Trip had insisted on helping prepare Malcolm's body for burial, washing him, clothing him in his dress uniform and carefully brushing his hair. He'd clipped the errant curl of hair that always fell onto Malcolm's forehead whenever his hair was mussed. He wanted - needed - this memento and finally understood his Grandma Tucker's elderly neighbor who had Victorian mourning jewelry made from the hair of a distant ancestor who had died in the ill-fated charge at Gettysburg. It wasn't until he had gently twisted the lock of hair around his fingers that he realized just how much silver there was in Malcolm's formerly dark hair.

He'd seen Malcolm comfortably placed in the casing for a photon torpedo and felt that this was an eminently suitable coffin for his beloved. On Malcolm's chest, he'd placed an antique silver picture frame bearing a photograph of the two of them on their wedding day. Malcolm had spent so much of his life feeling alone, even when surrounded by others; he didn't want him to spend any part of eternity feeling that way too. He'd considered placing a phase pistol - one that Malcolm had designed of course - in Malcolm's left hand. After all, one could believe what one wished about the afterlife, but no one knew for sure what happened after death. He just wanted Malcolm to be safe. It had taken a great deal of persuasion on the part of Ensign Winfield, the late Lieutenant Rose's second, to talk him out of it. He'd left the broad gold band on Malcolm's left ring finger. To the best of his knowledge, Malcolm had never removed it since the day he (Trip) had placed it there. Before the casing was closed, Trip took one last look at Malcolm. He seemed so peaceful, as if he were only sleeping. Trip could handle that. He lightly kissed Malcolm's forehead one last time. "Sweet dreams, darlin'." He just couldn't bring himself to say goodbye.

Trip had returned to Engineering when his comlink sounded. There was an incoming transmission from Starfleet headquarters. "Hey, Mac, mind if I take it in there?" He pointed to Commander MacKenzie's office.

"If you can find the data terminal, Captain, you're welcome to it. I was about to grab some dinner anyway. You want anything?"

"No, thanks. Not hungry." He'd found the data terminal without difficulty, although there were haphazard piles of PADDs and various mechanical odds and ends on just about every flat surface. MacKenzie's office wasn't usually this much of a disaster area, but he hadn't had much chance to clean up after all the gyrations the ship had been through. Trip smiled faintly. This had to be why Malcolm hadn't stayed in engineering, although he clearly had had the talent for it, at least when it came to EM fields, phase weapons and weapons of mass destruction generally. The obsessively tidy Malcolm just couldn't take the clutter.

Once he'd cleaned off a chair and got himself situated, he had the transmission routed to him. He had expected the message to be from one of the admirals back at headquarters, but who he got instead was a smarmy Lieutenant from the Public Affairs Office, a man to whom he uncharacteristically took an immediate dislike. Maybe it was because this person delivered his condolences on the death of Admiral Reed with about as much sincerity as a pre-owned personal transportation device salesman pitching a deal. Maybe it was because this person seemed to have no clue that Admiral Reed was anything more to Trip than a commanding officer. Now really, was there anyone in Starfleet who didn't know he and Mal had been married for almost 40 years? They'd never bothered to hide it. He forced himself to listen to this person, this Lieutenant Rivers, and was appalled by what he heard.

Trip knew that it was Starfleet's custom, as it was for various branches of the military on United Earth, to bury its dead on the battlefield where they had fallen. Despite this, he had assumed that Malcolm's wishes would be respected because of his rank and that his wishes would be respected as Malcolm's next of kin. It was a rude awakening when he found he had been mistaken in his assumptions.

With entirely too much pleasure, as Trip interpreted it, Rivers told him that Starfleet was sending a video unit out to record the funeral service for Admiral Reed and the consignment of his body to space. Now, of course, the service had to be fairly generic so no one would be offended, and it had to fit into certain broadcast time constraints. That it would offer no comfort to Malcolm's soul or to his surviving friends and colleagues apparently wasn't a consideration. What mattered was that it could be used as a recruitment tool and perhaps worked into a biopic on the Admiral that Starfleet was already pitching to the studios.

When Rivers finally stopped to take a deep breath, Trip took the opportunity, as an earlier age would have said, to go ballistic. Admiral Reed was not going to be dumped in space; he was coming home to Earth for a proper, dignified funeral and burial. Trip had promised him that, and he was going to keep his promise. And another thing, nobody was making a cheesy movie of the week/direct to video-type biopic about him either. Admiral Reed was a very private man who would never have authorized such a venture had he still been alive. He deserved to be treated with greater respect.

Rivers clearly couldn't understand Trip's position. He took it as a personal affront that Trip didn't approve of Starfleet's plans. He also made it clear that Trip had nothing to say in the matter. The decision had been made at a much higher level. The minute Rivers closed the channel, Trip started working his way up the chain of command to that higher level. He couldn't believe this was happening.

Three hours later, and following several conversations that basically told him the same thing, he finally discovered that it had indeed been Rivers' idea and that the creep had been devious enough to pitch it to the one admiral who would go for it hook, line and sinker.

Admiral Sir Peregrine Scott (he had inherited his title, not won it) had always been jealous of Malcolm. He had always felt that this upstart with no pedigree (indeed, hadn't his family disowned him?) should never have risen above the rank of lieutenant, much less been made a fleet admiral, but had used his connection to Admiral Jonathan Archer (a mere Yank for whom Scott had no respect either) to get above his station in life. Scott believed that that rank, and the power and the glory that went with it, rightfully belonged to none other than himself. He believed that, through a series of misfortunes for which he, of course, was not to blame, he had been shunted off to a desk job in San Francisco (the Yankee land of fruits and nuts) instead of given command of the fleet. He'd always gotten his little digs in toward Malcolm at every opportunity and particularly disparaged his marriage to Trip. If Reed had had any sense of propriety, Scott had once said, he wouldn't have married a redneck Yankee cracker. Malcolm had heard the remark (as he was most certainly meant to) and had calmly corrected Scott: His spouse was a redneck Rebel cracker, and if Admiral Scott planned on spending any time south of the Mason-Dixon line he would do well to learn the difference, unless of course he wanted to be jailed on a charge of incitement to riot. Scott was now quite pleased with himself. He'd have the last laugh on Reed. He took great glee in explaining to Trip that he would accept Starfleet's plans or face disciplinary action. If he were in the brig, then he couldn't very well attend the funeral, could he? He chortled as he closed the channel.

Trip was stunned. He hadn't wanted to do this, had wanted to take care of things himself, but now he was desperate and exhausted and knew he needed help to keep his promise to Malcolm. He sent one final message. The minute he saw Jonathan Archer's face, he tearfully launched into his plea. "Jon, ya gotta help me! They won't let me bring Mal home. They're gonna dump 'im in space. They say if I make any more trouble, they'll bust me down to crewman, throw me in the brig and keep me from goin' to Mal's funeral."

Archer had given up on expressing his condolences to Trip on Malcolm's death. "Whoa, Trip, who won't let you bring Malcolm home?"

"Starfleet, that's who. Specifically, Admiral Scott. He wants to dump Mal in space."

"I wouldn't characterize it as 'dump', Trip. Burial in space is pretty much Starfleet's tradition."

"You don't understand, Jon! Mal wanted to come home. He asked me not to jettison him, and I promised I wouldn't. It was like he was beggin'. Ya know Mal hardly ever asked for anythin' personal, and Reeds don't beg. Well, Tuckers ain't got a problem beggin'. Ya gotta help me, Jon! Ya gotta help me keep my promise to Mal!"

"Trip, I thought Malcolm wanted to be buried at sea. Burial in space isn't that different."

"He wanted to be buried at sea 'cause he thought it would be his last chance to win his dad's approval. His dad died long ago. That don't matter now. His dad wouldn't allow him to be buried with the rest of the Reeds, so Mal thought he'd end up in an unmarked grave somewhere not even home. He thought it would be overgrown with weeds and forgotten, that no one would visit or put flowers on it, even for Remembrance Day. We taught him he had another family, a family that cared for 'im and wouldn't forget 'im like that. You, me, T'Pol, Hoshi, Travis, Phlox, everybody on the old Enterprise. He trusted all of us. Those of us who are left can't let him down!"

"Look, Jon, I gotta bring him home! I gotta keep him safe! If he's floatin' 'round in space, the Romulans or some other species that decides to hate our guts could find 'im and make a trophy of 'im. I could deal with burial at sea as long as they told me the coordinates. I just have to know where he is! I want to be able to visit 'im and talk to him. I don't care how weird that sounds! It's somethin' I gotta do!" Trip couldn't talk anymore. He put his head down on the desk and sobbed.

"OK, Trip. I'll see what I can do with Starfleet. Since Malcolm was an English subject and a peer of the realm, perhaps Air Marshal Knight could give me some pointers on how to work it from that end too. He's a friend, and he held Malcolm in high esteem, so maybe he'll help. I can't promise you more, though."

Trip raised his head from the desk and sniffled. Defiance returned to his blue eyes. "That's OK, Jon. I understand. I know you'll do your best, but I'm telling ya right now, if this don't work out, I'm gonna be needin' a lawyer."

Archer chuckled. "Do you suppose you could let me work on one thing at a time?" Then he turned serious. "I'm very sorry about Malcolm, Trip. He really was extraordinary. If there's anything else you need, anything else I can do, don't hesitate to call."

"Just help me bring 'im home. That's all I need right now."

"I'm on it. Now, you get something to eat and get some sleep. You look like hell!"

"'Night, Jon." Trip closed the channel. He wasn't hungry, but he did put his head back on the desk and let the sound of the impulse engine lull him to sleep. That was how MacKenzie found him in the morning. That was where he was when the short, terse message from Starfleet came in informing him that Her Britannic Majesty's government requested the return of the body of Admiral Lord Reed to Earth at Starfleet's earliest convenience. Victory was to make all possible speed to the Royal Navy's space port at Portsmouth. Trip was elated. With Jon's help, he'd won. He was bringing Mal home just as he promised. What else could go wrong? It's amazing that a man of mature years, as Trip was, would even ask that question. Hadn't he figured out yet that if you asked, you were bound to find out? In spades.

Lieutenant Russell, the chief communications officer, knew that the death of Admiral Reed had hit everybody pretty hard, not just the crew of Victory. Even the Andorians seemed stunned by it. General Shran had issued a surprisingly gracious and moving (based on what Russell knew of Andorians) General Order to the combined fleets to memorialize Reed's death. In it he praised Reed as exemplifying the best of the warrior traditions of both Earth and Andoria and characterized him as a deeply honorable man with whom it had been his great pleasure to serve. On a personal note, he grieved the lost of a trusted friend. As astonishing as the transmission was, Russell wasn't sure how much comfort it was to Captain Tucker, who of course, had been the hardest hit of all.

Russell was truly worried about his captain who seemed to move about Victory like a wraith. True, he met with Mr. Hardy on a regular basis, and sometimes with the other department heads as well, and regularly visited the patients still in sickbay, but his fun-loving, optimistic spirit seemed to have died with the Admiral. Rumor had it the only thing the Captain ever took from the mess hall, even after repairs made it possible for Chef to serve hot food again, was coffee and that the last time anyone saw him asleep was early in the morning of the day after the battle when he had been found in the Chief Engineer's office. In fact, Engineering seemed to be where he spent most of his time. His quarters had been damaged in the battle, but he had removed them from the list of priority repairs. Flag quarters were undamaged, but Russell could understand how his captain couldn't bear to enter them.

What really concerned him, though, was the rumor he had been able to confirm for himself. He had taken a turn as one of the honor guards for the Admiral's coffin down in the cargo bay. It had been about 2200 when Captain Tucker had appeared, pulled a chair up beside the coffin and spent the next half hour discussing the ship, its crew and the fleet as if the Admiral were still alive and had requested his daily briefing. It hadn't been a whispered conversation, and Tucker hadn't dismissed the honor guard. Finally, he had said, "'Night, Mal. Sweet dreams, darlin'", and had gone. Now, Russell considered himself to be a pretty tough, no-nonsense kind of guy, so the wetness he felt on his cheeks must have come from some overhead leak, one that selectively occurred only where the honor guard stood. Yeah, and he really wasn't afraid either, just "concerned."

The next day, Mr. Hardy had sent Russell to the transporter room to meet General Shran and serve as his escort on the ship. Repairs were nearly completed that would allow Victory to safely go to warp and return to Earth. Officially, Shran had some last minute instructions for Tucker and had chosen to deliver them himself. Unofficially, it was an entirely different story.

Russell heard the hum of the machinery and saw the shimmering lights as General Shran materialized on the platform. He had never actually met Shran before, had only seen pictures, and was surprised to find that the commanding general of the Andorian Imperial Guard, the man with such a fearsome reputation, was, even with his antennae, only about the same height as Admiral Reed and nearly as thin. He wore the royal blue service uniform of the Guard with a white mourning sash running diagonally across his chest and no ornamentation save for collar devices indicating his rank. He had a small carrier slung over his shoulder, and as he saluted the Starfleet seal on the wall behind the transporter controls, Russell could have sworn he heard the sound of glass bottles clinking together.

"General Thy'lek Shran of the Andorian Imperial Guard requesting permission to come aboard, Lieutenant." He made no move to leave the platform.

Russell recovered from his surprise and returned the salute. "Permission granted, sir. Welcome aboard. May I give you a hand with that?" He indicated the carrier.

"Thank you, but no. I am afraid that is classified material, Lieutenant, and you do not have the clearance." Russell was surprised by the amusement in Shran's large brown eyes, that was until he heard what was definitely the sound of glass bottles being jostled about as Shran stepped off the platform. Shran immediately turned serious. "I regret the death of Admiral Reed, Lieutenant. He was a fine man."

"That he was, sir," Russell wholeheartedly agreed. "If you'll follow me please, I'll take you to the Captain."

"I am to be allowed in Engineering, then, as long as I have my 'honor guard'?" Shran's voice carried a trace of amusement again. When he saw Russell's look of mingled surprise and confusion, he clarified, "Knowing Captain Tucker as I do, I would expect Engineering to be his - preferred base of operations - under the circumstances, and while Ti'er (Lord) Malcolm might consider me a valuable ally, that would not preclude him from banning me from Engineering without a security detail which he would, of course, call an 'honor guard' to prevent any hurt feelings."

Russell still wasn't sure what to make of Shran. He certainly wasn't what he had expected. "Engineering it is, sir, but I'm Communications, not Security."

"Whatever you say, Lieutenant." Shran smiled.

When they arrived in Engineering, Shran was aware that the pace of work slowed considerably as the officers and crew were trying, as discretely as possible, to see him and hear what he had to say. He didn't need his ultrasensitive antennae to know this. It was the same on Andorian ships. He took the opportunity to once again praise the late Admiral Reed. "Captain, Admiral Reed's death is a great loss. He was a loyal friend to Andoria, to the Guard and to myself personally. He cannot be replaced." Brown eyes met blue eyes in a look of deep understanding that needed no words. Shran then became all business again. "There are a few matters I should like to discuss with you privately before you leave for Earth."

Trip nodded. "Mac, ya mind if a borrow your office again?"

"Be my guest, sir. I think it's picked up enough for company." MacKenzie smiled. He was one of the senior officers who was in on at least what one of the items of discussion was, and he heartily approved.

The two men found seats and Shran opened the conversation. "I have two requests to make of you, Captain. I will start with this as it is the easier of the two." Shran was unusually reticent, enough so that even in his distressed state Trip noticed it.

"What can I do for ya, Thy'lek?"

"I understand you are leaving for Earth soon and you would like to take Yorktown as an escort?"

"Yeah, repairs should be finished by tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest. Still, I wouldn't want to run into any hostiles in the shape we're in. Yorktown's in good condition, Travis would be hurt if I asked for another ship, and besides, his Weapons and Tactical officer should be able to keep us both outta trouble. Travis speaks quite highly of him, as did Mal. You ain't gonna refuse me now, are ya, Thy'lek?"

Shran was smiling at the compliment paid to his son. "No, Captain, I am not. I would, however, like to ask your permission to send General Telev and the Tel'kien as a second escort."

"You're the - fleet commander - Thy'lek. You don't gotta ask my permission for nothin'."

"True, I do not," Shran acknowledged with a smirk. "However, unlike some of your colleagues at Starfleet, if the rumor is to be believed, when it comes to his "Ceremony of Remembrance", I do believe that you speak with the voice of Ti'er Malcolm. For that reason, I seek your permission."

"Why thank you, Thy'lek. I'm much obliged. As for the Andorian escort, Mal would like that, I'm sure. He'd consider it a great honor, as I do. Thank you for offerin'." Trip was dangerously close to tears.

"It helps me repay a debt," Shran said simply.

Trip seemed a bit puzzled. "You said you had two requests, Thy'lek. What's the other?"

Shran looked down at the desk for a moment and sighed. Normally a man of action, he was distinctly uncomfortable, not sure how to proceed, not sure how this very Andorian request would be viewed by his "pinkskin" friend. "Do you remember when Talas died?" he asked at last.

"Do I remember?" Trip was amazed by the question. "I thought you were gonna kill Jon. You damn near died yourself. Stuff like that's a little hard to forget! Why ya askin'?" Trip was thoroughly confused now. What did this have to do with Mal?

"Perhaps you also remember that I wanted to take a vial of her blood back to Andoria to place in the Wall of Heroes, the shrine to our honored dead?" Shran thought he saw a glimmer of understanding in Trip's eyes, but hurried on with his request in case understanding should lead to outrage. He was fairly certain that what he was requesting was not the human way.

"If possible, I would like a vial of Ti'er Malcolm's blood or a lock of his hair to place in the Wall of Heroes. He was an honorary member of the Imperial Guard, and I do not play a political game when I say he was a friend to Andoria and to the Guard. The request is made with respect, Captain, respect for our traditions and respect for Ti'er Malcolm. If you would allow it, it would also help me repay a personal debt to him."

"Of course you wouldn't do anything disrespectful, Thy'lek! How could you think . . .?" Trip sighed in exasperation. "We'll need to stop in sickbay and have a word with Dr. Beatty. I'm sure somethin' can be arranged. I can't tell ya how much your kindness means to me, Thy'lek. Mal would be overwhelmed by it too, 'specially considerin' what Starfleet wanted to do to 'im!" A sudden thought came to Trip, and he smiled. "Ya know, if Jon hadn't come through, maybe Victory, Mal and I could have defected to Andoria."

Shran laughed. "I do not know how Ti'er Malcolm put up with you, Trip. You are such a - what is the word? - smart-ass!"

"Mama Tucker always said it took one to know one - sir!" For the first time in days, Trip actually laughed. "Come on. Let's collect your 'honor guard' and head down to sickbay."

"One last thing, Captain. After sickbay, we will head for the captain's mess where we will eat our fill of the special menu Chef has prepared, where we will drink good Andorian ale (Shran patted the carrier) until we are drunk and where we will remember Ti'er Malcolm with laughter as well as tears. I will make that an order, if necessary."

"You throwin' an Irish wake for Mal, Thy'lek?"

"I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about, Captain," Shran said stiffly. "This is an ancient Andorian custom. Why you 'pinkskins' believe you thought of everything first is beyond me!"

As it turned out, Dr. Beatty had anticipated Shran's request. A lock of Malcolm's hair had been carefully secured in a titanium suture ligature and pressed between oversized glass slides. Someone in Engineering had taken gold wiring and solder and created a frame for the slides. "Thanks, Doc," Trip murmured quietly as he watched Shran place the carefully wrapped memento in the breast pocket of his uniform jacket. Trip didn't realize, although Dr. Beatty did, that the packet rested over the main chamber of Shran's heart.

When they arrived in the Captain's mess, Chef had already arranged an extensive buffet consisting mainly of Trip's favorite foods: Pan-fried catfish seasoned with cayenne pepper and other Cajun spices, meatloaf, prime rib, mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy, broccoli florets, pecan pie, Key lime pie, Rocky Road ice cream and cherry-flavored shaved ice (Shran didn't really see the point to that dessert). There was also pineapple upside-down cake and pineapple sorbet in honor of Malcolm. As Trip took a piece of the cake, he wished there were more foods, even the ones with funny names, that Malcolm had liked, but he'd never made any special requests of Chef. Chef knew about the pineapple only because Trip had told him.

With Trip's help, Shran set a place for Malcolm at the head of the table. The other senior officers joined them for lunch, joined in the toasts to Malcolm and joined in the story-telling about their respected and beloved admiral. Eventually, though, only Shran and Trip remained. Something was nagging at Trip, and he finally realized what it was. "Thy'lek, what did you mean when you said you were in debt to Mal? He never mentioned anything like that to me."

"I mean no disrespect, Trip, but he would not, would he? Being an intensely private man himself, he would not trumpet the failings of others, particularly those of a friend." Seeing Trip's confusion and perhaps because his tongue was loosened somewhat by drink or perhaps because he felt that this was something Trip needed to know about Malcolm, he volunteered, "He saved my family, Trip."

"Somebody was gunnin' for ya'll?" Now, Trip knew Shran had enemies, some of them even Andorian, but it wasn't sportin' to go after a guy's family, and even though Jhamel was politically powerful, Trip always saw her as gentle, unassuming and kind. Talla and Tren were just kids. He'd forgotten for the moment that Tren was Weapons and Tactical officer on the Yorktown.

"No, Trip, nothing like that. Well, at least that was not how Ti'er Malcolm came to my assistance."

If Trip hadn't been a bit "overserved" himself, he might not have pursued the matter, but he was and he did. "Well, Thy'lek, just what was it Mal did?"

"He kept me from doing something that would have destroyed my family."

"He kept you from hurtin' your family? What the hell ya talkin' 'bout, Thy'lek? You adore your family! Anybody even look wrong at Miss Jhamel or Miss Talla and you'd have their head. You wouldn't harm them." Drunk or sober, Trip would be scandalized by the thought.

"I am touched that you think so highly of me, Captain," Shran said with the sarcasm for which he was famous. "It is a shame that I will have to set you straight, but perhaps that is part of my debt to Ti'er Malcolm as well."

"The House of Shran is not an ancient house of the warrior caste like Talas' family or Lord Tel'kien's. We have always had members in the military and occasionally even in the Guard; indeed, the first Thy'lek Shran was captain of the icebreaker Kumari that was the first to circumnavigate Andoria, but, I repeat, we are not of the warrior caste. Nonetheless, I hoped Tren would follow in my footsteps in the Guard, would follow the way of the warrior. You see, I believe my son is promising as well." Shran favored Trip with a small, ironic smile.

"Tren, however, had other ideas. He grew up hearing all the stories about Enterprise, its captain, its Weapons and Tactical officer and even its Chief Engineer." Again, there was that small, ironic smile. "He informed me that he wanted to join Starfleet instead of the Guard. I was not amused. Our 'discussions' on the subject became quite heated, as you might imagine, Andorians being a passionate people. I made a quite serious threat, one I might even have carried out. As I said, I felt Tren was promising, and he proved it in his pursuit of an ally against me."

"Oh my God!" Trip breathed softly. He had a feeling he knew who the ally was and what the threat had been. If things were as he suspected, Tren couldn't have chosen a better ally.

"All unknowing, I came to Earth for strategic planning meetings with Starfleet. At the conclusion, Ti'er Malcolm invited me to dinner at his favorite pub in Leicester." Shran poured Trip another round then leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and narrated the scene that ran through his mind.

It was a pleasant dinner in an unpretentious, family-oriented establishment. He had a large packet of fish and chips and a bitter, dark ale. He wasn't sure what Malcolm was having. When Malcolm told him its name, he thought he must surely have misunderstood, but the universal translator made no more sense. According to the device, Malcolm was eating something called "amphibian in an excavation."

Malcolm took a swallow of ale. "General Shran, do you have a problem with Starfleet?"

Shran smiled in a rather predatory fashion. It wasn't like Ti'er Malcolm to make a tactical error like that. Well, as a matter of fact, he did have some issues which he and Malcolm went on to discuss in a constructive manner.

"Let me rephrase the question, General Shran. Do you have a personal problem with Starfleet?"

Zerit! (Damn!) It suddenly dawned on Shran what Malcolm meant, had meant all along and why he'd been invited to dinner in the first place. He'd been lured into the ambush like the rawest of recruits thanks to his son. "Ti'er Malcolm, I must apologize for my son. He certainly did not have my permission to trouble you with a family matter. I will see to it that he is punished for his insolence."

Malcolm carefully put down his silverware. His normally pale complexion had gone totally white and his usually warm, blue-gray eyes were now a cold gray. In a voice as icy as the winter wind on Andoria, Malcolm said, "What you do in your own home is, of course, your concern, General, but I never again want you to apologize for your son in my hearing! If I have an issue with your son, I will take it up with him personally, and if I desire his apology, then I will demand it of him. It is not your place to apologize for him!"

Shran had never seen Malcolm so angry. Worse yet, he wasn't sure exactly what had set him off. He didn't like being so off balance, but before he could reply, he saw Malcolm drop his eyes and a faint blush creep over his cheeks such that the term "pinkskin" really did apply to him.

"Please forgive me, Thy'lek. My outburst was uncalled for, especially as you are my guest and had no way of knowing that this subject is a painful one for me. I assure you, from my perspective, your son showed laudable initiative, not insolence. May I ask why you object to his joining Starfleet?" Malcolm's voice and countenance were once again warm and gentle.

"You know Andoria is a caste-based society. Whatever personal prominence Jhamel and I may have, our family is not of the warrior caste. The Imperial Guard is held in high esteem on Andoria. I believe Tren has the talent and ability to follow in my footsteps, to be better than I am in fact, to improve his station in life. This is what I want for my son. I am sorry, Ti'er Malcolm, but I do not believe Starfleet can do that for him."

"Thy'lek, I do understand that you only want the best for your son, but with respect, do you know what your son wants for his life? Are you certain that the Imperial Guard, and only the Imperial Guard, can provide it for him? Might it not be that regardless of his abilities, whatever prominence he achieves in the Guard will be ascribed to the fact that he is the son of the commanding general? On the other hand, might he not be moved to a dangerous recklessness in an attempt to prove he made it on his own?"

"Are you certain the same would not happen in Starfleet?" Shran challenged.

"I cannot promise it, Thy'lek, so I will not, but I also think your son believes he is more likely to rise or fall on his own merits in Starfleet and that that is important to him. You love him and value him. Please listen to him - really listen to what he wants for his life - and trust him. If I can be certain of anything, then I am certain that whatever choice he makes will not dishonor you or your family."

"Malcolm, why were you so angry before? Why is this so important to you? You speak with an Andorian's passion. I do not understand."

"My father did what you are threatening to do, and it destroyed our family. He wanted me to join the Royal Navy as generations of Reed men had done before me. I wanted to join Starfleet. He said that if I disobeyed him, if I followed my dream instead of his, then he would disown me. I applied to Starfleet Academy and was accepted. I left my father's house for San Francisco the day I turned 18. I've never been back. I would not have been welcome."

"That's what's sticky about an ultimatum. If you choose to issue one, then you must be willing to accept that when offered your way or the highway, some people, people you may love, will choose the highway. I know how much you love your family, Thy'lek. I would hate to see you make the mistake my father did. Don't force Tren to choose your dream over his in order to secure your love and respect. Don't force Jhamel and Talla to choose between you and Tren, between a husband and a son, between a father and a brother. Even if they choose you, they will come to despise you in the end."

Shran opened his eyes and sat straight up. "I took Ti'er Malcolm's advice. I listened - really listened - to Tren. It was as Ti'er Malcolm had said, so I gave him my blessing to follow his dream with Starfleet. He could have worse mentors than Admiral Archer and Ti'er Malcolm. Jhamel and Talla also confirmed his warning. So you see, Trip, my family is the debt I owe to Malcolm."

"He knew how ya get 'bout debts, Thy'lek. All he'd want is for ya to continue to be a good husband and dad, no more than what your own honor demands anyway."

"It took great courage for him to speak of so personal and painful an experience."

"You know Mal. He'd do anythin' to protect those he values." Trip's voice was a mixture of pride and grief.

"Thy'lek, what do Andorians believe about the afterlife?"

Shran poured another round for Trip and then explained, "The soul of a warrior like Ti'er Malcolm would go to the Warriors' Hall. I believe some on Earth would call it Valhalla. There they feast and drink and are made whole and young again, though with the knowledge of their years. The Andorii believe that warships have a soul as well. They go to the Hidden Harbor. The warriors and their ships join the Silver Fleet in service to the White Lord and will battle the Dark Lord and his minions until the end of days."

"Mal don't got a ship, Thy'lek. Victory wasn't destroyed." Trip was drunk enough to find this extremely distressing.

"By coincidence, my Kumari, the one I commanded when you and Malcolm were on Enterprise, lacks a captain. I am sure the crew is

spoiling to enter the fight. They would be honored to serve with Ti'er Malcolm." In a darker tone, Shran continued, "If anyone should be so misguided as to object . . . Well, Talas would not hesitate to point out the error of their ways."

"As long as that's all she does. I don't want her makin' no 'overtures' to Mal just 'cause he's captain!"

Normally, Shran would have been outraged by the comment, but he knew Trip was too drunk to realize what he had implied, not only about his (Shran's) long ago liaison with Talas, but about Malcolm as well.

"It was my experience that Talas never made an 'overture' to someone who was bonded, regardless of how attractive they were. I am also certain that Ti'er Malcolm would never encourage her to do so."

"Course not." Trip was face down on the table. Shran waited quietly for a few more minutes. When he was certain Trip was sound asleep, he summoned Lieutenant Russell who was waiting patiently in the mess hall.

"Perhaps you could see your Captain to bed? I should think he will sleep for some time. Mr. Hardy can escort me to the transporter. I have a matter to discuss with him in any case."

"I'll take care of it, sir. Thank you for helping us out with the Captain."

"My pleasure, Lieutenant." Shran pointed to the last full bottle of Andorian ale. "Your clearance has just gone up a level."

That evening, Mr. Hardy ordered Victory and its escorts to warp on a course for Earth. Trip was deeply asleep in his quarters dreaming of a time when he and Mal were young, uninjured and newly, passionately in love.