and Cetra took chairs, while Michelle and Kyle joined the Muftrihan on the floor. Kyle couldn't bring himself to relax—his heart was racing, epinephrine pumping, and he remained tensed to spring up and run at the slightest provocation. Fight or flight—he recognized the sensation well.
Michelle touched Kyle on the knee. "You're upset, Joe, and probably scared. I don't blame you a bit, and I'm sorry we had to run away from there before I could give you any kind of explanation."
"Obviously there was a certain urgency to it," Kyle admitted.
"That's right. But now that we're here and relatively safe, I can do the right thing. First, introductions are in order. You already know Jackdaw and Cetra ski Toram, I believe. This," she said, pointing to the Muftrihan on the floor, "is Baukels Jinython." She gestured in order toward the first Hazimotian woman who had spoken, the woman; then the human male; and finally the unidentifiable one. "That's Melinka, Alan, and Roog. As I told all of you, this is Joe. He lives in my building, and I believe he can be trusted."
"He has to be now," Melinka said. "Or killed."
"She's just joking," Michelle assured Kyle.
"No she's not," Melinka responded.
"I can be," Kyle told them all. "Trusted, I mean. But I'd like to know what I'm being trusted with. And I'd like to know why the police came in and started killing people."
"The two issues are interrelated," the bulbous creature introduced as Roog said. Its voice was low and phlegmy, but if it had a gender, Kyle couldn't ascertain it from that. "We are, you might say, a group that meets from time to time to discuss certain political issues. And the police were killing because that's what police do, especially here in The End."
Kyle could hardly believe what she was saying, even though he had seen it for himself. "The police do that? Aren't they supposed to uphold the law?"
"They do," Michelle says. "But we're not supposed to be living here, and congregating inside The End is definitely against the law."
"So it was okay for them to just move in and start killing? I didn't see them trying to disperse the crowd, or make any arrests."
"In other parts of the city they would have, okay, but not in The End," Jackdaw pointed out. The little man moved constantly, his leg twitching, fingers tapping. "Rules are different here. Life is cheap, okay?"
"They're right, Joe," Michelle told him. She sounded sincere, but everything he was hearing was so outrageous he wasn't sure what was real. "They don't like us being here, and they use any excuse they can to try to drive us away."
"Away where?" Kyle wondered. "I thought this was pretty much where people went who don't have anyplace left to go." He'd been living here for many months, and though he'd heard horror stories, none of them had been as bad as what he'd just seen. Police here seemed to have a habit of picking on individuals, but he'd never seen or heard about an organized attack on a whole neighborhood.
"It is, okay, that's the thing," Jackdaw agreed. "But you have to understand the power structure here, Joe. The rich like to be rich, and they don't want a bunch of poor people running around making things unpleasant for them. That's what we are in The End. The lowest of the low, as far as they're concerned. They can do whatever they want, and get away with it."
"So the authorities know about this? Condone it?"
"Joe," Michelle said. "We're giving you the shorthand version here. If you'd like, we can talk all about the socioeconomics of it later. The gist is, the division of rich and poor here in Cyre is an enormous gap, more of a chasm, with less and less middle class all the time. The very poor, which is most of those in The End, are considered disposable in order to make room for the new poor, which used to be the middle. The authorities wouldn't really mind if a plasma bomb wiped us all out, except that it might be a bit of a public relations problem. When they catch us breaking the law, though—even a ridiculous law—they have no problem with killing as many of us as they can."
"That's crazy," Kyle muttered, shaking his head. "It makes no sense."
"You've been here long enough to know better than that," Michelle reminded him. "You know about the gulf between the rich and the rest of us."
"Yes, yes."
"And you have heard of other altercations. The one last month, when seven teenagers were shot by the cops? Remember?"
"Of course. I just hadn't put it all together into a pattern yet."
"It's a pattern," Alan said, the first time he'd spoken. His handsome, lined face was grave. "Just not a pretty one."
"Can't something be done?" Kyle asked.
"We're working on it, okay?" Jackdaw said. "But we need more time."
Kyle almost laughed, but he realized that would be a bad idea and contained it. "You?" he asked, trying to keep the disbelief from his voice. "What are you, some kind of revolutionary group?"
"A revolution is exactly what's needed," Roog said.
"But . . . you're not very many. Especially against such an entrenched power structure."
"We have friends," Michelle told him. "Supporters. We are more than you see here, many more. Now tell me, Joe Brady. Was I right to trust you?"
Kyle wasn't quite sure how to answer that. He felt certain that they were fighting a hopeless battle, unless their "friends" were far more numerous and powerful than they were. This tiny group couldn't hope to battle Cozzen's authorities on their own, much less the rest of Cyre. There was, though, the flame of righteousness burning in their eyes, the fire of those who believe they're on a sacred quest, and Kyle knew better than to underestimate people who thought that way. These were true believers, and from what he'd seen today there was every chance that their cause was just.
Which still didn't make it his cause. He had served Starfleet because he believed in the things Starfleet stood for, which included accepting the basic decency of all beings, and striving for equality and fairness. Hazimot, he had known, had not come close to measuring up in those areas, which made it a perfect place to hide from Starfleet. But he hadn't reckoned on the cost of life in such a backward society making itself known in such a direct and immediate fashion. He had hoped to live on the sidelines until he felt ready to go back and take on Starfleet himself. The sidelines had shifted, though, and suddenly he seemed to be straddling the center, expected to take a position one way or the other.
While he contemplated, Jackdaw had jumped up and run out the doorway. Now he came back in. "It's all clear out there," he announced. "We can go back out anytime."
"I don't think it's fair of us to expect Joe to make up his mind this second," Michelle said. "We've thrown a lot at him in a short time, and it's been a traumatic evening."
"As long as you're sure he won't turn us in," Melinka said, her tone one of warning.
"Will you, Joe?"
"Of course not," Kyle promised. He wouldn't, either. Certainly not before he had amassed a lot more information. Even if he wanted to, at this point any claim he made would be his word against theirs, and they could probably get him locked away for a very long time if he tried to make trouble for them.
Besides, he had no reason to. So far as he could tell right now, they were on the side of the angels.
As if to underscore that idea, Michelle stood up and then offered him a hand, helping to hoist him to his feet. When he was standing, she was very near him, and he could feel the warmth of her body, smell the slightly salty tang of her skin. "Let's go home, Joe," she said. "And I'll tell you whatever you need to know."
He hadn't had a better invitation all day.
* * *
Michelle's apartment, like the others in this building of illegal squatters, wasn't luxurious, but she had made it as comfortable as possible. She had brought in what seemed like tons of fabrics and covered the windows, the walls, the furniture, with loose, draped fabric that made the place at once intimate and inviting. Her bed was mounded with mismatched pillows, most of which had ended up on the floor over the space of the last forty minutes or so. Kyle lay back with his head against one of them, his arms behind his head, and Michelle's head rested in the crook of his right arm. One hand trailed across his stomach and chest as they talked, toying with the small hairs there. Candles burned on a nearby table, adding their aromas to the mingled scents of man and woman.
"So I hope this wasn't just a ploy to win me over to your cause," Kyle said softly, stroking Michelle's long, soft hair.
She playfully punched his solar plexus. "How can you even say that?"
"You have to admit the timing is a little suspect. We've both lived here for ages, but nothing like this ever happened until tonight."
"Strong passions run deep in me," Michelle told him. "They get mixed up sometimes. Politics and fear stir things up."
"And I just happened to be available?"
She laughed and slapped him again. "Are you trying to be a jerk, or does it really come that naturally to you?"
"I'm just trying to figure out why I'm here," he said.
"You're here because I find you attractive. Because I thought we could bring each other pleasure, and once again, I was right. I told you I trust in my own judgment. Is that too complicated for you?"
"Maybe too simple," Kyle replied. "I'm a pretty complicated guy."
Michelle turned and boosted herself up on her elbows, looking at him. Her lips were soft and pink and the way they felt beneath his was one of his very favorite recent memories. "None of us are here because we're easy cases," she said. "In The End, I mean. The ones who can just go along and get along don't wind up here. Only the interesting ones do. The ones with stories to tell. You've got a story, don't you?"
He chuckled and shook his head. "I've got a story, all right. It's a doozy. But I'm not telling it, not here, not tonight. Some of us have to go to work in the morning."
"Why do you live here? You work pretty regularly, you must get paid okay."
"I guess because I'm not an easy case either," he answered.
"Must be a good story, then."
"Oh, it is."
"Full of love and hate and betrayal and passion? Those are the best stories."
"I think it's safe to say all those elements are present in mine," he said. "What about yours?"
"I don't have a story," Michelle said, closing her eyes. Her lashes were long and thick and, like the rest of her face, perfectly formed. "I'm the exception that proves the rule."
Kyle reached out and touched her perfect chin. "I don't believe you." As he held it, she opened her eyes and it was like staring into the sky on the clearest summer day imaginable. He felt lost, as if he were falling into the vortex of their blue.
"I guess you'll have to stay around for a while," she said. "So you can find out if you're right or not."
"I can think of worse things to do," Kyle said.
"I can think of better things." She pushed herself forward, so that her face was closer, and tilted her chin, bringing her lips against his again. "Much better things."
## Chapter 19
There was, Will had always believed, some kind of mystical connection between the night sky and romance. And because he had romance on his mind, he found himself looking forward to a scheduled trip to the moon with more eagerness than he had previously expected. Various squadrons would be going to stay for a few days in Tycho City there and to work on some flying exercises. He was going, which was great, and Felicia was going, which was even better. He figured there would be a chance to get her out under the starry lunar sky and really find out what he meant to her. And to let her know what she had come to mean to him, which seemed to become, with every passing day, all the more urgent. Besides, it was a chance to get off-world, and that in itself was reason to celebrate.
Probably because he was so excited about the trip, the days before it seemed to drag along interminably. He went to classes, he did homework, he played strategema and racquet-ball and poker and parrises squares. From time to time he went out with friends, but much as he wanted to be alone with Felicia he really wanted to save that until the Tycho trip. It all seemed so numbingly routine. During quiet moments, when he was eating or lying in bed waiting for sleep to claim him, he ran through different scenarios in his head, but they all included him and Felicia.
Tycho City, Will knew, was a populous place—so big that it could be seen from Earth on a very clear night. But he'd been there once before and he knew there were some spots on its outskirts—not far away from the Starfleet base they'd be staying in—that were still within its atmospheric and gravity fields but were otherwise traditional lunar landscape, as it had existed even before Neil Armstrong had left the first human footprint there. He would take Felicia out there, alone, and they'd sit close together, looking out at the Earth and the stars. He would take her hand in his and look into her warm brown eyes and say something like, "Felicia, I've really enjoyed spending this time with you." Then she would melt into his arms.
Except there were some occasions in his mental motion picture when she would simply laugh, or even shake off his touch and storm away. He wasn't sure what he would do if those came true, but he knew his heart would stop beating. Maybe he'd simply walk outside of Tycho's atmosphere and see how long it took him to suffocate or freeze to death.
When he got to thinking that way he would shake his head and tell himself that he was being stupid. That's not you, he thought. That's some lovesick puppy. Will Riker's a lot of things, but he's not a guy who'd commit suicide for anyone.
Then again, love changes you, he guessed. If it doesn't, maybe it was never really there at all.
* * *
Tycho City was everything Will had remembered it being—big, sprawling, bustling, full of bright lights and loud noise and riots of color, as if to chase away the deadly silence of the moon's surface. Everyone who lived there seemed to speak louder than was necessary, and tried to pack more activity into each day than Will did in a week. The pace of life was furious.
For the cadets, the pace was also fast. They woke early each morning, bathed and ate and then went straight to the field for flight practice. Breaking into their squadrons, they flew an assortment of shuttlecraft, mostly ships that would have been mothballed if not for the educational opportunity they offered. On the morning of their last day, Will was at the helm of a twenty-year-old executive shuttle. It was a sleek ship that seated ten, though on this one there were only the four cadets and their flight instructor, a Vulcan named Satek.
Will felt nervous as he eased the ship out of the dock under Satek's watchful eye. He had done this enough times in flight sims and training runs, but he wanted everything to be perfect this time. The ship responded like a dream to his commands, though, despite its age—it was actually pretty lush, compared to what he was used to, since it had been the private shuttle of a highly placed Federation diplomat, and all its systems were in top working order. The shuttle hangar opening looked awfully small as they approached it, and the nose of the ship awfully large. And despite the low speed Will knew they were holding at, he felt like the ship was accelerating much too fast.
"You're doing great," Paul Rice whispered to him as they cleared the hangar bay. "No problems. Give it some power now."
With the last structure safely behind them, Will knew that it was okay to give it some juice. They would fly out to a series of buoys, perform a few maneuvers around them, then return. The only tricky part yet to come would be landing again, which would also be Will's job.
Once at the buoys, each of the cadets in the squadron took their turn putting the shuttle through its paces. They worked on accelerated banked turns, figure eights, hard stops, and other aerial maneuvers. As usual, Paul had the surest hand and best control—he was born to fly, Will was convinced. Dennis Haynes, still in Will's squadron, was uncertain and hesitant, and that showed in his flying. Estresor Fil was workmanlike and by the book, but every move she made felt just a little stiff. She got the job done, though, and Satek seemed pleased with her performance. Jenna Garcia was nearly as smooth as Paul was, impressing Will with her technical acuity and her command of the conn.
Finally, once they had all made a couple of turns, Satek turned to Will. "Very well done, gentlemen. Cadet Riker, please take us back to Tycho City."
"Yes, sir," Will said. Jenna slipped from the helmsman's chair and Will sat down. He glanced over the instrument display. Everything looked shipshape. "Set course for Tycho City, Starfleet hangar bay," he instructed the computer. A quick look at the navigational reference display told him when the course had been confirmed.
A short while later the hangar bay loomed in the front viewscreen as the ship's navigational systems homed in on it. Will kept track of all his displays, and everything looked good for a landing when Satek spoke up. "Computer off, Instructor Satek's command."
Instantly the onboard computer obeyed, switching itself off, and the shuttle was under Will's manual control. "You're in control, Mr. Riker," Satek said. "Bring us in."
"But . . . yes, sir," Will replied. He fought back the sudden wave of panic. He could do this manually, he felt sure, even without a computer. Any pilot worth the name had to know this procedure inside and out. He'd practiced it, run through the steps, simulated it . . . that hangar was rushing up at them fast, though, as they entered Tycho's gravitational field.
"Bring up the nose," Paul said, reading the situation.
"I know, Paul!" Will snapped, already reaching for the manual flight operations control. He brought up the nose a few degrees and slowed the shuttle's descent. Next he powered down the impulse engine and brought the manual thrusters to a half-reverse, slowing the shuttle more and making the descent smoother still. "Landing gear down," he said as he tapped that control pad, more verbally ticking through the checklist than because he expected a computer to do it for him. A slight correction to the X-Y translation control veered the ship to starboard four degrees, and Will continued his steady descent, regulating forward motion through his pressure on the center pad. His breathing was returning to normal now, as he knew he would pull off a smooth landing.
Three minutes later they were docked, with only the slightest bump on contact. "Well done, Cadet," Satek said, stone-faced in his Vulcan way. Even Paul Rice congratulated him, once they were out of the shuttle and safely on the floor of the hangar. "I could have brought it down without that huge bump," Paul added. "But I doubt that you did too much damage."
"Don't listen to him," Dennis said. "You did fine."
"I was nervous," Will said, "when Satek shut off the computer. Even though I knew I could do it."
"Anyone who can't perform a simple manual landing has no business at the conn," Paul said.
"That's true," Dennis countered. "But usually you know more than a few kilometers from your landing site whether it'll be manual or not."
"You can't count on that, though," Will put in. "Satek was right to test me. I'm just glad I passed."
"With flying colors," Jenna said, clapping him on the shoulder. "We're all still here, aren't we?"
At least there's that, Will thought. We're all still here. And finished with the day's activity in plenty of time for tonight.
* * *
If Will had felt anxious about performing a manual landing in front of his instructor and peers, he was far more nervous about his plans for the evening. He knew he'd be able to grab Felicia after dinner—all the cadets were having a group dinner with some of the officers from the Tycho City Starfleet base—and he planned to invite her out for a walk at the city's edge, where the lights weren't so bright and the starscape would be vibrant and alive.
It was what would happen at that point that tied his stomach up in knots. Either he would be able to give voice to his feelings, or he wouldn't. If he couldn't then she would probably think him a complete idiot, of course, but that was a chance he had to take. Then the other consideration was whether or not she would return his affections or spurn them. He tried to brace himself for that, but it was like trying to get ready for a kick in the groin—all the mental preparation in the world would be worthless when the foot finally made contact.
During dinner—he barely knew what he was eating, and he was sure he didn't get much of it in him—he kept looking at Felicia, who sat at a different table, across the room from him. Fortunately, she was in front of him, because it would have been even more awkward if he'd had to turn around in his chair to see her, especially since he'd tried to keep his feelings a secret from even his best friends, lest she get wind of his plans. She was just wearing her usual uniform, but her hair was neatly brushed and piled on top of her head, and she was smiling and chatting with the officer seated next to her, and Will was certain he'd never seen a more beautiful sight. When the dinner dishes had been cleared away, an admiral got up to speak to the assembly. As far as Will was concerned, the man's mouth was moving but nothing was coming out, as his attention was fully riveted on Felicia at this point.
Finally, the speech ended, and the cadets were excused. As they began to file out, Will headed for Felicia, who had already been intercepted by Estresor Fil. Before Will could reach them, though, Dennis Haynes cut him off. "Hey, Will. That was a great speech, wasn't it?"
"Hi, Dennis," Will replied off-handedly. "I guess so." He started to move around Dennis, but his friend blocked his way. "Dennis, I need to see Felicia."
Dennis moved closer to him and spoke in low tones. "Not tonight, buddy. Estresor Fil has big plans for her tonight."
Will felt the floor tilt and drop out from under him. "What?"
"She's—I'm not supposed to say anything, but I guess by tomorrow it'll be settled one way or the other—Estresor Fil has a gigantic crush on Felicia. She's going to tell her tonight."
"You're kidding," was all Will could manage to say.
"No. Pretty sweet, isn't it?" Dennis beamed like a proud father. "Estresor Fil has been coming to me for advice. Not that I'm some great expert or anything. But I think it'll go well for them. At least, I hope so."
"You?" Will demanded, aware that he was reacting too harshly but unable to restrain himself. "You did this? Good move." He stormed away from his friend and out of the banquet room, pushing his way past Starfleet officers who, in other circumstances, he would have been thrilled to meet. Maybe the Riker men are just cursed, he thought.
* * *
"It's so beautiful here," Felicia said. She still wasn't sure why Estresor Fil had brought her out to Tycho's lunar plain, away from the party and all their friends. But she was awed by the sight of the moon's surface as it had been for so many millions of years, before humanity swept over it, and even more so by the vast array of stars visible once you got beyond Tycho's brilliant lights. She could see the Earth, hanging in the sky like a blue marble, and a dizzying display of white dots representing billions of other stars and planets.
"I hoped you would like it," Estresor Fil said. "I'm not sure why but walking at night seems popular with some humans."
"I think it's just the natural beauty of the night sky," Felicia told her. "Pregnant with possibility, always different and amazing. I never get tired of it."
"I am pleased," Estresor Fil said. She never sounded completely comfortable speaking English, and tonight she seemed even a little more on edge than usual. Felicia wondered if it had something to do with whatever reason they were out here. Estresor Fil obviously had something on her strange alien mind. Felicia hoped she'd get to the point soon. They flew home tomorrow and she had planned to be in the rack early.
"How did your flight go today?" Estresor Fil asked her. Without waiting for an answer she continued. "Ours was uneventful. I wish I were still in a squadron with you."
"I miss you sometimes too," Felicia told her.
"You do?" Estresor Fil sounded surprised, and the smile on her face was so rare and unnatural that Felicia thought for a moment the Zimonian was choking on something.
"Of course I do," Felicia said. "I thought we became pretty good friends last year, and we work together well."
"I agree," Estresor Fil replied. They had reached the first row of warning signs posted by Tycho City officials. There were three sets of signs, and anyone who went beyond the third set was taking their life into their hands. "Very much so."
Estresor Fil stopped near one of the signs, and Felicia came up next to her. Estresor Fil glanced at Felicia, as if measuring the distance between them, and then stepped to the side, halving it. "Are you comfortable?" she asked.
"Yes, I'm fine," Felicia assured her.
"I am sorry, I'm so bad at this," Estresor Fil said. When Felicia looked at her again, the smile was gone and she was afraid the other girl might cry.
"Bad at what? Estresor Fil, what's going on?"
Estresor Fil took a big, wet breath. "I think I love you, Felicia," she said. "I am quite sure, in fact. But I don't know how these things work, among humans, and I so wanted to do it right. But now I've made it all stupid and wrong!"
Felicia felt her heart go out to Estresor Fil, who she had always thought of as a kind of younger sister, even though the Zimonian was actually a little older than she was. She certainly hadn't expected anything like this—well, she had, to be honest with herself, but judging from the way Will Riker had been oh-so-subtly checking her out all evening, she had thought it would be coming from him. But definitely not from Estresor Fil. She supposed, as Zimonians went, she was probably quite attractive. But that didn't necessarily make her appealing to Felicia's eye.
On the other hand, there was a kind of exotic beauty in her finely sculpted features. She was not someone to whom Felicia would be instantly drawn, but she wasn't repulsive, either. And she had a good heart—she was kind and intensely loyal, and she'd been able to summon up the courage to pull this off. That was something a lot of people—again, Will came to mind—never seemed able to do.
"You haven't messed anything up, Estresor Fil," Felicia said gently.
"I haven't?"
"Not at all. You've done just fine. Even humans find this sort of thing difficult with other humans."
"That's what Dennis told me," Estresor Fil said.
"Dennis Haynes?"
"Yes. I went to him for advice on human pairing rituals."
"I see," Felicia said. Dennis wouldn't have been the one to whom she'd have turned, but apparently his advice hadn't been so bad after all.
"He suggested that I put my arm around your shoulders," Estresor Fil went on. "But . . . I can barely reach them. It might be awkward."
"It might be," Felicia agreed. "Why not just put it here, around my waist? Then I can rest mine across your shoulders, like this." When they were in position, Felicia sighed and looked at the Earth. Boy, were things going to be complicated when they got back down there.
## Chapter 20
It wouldn't be quite so bad, Will thought, if only I didn't have to look at them.
On the ship that took them home from the moon, Felicia and Estresor Fil were together virtually every minute. He couldn't tell if they had become romantically involved or if their friendship had just taken a more intimate turn. They laughed together, they sat close and chatted, now and again they seemed to be holding hands or touching one another's faces. But that might have been an illusion, just normal touching magnified in Will's mind by his own dark mood.
By the time they disembarked at the Academy in San Francisco, Will had come to an understanding with himself. It was stupid to even think that he should get involved with a woman in the first place. He had his Academy career to worry about, and after that his Starfleet career. Maybe once that was on track he could start to think about women, maybe getting married and starting a family at some point. But not until then. A girlfriend now would just set him back, cost him time and energy he needed to spend studying and working. There was no room in an active, ambitious career for romance, and thinking that there was had been simply delusional.
When he saw Estresor Fil and Felicia walking to their dorm together, Felicia's head bowed so she wouldn't miss a word of whatever the little Zimonian was saying, he didn't begrudge them their happiness at all. He didn't, he decided, feel a thing.
## Chapter 21
Roog seemed unhealthy at the best of times, and one misshapen foot in the grave at the rest. Kyle had ascertained that she was a female because Michelle referred to her as "her," but that was all he knew about her beyond her political beliefs, which were strident, and her patience for fools, which was virtually nonexistent.
He and Michelle stood at the back of a large room in the labyrinthine bowels of The End, a room that might once have been a banquet hall or a ballroom. Today, it contained maybe two hundred people, mostly residents of The End and other impoverished neighborhoods, individuals of every race and description. On a raised dais made from construction scraps that afternoon, Roog, Cetra ski Toram, and Melinka sat. They had taken turns addressing the crowd, alternating between describing detailed political and economic scenarios and doing some pure rabble-rousing, trying to direct the audience's anger at the Cyrian government. When Kyle had suggested that Michelle should also be on the dais, she had colored and waggled her hand in the Cyrian gesture of negativity. He was getting used to conversing with her in English with touches of Cyrian thrown in, like that or the back and forth hand wobble that indicated assent or agreement. "I'm just a foot soldier," she protested. "Not a general."
"I know a little bit about strategy," he admitted. "And I know that generals aren't worth much if they don't have foot-soldiers they can count on."
"I get the feeling you know about a lot of things, Joe Brady," she replied. Then she hushed him, because Roog was talking and those near them were shooting them dirty looks.
"No plutocracy can survive indefinitely," Roog was saying, "because, by definition, the majority of its citizens are shut out of power. And when a majority understands that it's being used and abused by the powerful for the sole benefit of the powerful, then that majority rises up and takes back its proper role."
This pronouncement was met by cheers and warm applause from the audience. Roog waited for it to finish and went on. "The Cyrian plutocracy is at that point now. They are willing to kill us—kill the majority—because we are inconvenient to them. That's always—always—a sure sign of a plutocracy that has lost its way, with a leadership that has lost its collective mind. Individual members of government may still be sane, but the government itself is insane. Unsound. Mad. The time has come to stop fighting back with words—words can only influence those sane enough to hear and understand them. The time has come for action!"
A much louder roar of applause went up this time, and Kyle found himself hoping the government didn't have spies in the neighborhood. This room was deep inside a large building that might have been a luxury hotel, in its prime, but to have contained the noise this bunch was making, he hoped it was still well soundproofed.
"I can't promise you that victory will be easy," Roog said when the applause had abated. "It won't be. I can't promise you that it will come without sacrifice—and you, of everyone in this nation, have already sacrificed plenty. It will not. I can't promise that you will all be here to taste the fruits of your efforts—the fresh taste of freedom, of self-governance, of economic possibility. You won't be.
"We are talking about a struggle, and in a struggle there are casualties, and some will die, and others will be injured, and along the way there will be dark days when you wonder if it's worth the pain and the loss and the heartbreak. So I say to you today, look at yourselves. Look at those next to you, behind you, all around you. Look at your families, your young. It's for them that we must fight. For yourself, of course. But also for your neighbors, your loved ones, and your offspring. For everyone that you know, and everyone you are ever likely to know. Because we fight for justice, and there is no justice if justice is selective. Justice must stand for all if it is to stand for any!"
When the crowd broke into more sustained cheers, Kyle turned to Michelle. "She's good," he said.
"She knows how to work a crowd," Michelle agreed. "If she could address thousands, or tens of thousands, all at once, we'd have a revolution today and economic justice tomorrow. But she would be killed before she could get a word out, if the government knew she was doing this. As long as the struggle has to remain secret, it'll be a hard road. As it is we need to rely on these people spreading the word to friends and neighbors, but doing so discreetly."
"And that's really what you think will happen? Revolution?" They had talked about this several times in the weeks since the police attack, but he kept pressing her on the point. He knew the success of such a movement was a long shot, and the more he got to know her the more he didn't want to see her hurt or killed.
The rally over, the audience began to stream from the building, out into the glare of midday suns. Michelle and Kyle went with the flow, but as the crowd dispersed, they found themselves alone on one of the winding streets. "Of course it is," she replied as if he had just asked the question. "We're both from Earth, Joe, and we're both from the United States. We know that revolution can succeed when the cause is just and the people are behind it."
"We also know how rare it is to have both of those elements in the right balance," he countered.
She took his hand and squeezed it. "That's why we need the right people in the right positions, Joe. Like you said, you know something about strategy. I haven't asked you any questions about your background, your history, and you haven't asked me any. I appreciate that about you, and I respect your privacy. But I think it's time we came clean. If we're going to succeed—and I mean the revolution, but I also mean us, you and me—then we need to know each other. We need to understand what we can each contribute."
She stopped walking and turned to face him, taking his other hand and holding them both in hers. "My name really is Michelle. Last name Culhane. I . . . broke some laws. Not on Earth, I only lived there for a few years, as a girl. My parents were rovers, wanderers, and I lived on a dozen worlds by the time I was twenty. After that, I struck out on my own and did pretty much the same. But I didn't always run with the most reputable company. There was an incident, on Blue Horizon. Lovely place, but bad things can still happen in nice surroundings. I killed a person—two people, actually. It was justified, but that doesn't mean it wasn't illegal. I ran. I can tell you more about it if you want to know."
"No," Kyle said, somewhat taken aback by the unexpected confession. "I mean, maybe someday, if you want to talk about it. If it'll help you. But I trust you, I don't need the details."
She kissed him tenderly on the cheek, and then on the lips. "Thanks," she said, drawing away. "For the trust. I like that."
"You taught it to me," he replied.
"So what's your story, Joe? That's not your name, is it? It doesn't quite fit you, it's like you're wearing someone else's shirt."
Kyle shook his head. "No, no, it's not my name." He felt a moment's hesitation, but then, emboldened by her confession and by his own growing feelings for her, he decided to tell her the truth. "My name is Kyle Riker," he revealed. "I work—or used to, anyway, for Starfleet. I'm a civilian but I serve as a military strategist for them."
"That's perfect!" Michelle blurted out. "I mean, a trained military strategist. You could do wonders for the revolution." She looked at him, a smile on her face. "Sorry, I interrupted, didn't I? I do that."
"That's perfectly okay," Kyle said. "That's pretty much the story."
"You're here for a reason," she prodded. A wind blasted down the street, flaying them both with her hair, and she laughed. Over their heads, a purple skray winged by, shrieking at them. They were, as far as he could tell, the local version of pigeons, and every bit as unappetizing.
"Someone was trying to kill me—well, either ruin my career or kill me, I guess. Someone associated, in some way, with Starfleet. I've had some pretty traumatic experiences in recent years, and I guess that one was the topper. I more or less flipped out and ran. I still intend to go back, but before I do I want to figure out who I'm up against, and why. So far I keep coming up blank, which is why I'm still here."
"Maybe it's not something you can find out from a distance," Michelle suggested. She squeezed his hands again. "Maybe you just need to be there. Not that I want you to leave, of course. Especially not now."
"I understand, Michelle. And you could be right. You probably are. But now . . . now you're here. I've screwed up before, and it's like some kind of second chance. Fourth or fifth chance, maybe."
She smiled once more. "I'm glad that matters to you, Joe. Or should I say, Kyle?"
"Stick with Joe," he urged. "It's safer that way."
"I like Kyle better," she told him. "That is a name that fits you. It's stronger. Joe is nondescript, and you're anything but. I'll call you Joe, but in my heart you'll be Kyle. Is that okay?"
He couldn't help feeling glad that events had conspired to send him to Hazimot, where he could meet such an exceptional woman. That made three amazing women—Annie, Katherine Pulaski, and now Michelle Culhane—who had opened their hearts to him. How did a man get to be so lucky?
At the same time, he recognized that, while illness had claimed Annie, he alone had been responsible for the fact that he wasn't still with Kate. He'd have to take care not to make the same mistakes again, because Michelle seemed like the kind of woman he could spend a lifetime with.
"That'll be fine," he said finally. "Just fine."
"And will you help us?" she pressed. "You don't have to fight if you don't want to, but will you advise us? Help with strategy?"
"Let's keep talking about that," he suggested. "Give me time to come around. From what I've seen so far, you have more passion on your side than you do prospects."
"That may be true," she said. "But passion counts for a lot too. And we have some good minds working on it. Native Hazimotian minds, and others. With you, several good human ones as well."
"Who else is human among the leadership?" Kyle asked. "Jackdaw? Alan?"
"They are, but they're not really leadership," Michelle suggested. "But I am, and of course Roog—"
"Roog's human?" he interrupted. He pictured her indistinct, amorphous form with what seemed like other beings moving about beneath semi-translucent skin, her lumpish head and barely functional limbs. "How . . . what happened to her?"
"Cyre happened," Michelle said, an explanation that didn't explain much. When Kyle just stared at her, she elaborated. "You might have noticed that body modification is kind of a hobby, or a fetish, of many of the locals. Especially here in The End, where it's the only kind of art one can expect to keep when one is forced to move from one hovel to another."
"But I thought that was just among the Hazimotians," Kyle said.
"For the most part, but not completely," Michelle replied. "Roog has been here for a long time, and she's gone native in most ways. Including that one. She's had a lot of work done, not all of which turned out exactly as she'd hoped. But she's still human inside, where it counts. She still has the experience of revolution in her genetic memory. And she's as dedicated as you'll ever find, on our home world or this one."
"I guess you just can't trust appearances," Kyle offered.
"You never have been able to," Michelle agreed. "Why start now? You can only trust hard facts, like this one. When I tell you that I love you, Kyle Joe Brady Riker, I mean it. That, you can trust."
* * *
What is the report on Kyle Riker?
The report is that there is no report. Still no news, no information. He cannot be found.
How is this possible? We have at our disposal the most far-reaching information gathering technology in the history of the galaxy. We have fingers everywhere. And one simple man can elude all of this? It simply isn't possible.
It may not be possible, but it seems to be the case. There has been no sign of Riker since the day he vanished. We may need to accept a potential scenario that we have not wanted to . . .
That he's already dead. That he killed himself, perhaps, to avoid his certain fate at our hands. Yes, I have considered that. But it doesn't seem like his way . . .
But when a man is pushed too hard—
Too hard? How could anything be too hard? After what he's done to us . . .
It's only a suggestion, not a fact. We need to be open to all possibilities.
Agreed. I will entertain that one, but will not accept it as an excuse to stop looking. The search continues. Kyle Riker, or his bones, must be found. And in the meantime . . .
The boy?
Yes. The son. What of him?
He is easily at hand. At the Academy. He thinks he's going to Saturn for the summer.
Keep him here. I want him nearby. Just in case. If we can't find the father, there is a certain poetic irony in targeting the son instead. Or in addition, even better . . .
Yes, in addition. I like that.
I thought you might . . .
## Part Three
## March—June 2357
## Chapter 22
Senior year brought Academy cadets more privileges, but also many more responsibilities and a heavier workload than ever before. Will, strangely, found that he thrived under the pressure. Each year had been harder than the one before, but conversely, he had done better each year. The difficulties of his first year had been largely gone by the end of his second, but he was still finding his way then. Third had been a time of emotional upheaval that had sometimes interfered with his performance. This year, though, he had been focused on the work. Attending Starfleet Academy was at the same time a great honor and a very difficult job. By paying more attention to the job part, he found that he was able to maximize his results. The more he put in, the more he took out. His grades reflected that new philosophy.
But with the new rigors and responsibilities sometimes came hard truths. And one of them had just hit home. The famous Vulcan science officer who had served on the Enterprise with James T. Kirk, Ambassador Spock, was coming to Starfleet Academy to give a lecture. His topic was to be "The Philosophy of Diplomacy, or Why Giving In Isn't Always Giving Up."
It would be fascinating, Will knew. Most of his friends were going. They would get an invaluable experience out of it. They might even get to meet Spock himself, who was as close to a living legend as existed in the galaxy today. And the information he would impart would be beyond helpful to anyone considering a Starfleet career. For all these reasons, Will wanted very much to attend.
But he couldn't. Because by the time Ambassador Spock would be in San Francisco in two days, he would be—finally—on Saturn. Two summers in a row, his assignment to Saturn had been scotched at the last minute. This last summer, there had never even been an explanation forthcoming, just a simple change in orders, keeping him on Earth yet again. But now, he would definitely make it to Saturn. A flight exercise run among Saturn's moons was taking him and an assortment of other cadets away, and they'd be gone for the duration of Ambassador Spock's visit to Earth. The exercise was an important part of his grade, and couldn't be missed, even for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity like the Spock lecture.
The whole situation ticked him off. Ultimately, the Spock lecture would be more educational than flying patterns he knew in his sleep. There has to be a way to make it work, he thought. There just has to.
And of course, he realized, there is.
It took him a while to figure out just who would be the most helpful, but finally he came up with Trinidad Khalil. Trinidad, a third-year student, was a terrific pilot, skilled and comfortable at the conn of any ship he encountered. And Will remembered that he had been present when Spock's visit had been announced, but he had shown little interest.
Will found Trinidad in the dorm and took him out to an off-campus saloon called the Ready Room. After a few minutes of idle chatter, he brought up the issue there, over tall glasses of Aldorian ale. "So it didn't seem like you had much interest in Ambassador Spock's lecture this week," he said bluntly.
Trinidad shrugged. He was a darkly handsome young man, about Will's size. "I'm not a hero worshipper or anything," Trinidad said. "I mean, Spock has made some great contributions, you know? But I've read about them. I don't feel like I need to see him talk about them too."
"I'd sure like to be there," Will admitted. He kept his voice low, as there were plenty of students and faculty in the place. Despite the implication of its name, the saloon was styled after the lounge on board a Starfleet vessel, not a captain's ready room. It was decorated with lots of grays and blues, in sleek lines and stylish curves, and was popular with cadets as well as personnel from Starfleet Command.
"Is there some reason that you can't be?"
"I'm part of that Saturn exercise. We leave tomorrow. I'll be flying maneuvers the whole time Spock is here."
Trinidad's face brightened. "You got picked for that run? Congratulations, Will. That'll be such a blast."
"You really love to fly, don't you?" Will asked him.
"More than anything. I don't ever want to make captain, that's for sure. They hardly get to have any of the fun."
"It's too bad," Will said, trying to sound sincere when things were playing right into his hands. "I want to be here, and you want to be there. And yet, our positions are reversed."
They sat in silence for a few moments while Trinidad processed the idea that Will had planted. "But do they have to be?" he asked.
Will casually took a sip of his ale and arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"What if there was a way to trade places? If I could go to Saturn and fly, and you could stay here and see Spock."
"I don't know if they'll just swap out our orders like that, especially this late," Will hedged.
"Maybe they don't need to. We don't look a lot alike, Will, but we're about the same build. And no one on Saturn knows you, right?"
"Not that I know of," Will replied.
"So if I borrowed your identity for a while . . ."
"The people going to Saturn to fly with me know me," Will pointed out. He hadn't been able to get over this hurdle, though he hoped maybe Trinidad could come up with something.
"But they're friends of yours, right?" Trinidad offered. He seemed even more excited by the prospect than Will was. "So maybe they could be encouraged to go along with the gag."
"It's possible, I guess," Will relented.
Trinidad raised his glass and held it out toward Will's. "Come on," he said. "A toast. To getting what we want."
Will lifted his glass and clinked it against Trinidad's, watching the amber liquid catch the light as it sloshed around. "To getting what we want." He liked the sound of those words.
He wondered what it actually felt like.
* * *
After leaving Trinidad at the Ready Room—fortified, he knew, by his success at persuading his friend to take a dangerous chance as well as by several glasses of strong Aldorian ale, Will decided that he wasn't ready to stop getting what he wanted. His trip back to campus was kind of a blur, but he eventually found himself standing outside Felicia Mendoza's door. He raised a hand to rap against it, but the door suddenly moved a little farther away than it had been. Looking down, he realized that the whole floor was moving—turning in a slow circle and pulsing up and down at the same time. He thought at first that it was an earthquake, but realized a moment later that it was far more likely the full effects of the ale kicking in. His stomach was making similar motions.
He had come this far, though, so he steadied himself and knocked at the door. It was only after he had done so that he considered the possibility that Estresor Fil might be here, and the embarrassment that might ensue.
But Felicia was alone when she came to the door, in blue cotton pajamas. "That's not regulation uniform," Will observed.
"Nor do regulations require me to be in uniform at oh-two-hundred," Felicia shot back. "Will Riker, are you drunk?"
"There is a very distinct possibility that I am, yes."
"Get out of here."
"But, Felicia . . ."
"Will, I would be perfectly happy to have you visit my room at virtually any other time. Although waking hours are, of course, preferred. But not when you're too drunk to think straight. Much less stand up straight."
What she was saying probably made sense. But Will couldn't really concentrate on it because the floor was moving faster now, dipping and rising like a thrill ride, and she swam in and out of focus, and his stomach . . .. "Felicia, I . . ." he got out, and then he pitched forward and the world went dark.
When he opened his eyes again, he thought the movement would kill him.
"I see you're up," Felicia's voice screamed at him.
"Shhh!" he insisted with a giggle that pierced his brain. "You'll wake Felicia."
"Are you still drunk, Will?"
He realized several things at once. He was on the floor of Felicia's room, which he determined because he could see Felicia standing across the room looking at him, and he recognized the art on her walls. Someone—presumably she—had put a blanket over him while he slept. His brain was on fire, his mouth tasted as if a Klingon had been herding targs in it, and he had hopelessly humiliated himself. But he was no longer drunk.
"No," he managed. "Because if I was, then I wouldn't be in pain. Feeling no pain, that's what they say, right?"
"Sometimes they do," she agreed. "But you're feeling it now, aren't you?"
He tried to push himself to a sitting position. It didn't work very well. He reached out and steadied himself against her bed and did it again, and this time he was able to sit up, as long as he leaned against the bed. His head throbbed blindingly and his stomach churned. "Yes," he admitted. "I'm feeling it."
"You do know where you are?"
"I'm in your room. I came here . . . to talk to you."
"You didn't seem interested in talking. Snoring, maybe."
"I'm sorry, Felicia," he said. "I hope I didn't keep you up."
"After you woke me up in the first place, you mean."
"Sorry about that too," he said. The words were coming a little easier, but some water would make it easier still. She had already figured that out, it seemed, and she brought him a glass.
"You're dehydrated," she said. "You need to drink this. Slowly and carefully."
He took a sip and felt his stomach lurch. He waited for it to settle, then took another sip. "I really messed everything up," he said. "I am so sorry."
"You're a Starfleet Academy cadet," Felicia said with a shrug. "It's practically a graduating requirement."
"You hardly ever mess up."
"I am unique in my brilliance and self-possession," she said, laughing.
"That's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about." Will drank some more water and felt a little stronger.
"If you came to compliment my good qualities, I'm sorry you were unconscious the whole time," Felicia replied. "But now I have to get to class—as do you, although I doubt you'll make it. So we'll have to reschedule my praise."
"But . . . no, Felicia." He forced himself to his feet, made it for a second and then fell back to the edge of her bed. Progress, though. "You know what? I've put this off too long. I know I've blown it, probably ruined whatever chance I might ever have had. But I still have to say it. So stick around, please. For a little while."
"Will, this class is important to me."
"But you're important to me!" There, he thought. It's out.
"I appreciate that, Will," she said, apparently not quite getting what he'd meant. "And I like you too. But I don't want to miss this class."
"Felicia," Will said, hanging his head and gripping it with both hands as if to keep its halves together. His outburst had been truly excruciating. "Just . . . wait. Bear with me a little, okay? We've known each other for a long time."
"Yes, we have." She sat down on a chair facing him and waited. "So what did you want to talk about?"
"This made a lot more sense last night," he began. "Or at least I thought it did. But . . . well, us. I wanted to talk about us."
"There's an us?"
"I always wanted there to be," Will said. "I guess after last night, I can see that there never will be. But as long as I've known you I've wanted to be with you."
"And of course I was supposed to know this by the fact that you never once mentioned it."
"Yes," Will said. Then, "No. I mean . . . you couldn't have, I guess. I kept hoping you would just figure it out. And I wanted to tell you, several times. But things kept getting in the way."
"What kinds of things?" she asked him. She seemed a little dismayed by this whole conversation, and he couldn't blame her a bit.
"Different . . . things. Like when we were on our survival project, I wanted to say something. But we ended up being arrested and sent to Superintendent Vyrek's office, and by the time I got out, you were already gone."
"I waited for you to come out," Felicia corrected him. "But it took so long, and the others were leaving. And then when you did come out, you went the other direction. You didn't even try to catch up to us."
"I thought if you wanted me around, you'd wait," he said. "I guess maybe I was wrong."
"Maybe," she echoed, nodding her head.
"And then, on the moon. After that dinner, remember? I wanted to take you out under the stars and tell you then. But you went out with Estresor Fil instead. And after that, it seemed like you two were doing so well together, I didn't want to get in the way."
"Estresor Fil is sweet and kind and was gutsy enough to say what she felt," Felicia told him. "Which you're a couple of years late with. We've had some good times, she and I. We enjoy each other's company. We like to be together. But what we have isn't a romance, and it won't ever be."
"I thought . . ."
"I know what you thought, Will. Or I think I do. I also think you're emotionally stunted. You don't know what you want, and once you figure that out you don't know how to pursue it."
"I thought we were here to talk about your qualities, not mine," he said with a weak grin.
"There's a time for everything, Will," she shot back. "You're making me miss my class, I get to tell you how I feel. Fair's fair."
"Okay," Will relented. "Go ahead. Let me have it. I deserve it, I know."
She took to her feet again, as if this would be easier standing up, and started pacing before him. "Will, you're a nice guy. You're smart, you're funny, you're frequently very sweet. You're easy to look at. I like you a lot. But you're so dense sometimes I can't stand it."
Will knew he was opening himself up, but he had to ask. "Dense?"
Felicia laughed so hard she actually snorted. Will would have enjoyed it if the sound didn't make his head hurt so much. When she had composed herself, she wiped a tear away with the back of her hand and stood in front of him. "Look at me, Will. Am I unattractive?"
"Not at all," he answered truthfully. "You're the most beautiful girl I've ever known."
"Do I have any kind of objectionable odor? Any unsanitary or unsightly habits you know of?"
"Besides the snorting thing when you laugh?" he teased. "Of course not."
"So it's safe to assume that if I had wanted a boyfriend or a girlfriend during my time here at the Academy, I could probably have had one."
"I suppose."
"Especially since I'm not too emotionally naïve to go out and look for one, if that's what I wanted."
"You could put it that way," Will admitted.
"And yet I don't," she pointed out.
"No, you don't seem to. Not if Estresor Fil doesn't count."
"She doesn't count."
"Then I guess the answer is that you don't. What was the question again?"
She lowered herself to her knees, now, in front of Will, and put her hands on his knees, looking right into his eyes. "The question, Will Riker, is just how long did you expect me to wait around for you?"
"For me?"
"Did I say 'dense'?" Felicia asked, smacking his knees with her palms. "I meant impenetrable! The planet's crust isn't as thick as you, Riker!"
"Wait," he said, slowly catching up. "You were waiting for me?"
Felicia covered her face with her hands. "Just don't ask me why!"
"But that means . . . you . . ."
She pushed herself up on his knees again, bringing her face level with his. "I'm crazy about you, Will. I always have been. But you kept walling yourself off, closing yourself away from me. You hid from me for, what was it, six months? I would have said something but I knew you weren't ready. I had to wait until you could make up your own mind, or you'd spend the rest of your life wondering if I'd pushed you into something. I wonder if there's a Starfleet medal for extreme patience in the face of idiocy."
A sudden vision of Trinidad clinking glasses with him at the bar flashed into Will's mind. "Oh, no," he said. "Speaking of pushing people into things . . . oh, no."
"What is it, Will?"
He held he face between his palms. "I've got to find Trinidad Khalil," he said urgently. "And then I've got to go to Saturn."
"Today? You're leaving today?"
"If they haven't left without me," Will said. "Oh, no."
"Will, what is it?"
"Just another bad mistake in a whole series of them," he told her. He pulled her face closer and pressed his lips against hers. He liked the way that felt, a lot, and he did it again. "You've waited this long, you can wait a few more days, right?"
"I guess so, Will, but . . ."
"I need to go." He kissed her again, twice, then twice more. "I really need to go." He kissed her one more time. "I'm going now."
"Will, if it's that important," she said, her lips caught under his, "then you should really go. I'll be here."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
* * *
Will caught Trinidad as he was leaving his room, his duffel packed for the trip to the Saturn base. "Trinidad," he said, breathlessly. "You can't do this!"
Trinidad eyed him. "You look awful, Will. What happened to you?"
"I know," Will assured him. "I slept on a floor. But I feel wonderful."
"What do you mean, I can't do this? Last night you were trying to make me think it was my idea. Almost worked, too."
"Look," Will said. "There's a certain diabolical cleverness to the idea. But it's doomed to fail. Everyone knows you're not me. Someone would accidentally call you Trinidad in front of the instructors and it would all be over. Or they'd call out 'Will' and you'd forget to answer. Or there would be a DNA scan or a retina scan at some point. There are too many ways for it to go wrong, don't you see? If we got caught—and we would—we'd both be in serious trouble." Will had had enough close scrapes at the Academy. If a Starfleet officer broke the rules with a good enough reason, that was one thing. But before he actually got into Starfleet, he knew it was important to play it safe—or he might find himself out before he ever got in.
"But . . . you wanted it," Trinidad said. He sounded mournful, and Will was sorry he'd ever brought it up. Trinidad loved to fly more than anything, and this must have seemed like the adventure of a lifetime.
"I know. I would love to stay and see Spock. But I can't, and you can't go to Saturn. You're just third year, though, and already a better pilot than me. You'll go next year, for sure."
"You think so?" Trinidad asked, brightening a little.
"Definitely," Will said. "I know it."
"Well, if you're going," Trinidad suggested, "you'd better hustle. The shuttle's leaving in twenty minutes."
Will groaned. He had known it was late, but he hadn't realized it was that late. "Give me your duffel," he said.
"What?"
"Your duffel. You don't need it. We wear the same size uniform. I don't have time to pack."
"Are you sure you've sobered up?" Trinidad asked him.
"I'm as sober as I need to be," Will said. "Come on, quick. I need to go."
Trinidad shrugged and handed over his duffel. "Have a good trip," he said. "Don't drink the Aldorian ale."
"Never again," Will promised him.
Borrowed duffel in hand, Will turned and dashed toward the lift. Less than twenty minutes to make the shuttle. With every step he ran, his head pounded, like someone opening and closing a vise on it.
And yet, in a different way, he had never felt better.
## Chapter 23
Cyre was governed by a ruling council made up of seven members, each representing a different geographical region of the nation. Cozzen was in the largest region, an inland area dominated by that city. There were also two coastal areas, a mountain region, and three smaller inland areas, all making up a nation that was more or less rectangular, bounded on the north and west by seas, on the south by an enemy, and on the east by two separate but allied smaller states. The council members purported to represent the entire population of each region, so that the whole council would support the interests of the nation.
It didn't work that way, Kyle had learned.
Instead, the council members really represented a small minority of the wealthiest and most powerful citizens in each region. New council members were chosen by existing council members, for terms of nine Hazimotian years, so there was little chance of anyone who genuinely represented the population finding a seat at the council. Each council member also served as the chief executive officer of his or her region, with another, similarly chosen council at that level under his or her rule.
The main function of the council seemed to be—at least as Michelle and her friends described it—the raising of revenue through taxes, various fees, and fines for criminal behavior. That revenue, however, rarely came back to the citizens in the form of services, but instead seemed to be spent on a never-ending litany of important government contracts—awarded to council members and their allies, of course—that rarely had any real impact on the nation. At the local level, at least, some of the money eventually filtered down, as Kyle had learned. He'd been employed since arriving on Hazimot as a laborer for a perpetual series of municipal repairs. But the money budgeted toward those repairs seemed to be many times what went out in salaries and materials, so it was obvious that the local councilors were padding their pocketbooks the whole time.
The public, squeezed from the top and with no relief in sight, began to object, and so the fires of discontent spread. But the council, isolated from its populace, remained ignorant of how fast and wide their actions fanned those flames. And the population as a whole, though embittered and impoverished by the council's decisions, didn't know the full extent of their own unhappiness. Public displays of dissent were banned, the press strictly controlled. There are enemies at our borders, the council said. We'll take care of you, but you have to be silent and let us do our jobs.
What the revolution needed was a public action, a Boston Tea Party, a storming of the Bastille, a barrage of Station Salem One. Something to show the nation that there was an opposition, that it was organized and strong and determined.
That's where Kyle came in.
He sat with Michelle and her friends, with Cetra and Roog and Melinka, with Alan and Jackdaw and Baukels Jinython, and with the others who formed the extended planning leadership of Cozzen's revolutionary cadre. From other cities, including the Cyrian capital of Coscotus on the northern shore, others came. They met, they ate and drank, they talked incessantly. Proposals were put forth, debated, and usually discarded. Others were massaged and kept for further consideration. With Michelle vouching for him, Kyle was accepted into the highest levels of the group. He appreciated the intent of their effort but he was not, by nature, a political activist, and he served as a kind of devil's advocate for them, poking holes in their ideas to see where the air leaked out.
Finally, the time came to put talk aside and take direct action. Their first attack was meant to be primarily one of public relations, not military. Too many of Cyre's vast underclass had already died in combat, drafted and sent to battle the unending supply of enemies in other lands. The goal was to oust the council with the least amount of military action, the fewest deaths. But that could happen only if an overwhelming number of the nation's populace rose up at once.
Mahaross Ka Elstreth was the council member for Cozzen, and on this day he was in the city, officiating over the induction of Cozzen's newest councilor, his third son, Mahaross Ka Ennis. A parade was planned, and spontaneous displays of patriotic pride were not only encouraged, but had in fact been orchestrated in advance by commercial allies of the councilors. A great many citizens would be watching, and the day's events would be broadcast live throughout Cozzen and across the land. Two of Elstreth's fellow council members would also be on hand to greet his son into the ranks of privilege.
The parade would not, if Michelle's friends had their way, go precisely as expected.
On the day of the action, Michelle dressed quickly, anxious to get into position. But when Kyle tried to follow her out the door she pushed him back into a chair, palms flat against his chest, head wagging. "No," she said. "You stay here. This isn't your fight and you can't get involved."
He had to laugh. "Seems like I'm already pretty involved."
"Among those of us on the committee," she pointed out. "But not on the streets. The rest of them, the people who will be doing the dirty work, don't know you—they don't know anyone by name, so if any of them are arrested they can't implicate anyone on the committee. We've all used noms de guerre."
"That's a good idea," Kyle said. He knew that she had met with various planning committees while he worked—that while he had helped with the broad strokes planning, he hadn't been around for much of the detail work. "But still, if you're going to be out there I want to be next to you."
Michelle shook her head again. "Absolutely not. Probably nothing will happen to me, and I'll see you when it's over and make passionate love with you. If, on the other hand, something does happen, the movement will need your skills to carry on."
"My skills only go so far without someone like you to put my plans into action," Kyle protested.
"Exactly my point," Michelle said. "Someone needs to put this into action, and that's me. If you object to me going out and acting, then we've got a problem."
Kyle could see that arguing with her was going to be fruitless. In fact, he realized, in all the planning for today's activities he had never been assigned a specific role. He'd thought that he would simply be accompanying Michelle, but now he realized it was because she knew he would object if she let him know ahead of time that he was being left behind. "All right," he said, giving in for now. Another thing he knew was that when Michelle had made up her mind there was no budging her. "But you be careful."
"Don't worry," Michelle promised him. "I love you too much to not come straight back here when it's over."
"I'll be waiting," Kyle said. "And watching."
"You do that." Michelle kissed him several times, and then dashed out the door, her face flushed with the excitement of the day. Kyle felt a surge of disappointment that he wasn't going with her, combined with worry that he wouldn't be around to watch her back. But the plan was for a nonviolent action today, more street theater than revolution, so there shouldn't be much danger.
In a way, this was what Kyle was used to. In his Starfleet role, he was the adviser, the civilian who stayed back while others executed his plans. He had, he was fully aware, been responsible for the deaths of thousands, over the span of his career—Starfleet personnel as well as aliens he would never meet or even see in person. It wasn't something he thought about very often, because it was a difficult burden to bear. Because he was good at compartmentalizing, that was an aspect of his life that he kept tucked away and didn't take out to examine very often. When he did, he just accepted that it ran in his family.
His father had been a military man, as had his grandfather. His grandfather, he remembered with displeasure, had also been a tyrant at home, a martinet, running his household as he would have a starship if he'd ever held a command position. But probably because of his violent temper he never was put in charge of troops, so he had taken his aggressions out on his family instead. As the oldest son, Kyle's father was first in line when his purple rages came upon him.
Kyle's father, in his turn, had sworn never to lay a hand on his family in anger, and had kept that vow. From his military service he took a different lesson, that of self-discipline, of keeping his emotions in check, of leading the fragmented unit of his family into functioning as a whole. Kyle had, he hoped, put more of his father's lessons into practice than his grandfather's. To a certain extent, he supposed, he was genetically doomed to a military career and all the attendant difficulties. There had been very few generations of Rikers, as far back as he'd been able to research, that hadn't included soldiers. And while, of course, not every military person had emotional problems, he guessed there was probably some correlation. The traits that made for a good soldier—the ability to follow orders, to sublimate the individual for the unit, to kill without undue anguish—didn't necessarily lend themselves well to getting along in a domestic situation. Will—poor, innocent Will—had had to pay that price as well, and that, as much as losing Annie and letting Kate go, was the central heartbreak of Kyle Riker's life.
He didn't want to let it happen again, ever.
* * *
After a quick dash through the hot, dusty morning streets, Michelle met her unit at a designated spot near the fringes of The End. Those who were taking part in today's parade disruption had split into nine teams of seven each. Michelle's unit consisted of six people she'd never met before, who knew her only by her nom de guerre of Kyle Riker, which she had taken in honor of the man who had done more for her, in a relatively short span of time, than all the men she had ever known. He'd inspired her, he'd guided and encouraged her activism, he'd offered brilliant strategic advice, and he had touched her, emotionally and physically, in ways she hadn't believed she could be touched. The strangest part was, he seemed almost totally oblivious to it all, as if he couldn't quite believe he offered all these gifts and kept wondering what hook it was that kept her near him.
Her unit was all Cyrians, except for her. That was fine, they'd blend in better with the crowds around the parade. Security was always tight around public events, especially when multiple council members were present, but unless there had been leaks, it wouldn't be any tighter today than usual. Which meant there would be openings, and more would become available once things started to happen.
"I brought the reels," one of them said. Her nom de guerre was Alstatis, the name of an ancient Hazimotian hero whose exploits had entered the realm of myth. She opened a bag and showed off seven reels of extremely fine metal wire.
"That's excellent," Michelle said. From several blocks away they could already hear cheers and jubilation, either from the parade itself or one of the "spontaneous" demonstrations of support for the council. She didn't really care which it was—both would serve their interests, which involved getting the largest audience possible for their action. "Everybody take one."
The Cyrians, evenly split between males and females, obeyed her instruction without question. None of them knew who she was but they knew she was the leader here, a member of the cadre that had planned the action, and who would be in charge once the revolution began in earnest. They didn't mind that; they knew they were the ground troops, the ones who would execute the committee's plans, and that was fine with them. Michelle noted some shaking hands and dry swallowing as they divvied up the wire reels.
"We're all nervous," she told them. "It's not just you guys, but everyone who's participating today. After this, everything changes. There will be no backing down, no fading back into the shadows. After today, we overthrow the council or we die trying. So if any of you want to change your mind and give up, now's the time to do it. Your last chance."
They watched her as she spoke, their faces rapt or frightened or both. A couple of them said, "I'm staying in," and one, who Michelle knew only as Cividon, said, "It's about time." No one chose to withdraw, for which Michelle was glad.
"Let's get into place, then," she suggested. The others agreed and they moved out, toward the parade route.
The parade was slated to run for twenty blocks, or about two kilometers, with a couple of right angles along the way and then a last sweep up the wide, gently curving arc of Epindeis Way, named for one of Cyre's most famous military victories over its longtime foe Taleraa. Michelle's group went to the last right turn before the final march up Epindeis, arriving just as the parade passed that point. They saw soldiers marching in full uniform, with helmets on and weapons in hand, and among the soldiers various armored ground vehicles. Behind the soldiers were bands playing uniquely Hazimotian instruments—since arriving here and deciding to stay, Michelle had tried and tried but had never quite been able to comprehend what the Hazimotians considered musical, and the racket they made just seemed like an assault on the ears. Various minor officials brought up the very rear. At the end, far up on Epindeis Way, there was a reviewing stand from which the council members and other luminaries watched the proceedings, and where the induction ceremony would take place as soon as the parade ended.
Now the parade, nearly eight blocks long in total, was entirely on Epindeis Way, which meant it was almost time for the fun to start. Police lined the parade route but after the marchers passed, their attention waned and spectators were allowed to cross the street. Nothing to do now but wait. Michelle felt her own knees shaking with anxiety now, as the moment to act grew ever nearer.
The minutes dragged by.
Finally, there was a commotion at the end. She could barely see what was happening, but they'd been over it often enough in the committee that she knew it anyway. One unit of counter-marchers had suddenly confronted the parade's head with signs bearing slogans like "The Council's Corrupt" and "Feed Your Children, Not Council Greed," and chanting. Another unit had activated smoke devices and hurled them under the reviewing stand—even now, Michelle could begin to see gray and yellow plumes swirling up from the crowd. Yet another on that end exploded noise-making devices—not bombs that would do any damage, but that would leave people's ears ringing for a good long time. Finally, the last group, already shackled together, would chain themselves to the reviewing stand so that the induction ceremony couldn't begin until the police had, very publicly, arrested them and hauled them away.
Michelle and her unit were responsible for the finishing touch. As soon as she knew that things had started on the far end of Epindeis, she ordered her troops into action. Three of them squatted on the ground at the parade route's edge, a wire reel in each hand. The other three grabbed the ends of the wires and ran across the street, trailing wire behind them. Once they'd reached the other end of the street, they also squatted, so six threadlike, nearly invisible wires were strung across the parade route at about knee height. As expected, when the commotion began near the reviewing stand, the minor officials and bands and many of the police officers and soldiers on this end tried to turn and run the other way, distancing themselves from the trouble. But the first ones who ran—the politicians, mostly—found themselves tripped up on the wire. Michelle laughed out loud at seeing so many hated politicos going ass over teakettle onto Epindeis Way.
And the more who came this way, backtracking or retreating from the fireworks at the far end, the greater the pileup. The musicians, carrying their bizarre instruments, tripped over downed politicians. Soldiers and police officers fell over both, trying not to shoot themselves or anyone else as they did so. By this point, Michelle's teammates had released the wires, which spun silently back into their reels, their work done. No one would know why so many had fallen, now, but they'd look like a bunch of buffoons to the spectators. Buffoons and cowards, for running in the first place.
The council had been publicly embarrassed, and the world would now know that there was an organized opposition. Things would turn ugly now, and blood would spill, but that would be the council's doing, not theirs. They had begun with a comedy, and the government's response to it would launch the tragedy.
From such a small seed, a revolution would grow.
## Chapter 24
Kyle had never seen Michelle quite so jubilant. It looked good on her; but then, there wasn't much that didn't. Maybe the gloom that descended on her like lowering storm clouds sometimes, when she came face-to-face with those parts of her past that were too painful to recall, the things she had come to Hazimot to run away from. But those moods were rare. She had not, Kyle decided, let tragedy destroy her. She used it, even now, to spur her on to action, as she had done today. He'd watched the whole thing in a neighborhood tavern just outside The End, where the interruption of the parade had at first drawn horrified gasps but then acceptance and finally raucous laughter as the city's minor, unloved officials fell all over each other trying to run away.
He had gone home after that, arriving just a few minutes before Michelle burst in wearing a smile that involved her entire body, from the spring of her step to the way she shook her head, whipping her hair out to the sides. "It was fabulous!" she gushed. "Did you see, Joe?" Even in private, she still called him Joe, to make sure she didn't slip up with others around.
"I saw," he assured her. He held out his arms and she rushed into them, laughing. "You were great. All of you."
"We were, weren't we?" A momentary glimmer of dread passed over her face. "Some got arrested, though."
"They were supposed to," Kyle reminded her. That had been discussed, in great depth, at some of the meetings. Arrests were certain at this early stage. It was when the government stopped arresting and started killing that things would get really difficult.
"No, I mean of the ones who weren't supposed to. At least, one was, from my group. Maybe others I don't know about."
"We knew that could happen."
"Yes, we did, didn't we?" The smile was back. She was so charged up, holding her was like hanging on to a live wire. "I am sorry they were caught, but even so . . . even so, it was a huge success, wasn't it? Wasn't it?"
"I believe it was," he told her. "You did what you set out to do. It doesn't get much better than that."
"One thing could make it better," she said, holding his gaze with her clear eyes.
He didn't know what she meant, and said so.
"This," she whispered, and kissed his chin, then his cheek, then his lips. At the same time, she began to move her hands all over his body. "I feel so . . . so ready. So hungry," she said.
Now that he thought about it, so did he.
* * *
Much later, they went back into the streets. There was a notable difference now that Kyle could feel with all of his senses. It might pass again, he knew, but for the moment people seemed excited, optimistic. They greeted one another as they passed, exchanging grins that seemed fraught with the promise of better things to come. They passed clusters of people standing together, talking about the morning's events, discussing what they might mean in the short and long term. Michelle and Kyle strolled, hand in hand, not engaging anyone in dialogue but simply soaking up the atmosphere. The mood was celebratory and it fed into Michelle's already elevated state.
After they had walked for a while Michelle leaned into his arm. "This might be real," she said. "It really, truly might."
"Isn't that the point?"
"Yeah, but . . . it's always seemed like kind of a pipe dream, you know? Like something we wanted to happen but not necessarily something that would. Or something that I could help bring about. But now, it seems like it's all those things."
"You definitely helped bring it about," he assured her, happily inhaling her scent.
"I know. It feels funny." She laughed, then released him and did a pirouette in the street. "I'm a star."
"A star of the revolution," Kyle agreed. "George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and you."
"Wrong revolution," she said, wrinkling her nose at him. "But right idea." The smile vanished from her face again. "What if it's a bad idea?"
"What, revolution?" Kyle asked. He had struggled with the concept many times himself. Maybe armed conflict wasn't the way to change social conditions here.
"What if history is effectively over?" she wondered. "I mean, maybe the time for revolution was hundreds and hundreds of years ago. The universe is a different place now. What impact might an upheaval on Hazimot have on inter-galactic trading partners, on the Federation?"
"Well, Hazimot's never going to be accepted into the Federation without some serious changes," Kyle pointed out. "As for the timing—I think each planet has to move forward on its own timetable, regardless of what's going on elsewhere. Obviously conditions in Cyre are egregious, and the rest of the planet's not much better, if at all. If it's time for revolution here, then it's time. You can't worry about how people who've never set foot on the planet are going to feel about it."
"Good answer." Michelle beamed at him. "That's why I love you, Joe," she said. "You're always thinking."
"It's what I do best."
"Second best," she corrected, leaning in for a kiss.
She broke the kiss when they both felt the ground shudder, and not in the good way. They froze in place and listened. A low rumbling sound infiltrated their consciousness now, growing nearer. "What is it?" Kyle asked.
"I'm not sure, but I don't like it," she replied. "It sounds like . . . like trouble. At the least."
The mood of the neighborhood changed as the sound increased. Over the rumble they could hear a voice now, broadcast through some kind of loudspeaker, repeating the same brief message over and over. People came running past them, fear glinting in their eyes. Kyle grabbed one by the shoulders, stopping him from his mad dash. "What is it?" Kyle demanded. "What's going on?"
"Troops," the Cyrian said, his eyes wide with fright. "Lots of them." He broke away from Kyle's grasp and kept running.
"No . . ." Michelle's lower lip began to tremble. "They can't . . . it's too soon."
"They can," Kyle countered. "It's not what I would do because it'll increase public resentment against them. But if they can put an end to the revolution immediately, before it gets off the ground, then they might not care what the populace thinks."
"But we're not ready," Michelle said. "Nobody is."
"That's precisely the point of it," Kyle told her. "To make sure nobody gets ready."
The closer the troops came, the louder the sound of their machines of war. The ground was literally shaking now, buildings vibrating. A bit of stone fell off one nearby and exploded into dust on the ground.
"What are we going to do?" Michelle asked. "We need to find the others."
"No," Kyle said. "Not just now. Not with those soldiers nearby. The last thing you want to do is to congregate in one place. Then they can simply take out the leadership all at once."
"You're right," Michelle said. "Let's just go home and wait it out."
With no better plan coming to him, Kyle agreed to that, and they started back toward the building in which they both lived. As they reached their street, though, the first troops were coming into view, around a bend. They wore full battle armor, black and gray with gold trim, and carried rifles. Locals stood on the streets and watched them march. Behind them, the vehicles hove into sight, massive troop carriers and battle tanks. Unlike most Hazimotian vehicles these didn't float a short distance off the ground but rolled forward on gigantic wheels that tore up the old streets of The End as they came.
And now Kyle could make out the words coming over the loudspeakers. "Remain in your homes," the voice instructed. "Do not attempt to hinder our advance in any way. Stay inside and out of our way. We are looking for a few troublemakers. If you deliver them to us, then the rest of you will not be harmed. These are the individuals we want."
Kyle felt his veins go cold at the announcement, but he and Michelle remained on the side of the road, arms around one another.
"Kiana ser Totkis," the voice went on. "Gisser Struitt. Melifin Pate Brionn."
"Those are all the fake names," Michelle said, breathing a sigh of relief. She smiled nervously. "They don't really know who they're looking for."
The soldiers were closer now, the first rank of them almost even with Michelle and Kyle. They let their gazes wander across the buildings, carefully looking at everyone on the sidewalks. They looked young and nervous. From what Kyle had seen, this was the same kind of force that Cyre would have sent into battle against its enemy neighbors.
Suddenly Michelle tensed in Kyle's arms. "Except . . . oh, no."
"Cass wis Tinerare," the loudspeaker voice continued. "Kyle Riker. Senager Millish."
"I guess I should have had a nom de guerre too," Kyle observed.
"For now, we want those individuals only," the voice said, almost too loud to make out now as the vehicles came closer. "And if they are not delivered to us within the hour we will start knocking down The End, building to building, until the whole area is flattened."
A rush of conflicting emotions coursed through Kyle. The End was, literally, the end of the line for most of its residents, the place they lived only because there was no place else that would have them. For him, it had been a hiding place, somewhere he could find the anonymity he sought. But it had become more than that—in so many ways, it had become the first real home he'd had in a long time.
But the soldiers had his name, his real name. And if he kept quiet, those who had taken him in would be displaced, or killed.
The worst that could happen, he figured, was that he'd be arrested. When he was able to prove that he had spent the day watching the parade at a tavern, he would likely be released. Possibly, because his name had come into it, Starfleet would hear and he'd be released into their custody. But he'd spent long enough evading them anyway—it was, he had been starting to think, time he straightened that mess out once and for all.
Michelle stood fast beside him, holding tightly to his arm. The troops continued their slow, inexorable march down the street, their vehicles shredding the pavement as they went. The loudspeaker voice started up again. Kyle glanced at Michelle and freed his arm from her grasp. At the questioning look in her eyes, he turned away and stepped into the street.
Immediately, a dozen rifles were pointed at him, and the march halted.
"I'm Kyle Riker," he said.
The soldiers held their weapons on him but didn't speak. One of the troop carriers opened up, though, and an officer emerged, followed by the head of a Cyrian male Kyle had never seen. The Cyrian looked at Kyle, then at the officer, and waggled his hand. No, that meant.
The officer scowled at Kyle. "Stop this foolishness," he said. "Proceed!"
"But I am Kyle Riker," Kyle insisted.
"No," Michelle said, pushing past him before he could stop her. "No, he's lying. I am Kyle Riker."
The officer looked back toward the head sticking up from the troop carrier's bowels like a turtle's. The Cyrian wobbled his hand back and forth in affirmation.
"Cividon, you bastard," Kyle heard Michelle mutter under her breath. He knew that Cividon must have been part of Michelle's unit, the one who had been arrested after the parade. Cividon had turned on his movement's leaders easily, Kyle realized. He knew only the false names, but Michelle's false name had been real enough to cause this trouble.
She couldn't have known that any of this would happen, or that a single other soul on the planet knew Kyle's name wasn't Joe Brady. If he had just kept quiet, there would have been no trouble.
If he'd kept quiet, though, The End would have been razed, its residents slaughtered.
He couldn't have kept quiet then. Michelle wouldn't have either. There really had been no other choice.
The weapons trained on Kyle shifted, aiming at Michelle. Kyle felt himself trembling. Michelle had been there, and visible, at the parade. Cividon had fingered her. She was in serious trouble, and he couldn't figure out how to get her out of it. Even if he started something, there were too many soldiers, too many weapons, to fight.
"Michelle . . ." he started.
"Don't, Joe," she said urgently. "Old Earth expression. I've made my bed."
"But . . ."
The officer pushed Cividon back into the troop carrier and climbed in himself. When only his own head remained outside, he barked an instruction to the troops. "Kill her!"
The soldiers didn't hesitate. A dozen energy beams blasted at Michelle, all at once. One moment she had been standing there, and the next she had dissolved into a fine spray which coated Kyle. Watching open-mouthed, he tasted her on his tongue and knew that she was on his skin and clothes and hair, in his eyes and nose. What was left of Michelle he and the street and the wall behind them had absorbed.
Blinded by fury and the Michelle-mist, Kyle threw himself toward the soldiers. He didn't have a chance against them, with their armor and weapons, and he knew it, but he didn't care. He battered them with fists and feet, tears streaming down his face as he took their blows in return. Finally, one brought the stock of a weapon down against his head and he staggered back a few steps, the world spinning crazily away from him, and he fell down in the street, unconscious.
## Chapter 25
This is no fun at all! Will thought.
It had started out looking as if it might be. The flying exercises were, as Will had expected, mundane, even boring. He knew his stuff by now, and so did the rest of the cadets selected for this journey. It was almost a punishment rather than a reward, particularly since he knew he was missing the chance to listen to Spock.
But Paul Rice, maybe looking to add some spice to the trip, had challenged Will to a friendly race. He'd done it in front of their friends, and he'd pressed it even when Will had tried to laugh it off.
"I thought you were a flyer, Riker," he'd said. "I thought maybe you had some nerve. But I guess your by-the-book attitude has killed that, huh? Stolen your courage along with your skills?"
"I can outfly you anytime," Will said, though he knew it wasn't true. Paul was still one of the best natural pilots he'd ever encountered. "I don't need to break the rules to know that."
"Funny," Paul said, gesturing toward the other cadets who had gathered in a circle, watching them. "They don't know that. I don't know that. Seems like maybe you're the only one who thinks so."
"If you think that matters to me in the least, Paul, you're sadly mistaken."
"My only mistake was thinking you had any guts at all," Paul shot back. "Remind me not to accept a posting on any starship that's got you on it. I want brave officers on my team, not cowards."
Will knew that Paul didn't mean it. Despite appearances, they were still good friends. Paul was just trying to wheedle him, to push him into playing along with his stunt. The problem was, even though Will knew that, it was working anyway. And when some of the other cadets started piling onto Paul's side, he knew it was hopeless.
"Yeah, Riker," Donaldson jeered. "What are you afraid of?"
"Okay, okay," Will relented. "If it means that much to you, I'll do it."
This drew a round of approval from the gathered cadets, and Will felt his stomach sink even as he agreed to it. What Paul wanted was a race, one against one—mano a mano, as he put it. But they had completed their flights for the day, and they didn't have personal ships to race in. Which meant they would have to—Paul had used the term "borrow"—two shuttles from the Academy Flight Range orbiting Saturn. There would be some security, of course, but that was mostly geared toward keeping outsiders from coming in, not wayward cadets from leaving. Liberating the two shuttles could be done. Flying them would raise an alarm, though, and returning unnoticed would be impossible.
The trip would be relatively short, just around Phoebe, one of Saturn's many moons, and back. Once Will had agreed to it they had suited up, made sure the two Type-6 shuttles were prepped, and with some other cadets distracting the shuttle-bay crew, they'd made their getaway. Will recognized the stupidity of his action—he had come here instead of letting Trinidad take his place because he didn't want to break a comparatively minor rule, and now here he was smashing a huge one. But he'd still thought they would be able to get away with it, and if they flew well, they might even get away with just a minor talking to instead of a real punishment.
But that had been before things started to go wrong. Now he knew that he'd be lucky to avoid expulsion. If he even lived long enough to be expelled.
Will had been first out of the bay, but not by much. He thought he was coaxing every available ounce of speed from the shuttle, but somehow Paul found more and pulled ahead. Will had stayed close behind, though, as they neared Phoebe. Circling the moon and whipping back would require the most careful flying—she was large enough to have a faint gravitational pull, and the trick was to get in close enough to make a narrow turn without getting so close it bogged you down. Paul was, Will thought, going in closer than was necessary or wise. He'd been tempted to follow suit, but then had noticed his instrument panels reacting violently and had pulled back.
This is trouble, Will thought. Unless he misread his instruments, Paul was caught in an ion storm near the moon's surface. That was when Will decided that he was not, in fact, having any fun at all. He tapped his combadge. "Paul! Are you all right?"
What he heard back was static, and then Paul's voice, fragmented and breaking up. " . . . trouble . . . storm is making . . . can't pull . . ."
Paul's ship disappeared from his viewscreen then, though he could still follow its progress on his instrument panel. It seemed to be diving toward Phoebe's surface. "Paul, get out of there!"
He heard only static in reply.
"Emergency, Starfleet Academy Flight Range," Will called out, "this is shuttle—hell, I don't know what shuttle I have. Do you read me?"
"We have you," a voice answered. "Where's the other one?"
"You need to make an emergency transport," Will insisted. "He's going down on Phoebe."
"We can't even see him, Cadet," the voice reported. "We can't get a lock. There seems to be some interference."
"It's an ion storm," Will told the voice. "That's why he's lost control of his shuttle."
"He lost control because he tried to fly a shuttle that was in for repairs into an ion storm," the voice said. "We'll send an emergency evac team out after him, but we can't transport him off there with the storm going on."
Damn it! Will thought. He'd known better than to let Paul egg him into this stupid game, and now it had all gone sour, as he'd somehow known it would. He made a quick decision and hoped it was the right one. "He'll never live long enough on the surface for your team to get there," Will said. "I'm going in to pick him up."
"Negative, Cadet," the voice instructed. "Don't try that. Just wait for us."
"Riker out," Will said, and broke off communication. "Computer," he said out loud, as much for his own benefit as for the computer's, "we're going in."
"Inadvisable," the computer argued. "Atmospheric conditions are too severe."
"Nevertheless," Will explained. "We're doing it. Shields at full power."
The computer is obviously smarter than I am, Will thought. It knew this was a fool's errand. But it complied with his commands, and he started the pitched descent toward Phoebe's icy surface. As the shuttle entered the ion storm, Will felt it buffeted about in spite of the presence of the shields, and he knew that without the shields he'd be a dead man for sure. Of course, it's early yet, he thought.
But something happened as he piloted the small craft down, through the battering of the storm and the entry into Phoebe's thin atmosphere. Where flying had been mechanical for Will, something at which he was skilled but which he had to think through, now, suddenly, he was doing it all almost unconsciously. His hands made the right moves across the control pad, manipulating the pitch and yaw of the ship as it dropped closer and closer to the surface, controlling the direction and speed, following the locator beacon that Paul had, at least, managed to deploy. He did it all smoothly and without hesitation, as if he'd been flying all his life, and even when he realized what he was doing he was able to keep doing it. Concern for Paul had taken the self-consciousness out of piloting the ship and the abilities that had become ingrained through hours and hours of practice and training had taken over.
Phoebe grew enormous in the viewscreen, its surface rugged and terrifying. Vast chasms of ice whipped past beneath him, and tall jagged cliffs. If he had to land on this moon, he realized, they'd both be waiting for the emergency team from the flight base, and the chances were that neither of them would survive. He would try to avoid landing, even though that left only one option, and it wasn't much better. But as he neared the locator beacon he prepared himself to take it.
He tapped his combadge again. "Paul, can you hear me?"
There was no response. Maybe this was all moot, he knew. Still, he had to take the chance. "Paul, do you read me?" No answer.
That didn't matter. He was closing fast and his best shot, maybe his only shot, was coming up. Leaving the ship's control on autopilot for the moment, he turned to the transporter controls. Scanning for Paul, he was almost surprised when the transporter got a lock almost immediately. He was very near, then—otherwise the ion storm would have interfered. But he couldn't transport Paul on board with the shields up, and lowering them during an ion storm, this close to the moon's surface, was virtually suicidal.
It was also the only thing he could do. With Paul's coordinates locked, he braced himself as best he could. "Shields down," he said, following it with "Energize."
As soon as the shields went down the shuttle was pounded by the storm, driving it into a downward spiral. Will fought for control, but the moon's harsh surface spun sickeningly toward him. "Shields up," he muttered, struggling to find voice with the g-force pulling at him. The deflector shields returned to full power, or as much as they had left to give after being bombarded by the storm, offering Will a modicum more control of the shuttle. But he was still dropping fast, spinning like a top.
So instead of trying to fight the spin, he decided to go with it. He turned into the spin, and pointed the nose down instead of attempting to pull up. For a moment, the surface was right there in front of him and he was certain he'd miscalculated. But in the next moment his maneuver paid off—he had turned completely away from the surface and was skimming above it upside down. His stomach lurched but he knew that he would live for at least a few more seconds. Now he pointed his nose down farther, except down was up. Once he was a safe distance off the surface he righted the shuttle. Getting out of Phoebe's atmosphere and away from the storm was a relatively simple matter now. He blew out a sigh of relief, and then remembered why he had gone down there in the first place.
"That's some nice flying," Paul Rice said from behind him.
"Paul!"
"Now I suppose you're going to expect me to slavishly devote my life to you or some such nonsense," Paul said. He sat down in the chair next to Will's, hardly looking the worse for his experience. "Well, you can forget about that."
"I could beam you back down there," Will warned with a smile.
"And miss your own medal ceremony?" Paul asked. "I can't see it. Not you, Riker. Or should I say, golden boy?"
"Golden boy?" Will repeated. "We'll both be lucky if we're not expelled."
"If I had died, you'd be expelled," Paul ventured. "Since I didn't, we'll probably get by with a reprimand."
"A reprimand? You broke their ship!"
"Wasn't much of a ship," Paul countered. "I think it was broken to begin with."
"Well, yeah," Will admitted. "It was. Good choice, Rice."
"I was still winning, wasn't I?" Paul asked. "Bum ship or no."
"That's true, you were ahead," Will said. "I was going to pass you on the home stretch, though."
Both cadets laughed then, and kept laughing most of the way back to the Flight Training Base.
"It was amazing, Will," Felicia said when she saw him. She'd greeted him with a hug and a big kiss, which Will found pretty amazing in itself. "Ambassador Spock was brilliant, of course. And so nice!"
"You got to meet him?" Will asked her, full of envy. They were in her room, and she was beaming as if she had just now finished shaking the ambassador's hand.
"Yes, at a reception afterward. He was warm and friendly and even a little bit funny."
"Funny?" Will echoed. "We are talking about Spock the Vulcan, right? Not some other Spock?"
"Well, you know, not the kind of funny that you see in Estresor Fil's cartoons, but wry."
"I guess I can see wry," Will said. "I'm glad you had such a good time."
She hugged him again, and then sat him down on her bed, with one hand clutching his arm and the other resting across his thigh. "I did, Will, I really did. I just kept wishing you were there. You've got to watch the speech, though, even if you don't get to meet him yourself."
"Well, maybe one of these days," Will said. "Assuming I don't get kicked out of the Academy."
Felicia's beautiful lips made an O shape. "Kicked out? What do you mean?"
"I'm surprised you haven't heard," he said. "Bad news usually travels fast around here."
"I haven't heard anything, Will. What's going on?"
He told her about the unauthorized race, the theft of the shuttles, and Paul's misadventure on Phoebe. He didn't leave out any details, and when he was finished she had a look of total shock on her face.
"Will, you stupid dumb idiot! I am so glad you're okay. But how lame can you possibly be?"
"How many degrees of lameness are there?" he replied. "Because I guess I'm pretty far down the list."
"And you don't know yet what your punishment is going to be?"
"I'm supposed to report to the superintendent in . . ." he looked at his chron. "Twenty-two minutes. With Paul. I guess we'll both find out then."
"Can I go with you?" she asked, stroking his arm solicitously.
"Better not," he suggested. "Guilt by association, you know. Save your own career."
"I'll wait outside," she said. "But I want to know what happens as soon as you get out."
"Deal," Will agreed. "If I get thrown out you can make me dinner to console me. If I don't, you can make me dinner to celebrate."
"There are . . . various ways we could celebrate," she said with a sidelong glance.
"If you're suggesting what I hope you are," Will said, "I don't want to think about it until after I'm out of Superintendent Vyrek's office. I swear that Vulcan can read minds. Even without a mind-meld."
"Then I'm not going to tell you what I'm suggesting," Felicia declared. "Until after."
Twenty-seven minutes later, Will and Paul were standing at attention in the superintendent's office as she paced in a circle around them, hands clasped behind her back. Captain Pendel, their flight instructor, and Admiral Paris were also in the room, but both men stood back and let the superintendent have the floor. "You are lucky that I am a Vulcan, gentlemen, and not a human. Because a human, at a time like this, would have a very difficult time controlling her anger. You are both, for the most part, excellent cadets, with admirable records. But you are both headstrong, impulsive, and apparently lacking in any kind of what you call common sense and what I call reason. You stole—stole—vehicles from the Academy's Flight Training Base. One of those vehicles was in for repairs, but you somehow were not even aware of it. You, Mr. Rice, managed to crash that vehicle into one of Saturn's moons without killing yourself. You, Mr. Riker, disobeyed a direct order and flew into an ion storm in order to rescue the foolhardy Mr. Rice. The fact that you are both standing here is an affront to the laws of probability, not to mention the regulations of Starfleet. Does that about sum it up?"
"It seems to, sir," Will said, suitably chastened by her monologue.
"Yes, sir," Paul agreed.
"You are both in your last year," Superintendent Vyrek continued. "I should put you back a year. But Starfleet can use your skills sooner rather than later. And I would have to put up with you both for another year, and that aggravation, I assure you, is more than I can bear. Therefore, I will not punish myself and my instructors in such a fashion. Instead, I will put a strongly worded reprimand in each of your permanent files. And I will advise you not to be brought back to this office again, for any reason, during your final months at this Academy. If you are, I will not even take the time to talk to you, but will summarily expel you. Am I understood?"
"Loud and clear, sir," Paul said.
"Mr. Riker?"
"Yes, sir," Will answered. "Understood, sir."
"The fish incident was bad," Superintendent Vyrek said. "This is far, far worse. Do not let it happen again."
"Yes, sir," both cadets replied in unison.
"I have nothing more I care to say to either of you," the superintendent said dismissively. "But I believe Admiral Paris does."
Owen Paris stepped to the center of the room and stood in front of the cadets, looking them up and down as if on an inspection tour. "Gentlemen," he said. "That was quite a stunt you pulled. You should be ashamed of yourselves."
"We are, sir," Paul said.
"As Admiral Vyrek says, you are lucky you're not both dead. You do realize that, right?"
"Yes, sir," Will replied. "We do."
"You went down on one of Saturn's frozen moons, Rice. And you went after him, Riker, even though it meant flying with no shields in an ion storm, less than a kilometer from the surface."
"That seems to be an accurate description, sir," Will said.
"Stupid. Incredibly stupid."
"Yes, sir."
"I docked both your grades the last time we were here together, didn't I? After what Admiral Vyrek so astutely refers to as 'the fish incident'?"
"Yes, sir, you did," Paul said. "And my squadron had to repeat the class."
"The second time you took it, your grade improved, correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, it just improved again. Both of you. Out of a possible one hundred points in my class, you both score one-fifty."
"I'm sorry, sir?" Will said, not quite understanding.
"You were stupid, both of you," Admiral Paris explained. "By all rights your frozen corpses should be up on Phoebe. But you survived. I teach a survival class. I haven't had any students show me what you two have, ever."
"Yes, sir," Paul said. Will was still at attention, eyes front, but he could hear Paul's smile in his voice.
"But, sir—" he began.
"Just say 'yes, sir,' " Paul instructed him.
"Yes, sir," Will repeated, catching on. "And thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me," Admiral Paris said. "Just stay out of trouble. A few more months, okay? I think even you two can do that."
"Yes, sir," both cadets responded.
"You are dismissed," Superintendent Vyrek said from her desk. Her voice was weary. Will suspected he'd be weary too if he had to deal with cadets like himself all the time.
Outside, Felicia waited for him. She ran to him when he exited the building, arms wide, and he caught her in his own and scooped her up. "A reprimand in my file," he said. "And Paris raised my survival grade."
"So it's celebrating and not consoling?"
"That's right," he affirmed.
"Oh, goody," Felicia said. She nuzzled against Will's neck and nipped the flesh there with her teeth. "Then I can tell you what I was suggesting earlier."
"I'm not sure we need to really talk about it," Will said, his lips urgently seeking hers. "In fact," he mumbled against her mouth, "talking may even be counterproductive."
Felicia broke away from him and started to run. "Oh, we can talk," she shouted back over her shoulder. "Until we get back to my room. After that, I think we'll be much too busy."
And she was right.
## Chapter 26
The last couple of months, Will had learned, were definitely the hardest. He had heard about schools where students could basically skate through their last year, but Starfleet Academy was not one of those. Here, course work got progressively more difficult from the beginning to the end. When he was finished at the Academy, a cadet needed to be able to step from the campus onto a starship or starbase, where the lives of others might depend on his knowledge, experience, and reactions. There could be no slacking off.
So he saw Felicia when he could, but mostly he bore down and worked. He closed himself in his room when he wasn't at classes, usually alone—because when Felicia was there, they found it hard to focus on their work—and studied. He had, for the time being, set aside most other activities. Outings with friends, athletics beyond a minimal daily workout . . . those were important but not as important as making up the grade handicap that had been with him from his first year. He had made great progress, he knew. His grades had improved every year, and he'd become much more confident in his own abilities. But he still had those lousy first-year grades on his record, and if he was to be satisfied in his own performance he wanted to balance them out with exceptional grades this time.
He was in his room, as usual, the night Dennis Haynes knocked on his door in something like a panic. The rapid-fire pounding startled Will, who was deeply immersed in a text on the geological specifications of Class-G planets of the Ophiucus sector. He pushed himself away from the desk, still caught somewhere between two worlds, his eyes not wanting to leave the computer screen because he didn't want to have to find his place again in the discussion of the effect of cooling magmas on crystallization processes. Finally he forced himself to abandon the screen because he knew the door was locked. Specifically so I wouldn't be bothered, he thought, so how well did that work?
When he opened the door Dennis stood there, his face flushed as if he'd been running, his brow wrinkled, mouth turned down in a frown. "I can't do this, Will," Dennis said without preface. "I just can't do it."
Will, tempted to simply close the door and go back to his work, instead waved Dennis in. "Can't do what?" he asked reflexively, thinking, Don't ask, because he'll only want to tell you and then you're stuck.
"This. The work. The Academy. Any of it." Dennis's words gushed out of him like water from a broken pipe.
"Calm down, Dennis. Have a seat." Will closed the door and ushered Dennis to the couch. He put his hands on Dennis's shoulders and pushed his friend down, then pulled up the chair he'd been using at the computer, turned it around, and straddled the back of it, facing Dennis. "What's the problem?"
"I am so far behind," Dennis said. "I'm so stuck, and I just can't seem to understand anything anymore. I can't catch up with anything. I can't grasp whatever it is we're supposed to be learning, and the more I try the more I worry that I'm not getting it. And if I don't get it, then I don't belong here."
"Can't argue with that," Will said with a smile, hoping to cajole Dennis back into making some kind of sense. "But it's probably not as bad as you think. You're just getting nervous."
Dennis shook his head vigorously. "I'm beyond nervous, Will. Nervous was months ago. I'm way past that. I'm into terrified now. Petrified."
"You need to relax, that's all," Will said. "When was the last time you went out and had some fun?"
"There's no time for fun, Will," Dennis insisted, shaking his head again. "I need to work every waking hour or I'm just not going to make it. And I can't do that, because there are classes, and then if I forget to eat, then I get weak, and . . ."
Will found himself saddened and appalled at the same time. "Dennis, you've got to eat. You've got to take care of yourself. You can't possibly keep up with the work if you're not in your best physical condition. You can't skip meals."
"I have to, Will," Dennis said. "It's easy for you—"
"No it's not."
"Easier, then. For you and the others. For Estresor Fil, the course work is a breeze. Even Felicia. But for me, I don't know, it just doesn't sink in. This stuff doesn't come naturally. My dad's a farmer, you know? Maybe I've got dirt in my veins."
"You have blood, same as everyone else," Will replied. Then, remembering some of the more alien types around, he amended himself. "Well, nearly everyone."
"It doesn't seem like I have much in common with anyone," Dennis continued. Will didn't think he was even listening anymore, just venting. "It's so much harder for me than for anyone else. There's so much of it that I just don't get. I wish I did—I want to serve. I want to be out there, you know, exploring new worlds. I have so much curiosity about the galaxy—"
"Then you have what you need," Will interrupted, his own work forgotten for now. "You can pick up the rest. You have the drive, the courage, the desire, Dennis. The learning and experience can be taught, but the things you have, that'll make you an asset to Starfleet, are the things that can't be taught. If you didn't have those I'd agree that you're a hopeless case, but you do."
"You think I do. I used to think so. Now I'm not so sure."
Will threw up his hands. "I don't know what you want, Dennis." He rose and paced around the room. "You want me to tell you that you're doomed? That you should just drop out now? Because I'd be lying if I did that. I don't believe that."
Dennis's gaze followed Will as he walked, his face crestfallen. "I'm sorry, Will. I shouldn't even have bothered you." He glanced at the computer. "I know you're busy too."
"You're my friend, Dennis," Will said. "There's no such thing as too busy for a friend."
"Thanks, Will."
"So is there any way I can help you?"
"Well, that's the thing," Dennis said. "I was hoping you could tutor me."
"Tutor?" Will echoed. His first thought was just how time-intensive that would be, if Dennis was really as far behind as he claimed. "I don't know if I'm the best guy for that."
"You're the only one I'd even ask, Will," Dennis implored. "You're my best friend here. You know me better than anyone, and you have a knack for explaining complicated stuff in ways that makes it all seem so simple."
"But—"
"I know it'd take a lot of your time, Will. Too much, probably, to catch me up. You could tutor somebody smart in no time at all, but I'm a losing proposition."
"That's not what I said," Will objected.
"I know. And I do have one other idea. Something that'd take less of your time. It'd hardly put you out at all."
"What's that?"
"You could let me cheat off you," Dennis said.
Will didn't even know how to answer that. Never mind that it was impractical. It could be done, he supposed, for some courses, though it'd be tricky and would require quite a bit of advance work. But it was so clearly unethical . . ..
Dennis watched him like a dog waiting for a scrap of food from the dinner table.
"Dennis, that's . . ."
"I know it's a lot to ask, Will. Believe me, I know it is. I wouldn't if I had any other choice. I'm going to fail, Will. I've never failed before, really, not at anything important. But I will this time, I just know it. And I don't know how to handle that. I don't know how to deal with it." He paused and angled his head toward the floor. "I'm afraid."
Will would have liked to have made a snap decision, which he knew would be the right one. He felt like he owed Dennis a bit more consideration, though. They had been through a lot together. In large ways and small, Dennis had helped him get through the rigors of Starfleet Academy. Turning down a friend who had done all that for him just didn't seem right.
But neither did the alternatives. Giving Dennis the kind of tutoring help he was asking for would mean sacrificing most of his own study time. Instead of finishing near the top of his class, and countering those bad early grades with strong late ones, he'd be lucky to pass everything. He would squeak by, but his record would not be nearly as impressive as he'd hoped, and it might actually affect his starship posting.
And helping Dennis cheat would be even worse. Starfleet stressed fairness and honesty, and cheating was neither. It ran against everything Starfleet stood for. And that was only a problem if they didn't get caught. If they did, they'd both be booted out of the Academy, and any chance of ever serving in Starfleet would vanish. Will didn't know what he'd do then. Go back to Alaska? Remain a civilian like his old man? Eventually marry, then abandon his family later in life to pursue a dream he'd abandoned years before?
No, it didn't take much thought to dismiss the idea of cheating. But the tutoring thing, now, that was harder. Because that made a certain amount of sense, at least from Dennis's perspective. Tutoring could actually help Dennis master the material. He would come out of the Academy more educated and a better asset to Starfleet. He would get passing grades, instead of flunking out. There was no downside.
For Dennis, that was. For Will, the downside was the time it would require. Way too much of it, he knew. If Dennis was as bad off as he said—and Will was pretty sure he wasn't entirely exaggerating his position—then he would need massive amounts of work. Will could probably do it, but only at the expense of his own grades and his own future.
This was a situation, Will knew, in which there was no way to win. There were only bad options, and the problem he faced was, which option was the least bad of the bunch? He resented Dennis more than a little for even putting him in this position, though he understood that Dennis would not have done it if he'd seen any other way out.
As he paced around the room thinking about these things, he knew Dennis was watching him again. He looked out the bay window at the San Francisco skyline, a million lights glittering against the darkness, like the starry skies he yearned to travel. What he did, the decision he made in these next few moments, could determine whether or not he ever traveled those spaceways.
"Here's the deal," he said at last, turning back to Dennis. "I'll tutor you." Dennis broke into a grin, but Will cut him off before he could express gratitude, knowing that his good cheer would only last a moment. "But I can only afford the time to offer you very limited tutoring. I can help out in the classes that we're in together, because helping you understand those will help me get a better grasp of the material. But for the others, for the older work . . . I don't know, maybe you can try Estresor Fil or something. I just . . . Dennis, I really can't spare the time. Not without killing my own chances."
Dennis's smile had vanished as quickly as it appeared. "I know, Will. Believe me. I'm so sorry I had to even ask you." Will thought that would be the end of it, and was relieved that Dennis was taking the news with such good grace. But then Dennis dropped the anvil. "But I'm begging you, Will, to reconsider. Limited tutoring won't help me. I'm too lost. I need major help. Or I need to cheat. I can get this stuff, I'm just not as smart as everyone else and I need more time, a lot more. Cheating is wrong, I know that. But it'll buy me time to really understand everything. That's what I need."
"Dennis, don't ask me for that," Will said sadly. "I can't. I just . . . I can't."
Dennis stared at him with eyes that had gone cold. Will was surprised. It was like looking at someone he didn't even know. "You could, Will," he said, his voice glacial. "If you wanted to. To help a friend, you could."
"What?" Will said, astonished at Dennis's sudden sea change. "You're saying I'm not your friend because I won't help you cheat?"
"I'm just saying that if you really considered me a friend, you'd help me in some way."
"I offered to tutor you—"
"In a very limited way," Dennis reminded him. "An hour here, an hour there. And at the end of it, you feel good about yourself and I flunk out anyway. No, thanks. If you don't care to offer some real help, then I guess we know what this friendship is."
"What?" Will asked him, still bewildered by this turn.
"A lie," Dennis said. "Nothing but a lie." He lurched to his feet and stomped across Will's room, headed for the door. "Thanks for nothing, Will," he said. He let himself out.
In stunned silence, Will watched him go. Maybe it's the stress, he told himself. It's making Dennis act in ways he wouldn't ordinarily. He'll come back and apologize in a few minutes. Or tomorrow, first thing, he'll feel so bad he'll beg me to forgive him.
But even as those thoughts bounced around in his head, Will knew that he was probably wrong. The hateful look in Dennis's eyes, at the end, the set of his jaw . . . maybe this Dennis was the real Dennis, and the one Will had thought he'd known was the imposter. Maybe Dennis Haynes was someone who would befriend you as long as he thought you could help him, and then cut you off as soon as you were no longer useful. He didn't want to believe that, but he knew that it was possible. The way Dennis had glared at him brought that home.
Taking his place at the computer again, Will realized that he had probably lost a friend, for good.
But on the bright side, it gave him that much more time to study.
## Chapter 27
The next day dawned clear and warm over San Francisco. This was the kind of day that, before the advent of climate control technology, had been so rare here that it brought the residents outside in droves. Even now, when everyone knew that the weather could be manipulated to a large extent, there was something about such a lovely late spring day that people were tempted to skip their responsibilities and lounge about in the sun.
Will Riker was not one of those people. He appreciated nice weather as much as anyone—growing up in Alaska made one particularly appreciative of warm, sunny days—but at this point in his Academy career nothing could tempt him away from the tasks he had set for himself. He had lunch with Felicia, and their concession to the weather was to eat at an outside table. The table was in a kind of alcove sheltered by a stand of bamboo which rustled in the gentle breeze, with a winding brook on the other side. Felicia had told him that this was one of her favorite spots on campus.
Over lunch, he recounted Dennis's visit to his room the night before. As he told the story he saw her face darken with anger, until he regretted having brought it up at all.
"Will!" she exploded when he finished. "He's your friend! I can't believe you treated him like that!"
Will shrugged. "What was I supposed to do, Felicia? Throw away my own career for his? Cheat for him? How would that help?"
"You could have helped him out in some way," she insisted.
"I offered. He didn't want it. It was everything or nothing, as far as he was concerned."
"Still . . ."
"Are you going to tutor him?" Will asked.
"He hasn't asked me to."
"But he might. What if he does? And you could always volunteer, you know. Are you willing to spend hours every day helping him catch up?"
"Maybe it won't really take that long," she said. "Maybe he's exaggerating the situation."
"Maybe," Will admitted. "But I don't think so. It seems like he knows what his own position is, and it's pretty precarious."
"Even so," Felicia said, anger still simmering in her voice and body language, "you ought to do what you can to help him out. Friendships are important, Will. Relationships are important. You can't just turn a friend away like that."
"Felicia," Will said, feeling suddenly helpless. "I told you, I offered to do what I could. It just wasn't as much as Dennis wanted."
She nodded. "And then, instead of negotiating something in between, you just let him walk out the door. Have you seen him today?"
"No," Will replied.
"Don't you think you should find him? Make sure he's okay?"
"If you had seen him last night, Felicia . . . he turned into an iceberg, like our entire friendship rested on that one question, and when I said no, then it was just over. I don't feel like it's my place to track him down. If he wants to find me and apologize, he knows where I live."
Felicia had folded her arms across her chest and looked toward where the brook cut through a sward of grassy lawn, instead of at Will. "You disappoint me, Will," she said. "Truly." She rose, then, and walked away from the table, leaving Will with the remains of their lunch. "I guess I'll talk to you later," she called back as she left.
Will genuinely didn't know what he was supposed to say to that. Hadn't he made the best offer he could to Dennis? Didn't he need to keep his priorities straight in order to graduate with the best grades he could? He cleaned up the lunch mess, checked the time, and headed toward his next class.
* * *
Professor Knudsen was, Will believed, one of the best lecturers he'd had during his time at the Academy. She paced the front of the room as she talked, a slight, blonde figure in tailored civilian clothes, speaking with a heavy Scandinavian accent, stopping from time to time to accentuate a point with a jabbing finger or a fist punching the palm of her other hand. She knew her material, which was the history of the Federation's first contacts with alien races, inside and out, and never needed notes when she lectured. Normally Will took pleasure in watching her. Her utter command of the subject matter was inspiring and she made it seem important and valuable.
But today he couldn't even focus on what she was saying. He kept running through his conversation with Dennis in his head, and the argument with Felicia that it had precipitated. She hadn't come right out and called him a jerk, but her tone of voice and the way she'd carried herself had done that job for her. He couldn't think of anything he might have done differently, that was the problem. He couldn't accede to Dennis's demands; they were unreasonable. They would put his own standing in jeopardy, maybe even threaten his whole career. It just didn't make sense to take a chance like that for anybody.
And then Felicia's response had seemed out of proportion as well. It wasn't as if his relationship with Dennis would necessarily affect her. She knew Dennis too, they were friendly. But if Will's friendship with Dennis had come to an abrupt end, why did that have to change her own association with Dennis? It didn't—she was just blowing things up for no reason. Maybe she was upset not because her connection with Dennis was impaired but because her own impression of Will had been challenged. Not that her impression had always been a favorable one.
He shook his head and tried to concentrate on what Professor Knudsen was talking about.
He was aware of his lack of focus, and hoped that this particular lecture would be one he could afford to miss most of. But that pointed to a larger problem: Even without agreeing to Dennis's ridiculous demands, his own academic work was being affected. Dennis, and now Felicia, were threatening his career simply by being part of his life and having expectations that he couldn't necessarily live up to. If this sort of thing—disagreements with friends and lovers—could draw his mind away from one of his favorite lecturers, then it was dangerous. He couldn't afford to let his concentration lapse. His priority had to be getting the highest grades he possibly could and doing his best work in these remaining few weeks. As hard as it was now, when finals hit it would be harder still. He needed to be mentally and psychologically available for himself at that point, ready to take on whatever academic challenges were thrown at him.
His decision made, he tried to tune in Professor Knudsen.
* * *
He found Felicia after his last class of the day, in her room. Estresor Fil was in there with her, studying, but when she saw the look on Will's face—Will wondered just how bad he must look—she quickly gathered her things and excused herself. Felicia regarded Will with a blank expression. Pointedly, she did not get up to hug or kiss him. Will sat down in the chair that Estresor Fil had just vacated.
"I've been doing a lot of thinking," Will began.
"I'm glad to hear that." Felicia's voice was as flat as her face, as if she had pushed all emotion to the side.
"Yeah, well, it's not always easy for me," he said. She didn't smile at the joke, and he decided not to try that again. "But what I keep coming up against, Felicia, is this. The school year is almost over. I had a rough first year, and some snags in my second too. If I want to get the best possible posting after the Academy, I have to really shine this year. That's why I couldn't devote the time to helping Dennis—because I need to devote it to helping myself. I have to push myself as hard as I possibly can."
"Career isn't everything, Will," she said. "Friendships are every bit as important."
"Friendships may be important," he admitted. "But not 'every bit as.' Nothing is, not to me. The way I see it, there's no reason to go into Starfleet unless I'm willing to give it my all. It needs a hundred percent of me."
"That seems pretty narrow-minded," Felicia responded. "What's wrong with giving it seventy? Eighty? You need some of you left over for you."
"I don't agree. I mean, sure, that's good enough for some people. But not for me. I've been trying to do this for as long as I can remember. Getting into Starfleet, moving up the ranks, becoming a senior officer—those have been my goals since I was a kid. Now they're within range—I can almost close my hands around those gold pips. I can't afford to lose my momentum. I can't let anything get in the way of that goal. Not now."
"And by 'anything,' you mean . . .?"
"You know," he said, still unwilling to say out loud what had really brought him to Felicia's room. "Dennis and his crazy schemes. Helping him cheat. That's a sure way to get kicked out, to guarantee that I'll never have a Starfleet career at all."
"But tutoring isn't against the rules."
"We've been over that," Will reminded her. "The degree of tutoring he needs is more than I can handle and still keep my own grades up. I can't really spare any time for him, much less the amount he's looking for."
"So what you're saying is that your career takes precedence over your friends," she translated.
He paused, understanding that he was about to go over a waterfall without so much as a barrel to ride in. "That's right. It has to."
"All your friends?"
Will swallowed but answered quickly. "That's right."
"I had a feeling," she said. "At lunch, when you just let me walk away."
"I really am not sure how I'm supposed to stop everyone from walking away," Will said. "Flying tackles? Is that better?"
"Usually a simple word or two will do it," Felicia told him. "But you have to want to say them."
"What words? You know I'm not good at this, Felicia. You want me to tell you that I love you? I do. Or I think I do, and if there's a difference I don't know what it is. But that's not really what this is about, is it?"
"Not really," she said, keeping her steady gaze fixed on him. "Not whether you can say it, anyway. More whether you can mean it."
"I do mean it," he tried to assure her. "As much as I have ever loved anyone, I love you."
"Are you sure about that, Will?"
"But obviously," he went on, ignoring her question, "that's not enough. For either of us. You want more than I can give. And I feel like I'm already too committed—like just being in a relationship with you is costing me too much. I can't concentrate on my work, I can't separate my personal life, my emotional life, from the things that I need to do to reach my goals."
Now he realized that her eyes had gone liquid. She sniffed once. "I had hoped that you were different, Will," she said. "I saw—I still see—a great person inside you, a wonderful, loving man who is driven and ambitious but also kind and generous and giving. It's those qualities, in combination, that make you the man I want to be with—the man I've wanted to be with since I met you, even though I had to wait so damn long for you to figure it out. And these past few months, when you've actually been that man, have been amazing. I've felt things, being with you, that I could barely have imagined in my wildest fantasies."
A tear escaped her eye and trailed down her left cheek. She ignored it and kept talking. "Your problem, Will, is that you haven't yet figured out how to be the whole person you really are. You think you can only be one part of you at a time, and that's not true. So even though you really are the man I love, you can't seem to give yourself permission to be that man." She turned her head away, finally releasing him from the withering assault of her nearly unbearable scrutiny. "Funny how I've always known you better than you know yourself. That's backwards, William. You don't have to let it be that way."
"But maybe I do," he countered. "If that's the way I am. You may be right, but I can only be the person I am now, at this time, in this moment. If I can change that in time, fine. But that still doesn't help us right now."
"Apparently there is no help for us now."
"It doesn't look that way," he agreed.
"Well," she said, sniffling and trying on a smile. "Fun while it lasted, right?"
"Yeah," he said. "I am sorry. Really, really sorry."
"Me too, Will. Me too."
He sat there a moment longer, feeling impossibly awkward. There was nothing to say or do that was the right thing, in this situation. He wanted to touch her, to throw himself at her, to scoop her into his arms and apologize, to tell her that he'd been stupid and he'd be different now. But he knew that wasn't true, and he wouldn't fool her for a second. He was right, he could only be the person he was. And the person he was put his career ahead of everything else. There would be plenty of time for relationships after he had achieved what he needed to professionally. For now, he had to prioritize.
"I guess it's my turn, then," he said at last. "To walk away."
"Looks like it," Felicia agreed. "Since it's my room and all."
Nothing left to say, Will rose and went to the door. He caught a final glimpse of Felicia, the most beautiful, loving woman he had ever known, sitting curled up on her couch, knees pulled against her chest, arms wrapped around her legs, and he walked out.
And she didn't say anything to stop him.
## Chapter 28
Even at the time, those last months, weeks, and days of Starfleet Academy ran together in a kind of watercolor blur for Will Riker. By the time a couple of years had passed, he was almost completely unable to remember the precise sequence of events that had transpired. As he was living it, he couldn't see any rhyme or pattern, just work and more work.
He got up in the morning, forcing himself out of bed even though he didn't feel like he'd had nearly enough sleep. Usually, he hadn't. But when he rolled from his bed, the first thing he did was to check the computer, to make sure that any notes he'd made the night before—he had, in recent weeks, developed a habit of waking up at various times during the night with fresh ideas and inspirations—were, in fact, comprehensible. Then he quickly scanned the material he'd studied before going to bed. After a rushed breakfast, he dashed off to his first class. A series of classes interspersed with brief study breaks followed. In late afternoon, after his last class, he went to the gym for a hurried workout, then showered and had dinner. After dinner it was up to his room for more studying until he either dozed off at the computer or could no longer retain what he was working on. That was when he finally allowed himself to go to bed, only to begin the whole process again in a few hours.
But somehow, he got through it, and his grades, when he saw them, were the highest he had ever received. Around campus there was mixed relief and concern at grade time, as those who had done well hurried to call friends and family and share the news, and those who had not agonized over their missteps and the possible cost to their future careers. Will didn't have any family to contact, though, if you didn't count his father who, he was pretty sure, was still missing someplace. And he hadn't seen much of his friends lately—some, like Dennis and Felicia, wanted nothing to do with him, and the rest had been more or less abandoned in the mad rush toward finals and graduation.
Now that it was over, Will could exhale and start working on mending some of those fences, he figured. But his relief turned out to be a little premature. With graduation looming, that meant, he had every reason to believe, posting to a starship, and there was work to be done in preparation for that. He spent what seemed like hours filling out the documentation necessary for a Starfleet assignment, and he had to pack his personal items, some of which he simply gave away, or recycled, on the theory that a starship berth wouldn't give him a whole lot of personal space. And then, before he knew it, graduation day was upon him.
"I'm no Federation president or galactic celebrity," their graduation speaker began, his plain, folksy voice amplified to fill the cavernous space of the Academy's vast auditorium. "I'm just a country doctor who has become sort of important, if at all, simply because I've managed to outlive all of my enemies." Admiral Leonard H. McCoy looked out across the ocean of cadets, and Will could see the blue of his eyes even from his seat midway back. His tuft of hair was as white as the dress uniform he wore. "And some of my friends, too, I'm sorry to say. And I guess that's what I'm here to talk to you all about today.
"You've finished your time at the Academy, which is a hell of an accomplishment, and you've every right to be proud of yourselves. But don't sprain your arms pattin' yourselves on the back, because what you've really done is just the first step in a long process. From here, you become Starfleet officers. Like a lot of Starfleet officers before you, including my best friend in the world, James Tiberius Kirk, some of you will be asked to give your lives in the service of Starfleet. Nobody wants to make that sacrifice—nobody wants to ask you to make it, either—but when they do, when the time comes, if it does, I hope you'll do it in the spirit of the great Starfleet officers who went before you.
"Your chosen career is one in which violence sometimes plays a part. As a doctor and I hope some kind of humanitarian—though if you ever call me that to my face I'll knock you on your keister—I abhor violence. I detest it, and I have always tried, and will always try to find a way to avoid it, like a barn mouse tryin' to keep away from the farmhouse cat. But I also recognize that there are times when it's necessary, and when it has been, then I've tried to face it head-on. I hope you'll do the same."
Will listened to McCoy, enjoying the old doctor's thoroughly informal presentation. The graduates were seated alphabetically in the front section of the auditorium, with family, friends, and observers filling out the rest of the room, and Will sat between Paul Rice and an Andorian named Ritthar. On Paul's other side was a guy he knew only in passing named Vince Reggiani. Will could see the back of Felicia's head, a couple of rows in front of him, but she never seemed to turn around. Will's achievement had been better than he'd dared hope for—he had finished eighth in his class, and that knowledge filled him with satisfaction and a little bit of anxiety, as if he had raised his own bar and would now have to continue to perform at that level. He thought he could do it, but if it meant pushing himself as he'd been doing for the last months of Academy work, he would either burn out fast or simply fall apart trying.
"I started out saying I was just a country doctor," McCoy was saying. "And that's true. But unlike some others, I'm a country doctor who has seen incredible sights. I've seen sunrise on Jupiter and sunset on New France. I've danced with a woman who was born on Rigel VI, and I've listened to an orchestra made up entirely of nonhumanoid, energy-based life-forms whose instruments were part of their own anatomy. I've set foot on close to a hundred planets, and been nearly killed, kidnapped, or knocked in the head on almost half of those. For all the trouble I've seen, all the war and strife and danger, I wouldn't trade my life for anyone else's, anywhere, country doctor or no. I trust, when you've reached the end of the career that you're just beginning today, you'll be able to say the same thing, and mean it.
"Keep that in mind as you take your next step, as you become Starfleet officers, and as you grow into the men and women that you will be. The best thing to say at the end of your life is that you don't regret a thing. Tomorrow, that new life will start, for each of you—you woke up this morning students, and you will wake up tomorrow officers. It's a big change, don't kid yourself into thinking it's not. And I only have one more thing to say about that." McCoy threw his hands into the air. "Congratulations, graduates of 2357! You've earned yourselves a party!"
This was met by a wild chorus of applause and cheers from the assembled graduates, and Admiral McCoy left the stage amidst the tumult. As was traditional, after that, each graduate was called to the stage by name to receive a diploma, and when the last one was handed out the graduates burst into a new round of cheering, before dispersing to find friends and family members with whom to celebrate their accomplishment.
Will was momentarily lost in the noise and chaos. He had no one to seek out, and his friends had all vanished toward the back of the big room. But as he turned in a slow circle, he saw Dennis Haynes, face flushed, walking nearby.
Hoping that maybe his former friend had cooled off a bit, Will stopped him. "Hey, Dennis, congratulations," he said with all sincerity.
"Thanks," Dennis said. He faced Will but there was no hint of a smile on his ruddy face. "Heard you were at the top of the class."
"Eighth," Will corrected. Kul Tun Osir had been first. "Not all the way."
"You know where I finished, Will?" Dennis asked. He made it sound like a challenge.
"I really don't," Will admitted.
"Dead last," Dennis told him. "That's quite an accomplishment, isn't it? Nobody was able to do worse than me. When it comes to being bad, I'm the best." He glared at Will, who simply watched him, straight-faced.
"You may have finished last," Will said finally. "But you still finished. You're here, the same as the rest of us."
"I sure am," Dennis said. "I'm here, and I did it by myself. No help from you, obviously, and none from anyone else either. Just my own efforts, my own two hands, and my own barely adequate brain."
"I think you're being a little hard on yourself, Dennis," Will said. "On yourself and everyone else."
"If you'd been in my shoes, you wouldn't necessarily think that," Dennis shot back. "But, luckily for you and Starfleet, you didn't have to find out."
"I'm sure your contribution to Starfleet will be an important one," Will suggested.
"Maybe if I was going into Starfleet," Dennis said. "But I'm not."
"But . . . you graduated from the Academy!" Will was dumfounded. "Even if you don't want to join Starfleet—and I can't imagine why you wouldn't—you kind of have to now, don't you?"
"You'd think so, huh?" Dennis asked. "But it turns out there's a kind of special dispensation for cases like mine. It's possible to do just well enough to make it through the Academy but still bad enough that they won't make you enlist if you choose not to. They don't really want me, any more than I want them."
People were streaming around them now, graduates and family members alike, and Dennis had raised his voice to the point that people cast sidelong glances at them and tried to give them wide berth.
"I guess I just don't understand," Will said. "I thought the whole reason you put yourself through this was that you wanted to be in Starfleet."
Finally, Dennis smiled. "I thought that too," he said. "But you know what happened, Will? I met you."
"Me?"
"You, Will. I think you'll have a brilliant Starfleet career. You'll be some big hotshot senior officer, probably a captain someday, or an admiral. And that's exactly why I want nothing to do with Starfleet. Because the system rewards people who are willing to turn their backs on their friends, who will sacrifice friendships for advancement and accomplishment. You'll thrive in that kind of atmosphere, Riker. But I want no part of it. I'm going home, back to the farm. At least there when you're up to your ankles in manure, you know where you really stand."
Will felt anger overtake him. "I feel like I want to say I'm sorry you feel that way, Dennis," he said. "But really, I'm not. Whatever problems you think you have with Starfleet you really have with yourself. How you did in school is no one's fault but your own. You can't blame anyone else for that. You could have asked for help at any point, and you could have accepted help when it was offered. You could have pulled your own weight like the rest of us did. You chose not to, well, those are the choices you make. But then don't go trying to blame others, or the 'system,' for your shortcomings. As Dr. McCoy might have said, that dog don't hunt."
Dennis shot Will a look of anger much like the one he'd left him with the night he'd demanded help. "Leave it to you to kiss up even when you don't have to, Riker," he said. "McCoy can't hear you now. But it's perfect for a Starfleet drone like you. Have a good life, Will. I'll think of you every time I swamp out the barn or feed the hogs."
Dennis turned and shoved his way through the crowd, leaving Will standing there watching him go. Dennis had really ticked him off—refusing to accept responsibility for one's own actions was something Will hated, and Dennis seemed intent on making a lifelong pattern of it. But part of him couldn't help feeling hurt, wounded, by Dennis's accusation, and by the bitter tone in his one-time friend's voice. And underneath the anger there was another feeling—a vague idea that maybe Dennis was right about more than Will wanted to admit. Felicia had implied many of the same things about him.
Will was excited about getting posted to a starship and seeing some action, but at the same time, he thought, a change of scenery might be a good opportunity to take a long, hard look at his own life. It might just be, he thought, that it's time to make some changes.
## Chapter 29
More than a year had passed since Kyle Riker had last seen Earth, and the sight of his home planet filling the shuttle's viewscreen filled him with a sense of joy that took him by surprise. He knew there were still dangers ahead, and difficult times, but he would meet them on his home turf and face them in a way that he hadn't been equipped for when he had let them drive him away before.
Getting to this point had been a challenge, to be sure. The night Michelle died had ranked right up there with the worst nights of his life. The police had been out in force that night, he remembered, clustered together in groups on street corners, armored and tense. They had stared at him as he passed by, a ragged-looking man with what might have been blood sprayed across his face and clothing, but they hadn't stopped him. He figured he looked too beaten down to be much of a threat.
Kyle knew that when things went downhill they would happen fast, but even he was unprepared for the velocity and brutality of the next morning's events. Instead of waiting for Cetra and the others to give themselves up, the army simply returned to The End in full force, with far more soldiers and machines than they had used the day before. The tanks rumbled into the old part of Cozzen five abreast, not paying attention to where the roads wound. They made their own roads. The ancient buildings barely slowed them down. When they approached one that looked more substantial than the rest they simply fired upon it before they got to it, their energy beams lancing across the early morning landscape and blowing huge chunks from the walls. Then the tanks rolled forward, their sheer mass finishing the job their guns had started. Soldiers, on foot and in troop carriers, came behind, using their handheld weapons on any who survived the destruction of their homes. Smaller and weaker structures were merely ground into dust by the big machines.
Kyle had finally fallen asleep in an alley, but the thunder and crash of the army's advance woke him up early. It took a few moments to get his bearings—he felt hungover, though this hangover had only to do with grief, not with drink—but once he figured out where he was, he ran through the chaotic streets to Cetra's place to warn her. When he got there, he saw that a police unit had already raided her place. As Kyle watched, helpless to stop it, Cetra was led out of the building with her hands in shackles by five uniformed police officers, the shortest of whom towered over her by half a meter. Another dozen stood outside the building around an armored vehicle, as casually as if this were any other day, any other job.
"Cetra!" Kyle cried, oblivious to the risk this raised for him.
"It's okay, Joe," she said, tossing him her most gentle, motherly smile. "You can't worry about me. You take care of what you can." The police led her into the vehicle and slammed the doors.
Taking care of what he could was his intention, although he thought it might sadden Cetra to know that his goal had nothing to do with Cyre, or Hazimot. Michelle had come to the conclusion long ago that her future was here on Hazimot—such as it was, he thought bitterly—but that Kyle belonged back on Earth. He never had told her any details of his troubles there, but she insisted that the time would come when he'd have to go back and face them. "You'll never be really at peace until you do," she said. "Even with me, you'll always be unhappy, unfinished. I'd hate for you to leave me, but you need to return there someday."
He had remembered that conversation, last night, even through the anguish he felt at her death. He had decided that she was right, that he needed to go back and take care of things at home. Only by accomplishing that could he be the kind of man Michelle deserved. And even though she would no longer know it, that was the kind of man he meant to become.
Seeing that to try to act against the police who had taken Cetra was purely suicidal, he turned and ran toward home. There were things hidden in his apartment that he would need, if only he could get to them before the building was flattened. Michelle had helped him acquire authentic identification papers in the name of Joe Brady, and a second set in the name of Henry Blue in case the Brady name became compromised somehow. And there was some cash set aside there, since Hazimot operated on a largely monetary basis, and he would need that as well.
The streets were almost impassable now. Everywhere, buildings Kyle had grown accustomed to were burning. Fire licked at the edges of windows or spat high through broken roofs, all accompanied by a crackling roar. Instead of dissipating the smoke, the omnipresent winds just fanned the flames and spread smoke everyplace. Kyle inhaled great hot lungfuls of it and began coughing before he even reached home. Refugees, driven out of their own last-resort housing, clogged the streets, clutching infants and threadbare belongings to their breasts, holding children and lovers by the hands. Many were weeping openly, others angry and scared, readying weapons or looking for an escape route. The thunder of heavy artillery filled Kyle's ears, and the concussive shock of explosions rattled his bones. He felt much as he had that day on Starbase 311—terrified, overwhelmed, and bordering on hopeless. However, he was not experiencing any flashbacks. None of the crowd turned into Tholians, the noises around him sounded like artillery, not those awful Tholian hand-weapons. Under other circumstances, he might be pleased by this, but not right now.
After working his way through the crowd, clenching his lips against the grit and smoke and dust that filled the air, he finally made his way to the building in which he'd lived these many months. The building in which he'd met Michelle, and loved her so powerfully. It stood there, dun colored through the thick smoke, its few remaining windows shattered by the blasts and gaping dumbly at him, and he ran for it as if it offered shelter from the insanity that surrounded him.
Of course, it didn't.
Inside, he couldn't see any of the residents, just a pack of looters, youthful Cyrians, mostly, who were busily trying to make off with what few possessions of value had been left behind. Kyle felt he should challenge them, but then common sense won out. Anything not already claimed would be rubble anyway, soon enough, when this building was flattened like the rest of The End. Instead of confronting the looters, he just shoved past them and dashed up the stairs, hoping they hadn't yet raided his apartment.
In fact, when he burst through his door there were three muscular Cyrian males ransacking his place. "Get out!" he snarled at them. They spun around to face him, one dropping an armload of his clothing on the floor.
"This one's ours," he said, almost calmly. "There are plenty of other places you can pilfer."
"No!" Kyle shot back. "This one's mine. All that stuff is mine. Like you say, there are plenty of other places—leave my things alone."
One of the Cyrians laughed out loud. "Yours? You lost any claim to this place when you walked out the door. You don't defend what's yours, it's not yours any longer." He bunched his huge hands into fists.
Kyle normally didn't care much about material possessions—he had left behind an apartment full of them on Earth, almost two years ago now—but this was quickly becoming a matter of principle as well as survival. "You know what?" he asked, feeling the tension flow out of him and a remarkable sense of peace take its place. "I'm having a bad day. A very bad day, in fact. The woman I loved died, my neighborhood is being taken apart piece by piece, and all my friends are either under arrest or missing. There's nothing I'd love more right now than to tear you all apart, one by one."
"We got what we need," one of the Cyrians said with some reluctance. "Let's go."
The others grumbled, but that one seemed to be in charge, and they finally indicated their assent. They all dropped what they held and made their way to the door, trying to give Kyle as wide a berth as they could. He knew they'd destroy him in a fight, of course—he was just one man, and although he was strong and athletic and driven by fury, Cyrians in general were bigger and more powerfully built than even the biggest humans. But he figured anyone who'd loot the homes of people driven out by invasion wasn't the bravest guy on the block, and even with numbers on their side, these looters would rather have easy pickings in uninhabited apartments than risk injury or worse at his hands.
When they were gone, he went to the hiding place where he had stashed his money and false identification papers, under a loose floorboard concealed by his bed. He shoved the bed aside and pried up the board, and everything was still where he'd left it, wrapped in a cloth bag. He scooped it all up and pocketed it, then did a quick scan to see if there was anything else he needed. Clothing and toiletries would be nice, but he could always acquire more, and he didn't want to look like a man who was traveling. He ended up grabbing a holoimage of Michelle and stuffing it into a pocket, and then he left the rest for the looters.
The first barrage hit the building while he was still running down the stairway. The whole structure shook under the assault. Plaster flew, and a wall opposite him imploded into dust. The staircase groaned and swayed. Kyle gripped the banister to steady himself and continued down, hurtling five and six steps at a time. He heard screams and shouts from elsewhere in the building—probably the looters, he suspected, since he hadn't seen any of the residents around. At least, he hoped it was them—poetic justice if they were trapped inside the building when it came down.
Another wave hit and this time more walls blew in. Dust and debris rained down on Kyle. Above, he saw powerful energy beams lance through the walls, leaving further destruction in their wake. He leapt the last flight of stairs and landed awkwardly on the lobby floor, his feet slipping out from beneath him on the slick, dust-coated tiles. But he caught himself on his palms, righted himself and sprinted for the door.
Outside, he saw machines of war rolling toward the building, already loosing another fusillade against it. Infantry troops supported the tanks. They spotted Kyle running from the building, but ignored him; just another homeless refugee. When he was almost a block away he heard another, still louder boom, and glanced back to see most of his building collapse in a massive cloud.
The rest of the day had passed, like the building, in the cloud of dust and smoke—mostly obscured, always uncertain, never far from danger. He worked his way out of The End, joining the throngs of other refugees trying to escape the morning assault. Once beyond the boundaries of the neighborhood, the castaways scattered into every direction. The Cyrian authorities didn't seem to have developed any kind of a plan except for the attack. There was no one except the soldiers to provide any direction for the refugees, and they didn't seem to have a clue, which meant no order to the evacuation. The newly homeless drifted wherever they chose. Some keened or wailed in their sadness, but most simply wept quietly or were silent, faces caked and streaked with tears, eyes wide and haunted. Most didn't seem to have any plan or goal, which was the main thing that set them apart from Kyle.
He very definitely did. Much as he'd done more than a year ago back on Earth, he made his way to the nearest shuttle port. Security was tight because of all the military activity at The End, but it was nothing that some carefully applied bribery couldn't overcome. He wound up booking passage on the next departure from the planet—traveling, in fact, with the families of some of Cyre's richest inhabitants, being sent off-world until things calmed down there. That ship took him to an orbital spaceport where he was able, after a couple of days' wait, to find a berth on a passenger and trading ship headed for Tau Ceti. From there, he knew, he could catch a ride back to Earth.
The journey had taken weeks, and put Kyle back in the uncomfortable position of having to tell a brand new set of lies to everyone he met. But his return, he knew, probably wouldn't be quite as discreet as his departure had been. He was pretty sure that enough time had passed that Starfleet Security wouldn't be combing every incoming ship for him, and that his fake identification was good enough to get him back to San Francisco safely. From there, though, he'd have to come up with a new plan—he couldn't afford to believe that whatever plot had forced him away had simply collapsed on its own. But he had also come to understand that working out his troubles from such a great distance just wasn't going to be effective.
He had combed through all the records on his padd. He had examined every interaction he could remember ever having had with another individual—and that had been painful indeed, at times. He had even recalled as much as he could about his family's history, in case this was some ancient grudge rearing its head. None of that had proven particularly helpful. Kyle came from a long line of soldiers, all of whom, by definition, had enemies. He also came from a long line, he realized, of taciturn men who kept their own confidences. Riker men weren't the type to share their feelings or their fears with others. If any of them had made an enemy who hated them enough to chase down their descendants, they would have tried to battle it themselves, but they would not have talked about it.
As a result, Kyle had come up empty, and he felt that emptiness tug at him with new urgency. Earth blossomed below, closer with every passing minute. As it did, he felt his stomach tighten with anxiety. He had, for a long while, escaped his problems, even though he had found new ones along the journey. But now he was returning to the root of it all, no better off than he had been before.
With one exception. Now, he felt ready to face it. No more Tholian flashbacks, no post-traumatic stress disorder, no more physical or mental weakness relating to Starbase 311. He was as fit as he'd ever been. He was still in mourning over Michelle, but that just made him madder, sharpened his edge. Kyle Riker was walking into unknown trouble, but he would be ready for it when it came.
## Chapter 30
Captain Erik Pressman cut a commanding figure on the bridge of his ship, the U.S.S. Pegasus. Will realized that it might have just been because he was still feeling slightly awed by even being on board a starship—being posted to a starship as an officer, that was, rather than simply visiting as a cadet. But the captain seemed to feel so comfortable there. He gave the impression of a man who knew his way around the ship, and his crew was appropriately deferential to him. The man stood straight and though he was not a conventionally handsome man, he radiated command and authority. His uniform hung nicely on his slender but powerful frame. He had a broad, gleaming forehead, and his mouth and jaw were set and determined. All in all, he looked every bit the military man that Will had hoped to serve under.
Pressman was standing behind the captain's chair looking toward the turbolift doors when Will, in the company of First Officer Barry Chamish, stepped onto the bridge of the Pegasus for the first time. He looked at Will appraisingly, just the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his wide mouth.
"Captain Pressman," Commander Chamish said, "I'd like to introduce your new helm officer. This is Ensign William T. Riker."
Will saluted. Captain Pressman returned the salute, and then extended his hand. Will stepped forward and took it. "Welcome aboard, Ensign," the captain said, shaking Will's hand firmly and then releasing it. "Outstanding Academy record. I look forward to having you on the team."
"I look forward to being part of it, sir," Will said, with all sincerity.
"Has Number One shown you the ship?" Pressman asked.
"Not much of it, sir. We came straight here."
Pressman glanced around him. "A bridge is a bridge, more or less," he said. "You don't get the personality of a ship from the bridge. You get that from the crew quarters, public areas, lounges. The bridge is functional, that's all. Anyway, you're not on duty until tomorrow, correct? Why don't you take some time and see the rest of her, and then report back here?"
"I'd like that, sir," Will agreed.
"Number One, Mr. Riker needs to continue his tour. Perhaps Mr. Boylen can show him around."
"Yes, sir," Commander Chamish said. He touched his combadge. "Lieutenant Boylen, to the bridge."
Captain Pressman, seemingly immersed in other business, sank into his seat and began studying the status display screens built into the chair's armrests. A few moments later, the turbolift door whooshed open and a tall, sandy-haired officer appeared. He looked like an athlete, with arms that strained his gold uniform sleeves and a jaw that looked like it could cut steel. "Sir?" he said as he entered the bridge.
"Lieutenant Boylen," Chamish said. "This is Ensign Will Riker. He's taking over as helm officer, and the captain would like him to get a full tour of the ship."
Boylen fixed Will with an appraising stare. "Yes, sir," he said. Then, to Will he added softly, "Let's go, rookie."
Will obeyed. As they stepped onto the turbolift, he caught a glint of mischief in the taller man's eyes. "You sure you're old enough to be an Academy graduate?" Boylen asked.
"Yes, sir," Will replied, understanding that he was being set up for something but not comfortable responding to an officer in any other way.
"Because I don't want any kids getting in the way around here," Boylen continued. "There are enough kids as it is, what with the families on board. Chamish has three, all by himself."
"I'm no kid, sir," Will answered.
"Kind of a babyface, though, aren't you?" Boylen needled. "You shave yet?"
Will allowed himself a smile. "Yes, sir. Once in a while, sir."
Boylen laughed at that. "That's good," he said. "I like an officer with a little sense of humor. I think you'll do just fine around here, Ensign Babyface. You can call me Marc."
"Thank you, sir. Marc." Will said. "You can call me Will."
"No thanks," Marc Boylen responded with a smirk. " 'Ensign Babyface' works for me."
They started Will's tour at the starboard warp nacelle. "All right, Will," Marc said when they arrived there. "This is where you'll get to know your new home. U.S.S. Pegasus, NCC-53847. How much do you know about her?"
"Oberth-class starship," Will recited. "Primary assignments are science and exploration. Named for the flying horse." Will paused. "That's about it, I guess."
"That's about all you need to know," Marc told him, suddenly more serious than Will had seen him before. "Because a ship's history, distinguished as it might be, doesn't really have an impact on your life. What matters is where she goes from here, and what you can bring to it. What you care about is the ship's future, not her past, and rightfully so."
"Makes sense," Will observed.
"Of course," Marc went on, "it's a lie, but then that might apply to anything I tell you, so you'll have to stay on your toes. You need to know a lot more about the ship than that if you're going to fly her. But most of what you need, you already know if you've flown starships before. The rest you can learn." They walked along the length of the warp nacelle. "I don't need to describe the propulsion system to you, do I? Or general starship construction?"
"No, sir," Will told him.
"That's good, because if I did, I'd get you booted off this ship so fast your head would spin."
"What's your position again, Marc?" Will asked.
"You don't know because I didn't tell you, Ensign Babyface. I'm a tactical officer."
"So you couldn't actually boot me off the ship yourself."
"But I know the captain much better than you do," Marc pointed out. "So watch your step."
"Yes, sir," Will said with a chuckle.
"Now, an Oberth-class ship has a pretty unique construction," Marc continued, as if he hadn't interrupted his own lecture for a gag. Will took what he said to be the truth, for the most part, since it agreed with what he knew about Oberths. But he tried to stay alert for any lies. "The saucer section, which contains the bridge, is connected to the port and starboard warp nacelles. The warp nacelles are connected to the long engineering hull. But the saucer itself is not connected to the engineering hull, except via the nacelles." He drew a diagram in the air to illustrate his point. The long, narrow engineering hull ran horizontally underneath the saucer section, and the large spar that stuck out behind the saucer, with the warp nacelles out to the sides holding the whole thing together.
"But you can beam between the saucer and engineering," Will speculated.
"Of course, if you need to get there in a hurry. We don't, right now, so we're walking. You can also get there by turbolift, although because the lifts need to be shunted off to the nacelles before going down to the engineering hull, there is a momentary delay. It's not long but it might seem long compared to turbolift operation on other ships."
They reached a narrow, steep passageway where they had to descend on ladders. "We're inside the struts now," Marc said. "There's not much functionality here, except for connecting the various parts of the ship. It's an interesting design, but you can see why it didn't really catch on for other classes of ships."
He led Will through the engineering section, which looked much like every other engineering section Will had ever seen, and introduced Will to an assortment of engineering staff whose names he knew he wouldn't remember until he'd met them all again a few times. That didn't take long, and then they were climbing up, instead of traveling via turbolift, the port strut to the port warp nacelle. The ship, as far as Will could tell, was in excellent shape. If she'd had any problems or damage at any point, it had been thoroughly repaired and patched. When they finally made their way back to the saucer section, Marc showed Will the crew quarters, including his own berth. As a junior officer, Will had a single room, with a bed that tucked into the wall until a control panel was pressed and a washbasin hidden away beneath a shelf. The walls themselves were a soft pastel off-white, with blue-gray trim and accessories here and there. The replicator was built into the wall opposite the bed, and there was a tiny, curved worktable in one corner. Compared to his Academy quarters it was a little cramped, but it would serve his needs. A crew member had already dropped off his belongings, he saw.
"Home sweet home," he said as he looked at the room.
"Until you get promoted, anyway," Marc told him. "Then you get a place big enough to turn around in."
"Good incentive."
"You can personalize it to your heart's content, though," Marc assured him.
"I don't own much," Will said, pointing to the duffel he had brought on board. "A couple of books, some uniforms, that's about it."
"That's good," Marc said with a grin. "If you had any more, you'd have to borrow space from someone else who owned even less than you. And frankly, that person would just be pathetic."
Leaving his quarters behind, Will followed Marc around the saucer section. He saw the holodeck, the shuttlebay, the transporter rooms, the observation lounge, and perhaps most importantly, he thought, suddenly realizing that it had been many hours since breakfast, the mess hall and lounge. In this area he also saw quite a few civilians walking around. As Marc had suggested, families were common on the ship, and he guessed that some of the people out of uniform were the spouses and children of the crew.
"When are you supposed to be on duty?" Marc asked him as they watched the parade of humanity pass by.
"Not until tomorrow morning," Will said. "I was to report to the ship today, but my first shift is tomorrow."
"That'll give you some time to get acclimated," Marc said.
"That's what I was thinking too. When do we push off?" He had boarded the ship at Starbase 10, after shuttling there from San Francisco the day before.
"Push off?" Marc echoed. "We've been under way for the last hour." He swiveled and led Will back to the observation lounge, but this time he opened the door and they went inside. Will peered through the large windows and saw the starscape drifting past them.
"Indeed we are under way," he observed. "Smooth."
"Nothing's second-rate on the Pegasus," Marc told him. "Tomorrow morning it'll be your turn to fly smooth. Think you can do it, Babyface?"
Will swallowed once. He wouldn't have been assigned the job if Starfleet hadn't had faith in his abilities. Unless, he thought, Superintendent Vyrek just wants me far away from her.
"I can do it."
Marc Boylen nodded. "That's good. You keep thinking that way." He drew back one of the chairs and sat down at the long, shiny table. "Have a seat, Ensign."
Will did as he was told. Marc looked serious again. Will had only known the man for a short time, but he knew these serious moments were rare and should be taken, well, seriously. He waited.
"You're going to be on this ship for a long time, Ensign Babyface," Marc said. "Years. You ready for that? That's the hardest part of the job, for some."
Will had given a great deal of thought to this aspect of the job. What was he leaving behind on Earth, though? He had no family, except a father who had abandoned not only him but also, apparently, his career and everyone who had depended on him. He had no girlfriend, and the few friends he had left that he felt close to were all scattered on their own postings. Of the class that had graduated with him, there were only two other cadets he knew who had wound up on the Pegasus with him, and neither were especially good friends.
"I'm ready," he said finally.
"You won't miss Earth?"
"Sometimes, I guess. Not a lot."
"Where'd you live, before the Academy? I'm from Vermont. Stowe. Not much skiing around here, except on the holodeck."
"Valdez, Alaska," Will said. "So I guess we're both used to plenty of snow."
"You ski?"
"Cross-country," Will said. "Downhill's okay but it's not really my thing."
"We'll have to go out sometime," Marc said. "What else are you going to miss? Got a lover?"
Felicia's face flashed through Will's mind but he forced the image away. Ancient history. "No, not now."
"Family?"
"No."
Marc scrutinized him. "You have a life at all, outside the Academy?"
"I guess not much of one," Will admitted. "I'm kind of career-oriented, I guess."
"You'll do fine, then, on this ship. Just remember, there will be times when you'll get homesick, no matter what kind of home you left behind. There'll be times when you miss having terra firma under your feet. If it gets bad, you can talk to the ship's counselor, or you can talk to me."
"What will you do about it?" Will challenged.
"Laugh in your face," Marc said. "Won't do much for you, but it'll make me feel a whole lot better."
"I appreciate that, Marc," Will said, chuckling. "It's nice to know you're looking out for me."
"I'm a tactical officer," Marc reminded him. "I look out for everyone. I'm only looking out for you because you're such a rookie, and because I don't want you to run us into anything when you've got the helm."
"I'll try not to," Will promised.
Marc pushed back his chair and stood up, and Will did the same. "Think you can find your way back to your quarters?" Marc asked him.
Will looked around, orienting himself. "I think so."
"Good. You know where the mess hall is, or you can eat replicator food in your quarters. I was you, I'd go to the mess hall so you can meet some more folks and start learning names. Show up on time for duty tomorrow—if there's one thing Captain Pressman hates, it's lateness. Watch out for Shinnareth Bestor. She's the operations officer. Good at her job, but with a foul temper, especially in the mornings. She's become addicted to coffee, I think."
Will tried to absorb all this. "Any other advice?"
"Don't run into anything. Don't break the ship. You'll be fine." He turned and started to leave, but then stopped after a few steps and looked back over his shoulder. "And when you start having to shave every day, be sure you do. The captain also hates unkempt officers on his bridge."
Then Marc was gone, and Will was, for the first time, really alone on his new ship. His new home. It was big and strange and he knew virtually no one, and first thing in the morning strangers would be depending on his ability to do his job.
But if there was one thing Will was confident about, it was that. He knew he could do the job.
## Chapter 31
"I've known you a long time, Owen," Kyle said. "You've always been straight with me. That's why I've come to you now. No matter what's going on, I can't believe you're involved."
Owen Paris looked at Kyle, his mouth still agape, eyes wide, and shook his head slowly. "You can't believe?" he replied. "I can't believe you're standing there. It's been two years, hasn't it?"
"A little more," Kyle admitted. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything before, Owen. I didn't know who to trust. I was scared. Not in my right mind, I guess."
Owen turned his gaze toward the top of his desk. "I thought you were dead, Kyle. I think after a while, we all did."
"Not an entirely inappropriate conclusion, considering someone was trying awfully hard to kill me."
"So it seemed," Owen said. "And then you vanished. What else were we to think? We tried to find you—Starfleet Security was knocking on doors and interviewing people all over the place. But you were simply gone. Where were you? Where have you been all this time?"
"That's not important now, Owen. It was a bad place, and I lost someone I cared about there. Tell you the truth, I'm still grieving for her. But I'm back now, and I want to get to the bottom of this thing once and for all. I don't want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life, wondering who the next killer is. And I'd like for the rest of my life to last more than just a few days."
"We all would," Owen assured him. "I know Starfleet investigated the attempts on your life, the ones we knew about, anyway, for a while. But they didn't turn anything up, and then you were gone, so I think the investigation petered out after a while. No body, no evidence, no witnesses. It's still an open file, I'm sure, but with nothing to go on, they had to give up the hunt at some point."
Kyle had contacted Owen's office shortly after landing in San Francisco. He'd been nervous about approaching Starfleet Command, and after trying to think of a safe way to approach, had finally sent a message to Owen asking him to meet at the wharf. Kyle had arrived a little early, and the ten minutes or so he'd had to wait for Owen to show up had been anxious ones—hoping Owen, and he alone, had received the message and would comply. Now they stood on the wharf in gathering fog, looking out at the choppy gray water. "So if they'd like to get busy again, they're welcome to. As for evidence, I don't have any more than I did then. But now that I've returned, if the attempts start up again there'll be plenty, I imagine."
"If the attempts start up again after this long, it means someone really holds a grudge," Owen said. "You still don't have any idea who it might be?"
"Not a clue," Kyle informed him. "Or rather, too many ideas. Anyone in my position has a lot of enemies. Anybody that has been beaten in combat thanks to my advice and strategies. Even other Starfleet personnel who might feel that they were ignored, or passed over, because of me. Sure, I've got enemies. I just don't know who they are."
"I've got to bring security into this," Owen told him. "I'll help where I can, but it's really not my bailiwick."
"I know that, Owen," Kyle replied. "I didn't come to you because I thought you could fix it. I came because you were the one person I was sure I could trust."
"What was the final straw?" Owen asked him. A hovercraft chugged by on the water before them, bristling with fishing rods. "Was there some incident, some attempt, that prompted you to go into hiding? Maybe they can start there."
Kyle had to think about it for a moment. So much had happened since then, it was sometimes hard to keep the sequence of events straight in his head. "After the last attack you know about, the bomb transported into my apartment? I was at Starfleet Command, in the infirmary. I ran into a friend, in the hallway, and went into a private room for a moment. While we were there, we heard some security officers outside claiming that they had an arrest warrant for me, and—"
"An arrest warrant?" Owen exploded. He rubbed his smooth forehead vigorously. "How is that possible? What would you have been charged with?"
Kyle shrugged. "Treason, according to Admiral Bonner's source, right?"
"That's another investigation that seems to have stalled out," Owen said. "Again, with you gone, it hardly seemed worth pursuing. I haven't heard anything about it from Horace."
"I'd like my name cleared, Owen, if there's genuinely a question about it."
"Bonner had a source," Owen said, his tone dismissive. "His source seemed to have some pretty good information. But the conclusion—that you were somehow responsible for the Tholian attack—seemed exceedingly far-fetched to me." Owen shook his head. "I guess I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd stayed away forever, considering all the crap you've got to put up with here."
Kyle nodded, reflecting. "I might have," he answered. "If not for this woman I met. She was amazing, Owen. She would not accept injustice. Just wouldn't put up with it. Taught me a thing or two, I can tell you. And after I lost her, well, I guess I felt like I ought to carry on her ideals. I could have done it there, where I was—they have a fight on their hands, to be sure. But I realized that this is my home, and that what happened to me here is a form of injustice that I need to deal with before I'll be any good to anyone else."
Owen examined him carefully. "So when you solve the situation here, are you going back there? Wherever there is."
Kyle shrugged. "I don't know yet. I don't plan to. But that could change. Plans, I've learned, are liquid. They adapt to fit the circumstances, or they're worthless. More than that, really, because if you rely on a plan that can't change you might as well have no plan at all."
Owen Paris chuckled. "Sounds like you've become a philosopher since you've been gone."
"I've done a lot of thinking. I don't know if that's philosophy, or a fool's errand. But for a long time, I didn't have much else to do. And then when things happened, they happened all at once. If a cat has nine lives, Owen, then I don't know how many I've got, but I must be just about out of them."
"We'll keep your return as quiet as we can, Kyle," Owen promised him. "Some people will have to know, because, as I said, security is going to have to reopen the investigation. But you watch your step until we figure this thing out."
"I'll watch my step," Kyle said. "But I want to come back to work."
Owen looked at him like he'd gone insane. Maybe I have, Kyle thought. Maybe insane is the only way to counter insanity. "Back to work? Are you sure? Then it'll be no secret that you're back here."
"That's right," Kyle said. "If they're going to come at me again, whoever they are, I want them to do it in the open. I want everyone to know I'm here. I want to flush them out. If my presence is a secret then any attacks on me will be a secret too. I want to force their hand, make them sweat a bit. They'll play the cards I deal them this time, and not the other way around."
Owen shot him a smile, the first Kyle had seen on him since he'd arrived at the wharf to see his long-since vanished friend. "Did you spend your time thinking, or playing cards?" he asked. He put a friendly hand on Kyle's shoulder. "I don't necessarily agree with your plan, but I'll go along with it. You deal the hands; I'll back your play as best I can. And I'll make sure my friends in security do the same."
"I appreciate that, Owen," Kyle said. "That's the best I can ask for."
* * *
Lieutenant Commander Dugan glanced up from the computer screen, sleepy-eyed but alert. "There's no record of any arrest warrant for Kyle Riker, Admiral," he said. "Not two years ago in June, not ever."
"I didn't think so," Owen Paris said. Kyle had left him at the wharf a couple of hours before, promising to get in touch when he'd found a place to stay in the city. His apartment had long since been occupied; his belongings put into storage. "But I had to check. What about the other thing?"
"That's a strange one," Dugan said. He'd been promoted a little more than a year ago, and Owen had absolute faith in his trustworthiness. "A security officer named Romesh McNally was on duty that night. He was approached, he said, by a fellow officer, Carson Cook, to help serve a warrant on Riker. McNally never saw the actual warrant, it turns out. Cook had it, he said, and McNally was just along as backup. They went to the infirmary to serve it. McNally says Cook was acting strangely—fixated on this one task, serving this warrant, and unable or uninterested in engaging in any conversation or activity that was not directly related to the job. It was, McNally says, like he was obsessed with it. McNally describes him as tense, too, as if he expected trouble."
"Isn't there always the possibility of trouble when a warrant is being served?" Owen asked him.
Dugan touched his silver hair, smoothing it down even though it wasn't out of place. "Sure," he said. "You never know what might happen, what the response might be. You're tense, ready to go for your sidearm if necessary. But at the same time, in spite of that tension it's kind of a routine thing. You joke around, you talk about sports, women, whatever. You don't focus on it like it's the only thing in the world. Cook was an experienced officer; he had been through it plenty of times. I knew him—not well, but a little. He was a good man."
"Was?" Owen asked. "Clarify, Commander."
"Yes, sir," Dugan said, and Owen realized that he had slipped into admiral mode without even realizing it. "I had only a vague memory of this, but I checked the records. And McNally, of course, remembered it all fairly well, when I interviewed him about it. Both officers showed up for their next shift, after failing to serve the warrant, and McNally had asked Cook what had happened. He assumed that someone else had taken over the warrant, maybe serving Riker at his home or office the next day, or, failing that, if an investigation into Riker's whereabouts had been launched. But Cook couldn't remember what he was talking about. He claimed not to know who Kyle Riker was, didn't recall the trip to the infirmary. It was like the whole event, the whole shift that night, was gone from his memory."
"That must have been disturbing."
"I'm sure it was. Nobody's quite sure if that set off what happened next, or if it was just symptomatic. But Cook's mind seemed to deteriorate rapidly. Not quite overnight, but according to the records, within weeks his memory was completely gone. Every known therapy was used to try to restore it. Counseling, hypnosis, holotherapy, data extraction. Nothing helped. His mind, again according to the records, had been wiped clean. He couldn't remember how to pull on a pair of boots. He didn't know his own name, or recognize his immediate family."
"I remember the case," Owen said. "I just didn't realize it was the same person. Of course, I didn't know about the 'warrant' then, or I might have made the connection."
"Almost no one knew, except for McNally," Dugan explained. "He talked about it with a few people, including his immediate superior. But soon enough, Cook's deterioration overshadowed any puzzle about a nonexistent warrant for a guy no one could find anyway. The mystery of the warrant went into the databanks and was largely forgotten, until you brought it up again today."
"And the one man who claimed there was a warrant isn't available to ask about it."
"You could ask him," Dugan corrected. "He's here, in a private care facility in San Francisco. The thing of it is, you just wouldn't get an answer."
* * *
Ensign Tanguy Messina looked in on his charge several times a day. The poor guy had been Starfleet, just like he was, and even though he could no longer serve, he was still entitled to the respect due the uniform he had once worn. Now he didn't wear a uniform at all, unless a loose white robe counted. They made sure he was comfortable, at least as far as one could determine the comfort level of a person who couldn't tell you how he felt. Carson Cook could have stood outside in a blizzard, naked, and except for involuntary responses like shivering and turning blue, he'd have seemed every bit as content as he was inside this temperature-controlled environment with his every physical need catered to. The room was light and airy, the furniture soft and comfortable, and soothing music played in the background. Calming holoimages, rotating at random intervals, were displayed on the walls.
"People asking about you today, Cars," Ensign Messina said casually. "That doesn't happen too often anymore, does it? But today, everybody wants to know how you're doing. Funny, huh?" He watched Carson closely, but there was no evidence that the guy understood a single word he was saying. As usual. He talked to the guy sometimes just because it felt weird not to. He was completely mindless, as far as Messina could tell, but he was still a human being.
"How you doing today?" he continued. "Same as always?"
Carson's gaze flitted across him as if he wasn't even there. It was strange, he knew. Modern medical science could cure just about anything, it seemed. He knew that historically, mental health care had been largely hit-and-miss. Some people could be put right again, others suffered forever, their conditions sometimes mitigated by drugs, talk therapy, electroshock, or other treatments. Messina had made a study of the dysfunctions of the mind, and he volunteered at this care facility, which had only the occasional "hopeless" case, where in centuries past it had been full to overflowing, while he worked on his medical training as a graduate student at the Academy.
He had glanced away from Carson, but when he looked back, it seemed as if something had changed. Maybe a little tensing of the muscles, which was rare. Carson sat in a chair most of the time; though he was capable of almost full mobility, he just didn't seem to have anywhere he wanted to go. He was in that chair now, but he seemed a little more wound up than he had been just a moment before, almost coiled. And his eye movements were different. Rather than drifting aimlessly about the room, they seemed to dart.
This was definitely a change, Messina realized. He had to alert the director. Something was going on with Carson Cook, and that had never happened. He started for the door.
"Wait," he heard.
He didn't recognize Carson's voice because Carson had never spoken, not in the whole time he'd been cared for here. But the room was otherwise empty; there was no one else it could have been. Messina turned around, and Carson was trying to get out of the chair. His muscles, atrophied by inactivity, didn't seem to be cooperating. "I . . . can't . . ." he muttered.
Messina rushed to help him. "Carson, hold on. Don't push it," he said. "Let me—"
As soon as he was close, Carson lunged from the chair, no atrophied muscles holding him back at all. He caught the unsuspecting Messina in a headlock, powerful arms encircling Messina's throat. Messina tried to cry out an alarm but he couldn't make a sound. He felt Carson's arms shifting, and then his world turned black.
* * *
Carson dropped the red-shirted man on the floor, his neck snapped. That was not the man he wanted, he knew. That was just a man who was in his way. The man he wanted was in the city, though. Not far away. He would find that man, the one he wanted, and he would snap his neck too. Or do something else; he would decide when he found him. The means wasn't important. It was the goal he cared about.
The man was in the city, at last, and the man had to die.
## Chapter 32
"Ahead warp five," Captain Pressman instructed.
"Ahead warp five," Ensign Riker echoed. He touched the control panel and imagined he could feel the burst of speed, the g-forces pressing him into his seat, as the Pegasus accelerated dramatically. It really was just his imagination. The g-force of a warp five acceleration would smear everyone on the bridge against the rear bulkhead if it could truly be felt, and those who were standing remained in place, just fine, even as the stars outside seemed to blur and stretch. He remembered a tidbit of old Earth history, at the advent of railroads; some people believed that trains would never work because at the speed they hurtled along nobody would be able to stand up.
After a few days of slow and steady progress into space, this was the first time they had traveled at warp, and Will couldn't help being excited. Space travel had already begun to feel routine to him. He realized he wasn't the most patient guy in the world, but he'd started to wonder when something would happen. Then, today, it had.
Captain Pressman had received a call that he'd taken in his ready room, and when he'd come back onto the bridge, his entire attitude had changed. He was brisk and efficient at the best of times, but now he was all business. "We've been sent on an emergency mission," he said. "Go to yellow alert, full enable status."
"Is there a threat, sir?" Marc Boylen asked.
"Not that we know of," the captain answered. "Yet. But there will be." He turned his attention to Will. "Set a course for Candelar IV, Mr. Riker."
Will had relayed that instruction to the ship's computer, which had set the course automatically. Then Captain Pressman had dictated the speed, and Will knew that this really was a matter of some urgency. Warp five was somewhere around a hundred times the speed of light, a concept that simply boggled Will's mind when he really thought about it. Warp technology was a fact of life, and always had been. But the idea that he, a kid from Valdez, would be at the conn of a spacecraft traveling so fast that if he'd been watching it from Prince William Sound would have been gone before he could even see it, was hard to imagine.
And yet, here he was. Traveling at warp five to a destination he'd never even heard of, much less considered visiting. He wanted to know why they were headed to Candelar IV in such a rush, but he didn't want to be the one to ask.
Finally, though, Commander Barry Chamish did. "What's the emergency, Captain?" he wondered.
"It seems that Endyk Plure has been captured," Pressman said simply.
"The Endyk Plure?" Marc Boylen asked. "Wanted for war crimes on at least a half dozen planets?"
"That's the one, Mr. Boylen," Pressman replied. "Hundreds of thousands dead, thanks to his predacity. At a bare minimum. On worlds throughout the Candelar system."
"Sounds like a good thing to me," Barry said.
"It is a very good thing," Pressman agreed. "But the Federation wants him to stand trial in a Federation court. They want the trial to be fair and above reproach."
"They don't believe he'll get a fair trial there?" Shinnareth Bestor asked from ops.
"They don't believe he'll live to see his trial date," Pressman said. "He's being held at the most secure facility on Candelar IV. But there are already mobs surrounding the prison, calling for his head. It's positively medieval, apparently. The locals are desperate for someone to get Plure off the planet and into Federation custody as quickly as possible. We're the nearest Starfleet ship, so we're elected."
"Which will make us very unpopular when we arrive," Marc observed. "Hence the yellow alert."
"That's correct," Pressman noted. "If they get wind of our approach, the Candelarans may even try to intercept us. Not the authorities, but the citizens."
Will felt an unfamiliar tension squeeze his gut at this discussion. He had wanted to do something—anything. He hadn't wanted to simply cruise around space without apparent purpose—"exploring" for the sake of exploration. Now they had a purpose, a mission, and it sounded like a dangerous one. There was an element of excitement to it all, but also a nagging fear. His life had been in danger before—certainly when he'd followed Paul Rice onto Saturn's moon, it had. But he hadn't had a lot of time to think about it then. This time, he was in control of the ship, intentionally flying them right toward certain trouble.
He smiled, though he tried to hide it from the rest of the bridge crew. This is it, he thought. This is what I signed on for.
* * *
"Mr. Riker," Captain Pressman said sharply. "My office. Mr. Chamish, you have the bridge."
"Aye, sir," Barry said.
Will gulped and followed the captain to his ready room, just off the bridge. He wondered if he'd done something wrong. He couldn't imagine what. He'd brought the ship into orbit around Candelar IV, outside visual range from the surface, as instructed. They had made good time and arrived without incident.
When he entered the ready room, Captain Pressman was already sitting down behind a large desk. The door shut as soon as he walked through. This was the first time Will had seen inside it. The walls were a warm beige, set off by a cool blue carpet. Over the captain's right shoulder was a large window, through which Will could see Candelar IV's ocher sphere. Directly behind him was a shelf on which stood a small bronze sculpture that Will recognized as a Frederic Remington bronze, an old-fashioned Earth cowboy trying to hang on to a horse that reared up to avoid the strike of a rattlesnake. As if to demonstrate that he was not entirely old-fashioned, Pressman had put a model of an Ambassador-class starship on the shelf next to his Remington bronze.
"Sir?" Will asked, standing at attention.
Pressman fixed him with an unwavering gaze. "Nice flying, son," he said. "I know it wasn't particularly difficult, but you did what you were told to do without asking a lot of questions, and you got us here. Now we just have to get Plure off the planet and get out of here again."
"Yes, sir," Will said.
"At ease, Will," Pressman said. "You prefer Will, correct? Not William? That's what your file said."
"That's what I'm used to, sir," Will answered, relaxing his stance a little.
"I make snap judgments about people, Will," Pressman said. "Sometimes I'm told that I shouldn't. That it's a bad thing, a dangerous thing. Trouble is, more often than not, I'm right. My judgments are borne out in practice. So I keep doing it."
"If it works for you, sir, I don't see the problem."
"There it is, Will, in a nutshell. It works for me. And I have to say, my judgment about you has been formed from precious little evidence. You've sat on my bridge for a few days, you've flown my ship, and you haven't said much. The few times you have opened your mouth have been to ask intelligent questions or to offer opinions, most of which make sense to me. I've read your file, of course, and I know you had some rough times at the Academy, but I also know that you graduated near the top of your class and were quite an accomplished cadet."
"I did my best, sir."
"I'm sure you did. So here it is, Ensign Riker. I'm sending an away team to the planet to pick up Endyk Plure. I want you to be part of that team."
"Me, sir?" Will asked, realizing even as the words passed his lips how stupid it sounded. The captain hadn't been talking to anyone else.
"You, Will. I have a good feeling about you. I think you'll prove to be a smart, capable Starfleet officer, destined for accomplishment. I don't know what it'll take to turn you from a raw rookie helm jockey into the kind of officer I think you can be, but my guess is that you need experience. Lots of different kinds of experience. An away mission like this one is something that doesn't come along all that often, so I want you to be part of it. The way I see it, if you're going to start collecting experience, there's no time like the present, right?"
"I suppose that's true, sir."
"Do you see the statue behind me, Will? The cowboy?"
Will didn't know how anyone could miss it. "Yes, sir."
"The popular myth is that cowboys were loners. The rugged individual. Do you know what that is, Will?"
He didn't know what the captain meant, precisely. "No, sir."
"It's a load of hooey," Pressman declared. "Maybe they were, to some extent, in the sense that it was hard for a cowboy to marry and settle down, since he was out on the range for several months of the year, going off on six-month long cattle drives and the like. But the fact is, every cowboy worked as part of a team. They worked for a ranch. One cowboy can't control a herd of cattle, or string an entire fence, or do much of anything else by himself. Cowboys were team players, and they all had to pull their weight. That's why I keep that statue behind me—to remind everyone who stands where you are that we're all part of a team here."
"Makes sense, sir."
"And the ship next to it, in case you're wondering, is the Zhukov. First vessel I served on. Captain D'Emilio is the one who taught me the value of team play. We're all in this together, is what he used to say. The two statues pretty much sum up my philosophy of command."
"I see, sir."
"Not yet, you don't," Pressman argued. "But you will. And you'll start the process today, when you go down to Candelar IV. Be careful down there—when you get back, you'll need to get us out of here fast."
* * *
Will beamed down to the prison on Candelar IV with a trio from security: Florence Williams, Marden Zaffos, and the chief, Lt. Teilhard Aronson. Hendry Luwadis, the director of the prison, was waiting for them anxiously, and practically wept with relief when they materialized in his office.
"What took you so long?" he wanted to know.
"We came as quickly as we could," Lt. Aronson assured him. "We were the nearest Starfleet ship, but we were still quite a distance away."
"When we joined the Federation," Luwadis said, "I thought we'd be better served by our membership. But this . . . leaving us with this killer on our hands . . ."
"Sir, we're here to take him off your hands." Lt. Aronson spoke with a soothing tone, but Luwadis was not easily soothed.
Glancing at the surroundings, Will began to understand his problem. This was not a highly developed world. Advanced enough to qualify for Federation membership, but probably just barely. The structure they were in, the main prison administration building, was made of stone. The office was full of uniformed, armed guards, but their weapons looked relatively primitive compared to the phaser rifle in Will's hands. Even Luwadis's clothing, a coppery suit a few shades darker than his skin, looked rough-hewn, as if it had been made by hand, by someone not particularly skilled or imaginative.
"You can understand how they feel," Luwadis went on, waving a hand toward the large glass doors that led out onto a balcony. "The mob, I mean. Plure has killed more of us than anyone wants to think about. The mob wants him dead. So do I, for that matter. But we've agreed, by joining the Federation, to abide by Federation standards of justice. Plure should have a trial, and then he should be punished. Without that, there will be no guarantee that he is, in fact, the one responsible for all the crimes he's been accused of. I'd rather have certainty than a quick death, even in this case."
"You made the right decision," Aronson said. "He'll have a fair trial. If he's guilty—which, on the face of it, seems pretty evident—he'll be punished appropriately."
"Appropriately?" Luwadis echoed. "Can he be killed seven hundred thousand times?"
"I don't know much about his physiology, sir," Aronson replied. "But I'd guess he can only be killed once."
"Yes, yes, which is why you've got to get him out of here."
Will noticed that Zaffos, probably made curious by Luwadis's gesture toward the balcony, had edged closer to the doors there. Will started to move, as subtly as he could, to intercept Zaffos if he should decide to go outside. But the continued conversation between Luwadis and Aronson had distracted him, and Zaffos took two quick steps before Will could stop him.
"Wow," he heard Zaffos say. "He's not kidding."
Will lunged onto the balcony. He spared only a glance toward the prison walls. Beyond them, what looked like thousands—tens of thousands, maybe—teemed, pressing up against the walls as if trying to knock them down by sheer weight of numbers. Will grabbed Zaffos's gold-sleeved arm and tugged him toward the door. "Get back inside," he urged. "We're supposed to stay out of sight, remember?"
"Here, here!" Luwadis shouted from inside the office. "Don't go out there! If they see you—"
Will and Zaffos stepped back inside and Will pushed the doors closed. But it was too late. A deafening cry rose up from the crowd on the other side of the walls. Will couldn't make out many words, but he thought sure he heard "Starfleet" among the furious din.
"I . . . I'm sorry," Zaffos said quickly. "It's my fault. I wanted to see."
Luwadis scowled at him. "You wanted to see? You wanted to touch off a riot, that's what you wanted to do!"
Will risked another glance outside. Luwadis was right. The mob's angry cries had grown louder, and now he could see that some of them had gained the top of the wall. Prison guards were rushing to quell them, but they were vastly outnumbered and maybe even outgunned.
"Get out," Luwadis insisted. "Get out of here, and take Plure with you, or we're all dead!"
Four guards approached through an open doorway, surrounding a prisoner. Endyk Plure was as dangerous-looking as his reputation implied. He was a big, beefy individual, with coppery coloring similar to Luwadis's. His muscles strained at the sleeves of the plain prison-issue tunic he wore. His face, unshaven for at least a week, was solid, jaw square, mouth cruel. His eyes were small and did not reflect much intelligence, Will thought, but maybe a vicious cunning. He stared defiantly at the Starfleet team that had come to collect him, but didn't speak. Will knew that appearances could be deceiving, but in this case he was pretty sure that he could have picked Endyk out as a mass murderer in any lineup.
"You're coming with us, Plure," Aronson said. "To stand trial in a Federation court for war crimes and mass murder."
"Sounds like fun," Plure growled, his voice every bit as unpleasant as the rest of him. "Maybe you'll introduce me to your family. The meals they serve here stink, and you look like some good eating."
Aronson ignored the taunt and touched his combadge. "Pegasus," he said, "five to beam aboard."
As Will dematerialized, to arrive a moment later in the transporter room of the Pegasus, he thought he heard the terrible mob break through the prison walls. He hoped Luwadis could calm the mob before he and his guards had all been killed.
## Chapter 33
There was little security in the psychiatric facility. Carson Cook wasn't considered a danger to himself or anyone else. One had to have some kind of mental process to be dangerous. Carson was just a blank slate, and no one had written menace onto it. And psychiatric science was such that very few people needed to be confined. So Tanguy Messina was alone in the building with Carson Cook, and once Tanguy was dead, there was no one standing in his way.
Carson walked away from the building rapidly, partly in order to put distance between himself and Messina's body, but mainly to find and kill his next victim. There was menace in him now, certainly. He personified danger. He didn't have a conscience—had he been asked, he wouldn't have been able to define the word. He didn't have a moral code or a set of ethical standards. All those things had been left behind in the man he had once been, but was no longer.
Now, he was a targeted missile.
At uneven intervals he received new information, helping him lock onto his target. As he walked, some people stared at him, he noticed. Eventually he figured out that it was his robe. He was naked underneath, and it wasn't what they were wearing. When he came to that conclusion, his mind told him that he should do something about it. He needed to blend in if he was to reach his goal. He watched a man about his size enter a house, and as the man was just passing through the doorway, Carson rushed up the walk and hurled himself at the man. His momentum carried them both inside. The man cried out but Carson slammed a fist into the man's throat, effectively silencing him. The man flailed at him. He was no soldier, though; he was weak, and soft. Carson smashed his head against the wall a few times, and it left a thick red smear when the man sank to the floor.
The man's clothes were torn and bloody now, but Carson understood that he was inside the man's home. He went upstairs, found a closet full of similar suits, and put one on. With a tunic and pants of the same color, a pleasant royal blue, and a pair of actual boots, Carson figured he would look enough like anyone else on the street to withstand casual scrutiny. He looked around for a few more minutes, to see if there was anything else here that might be useful to him. He didn't find anything, but so attired, he went back out into the city and waited for more instructions.
A night passed, and a day, and then, as if he had always known it, he knew the location of his target. He knew what his target looked like, how he might be dressed, what the sound of his voice was. He went to his target's approximate location, and he waited.
And finally, his target showed.
* * *
As promised, Kyle reported his new address to Owen Paris as soon as he'd secured an apartment. And as Owen had promised, he relayed the information to Starfleet Security, to personnel, to records—to virtually every department he could think of, short of writing it on the walls of Starfleet Headquarters in giant red letters. If there were going to be more attacks against Kyle, they would happen soon.
They'd have to. Kyle had been feeling low-grade anxiety ever since he'd entered Earth's orbit. He wanted to get this over with, once and for all, so he could go back to living his life.
He spent the next day trying as best he could to put his affairs back into some kind of order. He retrieved his abandoned belongings from storage—his books, his maps, his clothing, some artwork, some sentimental items that reminded him of Annie, or Kate. To these, in his new home, he added the holoimage of Michelle. The three women he hadn't proved worthy of. But maybe it wasn't too late to try.
His new apartment had a food replicator, but he was back in San Francisco, which was still one of the best places in the galaxy to get a fine meal. So that evening, instead of eating by himself in his apartment, he went out. He had his heart set on Italian—some capellini pomodoro, maybe, with a nice bottle of Saint Emilion, a favorite wine he'd introduced Owen Paris to over dinner a few years earlier.
Notwithstanding his generalized anxiety and the grief that still clawed at his heart, Kyle felt better overall than he had since before the attack on Starbase 311. Even with all the horror he experienced there, the time on Hazimot had been healing and restful. He felt sharp, alert, and clearheaded. The hard manual labor he had done there had left him strong, with stamina he hadn't enjoyed since he was much younger. And being back in San Francisco helped, too. He loved the city; always had. Its cool breezes, crazily diverse architecture, and almost uniquely polyglot population sang to him. As he walked down the street, confident that whatever Italian restaurant he came to first could provide an excellent meal, he felt almost happy again. He felt, at least, the possibility of happiness; no, the inevitability of it.
Inevitability. He liked the sound of that. He even tried saying it out loud. He repeated it, almost like a mantra, inside his head as he approached a small storefront restaurant called Paolo's, its sign glowing golden and inviting in the twilight.
But before he reached Paolo's, he saw a man coming toward him in an ill-fitting blue suit, a glazed expression on his face. This, he was pretty sure, was it. Maybe the first of many, but definitely an attack. You should have armed yourself, he thought bitterly. A phaser would make short work of this guy. He hadn't wanted to be overly impulsive, though. Maybe the man was just lost, a stranger in town, confused and looking for a hand. The way Kyle had been feeling lately, he might have fired first, leaving San Francisco with one less tourist and himself with an even bigger problem.
His muscles tensed, his heartbeat and respiration quickened. Still the man came toward him, not deviating from his path. His hands were clenching and releasing, and Kyle knew then that he was not wrong. He glanced around himself, rapidly, trying to determine whether or not this person was alone. It appeared that he was, so Kyle froze in position and let the man come to him.
As he neared, steel flashed in his hands. The man carried a Ligonian knife, its blade wickedly curved, in his right hand. Kyle barely had time to register that when the man in blue sprang at him.
Kyle dropped to a partial crouch, minimizing his target area and bringing his arms in front of himself for defense. Now Kyle recognized him: Carson Cook, the supposedly comatose security officer; Owen had sent over an image of him last night. Cook moved in fast, blade slashing wildly toward him. Kyle blocked the first attack with a blow to Cook's forearm. Cook almost dropped the knife, but he recovered it and brought it down below Kyle's waist level, then stabbed up, aiming for the ribs. Kyle caught Cook's wrist, the knife's point just nicking his own forearm as he did. With his other hand he reached for Cook's throat. Cook dodged the arm, so Kyle, still gripping the wrist, kicked at Cook's knee instead. The kick connected, hard, and Cook lost his footing. He fell to one knee and Kyle jerked his arm skyward, twisting as he did. Cook's hand spasmed and the Ligonian knife went flying, landing on the street with a clatter.
As soon as Kyle released his wrist, Cook lunged forward again, this time from his kneeling position. His mouth opened and he snapped at Kyle's stomach. Kyle brought a knee up, smashing it into Cook's jaw. Cook's teeth crunched sickeningly and he swayed backward. Blood appeared at the corners of his mouth and he spat bits of tooth into the street, but he didn't go down.
Rather than wait for the next attack, Kyle doubled his fists together and swung them like a baseball bat, catching the side of Cook's face. Cook's head snapped sideways and the fight went out of him. He slumped to the street.
Before Kyle could catch his breath, two Starfleet security officers ran up to him, phasers out and pointed at Cook. "You're a little late," Kyle said. "I thought you were supposed to protect me, not just clean up the mess afterward."
"Sorry, sir," one of the security team said. Her hair was a mass of tight blond coils and her uniform sleeves bulged at the biceps. "We were trying to stay out of sight, to draw out your attacker. And then, well, it looked like you had things under control."
The other officer, a male with dark hair and a somber face, knelt down next to the body in the street. "It's Carson Cook," he said.
The blonde nodded. "He escaped yesterday from the mental care facility he's been living in," she explained to Kyle. "Nobody thought he could so much as open a door."
"Apparently he's better."
"Doesn't look like it from here," the male officer said. He held up Carson Cook's head. Cook's eyes were open but there was no spark of life in them. His mouth was slack, a mixture of blood and saliva running down his chin. The officer waved his hand in front of Cook's eyes but they didn't track, didn't even blink. "He looks just the same as ever."
"But you saw him attack me," Kyle insisted.
"Yes, we saw it," the blonde said. "Doesn't make sense, does it?"
"Not a bit," Kyle agreed. "But then, a lot of things about this whole situation haven't made sense for a long time. That's the only consistency, in fact."
"Well, maybe this will put an end to it," the blonde officer suggested.
Kyle shook his head. "No, it won't. Cook's just one man. He's a tool, somehow, but he's not what this is all about."
The officer shrugged. "One thing at a time, I guess. We'll get him picked up and put back into custody. In a more secure facility, this time—he's a murderer, now. And we'll stick a little closer from now on."
"Sounds good," Kyle said. "I was just going to Paolo's there for some dinner. That shook up my appetite a bit but I think I can still eat."
"Let me have a look inside first, sir," she said. "Just in case."
"Fine," Kyle said. "Go ahead."
He glanced back at the male officer, who had just used his combadge to call for help removing Cook's comatose body. But as Kyle watched, Cook—his eyes animated again—snatched the phaser from the officer's holster and triggered it. The beam caught the male officer full in the torso. He screamed once and then fell onto the sidewalk, his uniform shirt smoldering.
Cook turned the phaser toward Kyle, who dropped flat on the sidewalk just in time to miss the beam that shot over his head. Cook tracked him down and fired again. Kyle rolled to the side and the beam missed again, but not by much. Before Cook could aim again, a phaser blast caught him in the head. Cook twitched once, dropped the stolen phaser, and was still.
"Damn!" the blonde said as she rushed to her partner's side. "How do you keep up with that? One second he's basically an empty shell, and the next he's alert and deadly."
"I wish I knew," Kyle admitted.
She held two fingers against her partner's neck. "He's gone," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "Mack's a great guy. Nice wife, terrific kids, the whole package, you know?"
"I'm very sorry," Kyle said. He wanted to be sympathetic, but at the same time he didn't take his eyes off Cook, just in case.
When the female officer spoke again, there was a new edge in her voice, of anger, even rage. "I don't know what you're mixed up in, sir, but it's getting pretty expensive. First the attendant at the care facility, and now Mack."
Kyle put a hand on her shoulder, but kept an eye on Cook. He had hoped to be able to question his attacker—whoever it turned out to be. But even if Cook had survived the phaser blast, wherever his mind was, he was beyond interrogation. "I know it is," he said softly. "It's been expensive for a long time. If there's a way to finish it, I'm going to find it, though. You can count on that."
## Chapter 34
Will was exhausted.
The away party had taken more energy out of him than he'd anticipated. He hadn't had to do much of anything, but the level of tension had been draining, and now that his shift was over all he wanted to do was hit the rack and sleep until he had to report for duty the next morning. The last hour or so on the bridge, flying out of the Candelar system, he'd barely been able to stifle his yawns. Captain Pressman, though, looked alert and crisp as ever, and Will hadn't wanted to let on how tired he was.
It was funny, he thought, how different the pace of life onboard was compared to the Academy. At the Academy, the day was broken up more—different classes, different faces, and different activities—so there was always variety. When he was on duty he was on the bridge most of the time, with the same crew and the same responsibilities, and at the end of the day he was almost always beat. He guessed he'd get used to it, and once he had a chance to start an exercise regime he'd have more energy. So far, though, that hadn't happened, and it wouldn't tonight.
As he made his way down the corridor to his quarters, nodding to crew members whose names he was trying to keep straight in his head, he was stopped by a hand gripping his shoulder. "Will," a voice said, "I just wanted to thank you."
Will turned to see Marden Zaffos looking intently at him. The security guard, a couple of years older than Will, had a thick mass of dark curly hair, and around his eyes there were dark smudged rings that reminded Will of a raccoon.
"No problem," Will replied. "I don't know if you heard, but Luwadis was able to quell the riot before too many were hurt. The mob is probably still mad at him for calling us in, but my impression is they're even madder at us."
Marden nodded, his hands folded across his chest. "Can't really blame them," he said. "But I know I should never have gone out onto that balcony. That was a stupid mistake. I just wanted to see . . . to get a glimpse of Candelar."
"We all make mistakes," Will said, biting back another yawn.
"Some are worse than others." Marden eyed the ceiling for a moment, and cleared his throat. "Can I talk to you, Will? Someplace more private?"
Will hoped this wouldn't take long. He could almost hear his bed calling to him. "Sure," he agreed, not wanting to turn away a fellow crew member, and potential friend, who clearly had something important on his mind. "I'm just around the corner, if that's okay."
"That would be great," Marden said. "If you have something else you need to do, we could talk another time . . ."
"No, now's fine," Will said. "I don't have any plans except for sleeping." He led the way to his quarters and opened the door. Marden followed him in. Once inside, Will lowered the bed and sat on it, his back up against the bulkhead. He offered Marden the desk chair.
"I should never have gone on that mission," Marden said. "My mother's father was from Handihar."
"In the Candelar system," Will observed.
"That's right. Her mother, my grandmother, was human, and my father's family is all human. So I just have that little bit of Handiharian in me. But my grandfather always told me these great stories about his homeworld, when I was a boy. I never thought I'd see the place. Candelar IV isn't exactly the same thing, but I figured it was the closest I'd ever get, and I just couldn't resist taking a look. I didn't think it would be a problem, but I guess I wasn't really thinking it through. I put us all in danger, and I'm sorry."
"We were never really in danger," Will pointed out. "We always had the option of beaming out before there was trouble."
"That's true," Marden agreed. "But still—it was a stupid thing to do."
"I won't argue with that."
"But at the same time," Marden went on, "I couldn't help sympathizing with them."
"With the mob?" Will asked, slightly surprised. "They wanted to lynch Plure."
Marden nodded. "And Handihar is one of the worlds he plundered," he reminded Will. "A hundred thousand dead, there, more or less. Basically so he could extort a payment from them to make him go away. And the payment has almost utterly destroyed their economy. Handihar is a backward place, Will. Tribal, low-tech. Not wealthy. And not able to stand up to a heavily armed madman like Endyk Plure on their own."
"Well, he's in Starfleet hands now. A Federation trial will be fair, and he'll be appropriately dealt with when it's over."
"Luwadis was right about that," Marden argued. "There's no fair way to deal with such a person. The best he should be able to hope for is a slow, agonizing death."
"I understand how you feel, Marden," Will assured him.
"I don't think you do, Will. Those were my people. Distantly related, but still. Endyk Plure has to die for what he did, and I'm afraid that Federation justice won't do the job."
"So what do you propose?" Will asked. He wasn't at all sure what Marden was driving at.
"I've got full access to the brig," Marden said. "And I know the shift schedule. I can take care of it tonight, before we reach the transfer point."
"No!" Will was shocked that Marden would even suggest something like that. "Marden, you can't. You're Starfleet. We have rules. Principles. You can't just abandon those."
"Yes, we have principles," Marden said, leaning forward in the chair now. "But don't you agree that some principles outweigh others? The idea that Endyk Plure's life might be spared, in spite of all the deaths he's caused—I just can't take that. It's repugnant to me."
"But to take it all into your own hands . . . how is that better?"
"It's better because I would be killing one man, the killer of thousands. It's just simple math, Will. One for many."
"It's more than math," Will countered. "It's what's right and wrong. You can't just decide for yourself that he's guilty and decide his punishment."
Marden stood up and paced around Will's small room. "His punishment seems obvious to me. How could it be otherwise? Someone who is responsible for so many deaths . . ."
"I'm just saying, there's a system to determine that. When you put on the uniform of Starfleet, you agreed to enforce that system."
"But, Will . . . he . . ." Marden looked down at Will, still sitting back on his own bed, and his face was full of anguish. Will felt bad for the man, but not so bad that he could agree with his plan. As tired as he was, he realized that if he could just keep Marden here, talking, maybe they'd get to the point where they were to transfer Endyk Plure to another vessel before Marden could throw away his own career. He could almost kick himself for the inspiration, but he felt he had to try.
"Tell me about Handihar, Marden. What did your grandfather tell you about it?"
Marden smiled for the first time, a little wistfully, as if remembering pleasant times with his grandfather. He drifted back over to the chair and sat down again. "Like I said, it's mostly a tribal society," he began. "Close to the land. It's a big planet, huge, I guess, according to him, and his part of it is densely forested. Junglelike. They live in wooden structures, not much more than huts, I think. The air is so humid that the buildings have to be replaced on a pretty regular basis. My grandfather left there when he was a young man, but from what he has told me it's still mostly that way."
"Sounds pleasant," Will said, just to keep Marden talking.
"I've always wanted to visit," Marden told him, smiling a little as he thought about it. "He makes it sound kind of like paradise. But . . . there's one story he told me, Will. I think maybe it especially applies, in this case."
Will had just wanted him to reminisce about the planet, trying to keep him away from the subject of Endyk Plure. But he guessed that sitting here talking was still better than seeking the guy out in the brig and killing him. "What story?" he asked.
Marden took a deep breath. Apparently it's going to be a long one, Will thought. He hoped he could stay awake for it.
"Have you ever heard of a gralipha?" Marden asked by way of beginning.
Will racked his brain but couldn't recall that he had.
"It's a huge, wild beast," Marden explained. "Many legged, and with a massive, heavy skull, horned on the top. Almost like some kind of Earth dinosaur, I think. Anyway, this story that my father's family passed down, for generations, was about the time a gralipha attacked his family's village. Just came in out of the jungle and ran around in a blind rage, berserk, smashing huts, killing with abandon. The people were taken by surprise—they lived with graliphas in the jungle all the time, but none had ever charged the village like this. They couldn't do much to fight back—it was all they could do to try to stay out of its way. It cut a swath through the village and then left, back into the jungle it had come from."
"Sounds kind of like those stories of rogue elephants," Will suggested. "How they'd sometimes attack Indian villages."
Marden nodded. "Very much like that. Except this thing was at least twice the size of any elephant. Or, that's how my grandfather tells the story, anyway."
"What did they do? The villagers."
"They picked up after the attack. They buried their dead, they tended to the wounded, they rebuilt their homes and fortified the log wall around the village. Then they went into their culturally prescribed mourning period. For days, they mourned the dead, weeping and laying offerings at their graves. This was, grandfather said, how his people honored their dead.
"What they didn't do was go after the gralipha. And six days later, it came back. It tore through the brand new fence like it was paper, and ran amuck again. More homes fell, more people died. Children and the elderly and those hurt in the first attack, especially, because they couldn't dodge it in time."
"That's terrible," Will said.
"It was. My grandfather can barely hold back the tears when he tells the story. Some of his ancestors—mine too, I guess—died in these attacks.
"But this time, the villagers reacted differently. They left the rebuilding and the mourning for later. They organized into hunting parties and they followed the path the beast made when it left the village. They tracked it. When they caught up to it, there was a terrible battle. More lives were lost. The thing swung its head and its horns gouged and tore at the villagers. Their weapons were just primitive spears and arrows and slings—they could barely penetrate its tough hide.
"They didn't give up, though. They continued the fight. Eventually, their weapons found tender spots—the eyes, the roof of the mouth, the base of the neck. They brought the mad gralipha down, and they killed it, even though the cost was high. Because this was the only way they could guarantee that it would not return to their village later."
Will understood. He shifted his position, sitting cross-legged on the bed with his spine straight. "So Endyk Plure is your gralipha," he said.
Marden nodded. "He's rampaged through the village once too often. If he's not stopped at the first opportunity—that means now, tonight—there's still the chance that he'll escape and come back. His forces might be closing in on the Pegasus even now. The authorities on Candelar IV said they wanted the Federation to take him so he'd get a fair trial, and so the mobs wouldn't storm the prison, but I'm convinced that they were just as worried about Plure's troops coming to his rescue."
"You could be right," Will admitted. "Although I doubt that Plure's forces would want to risk an attack on Starfleet. Against the Candelar system—and I don't mean to be dismissive, just realistic—they were tough guys. But that's a pretty backward system. Against Starfleet, they'd be schoolyard bullies facing down real adults with real firepower. They wouldn't have a chance. And the thing about bullies is, they only like to fight the weak. They usually leave the strong well enough alone."
"Possibly," Marden said. "But even if they don't come for him, I won't be convinced that he'll never escape until I see him dead with my own eyes. And it wasn't just ancient ancestors that he killed on Handihar, but family. My grandfather's two sisters, and their entire families. There are just too many reasons for him to die, and none that I can see to let him live."
"Except your career, and the oath you swore to uphold Federation law," Will pointed out.
"That's one argument, Will," Marden said. "I'm just not sure it's a good enough argument."
Will had felt something nagging at him while Marden told his story, and now he remembered what it was. A story of his own, from his younger days, that might also be applicable. He closed his eyes for a minute, knowing that to do so was to risk falling right to sleep, but wanting to get the story straight in his mind before he started telling it. And when he did, it all came rushing back to him, as clear as if it had been yesterday.
It had been his fourteenth summer, he recalled. Valdez, still a small town, sat at the edge of one of the greatest wilderness areas in North America, but even so, he was beginning to feel constricted, limited, and impatient to see more of the world. But halfway through the summer, there was an event that promised diversion, and he welcomed it.
A campsite in the nearby wilderness had been attacked by a grizzly—a rogue, one of the campers said, enormous and vicious. The bear had torn though the tents, upending food lockers, and maiming one of the campers. The remaining campers—there had been, Will recalled, eight in all—had survived, and determined that someone needed to kill the bear before someone else was hurt. Some of the local people in Valdez volunteered to find the animal, agreeing that a rogue grizzly could be bad for their community and needed to be put down.
Will's father was one of the volunteers. Will insisted that he should be allowed to go along. His father argued, but not very energetically, and he changed his mind more easily than Will had even anticipated. So they each got a phaser rifle and they joined the hunting party leaving from the campground early on the morning after the attack.
As they walked through the forests and meadows of the wilderness area, weapons at the ready, alert for any signs of the bear, Kyle Riker was more talkative than usual. "This is nice," he had said. "I mean, not the idea that we have to kill a grizzly before it kills one of us. But being out here in the sunshine and the trees, with a blue sky over our heads, a father and son together . . . we don't do this sort of thing often enough, Will. We never have. My fault, I guess, and I'm sorry."
He had stopped in the middle of the trail then, and laid a hand softly on Will's shoulder—the kind of physical contact that was rare between this father and son. "I'm sorry for a lot of things," he had said. "More than you can imagine. I hope one day you'll understand why I've done things the way I have. I hope I've made some good choices, even when they haven't seemed like it. A day like this, being out here with you—Will, you're a man, look at you! I'm sure there are still things you need to learn, but I'm not so sure that I can teach them."
He had gone quiet then, more like the father that Will was used to, the one who kept his feelings bottled up inside as if they were poison, and they had continued tracking the bear. When they'd lost the trail for a while, Will had found it by scouting in ever-wider circles until he cut across it, and Kyle had clapped him on the back. "You'll be fine, Will. You'll be just fine," he had said. Will hadn't realized then—hadn't realized until just this moment, sitting in his quarters on the starship Pegasus with Marden Zaffos, what Kyle had meant by that. He had known then that he was going to leave, going to abandon Will to his fate. The way Will handled a gun, the way he cut bear track—those were pretty meaningless skills, in the greater scheme of things, but somehow Kyle Riker had decided that they meant Will was mature enough to make his own way in the world.
They had, later that day, found the bear. She had a den, and when the hunting party approached she had growled ferociously and lunged at them. But several of the hunters fired at once, and the bear fell without any human casualties.
Inside the den, though, they found something that cast a different light on things. There were three cubs inside the den—dead cubs, bearing wounds that could only have been made with phasers. None of the campers had claimed to be hunters, and indeed none of them had joined this hunt. But they'd been the only ones out in this area that any of the townspeople knew about.
The hunting party returned to the campground and ransacked the tents until they found the hidden phaser rifles. The campers protested, denied, and then finally, faced with the evidence, admitted their guilt. They had tracked the bear for sport, finding her den and killing her cubs just because they could. It hadn't occurred to them that the animals were an endangered species, that they had done something stupid and shameful, until it was too late. And when the bear came to their campsite, she was only seeking revenge for her loss.
Will told Marden the story in as much detail as he could remember, and when it was over Marden looked puzzled.
"Are you saying revenge is never legitimate?" he asked.
"Not at all, Marden. I'm just saying it's something you have to be careful with. It's more complicated than it looks, sometimes. If you kill Plure, are you the hunters? Or are you the bear?"
Marden shook his head. "Will, that story doesn't even make any sense."
"Who said life has to make sense?" Will shot back. "It's just something that happened. Whatever you want to take away from it is up to you."
"Well, what do you get from it?"
Will considered for a moment. "Something really unexpected," he said. He described what his father had said, and what he now thought it meant. "It was my father's good-bye speech," he said. "It wasn't much of one, but it was the best one he could bring himself to give."
The hours passed as Will and Marden talked. Will battled sleep, and eventually reached a point beyond tiredness, where he became more alert, and might not have been able to sleep if he'd tried. Later, they'd made some coffee and sat in silence, drinking it. Finally, Marden looked at the time.
"We're there," he said. "Unless the schedule has been thrown way off for some reason. Plure is being beamed to the starship that'll take him back to Earth for his trial, or he will be soon."
"Probably so," Will agreed.
"I know what this was all about, Will. I know you just wanted to keep me talking so that I wouldn't get my shot at Plure. I wanted my revenge, and you kept it from me."
"I can't apologize for that, Marden," Will said. He felt different, somehow, after the long night and the unexpected revelations. Maybe it was just lack of sleep, but maybe it was something more. Maybe it had to do with a new kind of maturity making itself felt. He hoped that was it, in fact—he had wondered if he'd ever grow up, and now it seemed that he might after all.
"You don't need to. I appreciate it. I'm mad as all hell—but I appreciate it anyway. You stopped me from making a fool of myself, from throwing away my career and maybe my life. More than that, though, you corrected my course even when I couldn't. I'm not a vengeful person, I'm not a judge and a jury, and I'm damn sure no executioner. If I had let myself become those things, it would have been a terrible mistake."
Will was as pleased as he was surprised by this response. "I think you're right, Marden," he said. "But if it's all the same to you, now that you're on to me, I'm going to kick you out of here. I need a shower. I'm on duty in a little while, and I need to wake up."
"On duty?" Marden asked, shocked. "I guess you're right. We've been at this all night, haven't we? I'm sorry, Will, honestly."
Will stifled yet another yawn and stretched his arms behind his head. "Don't sweat it," he said sleepily. "I'll be fine." But as he prepared himself for another duty shift, after his most exhausting day on the job and without a wink of sleep, he couldn't help remembering what Marc Boylen had said on his first day here. "Don't run into anything."
If he was going to, today would be the day.
## Chapter 35
Cook failed.
Failed? What do you mean, failed?
He made an attempt. It went bad. He's dead.
Well, that's some consolation, at least. And Riker?
He's fine. Unhurt.
He's been gone for, what, two years? And now that he's back we still can't manage to get him?
To kill him. His career is in tatters. And we've been watching his son; we can move against him anytime we need to.
Still . . . sweet as that might be, Kyle Riker is the main goal. He has to be. What he did out there must be avenged.
I can't argue that. But the way things happened . . . at least there were some positive results.
How can you even think that! Are you—
Insane? Don't even bring up the idea.
Then what?
It made us . . . closer . . . than we ever had been. Than we could ever have expected. And we know the research bore . . . certain fruits.
I suppose. Still . . . had it never happened—
We needed it to happen, remember? For that matter, we pulled the trigger. We created the situation . . .
Because there was no other way. Starfleet would have found out.
That's a risk we ran, knowingly. And with the backup measure in mind. That's why we chose 311 in the first place, because of its remoteness, and because of the possibility, if we needed it, of using them. It was just the schedule that went a little . . . haywire.
Yes, haywire. But Riker survived it. And you didn't. Which is why he has to pay the price. But . . .
Yes . . .?
Since we know, for the first time in quite a while, where the father and the son both are, how much more delicious would it be if Riker had to watch his son die before he drew his own last breath?
I do like the way we think.
* * *
Kyle passed a few days in San Francisco, enjoying the feeling of being back home. Except for the hole in his insides every time he thought of Michelle, he was already beginning to feel like his time on Hazimot was a dream, half-remembered, some of the details already fading as real life went on. Not that this is anything like real life, he thought. He wasn't working yet, still hadn't even entered the Starfleet Command complex.
He was bored already and growing more so by the hour. Now he stood on the crest of a long hill, wishing someone would attack him just to provide some diversion. When he heard footsteps approaching rapidly from behind him, he whirled, half-expecting and, he realized, almost desiring some kind of assault.
But it was Ensign Halalaii, one of the guards assigned to protect him. She was panting, as if the climb had taken more out of her than him. "Sir," she said, "Admiral Paris would like you to report immediately to Starfleet Headquarters. There's an emergency of some kind."
The thought of going back to Headquarters—the lion's den, as far as Kyle was concerned—was still a bit unnerving. But Owen had done a lot for him, and if he could help out the admiral, he had to do it. "I'll catch an air tram right away," he said.
"No time for that, sir." She tapped her Starfleet insignia badge, which she wore on her chest in spite of being out of uniform for this assignment. "Three to beam in."
Kyle braced himself for the momentary vertigo that always overtook him when he was transported, and then it was over and he was standing in Owen Paris's office.
"Thank you for coming, Kyle," Owen said, rising from behind his desk.
"I'm not sure that I had a choice," Kyle answered. "The ensign said there was an emergency."
"That's right," Owen said. He excused the two security officers, asking them to wait in the hall. They would continue to keep their distance from Kyle, but would stay alert just the same. "Come on," Owen said to Kyle. "I'll explain as we go."
"Go where?" Kyle asked, rushing to keep up with Owen. The admiral had already started down the hall, his strides long and purposeful.
"Situation room," Owen replied. "We'll be met there by the others."
"What others?" Kyle queried. "What's happening, Owen?"
Owen slowed a moment to give Kyle a chance to catch up, and when he explained he did so in low tones, so that not even the security officers following behind could hear him. "It's a ship, the Pegasus. Captain Erik Pressman in command."
"I don't know him," Kyle said. "What's he like?"
"He's a good officer. A bit too ambitious for my tastes, but otherwise I have every faith in him."
"So what's the problem with the Pegasus?"
"We'll be there in a moment," Owen said. "And you'll see."
He led the way through a door guarded by yet another gold-uniformed security officer. Inside, a long, curved table stood in front of a vast display screen. In addition to the seats around the table, there were a dozen workstations, and beyond those, auditorium-style seating for a couple dozen more. No one else was in the room when they arrived, but there was an image on the screen. Two planets, one reddish and the other predominantly green, but with orange splotches here and there. Arrayed around the planets were fine-lined spherical grids that intersected one another. In the area of intersections was a blinking red dot.
"That's Omistol," Owen said, pointing to the planet on the right. "And Ven, on the left. Heard of them?"
"I think so, but not recently. I've kind of been out of the loop recently."
"I know you have, Kyle," Owen said. "But we're going to ask you to catch up fast now."
"You still haven't told me what's going on," Kyle reminded him. "Or what this has to do with the Pegasus."
"Omistol and Ven have been at war for almost three years," Owen said. "A vicious, bloody, terrible war. Each side has lost more lives than it can afford. We keep thinking the war will end because one side or the other will realize that they're both committing suicide. So far, though, that hasn't been the case. They're still at it."
Kyle nodded. He could follow this, all right, but he wanted Owen to get to the real point.
"Those grids on the display show each planet's claimed sphere of influence. As you can see, there's an overlap. That's a big part of the problem, right there—they both want to control that section of space, which is a main shipping lane for their system. It's not the whole problem, but it's kind of symptomatic of the greater issues. They both claim that space, and neither will relinquish that claim. The red dot in the middle of the disputed territory? That's the Pegasus."
"What's it doing there?" Kyle asked. As he did, the door opened again and more Starfleet officers filed in. Kyle recognized Vice Admiral Horace Bonner and Admiral J. P. Hanson, but none of the others, a mix of captains and some of their staff people.
"Captain Pressman was responding to reports that a pirate—one that has been preying on Federation ships, not too far from Omistol and Ven—had taken refuge in the disputed zone. He went in intending only to investigate the report and capture the pirate vessel if it was, in fact, inside there, and to leave immediately if it wasn't."
"And was it?"
"The Pegasus was unable to locate the pirate. What it located instead was trouble."
"Why?"
"Because the fleets of both Omistol and Ven were moving toward one another, in force. Omistol's ships were cloaked. They were on the Pegasus before Captain Pressman knew they were coming."
"Cowardly bastards," Kyle growled. "I hate cloaking."
"So does every civilized people," Vice Admiral Bonner put in, joining the conversation. "Welcome back to the fold, Mr. Riker."
"Thank you, Vice Admiral," Kyle said. They shook hands. "It's nice to be back, I think."
"As you can see, we've brought you back at the best possible time. For us. Maybe the worst for you, I'm afraid."
"What do you mean?" Kyle asked.
Bonner looked a little surprised. "You haven't told him, Owen?"
"I've been trying to fill him in on the whole picture," Owen Paris said. "Not just the details."
"If the details are important," Kyle said, "then I'd like to know them as well."
"Very well, Kyle," Owen relented. He looked like he was sorry to have to say it. "One of the bridge officers on board the Pegasus is your son, Will."
## Chapter 36
Will had tried every trick Starfleet Academy had taught him, and a few new ones he'd made up on the spot, trying to break the grip of the graviton beam that held them in place. The Omistolian warship was gigantic, half again the size of the Oberth-class Pegasus, and its tractor beam powerful beyond even the experience of Captain Pressman. Beads of sweat appeared on Will's upper lip and at his temples, not from the heat but from the exertion and concentration he applied to the problem. And still nothing worked.
The worst part was, they had come here for nothing—chasing a shadow, a ship that wasn't here in the first place. Captain Pressman had warned them of that possibility before they'd entered the system. But they had all agreed that it would be worth the risk if they could find Heaven's Blade, the pirate vessel that had been making this region decidedly unsafe for Federation freighters. The Blade hadn't been here at all, though. If by chance it had passed this way, it hadn't stayed long.
The word that it might be here had come in from Starfleet Command shortly after they'd transferred Endyk Plure to the ship that would carry him to Earth. After a brief conference with his officers, during which the phrase "suicide mission" had come up a few times too often for Will's liking, Pressman had given the orders to move into the war zone between Ven and Omistol. And so they had. They had still been in the disputed zone, looking for the elusive Heaven's Blade, when the Omistolians had decloaked. There had been a brief verbal exchange between Captain Pressman and the leader of the Omistolian force, but no shots were fired. And then, when Captain Pressman gave the order to Will to get them out of here, now, the tractor beam had been engaged. They had gone, since then, exactly nowhere.
"We could try blowing them out of the sky," Marc Boylen suggested. He'd already suggested it, a couple of times, with no luck.
"Mr. Boylen," Pressman reminded him. "The ship holding us in its beam is just one of many. It's far larger than we are and far more heavily armed. We're a scientific exploration vessel, not a warship. Even if we could beat that one ship, they have many more. We would be begging for them to wipe us out."
"May I speak frankly, sir?" Lieutenant Commander Rungius asked. Bethany Rungius was the ship's chief of security, a hard-nosed officer with a reputation for making hard decisions quickly.
"Of course," Captain Pressman said.
"While I would never suggest that we 'beg' to be wiped out, I can't really see the difference. They're not holding us because they want to play catch. If they don't destroy us now they'll destroy us later."
"They want us for something," Will argued, "or they'd have done it already."
"Exactly, Mr. Riker," Pressman agreed. "We just need to wait until they tell us what it is they want from us."
"But meanwhile, sir, the Ven fleet continues to approach," Rungius pointed out. "If we're still here when they arrive, then we're stuck in the crossfire and we're dead anyway."
"Maybe that's why they're holding us," Marc offered. "To use as a shield, or a hostage, against the Ven?"
"The Ven have no more reason to like us than the Omistol do," Rungius countered. "We'd make a pretty poor hostage. Neither world seems to be all that fond of the Federation."
"All we can do," Pressman told his crew, "is wait. When they want us to know, they'll tell us."
The wait wasn't long. The bridge had fallen into an uncomfortable silence, everyone watching the implacable advance of the Ven fleet and the maneuvering into battle position of the Omistolians on their display screens, when Dul Dusefrene, the ship's communications officer, spoke up. "There's a hail from the Omistolians, sir," she said. "It's Oxxreg." This, everyone knew, was the commander of the Omistolian fleet and the one who had carried out the short and unproductive dialogue with Captain Pressman earlier.
"On the screen," the captain ordered. A moment later, the image of the Omistolian appeared on the big main screen. His face was flat, an unpleasant shade of dark olive. Will was reminded of toads back home.
"I have a proposition for you, Captain Pressman," Oxxreg said, his voice sibilant and oddly mellifluous. "You'll want to discuss it with your superiors."
"This is my ship," Captain Pressman replied. "I am fully empowered to make decisions regarding her safety." Nonetheless, Will noticed that he put his hands behind his back and, so hidden from Oxxreg, gestured toward Lieutenant Dusefrene. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and her hands flashed across her control board. Starfleet had already been alerted to their situation here, and she was opening a channel to headquarters so that they'd hear whatever Oxxreg's proposal was.
"Not this decision, I would wager," Oxxreg said. "But have it your own way."
"I will," Pressman said, standing firm. His jaw was set and he looked as determined as he sounded. Will hoped it was convincing to the Omistolians.
"I'm offering an extremely simple deal," Oxxreg went on. "Your ship's safety, in return for a very small favor."
"We're not in the habit of negotiating with those who make unprovoked attacks on us," Pressman replied.
"You were inside our zone of influence with no prior authorization," Oxxreg shot back. "A zone currently the subject of a rather bitter dispute. For all we know, you are working with the Ven."
"I've already explained our mission to you."
"Yes, chasing a ship. Which your Command, all the way back on Earth, claims was here, but which none of our instruments have located any sign of. Surely you understand that this explanation is not terribly convincing or believable."
"Nonetheless, it's the truth."
"Be that as it may," Oxxreg argued. "You're in restricted space. You have not received, or even asked for, permission to be in this space. We are fully within our rights to destroy you as a trespasser and a spy. I'm offering you a way to avoid that fate."
Pressman moved his shoulders a little. "Say we were to accept that negotiation is an option," he said. "What would your offer be?"
"We would release your ship and grant you safe passage out of our vicinity," Oxxreg replied.
"In exchange for . . .?"
"In exchange for Starfleet arms and assistance," Oxxreg said. "This war has been brutally expensive, in terms of lives and finances. Both our planet and the Ven—" This word he said with a sneer, almost as if it were the worst curse he could think of. "—have nearly bankrupted ourselves waging it. We need but a few solid victories, though, to turn the tide. Starfleet could provide the necessary armaments to destroy Ven's fleet, and maybe their entire planet."
"And you think that they'll give you these weapons, just to save us?" Pressman laughed at the screen. "You obviously don't understand Starfleet."
"Your superiors do not value you and your crew?" Oxxreg asked.
"Of course they do," Pressman objected. "But they have priorities, and standards. Both of those require that they not interfere in wars that are none of their concern. Particularly in petty little skirmishes like the one you have going with the Ven."
Oxxreg exploded at this. "Petty? I have lost my father in this war, and three sisters. Others of us have lost their whole families. We willingly give our lives because our cause is just."
"Your cause is nonsense," Pressman told him, pushing, Will knew, as hard as he dared. "You don't like the Ven. They don't like you. So instead of agreeing to be neighbors who just don't get along, you pick this sector of empty space and decide that one of you must control it. If neither of you did, what would happen? Ships would still use it as a trading lane. Your war, sir, is idiotic."
"I take it, then," Oxxreg said, his voice newly dripping with hatred, "that you're turning down our offer?"
"I'll take it to Starfleet," the captain said. "As you suggested. Just don't expect to get the answer you want. Pressman out."
Dusefrene broke the connection and the viewscreen went blank.
"At this point," Marc Boylen put in, "I think the answer he wants is that Starfleet won't cooperate, simply so he can shoot you."
"You're not seriously considering their offer," Lieutenant Commander Rungius said. "Starfleet would never—"
"Of course they wouldn't," Pressman assured her. "I'm just buying time, that's all. Besides, Starfleet heard the whole thing. If they want to weigh in, they will."
* * *
"They must be insane if they think we'll go along with that!" Vice Admiral Bonner exclaimed. His face was red with anger, white blotches showing up on his cheeks and forehead. Kyle thought his reaction was a bit extreme, and he, not Bonner, was the one with a family member on the vessel in danger.
"It would be a serious violation of the Prime Directive," Owen Paris agreed. "I hate to see a war allowed to go on unchecked, particularly one with the potential to utterly devastate two different worlds. But if that's their choice, we can't interfere with them. We certainly can't take sides in their fight."
"It's just a first offer," Kyle pointed out. "They'll likely agree to something more reasonable later."
"Any agreement we should come to would be a bad idea," a captain named Jensen observed. "It would be a signal that we're willing to deal with those who threaten us."
"We've done it before," Kyle noted. "I'm not saying it's a good idea. But I wouldn't rule it out without some consideration."
"I agree with Captain Jensen," Bonner said. "We can't cave on this one. We'll have ships all over the galaxy held for outrageous ransoms. If the price we pay is the Pegasus, well, that's just the way it has to be. Captain Pressman and his crew knew the risks when they took the job. I'm sorry, Mr. Riker, I know it's hard to hear that."
The room fell silent as everyone digested this. Kyle knew that it was true. He couldn't say that he was close to Will anymore, or knew what was in his son's heart, but he was still a Riker and he had put on the uniform of Starfleet, so there was every indication that he was aware of, and willing to accept, the dangers that went with it.
Kyle looked at the others, lost in their own contemplation, their faces different mixtures of rage and sorrow. Being a Starfleet officer, it seemed, didn't require leaving one's emotions behind, but rather learning to work through one's feelings, to ignore them when appropriate, but not to deny them. Everyone in the room felt the pressure, understanding that the lives of everyone on the Pegasus were dependent on the decision they reached.
"How much time do you think we have?" someone asked.
"Not much," Bonner replied. "The way the Ven fleet is closing in, the Omistol is going to want a quick decision." He cast a sudden glance at Kyle. "I doubt there'll be time for a lot of back and forth. Like when the Tholians attacked Starbase 311, I expect we're looking at minutes, not hours."
The statement struck Kyle as odd. What did Bonner know about 311, outside of the stories he'd heard and the official record? And why bring it up now, as if it had been on his mind? Didn't they all have plenty to think about with the current crisis? He nearly replied, but then decided not to. His attention had to be on the Pegasus, on coming up with a solution to the problem that didn't involve giving any arms to the Omistol but still could help save the ship.
Owen Paris approached and sat next to him, heaving his bulk into the chair with a tired sigh. "Kyle," he said softly. "I've got something I need to tell you."
"What is it, Owen?"
Owen looked at him with a weary expression. "I've had it with the sedentary life," he said. "Teaching is great—I love the young people, the open, eager minds. But the rest of it, sitting behind a desk . . ." He nodded toward the display screen, where the steadily blinking red dot reminded Kyle of the urgency of their task. "I can serve better out there."
"Out there?" Kyle echoed. "You want to leave the admiralty?"
"I've already got a ship," Owen told him, smiling a little. "The Al-Batani. It's being overhauled now, and I'm gathering a crew. Maybe it'll only be for one five-year stint, but I feel like it's important. Things aren't so complicated out there. I feel more alive. Here I'm just getting old. Used up."
"This is a strange time to tell me about it," Kyle observed.
"This is the best time I could think of," Owen said. He rubbed his face briskly with both hands, as if to restore circulation. "That's what I'm talking about. They're taking all the risks. I can't stand sitting down here and sending them out to face danger, without putting myself in the same position. It's just not right. Why should the young ones die so we old-timers don't have to?"
"I see what you're getting at, Owen." Kyle said. "It's a very courageous stand."
"It's got nothing to do with courage," Owen insisted. "It's got to do with being able to look at myself in the mirror. It's got to do with sleeping well at night. It's fairness, not courage, I'm talking about."
"Well, congratulations, then," Kyle said. "Sounds like you know what you want, and I'm glad you were able to make it happen."
"The one good thing about seniority," Owen Paris declared. "When you want something bad enough, it's hard for Starfleet to find an excuse not to give it to you."
"Not to change the subject," Kyle said, intending full well to change the subject anyway. "But we've got to make a decision about the Pegasus."
"I thought it had been made," Owen said. "Bonner's right, we can't bargain with them."
"I'm not suggesting that we do," Kyle said. "But I think I might have another option to suggest. Before I do, though—and believe me, I understand that Will is on that ship and time is of the essence—do you have someone on your staff that you trust absolutely? Preferably someone who's already in the room but who might not be missed if they leave for a little while?"
Owen pursed his lips together. "That's a tall order, but I think I know just the person. Wait here."
Owen rose and crossed the situation room to where a small knot of his staffers were working through some computations. He leaned in close to one of them, a young woman with auburn hair swept up on top of her head, a few locks fallen to her cheeks as she worked. She glanced over at Kyle, who nodded subtly to her. Then, as Owen went to consult with another group, the young woman approached Kyle.
"Admiral Paris said you wanted to see me, sir?" Her voice was unexpectedly husky, and her green eyes flashed with barely contained mischief. She held out a hand. "My name is Ensign Kathryn Janeway."
## Chapter 37
"Yes, sir. I think we understand."
Captain Pressman had been discussing their situation with Admiral Paris. Will was glad that Admiral Paris was involved—he had a lot of respect for Owen Paris, and he trusted the man's survival skills. If they needed anything right now, it was a plan that would help them survive. He knew, though, that the Pegasus was not the most important thing on the table—it was Starfleet's resolve that mattered most. Like everyone else on the bridge, Will understood that if they backed down and dealt for their lives, others would take advantage of the example they set.
But Admiral Paris, living up to Will's trust, had offered them a plan that might just get them out of this. The other alternative, of course, was that it might get them killed. Doing nothing would accomplish that same goal; this would just speed things up a bit. Will didn't see a reason not to try, and he hoped the captain would agree.
"Thoughts, people?" Pressman asked.
"I don't like it," Barry Chamish said. "Suicide never seems like a good idea to me, not when there might be another solution."
"Is there another solution?" Shinnareth Bestor asked.
"Not that I can think of," Chamish admitted. "But I also don't want to admit defeat, and that's what the admiral's plan sounds like to me."
"It just might work," Will countered. "I think it has a better chance of working than anything else we've come up with."
"You'll be the one doing the heavy lifting, Will," Captain Pressman said. "Most of it, at any rate. So if you're comfortable with that . . ." He left the sentence unfinished. As the freshest face on the bridge, Will knew that a decision of this magnitude wasn't really up to him. He appreciated being made to feel like he was part of the process, though.
"I can handle my end," Will assured the captain. This earned him one of Pressman's rare smiles. For such a rotten day, this one had its fringe benefits. He only hoped he might live long enough to look back on them fondly one day.
"I'm for it," Rungius said.
"Same here," Boylen put in.
Chamish looked horrified. "You're asking us to kill ourselves!" he insisted. "How is that a good idea?"
"It's a chance, at least," Rungius argued. "One chance is better than none."
"Agreed," Bestor said simply.
"Very well, then," Captain Pressman said. "This is a starship, not a democracy, and the majority of us are in agreement anyway. Mr. Dusefrene, hail Oxxreg, if you please."
Will noticed that Dul Dusefrene's hands quaked as she moved them across her control board. Since each of her hands had seven fingers, Will was reminded of a spastic spider when they shook. He wondered how many of the bridge crew had gone along with the plan because they didn't want to appear cowardly, and how many genuinely were scared. Or if there was a difference.
And if there was, which camp he fell into.
When Oxxreg's amphibianlike face appeared on the main viewscreen, Captain Pressman faced him, shoulders square, hands again clasped behind his back. "We have considered your offer," the captain said. "And I'm here to tell you that there will be no deal."
Oxxreg arched what would have been an eyebrow, had he possessed them, wrinkling his forehead. "Your superiors don't care what happens to you?"
"They care," Pressman argued. "But they care more about upholding Starfleet regulations. We are a neutral party, as far as your war is concerned, and we will remain so. I hereby demand, once again, that you release us and let us be on our way. Starfleet is no threat to you."
"I'm sorry you have to so humiliate yourself, Captain." Oxxreg sounded almost disappointed. Will supposed he probably was—he had probably been congratulating himself on the brilliance of his plan, and now faced having to explain to his own superiors why it wasn't going to work. "But very well," he went on. "You'll have a few more minutes to live, then. We'll see how willing the Ven are to fire on a Starfleet ship when they get within range."
This time, Oxxreg broke the connection. Pressman turned toward the bridge crew. "So we're to be a shield, apparently."
"Maybe the Ven are more reasonable," Dusefrene suggested.
"We're one ship—a small one, compared to the Omistol ships," Will noted. "We won't make a very good shield. And when the shooting starts, I doubt anyone will make a special effort to miss us."
"Mr. Riker's right," Captain Pressman said. "So let's put the admiral's plan into motion, see what happens. Are you still with us, Admiral?"
"I'm here," Admiral Paris's voice replied after a few seconds. Communication by susbspace radio was far from immediate, but it was pretty fast. "I wish you the best of luck, Captain."
"We'll need more than luck," Pressman said. "Let's see if we've got it. Mr. Riker, commence."
"Yes, sir," Will said, trying to sound as sharp and military as he could. He knew what they were proposing was risky, so he wanted to try to keep everyone's morale up as best he could. The only morale he could directly influence was his own, though, so he focused on that.
He tapped at the conn controls, reversing the thrust of the Pegasus's engines. Where before they had been burning fuel trying to escape the tractor beam, now he began to gently nudge the ship closer to the Omistol vessel that held them.
* * *
"They're on the move," Captain Jensen pointed out.
There was increased tension in the situation room, but also a growing sense of elation. At least something was being done. No one knew if it would work, but it was movement.
To Kyle, the success or failure of the plan had even greater significance than it did to the Starfleet officers in the room. Sure, it was their ship, their personnel. But his son was on that ship. He'd been a lousy father, and he wasn't likely to change now. The last couple of years had taught him some hard lessons, though, and one of those was that his standard approach to life—duty first, all other considerations a distant second—was perhaps not the healthiest way to live. It had cost him too much. He knew he couldn't simply waltz back into Will's life, even if the boy survived the next few minutes. But at least Will would still be out there, and maybe somewhere down the line he'd be able to find it in his heart to forgive his old man for the stupid mistakes he'd made.
"I hope this works," Admiral Paris muttered.
"It has to," one of the other officers fired back.
"It may not," Kyle said, always willing to play devil's advocate to his own tactics.
"We'll know soon enough," Bonner observed. "There's nothing we can do now except wait."
"They're getting closer," Jensen said, as if he were the only one who could see the screen.
Over the subspace radio relay, Kyle heard the words he'd been waiting for—the words that would make this plan work.
Or fail miserably.
"This is Captain Erik Pressman," the captain's voice said. "Initiate auto-destruct sequence."
There was a pause, and Kyle knew the next voice he heard should be the first officer's. When it finally came, it quavered with fear and uncertainty.
"This is Commander Barry Chamish . . . Captain, I can't. I won't."
"Number One, I must insist," Captain Pressman said.
"You can't make me," Chamish replied. To Kyle, he sounded more like a petulant child than a Starfleet officer.
"It's your duty," the captain urged. "To this ship and this crew."
"That's exactly why I won't do it," Chamish said. "I think it's the wrong decision for the crew. I refuse to give my authorization."
"You're relieved, Mr. Chamish." Kyle could hear the fury in Pressman's voice as he did so.
"Sir, I'll do it," another voice broke in. "If I can."
Kyle thought the voice sounded familiar. It was not a voice he'd heard often, certainly not recently. It was deeper, more mature than he remembered it. But the sound of it, the valor he heard in those few words, filled him with immense pride.
* * *
Will felt every eye on the bridge burning into him. Captain Pressman regarded him levelly, as if trying to fit a new perception around the old ones he had already established.
"You can't, Ensign," Pressman said. "It would have to be the third-in-command of the ship."
"Well, it's got to be soon, sir. We're already within range."
Before Will finished his sentence, the officer to his immediate left said, "This is Lieutenant Commander Shinnareth Bestor." The operations officer's voice was flat, betraying no emotion at all. "Initiate auto-destruct sequence."
"Verbal confimation requested," the computer replied. "Captain Pressman?"
"Confirmed," Pressman stated.
"Lieutenant Commander Bestor?"
"Confirmed," the operations officer said.
"What is the desired interval until destruction, Captain Pressman?"
Pressman glanced at Will, who checked his instruments quickly and then held up three fingers. "Three minutes," the captain said.
"Auto-destruct sequence initiated," the computer intoned. "Destruction in two minutes, fifty-eight seconds."
Will wiped at his forehead. His heart pounded in his chest and the rush of blood in his ears almost drowned out the other noises on the bridge. Everything except the computer's soulless voice, counting down the last few seconds until the ship blew itself up. The force of the explosion, he remembered from the Academy, would be roughly the equivalent of a thousand photon torpedoes.
At least it'll be quick, he thought. Probably fairly painless. Probably even a relief after sitting around waiting for it for three minutes.
* * *
"What's going on up there?" someone asked plaintively.
"You can hear as well as the rest of us," Bonner responded. "They're waiting."
Kyle knew it wasn't that simple. The delay inherent even in subspace radio meant that the Pegasus might already be destroyed. He wondered what they'd hear on this end—static? An electronic hum? Or would they first, momentarily, hear the thunder as the explosions ripped through his son's vessel?
"The Ven are getting awfully close," Admiral Paris observed. "They're right there—definitely within firing range."
One more thing to worry about, Kyle thought. He had hoped the Pegasus situation would be resolved before the Ven showed up and further complicated matters. Maybe if that first officer hadn't chickened out . . .
"Destruction in forty-five seconds," he heard. He swallowed hard. This was getting too close.
* * *
"They've cut the tractor," Bestor said excitedly.
"Will, engines on full," Pressman ordered. "Take us out, now."
"Yes, sir!" Will shot back, already implementing the command.
"Destruction in fifteen seconds," the computer announced.
"Computer, this is Captain Erik Pressman. Abort auto-destruct sequence." He swiveled about in his chair. "Commander?"
"Computer, this is Lieutenant Commander Shinnareth Bestor. Abort auto-destruct sequence." Will noted that the operations officer sounded relieved. He was feeling a little better about things himself, but he knew they weren't out of the woods yet.
"Sir, they're firing on us!" Bethany Rungius said.
"All power to shields," Pressman replied. "Don't worry about returning fire."
"Shields are up, sir."
The first volley from the Omistolian ship hit them astern. The bridge rocked, lights flickered, but the shields held.
"They didn't want us to blow up right next to them," Captain Pressman noted. "But they have no problem letting us get a little farther away and then blowing us up themselves."
Will concentrated on putting distance between themselves and the Omistolian ship. He knew their greatest danger had been with the Omistolians themselves—if they had not been scanning the Pegasus closely enough to notice when their auto-destruct sequence started, they would never have shut off the tractor beam. But now they were one little science ship in the middle of a war between two enemy fleets, so their chances still didn't look that promising.
"Sir," Rungius reported. "The Ven ships are firing."
"Brace yourselves," Pressman commanded. Everyone did, but no barrage landed.
"Sir," Rungius corrected. "The Ven are firing on the Omistolian ship that held us—on Oxxreg's ship!"
Will blew out a sigh of relief. The kilometers were passing by the second, thousands upon thousands of them. They weren't out of range yet, but apparently Oxxreg had bigger problems right now. Captain Pressman ordered that Oxxreg's ship be put on the main viewscreen, and the whole bridge watched as four Ven ships fired upon it at once, green beams lighting up the sky. Then the Omistolian ship exploded, parts of it spiraling out into space, trailing smoke. The concussion wave from the blast caught up to them a few moments later, pushing them even farther away from the battle.
"Mr. Riker, ahead warp six, if you please," Captain Pressman said.
Will laughed. "I do please, sir. I please very much. Warp six it is." He moved his fingers across the control panel like an experienced hand, and reveled in the fact that he, a kid from Valdez, was at the conn of a starship.
And that it could fly really, really fast.
## Chapter 38
Kathryn Janeway came back into the situation room just as the cheers were dying out. She walked straight to Kyle's side, barely sparing a glance for anyone else. "It looks like I missed something," she said. "Is everything all right?"
"Everything's just fine," he told her with a grin. He patted the back of the chair next to him. "Have a seat, Ensign, and tell me what you found out."
She spoke quietly into his ear for a couple of minutes, and Kyle felt his gaze drawn to the person of Vice Admiral Bonner, who, alone among the individuals in the room, seemed not to be celebrating the Pegasus's escape.
Admiral Owen Paris came over to Kyle, giving Janeway an inquisitive look but saying nothing, and clapped Kyle on the back. "Congratulations, Kyle," he said. "It looks like you've still got the touch."
"Thank you, Owen," Kyle said. He spoke louder than was strictly necessary, but he did it on purpose, wanting to attract attention. "I'd like to ask you something, though."
"What is it?" Owen said. He looked a little taken aback, though he must have known that Kyle had been using Janeway for some private purpose.
"I'd like to know who it was that ordered the Pegasus into that space in the first place. I understand they went in looking for the pirates, but I believe they were acting on intelligence supplied by Starfleet Command. Was it Vice Admiral Bonner?"
Owen hesitated for a moment before answering, as if unsure what can of worms he might be opening. "Yes," he said finally. "Yes, it was. How did you . . . why do you ask?"
"I thought it might have been," Kyle said. He noticed that by now he had the attention of everyone in the room, including Bonner, who stared at him with undisguised contempt.
"I don't know if I appreciate this line of conversation," Bonner objected. "This man is a civilian; what business is it of his whether or not I ordered that? Anyway, we had no reason to doubt the intelligence."
"He's right, Kyle," Admiral Paris said. He still sounded hesitant, as if he didn't want to shut Kyle down, but he needed to maintain the proper protocols. "Is this going somewhere?"
Kyle rose from his seat. He trusted Owen, and because he did he trusted Ensign Janeway. But he sure hoped her information was accurate.
"It is, Owen, and I'll ask you to let me finish this."
"Absolutely not!" Bonner exploded. "What is this, some kind of civilian tribunal?"
"Nothing of the sort," Kyle assured him. This was his second strategic ploy of the day. He hoped it played out as well as his first. "But my son's life was in danger today, and he helped save a lot of other lives. I think I'm entitled to a few questions and answers, here."
"You have no official status here, Kyle," Owen reminded him. "You've been missing for nearly two years. You are here as a favor to me, and I'll ask you not to push things too far. That said, I agree, you are entitled to some answers."
"I most strenuously object," Bonner blustered. He lurched from his seat, face red and blotchy again, scalp dripping with sweat.
"Horace," Owen said. "Sit down and shut up."
Bonner glared at him, but noticed that everyone else in the room was staring, and finally returned to his seat.
"Kyle, you'd better explain yourself," Owen suggested.
"Thank you, Owen. I will. Vice Admiral Bonner sent the U.S.S. Pegasus on a wild goose chase into disputed, dangerous space, even though, in fact, there was no information that Heaven's Blade was anywhere in the vicinity."
There was an audible gasp from some in the room, and murmured conversation among others that quickly stopped when Kyle continued. "That part is just speculation, though I suspect if we examine the Vice Admiral's logs we'll see that it's true. Something else is definitely true, though, confirmed for me just moments ago by the very capable Ensign Janeway. Vice Admiral Bonner had a stepson on Starbase 311 with me—a young man named Charles Heidl. Mr. Heidl was a scientist, not a military officer. Although Vice Admiral Bonner and Mr. Heidl were very close—as close as any father and son, I would guess, from what I've been able to learn—the relationship between them has been kept very secret. Possibly because Vice Admiral Bonner had, on numerous occasions, arranged for Starfleet favors for Mr. Heidl. Chief among these was helping to arrange funding, transportation, and a facility on Starbase 311 for some of Heidl's experiments."
Bonner looked at Kyle, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly, like a fish in a tank. Owen addressed Janeway, still seated next to where Kyle had been. "Is this true, Ensign Janeway?"
"Yes, sir. Once Mr. Riker told me precisely what to look for, it wasn't hard to find the details."
"We know that the Tholians attacked Starbase 311," Kyle went on. "We know, through intercepted communications, that the Tholians did so because of intelligence, which they deemed believable, that Starbase 311 was to be the launching point for an incursion into Tholian space. Further, we know through hard experience what kind of response that would surely generate among the Tholians—precisely the kind that it did. A swift and vicious assault. That intelligence—again, this has been confirmed in the past few minutes by Ensign Janeway—came from the starbase itself."
"Someone on the base signaled the Tholians and invited attack?" Captain Jensen asked, incredulous.
"That's correct, Captain," Kyle replied calmly. "There's one more piece to the puzzle, but this one I haven't yet been able to confirm. Even Ensign Janeway isn't a miracle worker, it seems, and we'll need a bit more time to study this. But I recall that Starfleet or the Federation was planning an investigation into experiments on Starbase 311—to be specific, whatever experiments Mr. Heidl was engaged in. Becoming aware of this investigation, Vice Admiral Bonner contacted Heidl and ordered him to shut down the experiments and destroy the evidence, according to their prearranged plan. The best way to ensure that the experiments would never be investigated in depth, of course, was to arrange the destruction of the starbase. So the Tholians were contacted. And they came, and all of us on board—all except me, by the merest twist of fate—were killed."
Kyle had moved closer and closer to Bonner as he spoke. Bonner couldn't take his eyes off his accuser, and his face seemed almost to be collapsing in on itself as the truth of his crimes was revealed. His gaze was full of hatred, and his hands seemed to have taken on a life of their own, twisting and wringing one another as if they were possessed.
"What was it, Bonner?" Kyle demanded, bending close to his prey. "Genetic experimentation? Something banned by the Federation, at any rate. Something that couldn't be done closer to home, where the authorities might stumble across it."
"I can't . . . I can't tell you!" Bonner cried. "He'll . . . he'll . . ."
"You'll be telling a court martial, soon enough," Owen Paris said. "You might as well come clean."
"Actually, I think I can guess," Kyle said. He glanced over at Janeway, who understood the signal and rose from her seat. "Based on what's happened since. It was some kind of mind control experiment, wasn't it? If we run a check, I suspect we'll find that the crew members who have attacked me were all, at one point or another, stationed at Starbase 311. Long before the Tholian attack, of course—probably long before I was there. But while Mr. Heidl was there, running his experiments. And even after it was all over, they remained susceptible to suggestion."
"But . . . isn't Heidl dead?" Owen asked. "Or did he make it off the starbase in time?"
Bonner was simply shaking his head now, tears beginning to run down his cheeks. Kyle couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for the man, though.
"No one made it off in time," Kyle said. "The last thing Ensign Janeway checked for me was a travel log. Vice Admiral Bonner was in deep space when the Tholians attacked. He was, in fact, not too terribly far from Tholian space. I believe he went there to help his stepson eliminate evidence, and to provide a ride home for Mr. Heidl. For whatever reason, though, Mr. Heidl missed the boat."
"He went back," Bonner mumbled, his face buried in his hands. "I . . . we went there to bring him home." He dropped his hands and turned his head slowly, facing everyone in the room, as if they were all his accusers. "We came to my ship, but we had forgotten to make sure some of the records were destroyed. So we went back."
Kyle noted the change in subject pronoun, and realized that Bonner's problems were even deeper than he had thought. And he had thought they were pretty bad indeed.
"What was it, Bonner? Am I right?"
Bonner nodded and answered wetly. "Mental control and manipulation. Limited range, but very . . . effective. We made . . . remarkable progress. But then, we went back and . . . we talked, via closed-channel communications. 'They're here!' we shouted, and then we could hear the noise of the Tholian torpedoes, and the explosions. We didn't . . . didn't hear Charles anymore, but the channel stayed open and we heard the rest of it. The Tholians, when they boarded the starbase and searched it, destroying every survivor. Except one. Except Riker."
"Horace," Owen said, his voice gentle. "You're saying 'we.' What do you mean by that? Who?"
"He's . . . he's in here, with us. Charles. We can't explain . . . maybe our mental powers were so well developed, by that time . . . that we were able to make the jump across space."
And maybe, Kyle thought, you're just nutty as a fruitcake.
"Horace, we can get you some help," Owen said.
"No!" The word was an explosion. "We don't need your help!" Bonner leapt from his chair, sending it flying backward behind him, and whipped a phaser from his belt holster. He aimed it at Kyle and pulled the trigger.
## Chapter 39
Kyle had expected something like this, though he wasn't at all sure what form it would take, and he had warned Ensign Janeway to get ready for it. At his signal she had taken up a place at the light panel for the room, and as soon as Bonner drew his weapon, she slapped at the panel, plunging the room into utter darkness. Kyle threw himself to the floor, underneath the solid conference table. He heard the phaser discharge, saw the room briefly illumined by its beam. Shouts rang out all around the room.
Kyle rolled out from under the table, close to where Bonner had been standing. He willed himself to be calm, collected. He breathed slowly but shallowly, trying to keep his breath and his heartbeat quiet. Kyle Riker had played a lot of anbo-jytsu in his time. He didn't need to be able to see to fight.
Bonner, for his part, wasn't a difficult target. He sobbed once and drew in his breath, and Kyle charged him. In the dark he misestimated Bonner's height, slightly, and hit him higher than he'd wanted, his shoulder colliding with the vice admiral's chest instead of his ribcage. Even so, they both fell back. But Bonner crashed against a wall and didn't go down. The phaser discharged again, its beam jetting harmlessly into the ceiling, sending down a cascade of sparks but injuring no one.
Kyle grabbed for Bonner's wrist, but the man was strong in spite of his insanity—or maybe because of it, Kyle thought. He took a couple of hard blows to the head as he wrestled Bonner in the dark. He wasn't sure how many more of those he'd be able to shrug off. He needed to take Bonner down, fast.
The lights came back on. "See here, Bonner," Kyle heard Admiral Paris saying once he could see what was happening. Bonner ignored him, and Kyle tried to ignore everything. Bonner's madness had indeed given him strength—or else he was right, and there were two people in him, each contributing his own strength. In spite of Kyle's best efforts, Bonner had managed to angle his wrist so that his phaser was pointed directly at Kyle's head.
"We'd like to see your precious strategy get you out of this," Bonner snarled. His finger tightened on the trigger.
Kyle released Bonner's wrist suddenly. Since Bonner had been fighting against the pressure Kyle had been putting on it, the sudden action made his arm drop precipitously. Kyle sidestepped the phaser blast, which tore a hole in the floor, and moved in with a left jab at Bonner's middle. The left was a feint. When Bonner moved to block it, Kyle instead threw a right that connected hard with Bonner's chin. Kyle thought he might have broken a knuckle, but he didn't care. Bonner's head snapped back, blood already trailing from his mouth, and slammed into the wall behind him. Kyle followed up with another left, a real one this time, but Bonner was already sliding down the wall, unconscious. Kyle caught his wrist and worked the phaser from his hand, then let the vice admiral fall to the floor.
"Sometimes, Vice Admiral Bonner," he said in reply to the man's final statement, "all the strategy in the world isn't worth as much as a good right hook."
* * *
"Is he insane, do you think, Kyle?" Owen Paris asked him later. "Even with all of our science, all our knowledge, there's so much we don't know about the human mind. We can't build ships that can go in and explore it like we do outer space. We're only guessing at so much of it. Is it possible that Heidl really is, somehow, in there with Bonner?"
They were in Owen's office. They had eaten some lunch, and Kyle felt better, more relaxed and contented, than he had in a very long while. He took a sip of excellent coffee. "I'll leave it to people smarter than me to figure that out," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, he's just nuts. He had to listen to his stepson die. The Berlin came to drop off the team that was to investigate Heidl's experiments, then it left. Bonner was on that ship, keeping it just far enough away to not be able to help when the Tholians came, but trying to keep it close enough that Heidl could escape to it. Heidl went back, as Bonner said, but then the attack came and no one could beam off the starbase anymore. He tried to launch a shuttle—our records prove that someone tried to—but he couldn't do that either. He was trapped on the starbase, and Bonner was stuck listening to him die. Then he couldn't tear himself away from listening to the rest of the invasion either. It must have been then that he went insane, or started to."
Owen steepled his hands and tapped his fingertips against his mouth. "You're probably right," he said. "At least, that story fits the facts that we know. The other facts—what Heidl and his friends were working on, why Bonner went on that trip and why he couldn't save Heidl—we'll just have to speculate on. Or take Bonner's word for."
"I'm not sure I'd do that," Kyle suggested. "Bonner's word probably isn't good for much."
"What amazes me," Owen said, "is how long he was able to function here. We'll go through his records thoroughly, and maybe we'll find that he wasn't really functioning all that well. But he seemed to be. He passed. Except that he was also busy planning his revenge on you, for surviving when Heidl couldn't."
"And on Will," Kyle reminded him. "It's no coincidence that it was the Pegasus he tried to sabotage."
Owen's eyes widened. "I hadn't even thought of it that way," he said.
"Your mind isn't devious enough," Kyle said. "You sure you want to go into space again?"
"I hope a devious mind isn't a necessary prerequisite," Owen replied. "From listening to the Pegasus today, though, it sounds like courage is."
Kyle simply nodded, and Owen continued. "Who do you suppose that was," he asked, "who spoke up, volunteering to initiate the auto-destruct since the first officer wouldn't? The voice sounded awfully familiar to me."
Kyle just looked at Owen, sitting across the desk from him. "You know who it was," he said.
"I know who I think it was. And his name's Riker."
"Of course it was Will," Kyle confirmed. "Who else but a Riker? He was willing to blow up his own ship to pull off a bluff—moving close enough to the enemy to guarantee that if the ship did auto-destruct, it'd take both ships with it. Given that the phrase 'self-sacrifice' didn't seem to be in their vocabulary, the Omistol had to cut their tractor. Will's a chip off the old block, that's for sure."
"He's the image of his old man," Owen said with a friendly smile. "I hope I have a crew full of young people just like him on the Al-Batani. I hope Tom grows up just as gutsy."
"If you have a crew like that Ensign Janeway," Kyle told him, "you'll be in good shape."
"She's a peach, all right," Owen agreed. "Kyle, I just can't wait to get out there."
* * *
Later still, Kyle walked alone alongside the bayfront, enjoying the cool snap of the wind as it blew off the water. For a change, there were no security officers following him, and he did not miss their presence. He was convinced that his ordeal was finally over, that there would be no more attempts on his life now that Horace Bonner was in custody.
Instead of worrying about his own safety, though, he thought about Will, so far away, one little person on one little ship in the vastness of the universe. There would be dangers untold in Will's future, he knew. As he'd told Owen, Will was a Riker, through and through. Of course he had volunteered to blow up the ship. He put duty before his own fears, his own feelings. That's what Rikers did.
But when he thought of Will, so far away, acting like a Riker, he did so with a great sense of melancholy. The Rikers had a way about them, that much was undeniable. Kyle Riker looked out across the bay, then up at the sky, where a single star appeared above the horizon. He felt a kinship with that star, alone in the sky. Acting like a Riker had put him here, he knew. Being a Riker had made him alone. He had never really seen it before, had learned this lesson much too late to do him any good, or to save any of the possible futures he might have had, with Kate or with Michelle.
Or with Will.
He just hoped his son could learn the lessons he had more easily than he had. He hoped that Will could become a different kind of Riker, could become unlike his old man, who loved him dearly but couldn't find a way to tell him so.
And he hoped it would happen for Will before his life was screwed up, for good. Like his old man's was.
But as he watched the sky, standing there with the wind picking up, whipping his hair and stinging his skin, another star appeared in the night sky, and then another, and then ten, thousands, millions.
And Kyle understood then that it wasn't too late, not even for him. Alone now didn't have to mean alone forever. If he'd had a glass in his hand, he'd have raised it, but instead he just turned his face to the sky.
"Another lesson, son," he said softly. "We Rikers may be stubborn as hell, but eventually we learn from our mistakes. You'll do fine out there, I know you will."
He turned away from the bay and the wind and the stars and started to walk home. "You'll do fine," he repeated. And as he did so, he knew, somehow, that he was right.
## About the Author
Jeff Mariotte is the author of many novels, including several set in the universes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel, as well as Charmed, Gen13, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda, and the original dark suspense novel The Slab. Previous encounters with Star Trek include writing the S.C.E. novella No Surrender and editing Star Trek comics for DC Comics/WildStorm. He's also written more comic books than he has time to count, including the Stoker award—nominated horror/Western series Desperadoes. With his wife Maryelizabeth Hart and partner Terry Gilman, he owns Mysterious Galaxy, a bookstore specializing in science fiction, fantasy, mystery, and horror. He lives in San Diego, California, with his family and pets, in a home filled with books, music, toys, and other examples of American pop culture. More about him can be gleaned from www.jeffmariotte.com.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-6410-9
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The MAHPC SMAT & MRC is made up of almost 130 volunteers. Although there is wide diversity among the team, the one thing they all have in common is a desire to help during times of greatest need.
MAHPC SMAT works to provide opportunities for you to learn a new skill or improve on ones you already have. Whether you want to learn about satellite equipment, help build an alternate care site out of tents, or practice your profession in an austere environment, M-SMAT is the place.
The MAHPC SMAT is the perfect place for people that love to give back to their communities, challenge themselves, and participate in unique drills, exercises, and deployments. Once you're an active member of our team, you'll have the opportunity to assist in providing medical care to those most in need. | {
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These rules are not challenges but rather boundaries. We didn't make them up because we were bored, we came up with them after five years of running what is the busiest and largest motor sport forum on the Internet and they still stand after more than fifteen. So don't test us: we really do know by now what we're doing. Having said that, know that you can always - ALWAYS - contact one of the moderators by PM and offer advice, feedback, criticism or just make an inquiry.
Your attention is drawn to the general terms and conditions for this website, to which you consented when you registered, particularly clause 3 'Prohibited Use' and clause 4 'User-generated Content', and also to this announcement, which, although it quotes a previous version of the terms and conditions dating back to AtlasF1 days, remains substantially in force - at least in spirit.
Please note that copyright issues are often obscure and complicated by the differences in local laws in various parts of the world, so are not open for debate and you must err on the side of caution: if you are unsure whether an image or text is copyright protected, don't post it. Even if you feel the law somehow protects your right to post copyrighted images or text - but you do not have the copyright owner's permission - do NOT post it here. Simple as that.
Thanks for your patience and time. Please, enjoy the forum. | {
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Mexico is known for wonderful fiestas that embrace its center and soul. An expression of the cult of the saint, buyer saint fiestas are the center-piece of Mexican well known faith and of significant significance to the lives and cultures of individuals and groups. those fiestas have their very own language, items, trust structures, and practices.
The categorical organization among meals and standing was once, academically talking, first stated at the nutrition creation point. He who owned the land, possessed the grain, he who owned the mill, had the flour, he who owned the oven, bought the bread. although, this conceptualization of strength is twin; subsequent to the most obvious demonstration of energy at the creation point is the social value of foodstuff intake.
Utilizing fathers' first-hand money owed from letters, journals, and private interviews in addition to medical institution files and clinical literature, Judith Walzer Leavitt deals a brand new point of view at the altering position of expectant fathers from the Nineteen Forties to the Eighties. She indicates how, as males moved first from the clinic ready room to the exertions room within the Sixties, after which directly to the supply and birthing rooms within the Seventies and Nineteen Eighties, they turned a growing number of concerned with the delivery event and their impression over occasions increased.
The area is a huge position filled with attention-grabbing issues. And The Grand journey has obvious a few of them. That's why few individuals are greater put to guide you round this large planet of ours than Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond and James may possibly. so long as you don't brain getting sizzling and misplaced. Welcome, every person, to The Grand journey advisor to the realm. | {
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Suspecting a direct link between benicar and the abdominal symptoms, the clinic asked the patients to fully discontinue their use of the drug.
Ayurslim helps postpone cardiovascular problems and fat deposition inside the arteries.
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Orlando Venues Chief Venues Officer Allen Johnson, CVE, announced Mike Weeman has been named security manager with oversight of Amway Center, Camping World Stadium and Tinker Field. In this position, Weeman's primary focus will be ensuring the safety and security of all patrons, players, entertainers, and staff.
For more than 10 years, Weeman has specialized in safety, security, and guest experiences at hundreds of sports and entertainment events. In 2010, he was hired by Andy Frain Services as an assistant security manager to open the newly built Amway Center. Over the ensuing eight years, Weeman held multiple roles and in 2017, he became the vice president of operations for Andy Frain Services' Sports and Entertainment Division. In this capacity, he provided strategic leadership for all U.S. sports and entertainment operations with a notable client list including the Chicago Cubs, Dallas Cowboys, Houston Astros, Memphis Grizzlies, Orlando Magic, and the University of Alabama.
Weeman is a member of IAVM, National Center for Spectator Sports Safety and Security (NCS4), and the Florida Facility Managers Association (FFMA). His passion for training and development is reflected in his roles helping create the Amway Center Legendary Playmakers Program and Andy Frain Services' First Impressions Customer Service Training.
Weeman obtained his Bachelor of Arts in Sports Administration from Ohio University and his Master of Science in Sport and Leisure Commerce from the University of Memphis. While working toward his degree from Memphis, he served as a graduate assistant in arena operations for the Memphis Grizzlies. Following his time in Memphis, he interned with the United States Golf Association at both Bethpage, New York and Pebble Beach, California. Weeman lives in Mount Dora with his wife, Karla, and baby daughter, Quinn. | {
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Okręty US Navy o nazwie USS "Montpelier", pochodzącej od miasta Montpelier:
Pierwszy "Montpelier" był niemieckim statkiem "Bochum", który został zajęty w 1917 i był w użyciu do 1919.
Drugi "Montpelier" (CL-57) był lekkim krążownikiem, który był w służbie w latach 1942-1946.
Trzeci "Montpelier" (SSN-765) był okrętem podwodnym typu Los Angeles, który wszedł do służby w 1993 i nadal w niej pozostaje (stan na 2007 rok).
Montpelier | {
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About MNN
Support MNN
New report shows Gospel growth in 'missionary graveyard'
By Katey HearthNovember 20, 2018
Asia (MNN) — Roughly 36 percent of the world's population lives in either China or India. China is expected to hold the world's largest economy by 2050. The 49 nations of Asia span 17,212,048 square miles, or approximately one-third of the Earth's land area.
Joe Handley of Asian Access says the world's largest continent has a critical role to play in the Great Commission.
"This is Asia's hour for the Gospel. She is the continent that will be finishing the task of global evangelization."
Breakthroughs….
Roughly 36 percent of the world's population lives in either China or India.
(Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)
In a recent report, Asian Access describes Gospel growth and the momentum they see building throughout Asia. "[During] the last two years, we've seen a breakthrough like we haven't seen in the last 10 years of our ministry," notes Handley.
"There's enormous opportunity out there in some of the most challenging areas of the world."
Asian Access comes alongside local churches to help develop and multiply leaders, as well as transform communities for Christ. They typically begin work in a new country every four years or so, Handley explains. However, since 2016, Asian Access started work in four new countries in Asia.
Furthermore, 'ancient walls' are falling in places where Asian Access has worked for decades, and a new season for the Gospel is underway.
As previously noted, the government of China is putting more pressure on the Church. According to Handley, Chinese Christians are refusing to back down.
"It's amazing to see the vision of the Church of China even with all the pressure that's going on," he says, describing Christians' vision for something they call 'Mission 2030.'
"They want to send 20,000 missionaries by the year 2030 from China to other countries…. Asian Access stands by ready to help in that task.
"The Church of China is hungry to complete the task of global evangelization…. We pray the ongoing tensions…do not hold them back from this robust dream."
….and opportunities
Along with Christianity, a plethora of religions trace their roots to Asia: Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Shintoism, Taoism, and Confucianism, to name a few. The Gospel truth is easily lost in a cacophony of worldviews and tradition. Nonetheless, the Holy Spirit is moving hardened hearts in East Asia.
(Photo courtesy of jpellgen via Flickr under Creative Commons: https://goo.gl/6fe7ce)
"Japan is one of the largest unreached people groups…and it's been known as a 'missionary's graveyard,'" shares Handley. The island nation has a long history of resisting Christianity, as described here.
Things began to change after the Triple Disaster of 2011. "The response rate to Christ since that disaster happened have been seven times [greater than] normal."
More 'waves' of disaster struck this year, Handley adds. "Whether it's an earthquake or heatwave, it's just been a very devastating season for Japan." In areas hardest-hit by disaster, the Church has risen to the occasion. As a result, they're also seeing similar, uncharacteristically high response rates to Christ's message of hope.
It's a perfect set up for the Gospel opportunities that lie ahead. Japan is hosting the Rugby World Cup in September 2019 and the Summer Olympic Games in 2020.
"Everyone I know sees this as an enormous opportunity, given the context that's been happening the last seven years," Handley notes.
"They believe that the Rugby World Cup [and the] energy around that as well as the Summer Olympic Games in 2020 will be a catalyst for a breakthrough season in Japan."
Find your place in the story
First and foremost, please surround Asian believers and the ministry of Asian Access in prayer. Pray for continued growth and open doors. Handley hopes to expand the work of Asian Access to 20 nations by the year 2020. Pakistan is on the horizon as well as Malaysia and Thailand.
"We are desperate for your prayers," Handley says. "The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few.
"Pray to the Lord of the harvest to send forth laborers, and if He's calling you, please come."
Connect with Asian Access here to learn about short-term and long-term missions opportunities. If God's calling you to help financially, click here to give.
asiaasian accesscentral asiachinaeast asiajapanjoe handleysouth asiaWest Asia
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Asian Access
Alt Phone: (800) 543-3678
Cerritos, CA
Pray for continued growth and open doors throughout Asia.
Ask the Lord to raise up more Christian missionaries to reach every corner of Asia.
Pray for funding so that Asian Access' work may continue.
Other Stories On This Day
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Ideology, poverty, and politics compounding Boko Haram threat
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© 2019 Mission Network News. | {
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Political Literacy
Climate Literacy
ePortal
School (Teacher)
24 September 2013|In Europe, Money, Culture, Travel and Sport, World News|5 Minutes
MONEYLESS MISSION CONTINUES ACROSS EUROPE: Colin Turner
By Shout Out UK
Irishman Colin yet to spend a penny on his travels
Six weeks in to his global moneyless odyssey and Dubliner Colin Turner has already traversed eight countries without spending a single penny,
Colin, founder of the Free World Charter, left Ireland at the end of July with the intention of proving that a world without money is possible. Relying on the goodwill and hospitality of people along the way, the musician has passed through Northern Ireland, Scotland, England, France, Belgium, Holland and is currently in Germany.
His planned route ahead will take him through Austria, Hungary, Bulgaria and Turkey before embarking on the tricky Asian leg of his mammoth trek. Offers of help and support from likeminded individuals should see Colin reaching India in the coming months.
Colin exclaimed "It's been absolutely incredible. I have been hosted by many families for one or two days each since leaving Ireland. They are offering me food, accommodation, travel and pretty much anything completely unconditionally. Their compassion and recognition of my message has been very uplifting.
"My journey is to prove that living without money does not mean being poor, suffering, or going hungry. There is no reason for anyone to fear anything as long as humankind has each other for support. We can all live well and prosper. The money system stands in the way of our natural cooperative and compassionate traits and holds us back from achieving incredible things," added the Irishman who gave up everything prior to his departure including giving away most of his possessions.
Colin will be producing a video of his trip and has already charted the generosity of all of his hosts. He's already been featured extensively in national and international media including the BBC and global news agencies.
"My work with The Free World Charter, an online movement with almost 40,000 signatories advocating the evolution beyond money and towards a sustainable, technological and caring society, is striking a chord with everyone we meet.
"I think that we are slowly waking up to the folly of our ways especially in light of a truly fragile global economy that is built on debt, debt and more debt. It's a system that could collapse at any point as we saw in 2008 and it's vital that we debate what could follow the next bubble to burst, a bubble that could render money completely worthless. Hopefully I'm adding to that debate in a small way.
"Everyone I've met senses that the world is about to undergo some quantum change but they don;t know what it is. Every single person I've met agrees that our current system is no longer working and that change is on the way. Not everyone agrees that the future is moneyless but it takes time for most people to see the possibility and potential of it.
"Ultimately the sheer common sense of it prevails. Nowhere else in nature does any form of direct exchange for resources or actions take place. It is part of an antique system devised when most of mankind's needs and desires were difficult to source. Our level of technology has now surpassed the need for this system. We can provide a high standard of living for every person on this planet through technology, cooperation and much better education," added Colin who has faced a few obstacles along the way.
"I have gone one or two days without proper meals but really this is just due to bad organisation more than anything else. Using the internet to arrange hospitality in advance hasn't always been easy.
"Thankfully I am learning more each day and this has become less of a problem. Overall, the travel has been an amazing success. I am eating and sleeping well and I can say the kindness of strangers is very much alive and well out there!" concluded Colin.
EU Poverty Young People
Shout Out UK
Why are eating disorders so easy to provoke?
by Ferne Wallis
How An Outdoor Gym Enriches A School's PE Programme
4 Side Hustle Ideas For Extra Income!
© 2021 Shout Out UK. All rights reserved | {
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Follow us to learn about our advances in irrigation technology. | {
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Perry County är ett administrativt område i delstaten Tennessee, USA, med 7 915 invånare. Den administrativa huvudorten (county seat) är Linden.
Geografi
Enligt United States Census Bureau har countyt en total area på 1 095 km². 1 084 km² av den arean är land och 21 km² är vatten.
Angränsande countyn
Humphreys County - norr
Hickman County - nordost
Lewis County - sydost
Wayne County - söder
Decatur County - väst
Benton County - nordväst
Källor | {
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Short description: Your post-yoga or post-call essential. Super stretchy, lightweight, and breathable...what a trifecta!
Your post-yoga or post-call essential. Super stretchy, lightweight, and breathable...what a trifecta!
Pair with our Technical scrub pants for the sharpest, comfiest work uniform a girl could imagine!
Chest 32-36" 36-38" 38-40" 40-42" | {
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Teaching in Today's Tech-Powered Classroom
Social-Emotional Learning: It Starts With Teachers
Making Teacher Recertification Meaningful
Helping New Teachers Thrive
Transforming Teachers' Roles
Getting Personal: Teachers, Technology, and Tailored Instruction
New Directions in Assessment
Inside Classroom Management: Ideas and Solutions
Next Draft: Changing Practices in Writing Instruction
Other Special Reporting Series
Classroom Practice Chats
Teaching Tolerance Culturally Responsive Teaching Awards
Teaching Ahead: A Roundtable
How to Submit an Essay
Career Corner Blog
It's All in the Family
By Lani Harac
As they learn more about themselves, older elementary-age kids find out the meaning of family—those they were born into as well as those they make. This spirit of self-explorationis reflected in several new novels for 8- to 12-year-olds. Philip Pullman's The Scarecrow and His Servant (Knopf) recounts a wayward scarecrow's journey home with an orphan boy after the bumbling yet endearing hero comes to life during a thunderstorm. Birdwing (Arthur A. Levine), by Rafe Martin, reinterprets a Grimm Brothers fairy tale. The youngest of seven brothers, Ardwin is human except for the swan feathers where his left arm should be; although he aches to be "whole," when he discovers a plan to replace the wing, he realizes that straddling two worlds is a priceless gift.
Ten-year-old Du also finds himself bridging two worlds in The Trouble Begins (Delacorte), by Linda Himelblau. While the rest of the Nguyen clan emigrated to California when he was an infant, Du stayed behind with his grandmother in a Vietnamese refugee camp. Now, meeting them for the first time, Du isn't sure how to deal with his bossy siblings and hard-to-please father. Dom, on the other hand, doesn't have anyone waiting for him on the other side in The King of Mulberry Street (Wendy Lamb). He traveled from Italy to New York City as a stowaway, thinking that his Mamma would accompany him. Based on her own family's history, Donna Jo Napoli's book is a fictional account of immigrant kids starting businesses, avoiding villains, and making new lives in late-1800s America.
With his parents away and summer camp unexpectedly cancelled, another Italian kid unexpectedly finds himself in present-day New York, though Nicholas Borelli II only came from as far away as the suburbs. At the home of his grandmother, Tutti, and Uncle Frankie in Brooklyn, he learns more than just what it means to be a "goomba" in Nicky Deuce: Welcome to the Family (Delacorte), by The Sopranos alumnus Steven Schirripa and Charles Fleming. Down the coast, in Florida, Sylvia moves in with Miz Lula Maye, her best friend and great-grandmother, right before the start of 5th grade. Sometimey Friend (Carolrhoda), by Pansie Hart Flood, picks up the story as Sylvia learns the value of her extended family.
In Chicken Boy (Atheneum), Tobin has more kin than he knows what to do with, especially because their collective reputation as troublemakers precedes the youngest sibling. It's been five years since his mom's death, and the family has splintered to the breaking point. But Tobin finds that even his brothers and sisters have something worthwhile to offer in Frances O'Roark Dowell's book. And The Secret Pony (Sono Nis/Orca), by Julie White, describes the lengths to which young Kirsty will go to get her heart's desire, which she hopes will make up for the new home and school she's had to adjust to since her parents' divorce. In the process, she and her mother both learn that sometimes stubbornness is the only thing standing in the way of family.
Vol. 17, Issue 03, Page 48
Published in Print: November 1, 2005, as KIDSBOOKS
Connect With Colleagues
rhinebeck Central School District, Rhinebeck, New York
Flagler County School District, Bunnell, Florida | {
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If Your Favorite SEC Team Was a Car, This Is What They'd Be
The 13 SEC Players Named AP Preseason All-Americans Are Ready to Ball Out
John Duffley, August 21, 2018 5:55 pm
Is Nick Saban Tough to Work for? The Legend Gave a Perfect Response
Brett Regan, July 17, 2019 2:51 pm
"So What? Now What?": Alabama's Motto Shifts Focus to Another Championship Chase
John Duffley, July 17, 2019 12:20 pm
Alabama's Elephant Mascot: The History of Big Al's Birth in Tuscaloosa
Patrick Pinak, July 16, 2019 3:06 pm
Twitter: @RIP_Shod23
The Associated Press released its first poll of the college football season yesterday, ranking the Alabama Crimson Tide as their preseason No. 1 team in the nation for the third year in a row. A total of five teams represent the SEC in the initial AP Top 25 poll, while five teams from the Big Ten Conference also made the list.
When the AP released its preseason All-American list on Tuesday, one conference, as it usually does, brought the most talent to the party — the Southeastern Conference's 13 out of the 50 total selections were the most of any conference in college football.
No slouch in their own right, the Pac-12 has 12 representatives on the list, followed by the Big Ten's 10, seven from the ACC and two from West Virginia in the Big 12.
The American Athletic Conference, Mountain West and Mid American each have one, and Notre Dame finishes off the list with three of All-Americans of their own.
The 13 SEC selections include five Alabama players, which is tied with Wisconsin for the most players named to the preseason list.
Each player is primed for a special season, and you'll probably be seeing most of these guys in the NFL in 2019.
First-Team Offense
Jonah Williams, Tackle, Alabama
Last year, Williams was named third-team All-American by the Associated Press, and earned first-team All-SEC across the board from most major publications. The junior from Folsom, California was born to play offensive line, evidenced by earning national accolades as a freshman playing right tackle before moving to the left side a season ago.
Ross Pierschbacher, Center, Alabama
Last go around in Crimson #FarewellTour
A post shared by Ross Pierschbacher (@rossp71) on Aug 2, 2018 at 3:51pm PDT
Pierschbacher is one of the unquestioned leaders of the Crimson Tide team. A natural offensive guard, the three-time All-SEC selection is moving to play center senior, and he's already on the Rimington Trophy watch list for the best center in the country. He'll be one of the first interior lineman selected in next year's NFL draft.
A.J. Brown, Wide Receiver, Ole Miss
I took an advanced look at #OleMiss' AJ Brown, @PFF's top-ranked wide receiver entering the 2018 college football season, with @TheAthleticCFB earlier in the offseason — still room to grow, but there's A LOT to like about Brown.
📰: https://t.co/PLUOZ5rOBz pic.twitter.com/2XtsgFrtf4
— Austin Gayle (@AustinGayle_PFF) August 15, 2018
Last season, Brown broke onto the national scene, setting single season records at Ole Miss for receiving yards (1,252) and tying the school record for receiving touchdowns (11), on his way to being third-team AP All-American and first-team All-SEC. Brown can play, and Matt Luke's best weapon is going to take the top off of a few defenses again this season.
First-Team Defense
Devin White, Linebacker, LSU
You can't question God and all his challenges…….. 2018 MINE #GetLive40
A post shared by Devin White (@devinwhite_40) on Jan 1, 2018 at 2:44pm PST
He was the vocal leader at LSU's player-only meeting, and it's White's defense in Baton Rouge. The junior recorded 133 tackles last season, earning second-team All-American and first-team All-SEC honors. He returns this year primed for a huge year with the Tigers defense.
Greedy Williams, Cornerback, LSU
A post shared by Greedy Williams™️ (@begreedy) on Nov 26, 2017 at 7:28pm PST
Williams joins Wisconsin running back Jonathan Taylor as the only two sophomores to earn first-team honors this year. Andraez Williams played youth league football with LSU teammate Devin White, and earned the nickname Greedy from his Grandmother. As a freshman, Williams was very greedy — he led the SEC in interceptions (6) on his way to being third-team All-American and first-team All-SEC.
Deandre Baker, Cornerback, Georgia
Momma Said Don't Come Back Without It💰 I Told Her I Got It 🤐 #BeHumble pic.twitter.com/JtQqir76v2
— Dre Baker (@RIP_Shod23) November 15, 2016
The senior is the Bulldogs leader in the secondary after recording 12 pass breakups and three interceptions last year for Georgia. Baker is a two-year starter, but was only named second-team All-SEC last year. Expect the veteran corner to be one of the SEC's elite players this year.
Second-Team Offense
Damien Harris, Running back, Alabama
Serenity..
A post shared by Damien Harris (@royal_soaq34) on Jun 12, 2018 at 6:52pm PDT
The hype in Tuscaloosa is at quarterback, but this senior running back is the workhorse who can most likely win the Heisman Trophy. A two-time 1,000-yard rusher, Damien Harris is one of the big reasons why the Crimson Tide have a legitimate shot to defend their national title this season.
Greg Little, Tackle, Ole Miss
Can't wait to be out there in front of the greatest fans in the world again #Olemissforever pic.twitter.com/ea7KNH6hwV
— 74savage (@Thegreglittle) March 20, 2018
Ole Miss has one of the best professional prospects sitting in its lap with Little. Rated the No. 31 player in college football by NFL.com last year, the 325-pound junior is a two-time All-SEC selection. Enjoy him while you have him, Rebels fans. Greg Little is likely headed for the NFL next season.
Deebo Samuel, All-Purpose, South Carolina
Y'all ready??🙏🏽 #TheReturnOfUno
A post shared by Deebo Samuel (@19problemz) on Aug 1, 2018 at 11:44am PDT
Tyshun "Deebo" Samuel scored six touchdown through three games last season before breaking his leg, but he's back healthy and ready to break more records. The senior, who owns the school record for kickoff return touchdowns, has 15 total TDs to his name — seven rushing, five receiving, three via kick return. Oh, he's also got a passing touchdown under his belt.
Rodrigo Blankenship, Kicker, Georgia
"There ain't no promise of tomorrow, so we'll give it all we got today / We know this is more than just a game, so we A-T-D attack the day" Can't wait to finally be back Between the Hedges with the best fans in the nation. 🐶🐾 #RespectTheSpecs #StriveForGreatness
A post shared by Rodrigo Blankenship (@rodthekicker3) on Apr 21, 2018 at 10:00am PDT
The junior is a career 34 of 41 on field goal attempts, and has yet to miss a PAT attempt in 89 career tries. Blankenship is only a junior, and the sure-footed Marietta, Georgia native will have plenty of opportunities to kick the Bulldogs to a few wins again this season.
Second-Team Defense
Raekwon Davis, Defensive End, Alabama
At 6-foot-7 and 316 pounds, good luck getting Davis to stay in college another year. Second-team All-American a season ago, Davis led the Crimson Tide with 8.5 sacks and picked off his first career pass in the National Championship Game. Expect another huge year from the junior.
Jeffrey Simmons, Defensive Tackle, Mississippi St.
Simmons was recruited at the No. 1 player in the state of Mississippi for a reason — he's a freak. He's played in 25 games over two seasons, and led the nation in blocked kicks last year with three. The two-time All-SEC selection will be terrorizing defense once again under new head coach Joe Moorhead.
Mack Wilson, Linebacker, Alabama
Wilson is one of the Crimson Tide's key defenders in the middle, and he's as talented of a cover linebacker as there is in the country. Wilson's four interceptions last year led the Tide, and was fifth in the SEC. He's played in 27 games over two season, but this one figures to be the season Mack Wilson ups his NFL draft stock into the first-round.
READ MORE: Where Does Your Team Rank in the Preseason AP Top 25? | {
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As part of the London Appreciation Society, I went on an organised trip to the Greenwich Naval College. Had to see the painted room. Because the best picture that I took of that was around the wrong way, I have rotated the picture and now it looks like the painted ceiling is actually a painted floor. Think it is amusing, but love it being the right way to see the painting.
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The formation of businesses, business credit, loan types and amounts. Hispanic business loan and other hurdles to minority business loans are considered. LGBT and gay friendly loan resources are provided. Also included is how they all affect a business's ability in obtaining credit. A number of topics will be detailed and address subjects known by very few business owners nor discussed by credit specialists. Many of these are critical for businesses to understand in order to secure credit.
Topics include how to apply for a small business loan. Things not do when applying for a small business loan will be discussed. Businesses do not need to try to apply for the highest loan possible or use just one loan type to get financing.
Many business owners request the highest amount possible when applying for a business loan. This is not the best approach. If a business requests too much they may be declined simply for asking for too much. A business may qualify for $100,000. However, if they apply for $150,000, they may be declined because they do not qualify for $150,000. If the business only wants $100,000, they should only apply for $100,000.
A business does not need to get all the capital they need from one program and one loan. A business may be able to get $50,000 on an asset based loan and another $50,000 through a business line of credit. This tactic will allow the business to obtain all of what they need rather than only getting $50,000 if they had applied for one type of loan.
When forming the business, the business owner should pick the business type they think they will stay with for a few years. If the begin as a sole proprietor then switch to a Corporation after only 1 year, they should probably start as a Corporation. | {
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Fixed price£249,995
Plot 3 - Prince's Quay, Pacific Drive, Glasgow, G51
Prince's Quay by CALA Homes
1, 2 & 3 Bedroom Apartments
3 Bedroom Townhouses
Allocated Parking
Viewing appointments available
Date of entry July 2022
Images are for indicative purposes only
Enjoy the spacious open plan living and immaculate interiors of The Carron apartment type. This ground floor two bed property features built in wardrobes & principal with en suite.
This collection perfectly combines style and comfort whilst providing all the space and specification required to complement your contemporary lifestyle.
Pacific Quay is evolving as a vibrant new community offering the ultimate in modern urban living. With the Clydeside Distillery, Science Centre and SSE Hydro on your doorstep, Prince's Quay is perfectly positioned for optimal city living.
Regular buses, pedestrian links and cycle routes ensure you're well connected to the wider Glasgow area. Glasgow Central, Queen Street and Argyle Street are all closely located to the development and offer regular services to Edinburgh, Stirling, London and destinations throughout the UK. By road, the site lies just 1.3 miles from the M8 motorway which provides connections to Edinburgh, Stirling and the West whilst the M74 will take you South of the city and beyond.
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Savills - Glasgow, Residential Development Sales
163 West George Street Glasgow G2 2JJ
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Property reference GLD210372. The information displayed about this property comprises a property advertisement. OnTheMarket.com makes no warranty as to the accuracy or completeness of the advertisement or any linked or associated information, and OnTheMarket.com has no control over the content. This property advertisement does not constitute property particulars. The information is provided and maintained by Savills - Glasgow, Residential Development Sales. Please contact the property advertiser directly to obtain any information which may be available under the terms of The Energy Performance of Buildings (Certificates and Inspections) (England and Wales) Regulations 2007 or the Home Report if in relation to a residential property in Scotland.
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Calls to 0843 numbers will be charged at 4p/min from BT landlines. Calls from other networks may vary, and calls from mobiles and outside the UK will be higher. Calls to local numbers beginning with 01, 02 and 03 numbers will incur standard geographic charges from landlines and mobiles. | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
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