Chapter 26
Every child finds a place for himself in a family, Uncle Hani once told him. If one child is cruel, the next may be kind; if one is gentle, the next bold. We each need to find a way to make others recognize us as being different from our siblings.
It isn't good; it isn't bad. It's just the way we are, he had said.
Which is why I am as I am, Asfad Qasmieh told himself.
Hani, his older brother, was a brilliant and dynamic politician – just as had been the beloved uncle for whom Hani had been named; Jasfara, the older of his two sisters, a dedicated scholar; Shamila had found her place being a dutiful daughter, loving wife and doting mother.
Those niches in his family had been filled long before he born – and having grown up in a family where these noble and honorable places were already occupied, Asfad had found one for himself, one that none of the others occupied, one that would make his mark upon the family as bold and as individual as theirs were.
Asfad Qasmieh was a weasel.
Not officially, of course. Asfad's parents boasted to their friends that their youngest son was _the_ executive assistant to Admiral Thaddeus Czymszczak – the youngest, the brightest, and the fastest rising admiral in all of Starfleet – indeed, in all of Starfleet's history! – and their son, their little Asfad, was responsible for making sure that everything the admiral needed or wanted was attended to quickly, promptly, efficiently and correctly.
Indeed, they hinted, the admiral wouldn't be who he was or where he was, without Asfad's able assistance!
True enough, Asfad conceded – but more often than not, that 'able assistance' entailed doing things that others would have balked, things that were too contemptible, too odious for those who thought themselves more scrupulous than Asfad – things, Asfad knew, that would earn him the praise and recognition his siblings had received so easily throughout their lives – the recognition he had never received.
Or earned, he knew; he wasn't bright, he wasn't dutiful, he wasn't honorable or noble.
So he found a place for himself where he could earn those commendations he so desired.
And if that meant doing what others found reprehensible, then so be it.
Self-righteous prigs, Asfad thought to himself whenever he thought about those others – which was far more often than he would admit. They claim themselves too high and mighty to dirty their hands – but they're the first ones at the trough when it's feeding time, he reminded himself. At least I know what goes into every victory, every triumph of the Federation and the Admiralty; I know, because I'm there to do the work.
You want peace and prosperity throughout the Federation? he asked them silently. Then be thankful that there are men like me – and Admiral Czymszczak, he would grudgingly add – doing what has to be done to make sure that that's what we have.
And if a few laws get bent or broken, a few lives compromised, a few reputations ruined, well, the cost was small enough compared to what was gained.
Reassured, self-satisfied, Asfad glanced at the inbound report that had just appeared on his computer monitor, checked the authenticity code to confirm that the unsigned report came from one of Czymszczak's agents, then began to read the report.
After all, a man like Czymszczak couldn't be expected to read _every_ report that his agents sent him, Asfad reminded himself. It was his job to review the reports, prioritize them, then forward the important ones – and the ones that had the potential to become important – to Czymszczak's attention. In a way, Asfad thought smugly, it means I know more than the Admiral does about what's happening in Starfleet – and it's up to me to decide what is and isn't important! Restrict this paper – and Czymszczak makes this decision! Forward that paper – and the Admiralty votes a different way!
It's all up to me! Asfad gloated. In my way, I control Starfleet – and they have no idea!
He grinned to himself as he read through the paper – a relatively insignificant report – then instantly dropped the grin as a faint commotion in the hallway outside the Admiral's office began to draw closer.
Rising to his feet, he grabbed at the padds that covered his desk, quickly shuffling them into the proper order, then hurried to the door.
It opened to a rush of air and humanity as a dozen people entered, clustered around a central figure of youthful power and energy that pushed through the room, oblivious to both Asfad's armful of reports and his expression of nervous submission.
"Prepare a report on the Regency sector's readiness plan should the negotiations with Cardassia fail. They'll bordering the Cardassian neutral zone; I want the report to infer that should we not succeed with this round of negotiations, the sector will be absorbed in the next expansion," Admiral Thaddeus Czymszczak said into the air, knowing that the proper assistant would hear the directive and hurry to comply.
Or not.
"The Cardassians aren't in a position to expand, Admiral," an anonymous voice answered. "Our last report indicates they're focused on resolving internal issues – and our operatives indicate that that is not likely to change within the next eight months."
Czymszczak stopped in mid-stride, turned to face the voice, then said quietly, "I didn't ask what the report said; I said to prepare a report indicating what I said. Now do it," he ordered, his voice quiet and firm.
The man who had spoken stared at the admiral for a moment, uncomprehending – then nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll have it to you by day's end," he said, then raced off.
Czymszczak nodded approvingly while making a mental note to watch this young upstart - then turned away, calling out more orders as he walked, each attendant hurrying away as the directive was issued. As he reached the door to his inner office, he once again found himself alone – as he did every morning.
It was a point of pride; to have the day's work ready to be assigned before he left his private residence, and to time those assignments so the last one would be done just as he reached his office, leaving him to review the really important work in peace and quiet.
Relative peace and quiet, he amended an instant later, barking out a harsh, "Asfad!" as the doors slid open and he entered his spacious private workplace.
Despite the forcefulness of the command, Asfad automatically slowed as he entered the room, taken aback, as he always was, by the exquisite furnishings of the space.
One day, he thought to himself, one day, I will have a office like this – thick carpets, art works from dozens of different species, the huge wood desk that filled almost half the room... He grinned to himself, knowing from his discussion with the assistants to the other admirals that no one else had an office an richly appointed as this one – but then again, no other admiral had Asfad Qasmieh as an assistant.
And one day, one day I will be the one in the position of power; one day, I will have an office just like this, he told himself.
"Eyes to the present," Czymszczak murmured as he sank into the deep leather chair that stood behind the massive desk.
"Pardon?" Asfad replied.
"Keep your eyes to the present, Asfad," Czymszczak repeated as he tabbed open his computer screen. "The best way to be recognized – and promoted – to another position is to focus all your efforts on the job you have."
Yes, sir," the assistant replied, humiliated at having been caught out by Czymszczak – again. "But your office is..."
"It's an office, Asfad," Czymszczak interrupted brusquely. "A place where I do business," he added.
Yes, Asfad agreed – business both public and private. The public
work was a matter of perfectly documented record; the private work... well, what went on behind the closed doors was no one's business except Czymszczak's – even Asfad was not privy to those conversations – but almost invariably they were followed by an unexpected outcome in a vote in the Admiralty or the Federation Council – and those votes were usually followed by the arrival of some exquisite gift for the office.
Hence the beautiful wood desk from Alzarra II, when such things were unknown on Earth but for antiques that had survived from centuries before; hence the preciously unobtainable original Diminia sculpture on the corner of that desk; hence the leather chair from Sancto.
Leather, Asfad thought wistfully; once there had been a time when such goods were available on Earth, he knew – but the cost to the planet and the ecosystem of raising herd animals to feed and dress a population of over six billion had made the slaughter of cattle an extravagant and appalling waste – especially when replicators could make similar substances that didn't harm the planet or the beasts.
And, he admitted to himself, he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to eat meat from a living animal, or to sit on a chair made of its skin. Somehow, it was just... wrong.
For me, he amended hastily, not about to decry Czymszczak for his possessions, even in the privacy of his own thoughts; it's not right for me – but for Admiral Czymszczak – well, he's more worldly than I am – and more worthy. He's earned what he has! he insisted silently.
As I will earn what I get, he told himself; I'll earn it because I'll work hard for it, he added, reminding himself that no task was too low, as long as he kept his eye on the prize ahead of him.
But keep an eye to the present as well, he thought a moment later, reminding himself before Czymszczak caught his mind drifting again.
"I have the agent reports from yesterday," he said. "Nothing of note," he added promptly, not wanting to waste the admiral's time by having to be coaxed into revealing the reports information. "Damage to the Excalibur's engines in war games..."
"Collins is chief engineer," Czymszczak murmured to himself, mentally pulling out the engineer's personnel file. Not the best engineer in the fleet by a long shot – but his parents had been very generous when he had aided the young man in getting in the Academy years before – and more so each time their less-than-stellar son had needed a promotion. Being made Chief Engineer had cost them a small fortune – but being responsible for damaging a starship's engines might be more costly in the long run, Czymszczak thought. Still, accidents do happen during war games – and this might be nothing more than the anticipated wear and tear Starfleet expected.
"Get me an analysis on the cause," he ordered.
"Yes, sir," Asfad replied quietly.
He had already done so, of course – but Czymszczak didn't need to know that; there were some things – such as knowing exactly how clever Asfad really was – that the admiral simply did not need to know. If he did, Asfad reminded himself, he might see him as a threat to his position – and his fate might be no different from that of a dozen others whose activities and intelligence had gotten in the way of the admiral throughout his career.
Injuries, early retirements – even tragic deaths on a few occasions... The admiral let nothing get in his way – but, Asfad reminded himself, he did so carefully. Nothing could be traced back to him – then, or now.
Even Asfad could prove nothing of what he knew Admiral Thaddeus Czymszczak had done; knowing wasn't proof – and whatever acts Asfad had committed on Czymszczak's behalf could never be verified as having come from that source.
Nor could Czymszczak be held responsible for the ones that would inevitably come in the future – including the tragic accident that would soon befall the Chief Engineer of the Excalibur, Asfad knew.
Oh, not immediately, he added silently; even if the damage were to prove to be Collins' fault, there would be no immediate repercussions – but during the leave that would be granted to the crew on their next leave, there would be an accident, and Collins would be removed from his post before he could cause real damage to one of Starfleet's ships.
Not a permanent accident, Asfad decided; Collins' parents were too wealthy and too powerful to risk losing as benefactors; indeed, the Admiral would probably spend time personally checking on the young man as he recovered and even be sure to find him a prestigious post somewhere safe, where he could not possibly harm anyone or anything – and one for which his parents would be eternally grateful, Asfad thought.
Eternally, he added with a soundless chuckle; little did they know how accurate that phrase was – but there were more than a few wills out there that named Czymszczak as a beneficiary.
Not the only beneficiary of course – and the gifts appeared as nothing more than tokens of appreciation – but underneath that subterfuge were the charitable foundations that would be funded by the same wills – foundations that were secretly controlled by the admiral.
Asfad smiled; not long ago, there had been a motion before the Admiralty to block any involvement in private foundations by the Starfleet elite – a motion that would have cut Czymszczak off from his growing fortune and the working capital that funded his current work across the quadrant. The proponent of the idea had no evidence of wrong doing by anyone within the Admiralty, and certainly nothing to suggest that Czymszczak was doing exactly that; he was just acting on the side of caution, Asfad had determined.
And, Asfad learned, acting on the side of gathering the best possible public awareness, one that would gather him a significant amount of publicity, moving him to the front of the Admiralty as a loyal and caring representative of the citizens of the Federation – but that spotlight was not one that Czymszczak was willing to share.
The Admiral had quickly moved to approve the bill, urging his fellow Admirals to support the regulation, praising the recommendation – and moving it out of the spotlight as quickly as possible, and with so little contention that whatever controversy it might have raised disappeared in a matter of days – and with it the political aspirations of its original proponent. A law that passed that easily clearly and with such open approval by every member of the admiralty clearly meant that no one was misusing their position in that manner, the originator had realized; if there was a controversy to move him into the public eye, this wasn't it.
And so, when the law was repealed a few months later, due to a critical error in the wording, no one thought to rewrite the law, deeming it unnecessary.
Asfad smiled, remembering how he had managed to have the administrative assistant who was responsible for drafting the law to insert the erroneous wording; to all outward appearances, the final draft seemed flawless – how was anyone, except the high court, to know that the inserted subclause had been ruled invalid over a generation before?
Of course, even if the law had remained on the books, there would have been ways to keep the foundations hidden – but Czymszczak had taught him long ago that it was easier to shape the law to fit your needs than to try to fit your needs to the law.
The foundations and the money they funneled into Czymszczak's coffers were politically incorrect, possible immoral, and potentially devastating to the Admiral's career – but they were perfectly legal.
Still, what the public didn't know would not hurt them – or the admiral.
"Stop daydreaming," Czymszczak murmured, not even looking up from his computer screen; after two years of having Qasmieh as his assistant, he knew each of the man's foibles and failings, including the tendency to drift off in dreams of a future.
"Sir?" Asfad replied, startled back to the present once again.
"Finish your report," Czymszczak said.
"Yes, sir! Our agent on the Enterprise reports there was an emergency rescue of a ship that was damaged in the Bryona field," the man said. "Thirty Cardassian children and their guardian were rescued."
"A rescue of Cardassian children," Czymszczak murmured. "And this is important because...?"
"Because their guardian is Romulan," Asfad said.
Czymszczak's head snapped up.
Startled, Asfad continued, "You said you wanted a report on every untoward event involving the Romulans..."
The admiral cut him off sharply. "I know what I said, Qasmieh," he snapped, then fell silent, thinking.
After a moment he looked back at his admin. "Do we know anything about the Romulan?"
Qasmieh shook his head. "It's a preliminary report, sir; our agent posted it as soon as he could – but it appears that little about the situation was known at that time," he explained.
Czymszczak raised a brow. "And when was that time?" he pressed.
"The incident occurred approximately thirty-six hours ago, sir," Asfad replied.
"Thirty-six hours out," Czymszczak muttered, shaking his head. "God knows what the situation might be by now."
"Sir?"
The admiral affixed the man with a cold glare. "The Romulans view Riker – the whole damned crew of the Enterprise – as some kind of heroes after that debacle with the Remans," he said. "If he starts spouting off about repairing Romulan Federation relations, it may just start the whole reconciliation process moving again."
Which is precisely what Czymszczak wanted, Asfad knew – but with himself as the key figure in the process, not William Riker.
"Yes, sir – but this Romulan might not be anyone of importance," he demurred.
"The Romulans won't care – not if they want the peace process to start up again – and considering the condition the Remans left their world in, they'll take any opportunity they can get," Czymszczak replied.
The Remans, Czymszczak thought – or rather, one Reman: Picard's clone. God alone knew how they had managed to extract the cellular material to initiate the process, or how they had ever thought to pull it off, he added. It was one thing to substitute a man for his twin – but there was no way they would ever be able to pass the clone off as Picard, he thought; the experiences of life imprint upon us in ways far too subtle for anyone to be able to successfully ape for more than a day or two – and almost eighty years of life had made their marks on Picard in ways no one, identical or not, would ever be able to fake.
No, that idea had been doomed from the start. The only good that had come out of it was a naïve youngster with an ego big enough to believe he could avenge himself on the people – all the people – who had been responsible for his creation and his life.
And naïve enough to believe that all the good fortune that had fallen upon him – his timely emancipation from the Reman hell, the ability of his fellow creatures to build a massive warship with technology that even the Federation didn't possess, their remarkable ability to suborn the key people in the key government posts at just the right times...
Czymszczak shook his head. It had never occurred to Shinzon that fortune just doesn't happen that way – that it needed help.
Help that came from the most unexpected places, he added.
Of course, had everything worked out just as Shinzon had planned, Czymszczak would have quickly used those same people who had helped to empower the upstart to bring him crashing down, leaving the Romulan empire in ruin – and ready to sue for peace with the Federation – with Czymszczak leading the way.
But things hadn't worked out – Czymszczak had never thought they would - and he had been there, read to move in, ready to ease the Romulans into a treaty that they would so desperately need, now that their empire was in ruins.
Except they never did. Oh, there had been some talk of returning to the negotiating treaty, he thought – but always with the one requirement that Picard lead the negotiations for the Federation.
He had quickly quashed that plan, maneuvering Picard into the Admiralty where protocol prevented him from leading the negotiations – or indeed, from even participating in them.
That had taken some work, keeping the man assigned to other committees within the Admiralty, hoping that the Romulans would eventually agree to the talks without their so-called hero – or that time would finally take its toll and that damned old man would finally die.
Or retire, he conceded – though that would have been far less fulfilling than knowing the man could never interfere in his personal political aspirations again.
But the Romulans had held their position, declining to negotiate unless Picard was involved – and preventing Czymszczak from leading the negotiations that would have placed him, irretrievably, in the public eye as the champion of the Federation – and its next President.
Perhaps its last President, he added with a small tight smile.
And now, Czymszczak thought, now we may be able to move Picard out of the spotlight once and for all; now we can make a new hero for the Romulans to admire; now we can switch their attention to someone else – and that someone else will be under my control.
Maybe this will all work out after all, he thought, the gears of his mind quickly turning.
"Get me the details of the rescue. I want to know the name of the pilots, their service histories, everything we've got on their families... and I want it now. And I want a complete record of everything that the Enterprise did – and details on every possible mistake Riker might have committed in the process. I want the Romulans to know just how close Riker came to failing – and how those pilots – not Riker! - saved the crew. And I want a Defiant class vessel prepared for immediate departure. Have every report from our agent forwarded directly to that ship," he added. No delays, Asfad. We need to know everything about that rescue – now."
"Sir?"
"The Romulans are about to return to the negotiating table, Asfad. They just don't know it yet," he said with a cold, cold smile.
"And this time they're going to settle with us – the way we want them to.
"The way _I_ want them to."