Chapter 2 – L'Arbitre
He could, of course, have transported straight to Starfleet Headquarters, but with the image of the ashes of Denaros still searing his mind Tom felt the need for a bit of fresh air and green spaces. And so he beamed down onto the Academy's public transporter pad - near the place where Voyager had rested for nearly two years – to take the walk to Starfleet Headquarters through the grounds of his former alma mater.
He stepped off the platform into the station's light-filled glass rotunda, nodding politely to a small group of cadets who straightened instinctively at the sight of his four pips. The novelty of that particular reaction was slowly beginning to wear off, although part of him kept wondering when the Admiralty would discover the huge mistake they had made, and bust him back to ensign.
Obviously, not today.
To his dismay, one young woman with second-year cadet insignia seemed to recognize him as something more than a generic four-pipper, judging by the slight "oh" her mouth formed and held. Tom sighed inwardly. Respect was one thing, notoriety quite another… Only one thing to do: flash her his most roguish smile and give her a conspiratorial wink. He took a certain degree of vengeful satisfaction in watching her turn pink as her oblivious companions dragged her off to their destination.
The sun was warm on his face, and Tom took a deep breath. The smell of the sea from the Bay mingled with the scent of roses and other, more exotic botanicals from the Academy's extensive gardens. There was something about the peaceful, not-quite-regulated bustle of the grounds - something he had really only come to appreciate after Voyager's return from the Delta Quadrant – that today was the perfect day to absorb.
But his eyes were casting around for something, someone; not seeing it, Tom headed towards the rose garden by the arboretum. A smile lit his eyes when he acquired his target.
Squatting by one of his beloved rose bushes – Empress Norita, the label said - the old gardener took careful aim at an offending shoot and snipped it off with a precision that would have made the EMH proud. Tom waited until the old man's left hand was safely removed from the vicinity of the secateurs before issuing his greeting.
"Mr. Boothby!" The man's head lifted leisurely, and he squinted against the sun.
"It's been a while. I see you're still keeping the grounds as beautiful as ever?"
"Ah, Captain Paris. Thomas. I trust you are well, this fine day?"
The gardener's tone gave the impression that he had just been waiting for Tom to step around the corner. Perhaps he had? Rumor around campus had been that Boothby wasn't actually all human, and was gifted with extra-sensory perception of some kind - something beyond mere run-of-the-mill telepathy. The wilder theories had him pegged as El-Aurian, a member of that nearly-lost race known as "listeners". Having spent nearly a year in occasional conversation with Guinan on board the Enterprise, Tom certainly was prepared to believe it.
That fact, Tom mused, would certainly explain how Boothby could still squat at his age – and had no trouble standing up – while he, in his mid-thirties, had found it difficult to get out of bed after yesterday's sparring session with Picard. All musings aside, coming from Boothby the question about his wellbeing deserved serious consideration, which Tom proceeded to give it.
Apart from the fact that his hamstrings were screaming, the previous evening had turned out a lot better than it had started. And while his mind was not entirely at peace, the fresh air and sunshine had had some of the restorative effect he had hoped for. In the big picture, he had a wife with whom he was deeply in love and who loved him back; an adorable, smart and healthy child; the respect of his friends and his family; a pretty good career (after some false starts); he hadn't eaten anything with leola root in it in well over two years; and no one had tried to shoot at him or his ship this morning.
"Never better," he replied, with a definitive nod and a smile.
"Good. Good." Boothby bent down to smell a rose. Without looking up, he added, "You've come to pick up your new mission today." He cupped the blossom between four fingers of a hand that was both tender and strong, its parchment skin spotted with age.
"How did you know?"
Boothby gave him a long, sideways look, before polishing his well-worn secateurs on his grass-stained pants.
"Your last one ended two weeks ago: enough for all those post-engagement debriefs and some R&R. And Starfleet will have to send you away for a bit, to keep you away from those who might mean you harm. Besides, there is work to be done out there."
Tom shook his head, smiling. The man was a marvel, on top of every development in Starfleet, however small the detail. Some gardener … He seemed to absorb information through neural connectors in the roots of the plants that he so lovingly tended – roots that obviously spread out underneath the entire Headquarters campus. Either that, or Boothby was in cahoots with Owen Paris' omniscient secretary, Nicole.
"Not sure about the 'keeping me away from harm' thing, but yeah. We had a couple of weeks down-and-debrief time, and are ready to move on to the next mission. It never stops, does it?"
Boothby snipped off a couple more dead buds, then stepped back to appraise his handiwork.
"No, it doesn't. And neither does conflict. The Federation is changing, Thomas. They are beginning to realize that the willingness of sentient species to harm one another is a very old thing, not easily rooted out. You cannot will peace into existence by decree. Creating it requires patience, strength of will, and the willingness to move in small steps."
He smiled beatifically. "Just like growing these roses. And you have to be lucky enough to get both sunshine and rain. Unless, of course, you control the weather, like they do here on Earth." That last was added with a dismissive wave of the secateurs upwards, towards the weather satellites.
Tom was intrigued. Had the gardener been talking to Picard? Or was he just prescient? Well, however Boothby had come by his insights, Tom figured he might as well try for some free advice - however cryptic it might be, even if stripped off the horticultural metaphors. After all, if he were to admit it to himself, advice had been – in part – what he had come for.
"Tell me, Mr. Boothby, if you had to resolve a war where the parties have caused each other horrendous harm, where would you start?"
Boothby cocked his head ever so slightly, as if he was listening to something far off in the distance. But his suddenly pensive eyes remained on Tom, scrutinizing him carefully as if trying to decide what kind of answer he merited. Finally, he spoke.
"The truth is as good place to start as any."
Tom suppressed the questions that threatened to tumble off his tongue. Long experience had taught him that with Boothby, one Delphic pronouncement was usually all you would get at any one time. Eventually, what you got might even make sense. This would, too, he was sure – and if he was lucky, he'd figure it out before it became a matter of hindsight.
The truth is a good place to start. At least Tom was certain that the old man was not making a gratuitous reference to his own first, inglorious career in Starfleet.
"The truth. I'll think on that, Mr. Boothby. And - thanks," he gave the old man a fond and genuine smile.
The gardener nodded absently, almost as if he had forgotten Tom's presence already. But then he remembered something, and the sunrise of a smile creased his face.
"Wait one moment. I have something for you. Or rather, for your lovely wife, Thomas."
He turned and with a few snips produced three stunning roses, two partly open and one still in promising bud. They were yellow, with the edges of the petals touched by a peachy rose, almost like a kiss.
"I trust Admiral Nacheyev won't mind if you bring them into her office first. Especially not if you tell her they are from me. We certainly wouldn't want her to arrest you for making off with Starfleet property."
Tom reached out for the roses, and felt several of his fingers pricked. "Ouch," he said, more out of reflex than actual pain.
"Yes, she does have thorns, this beauty. All the best ones do, you know."
And with that, Boothby sank back into a squat, and started picking some unwanted insect off the bush he had been working on.
…..
Harry Kim was pacing back and forth in the Spartan waiting area outside Fleet Admiral Nacheyev's suite of offices. At Tom's approaching steps, an exotic mixture of relief and annoyance crossed his face.
"You're late," he hissed. "And what's with the flowers? Trying to butter up the Admiral?"
"Very funny. They have thorns, so they're for B'Elanna. Long story. And no, I'm not late," Tom said, with a shrug towards the wall clock. "We still have three minutes, Commander."
He watched with a good deal of amusement the sudden realization on Harry's face at the reminder that Maybe One Didn't Speak To One's Captain That Way.
"Sorry, Tom. Err … Captain. I just can't figure out why we got summoned to come here in the first place. I mean, doesn't the admiralty usually just issue orders over comm link? They did when we were on the Enterprise."
Tom shrugged. "How would I know from usual? I've only been a Captain for, what, three months? And only had one official mission. Which I got from her directly, come to think about it. So either Nacheyev likes to hang out with me – which is unlikely, it's my father she's bosom buddies with – or this is a really sensitive mission she doesn't want to discuss over comm. Or she wants to talk about something else entirely."
The name Tervellyan hung unspoken in the air between them. Tom's late First Officer, and Nacheyev's former EA. Yes, the Admiral might want to talk about something else entirely.
None of the options particularly appeased Harry, and he started pacing again.
"Relax, Har. She's human," Tom tried to reassure his best friend. He belatedly remembered that his new First Officer had not actually had the – mitigated – pleasure of meeting the Fleet Admiral even on vid comm, let alone in person. And that, even if such thoughts were alien to Tom, given how strongly Harry felt about his career, such a meeting could mean a fair bit to him.
"Who's human?" Harry asked, and not disingenuously. He was clearly flustered out of his Starfleet socks. Tom snorted.
"Boy, you really are a wreck. You sure you're ready for that whole command thing? Steely eyes in the face of the enemy, and all that? Hell, I've seen you enter a Borg cube with more resolve than this office."
"The Borg Queen doesn't hold my career in her hands," Harry huffed back.
"Neither do I, Mr. Kim," a cool voice came from the door that had opened – far too silently - while they had been bickering. "You do. And from what I've seen, you are doing an adequate job of it so far. Congratulations on your new assignment. Captain Paris, good to see you again."
Tom turned to the door, summoning multiple generations' worth of spine stiffening protocol genomes from deep inside the Paris DNA (where he kept them firmly locked up most of the time), and came to something resembling attention. He even managed to locate and deploy a pleasant, none-too-officious smile, the apparent ease of which process filled Harry with instant envy.
"Fleet Admiral. The pleasure is mine."
Alynna Nacheyev gave both of them a small nod and a slightly frigid smile of her own, her sudden stop almost causing the short, slightly chubby man in Commander's pips who was following hard on her heels to run into her. She very briefly and perfunctorily introduced him as Zak O'Niall, her new EA, but refrained from making any reference to his late predecessor.
"My apologies, gentlemen. Something has come up and I won't be able to issue you your orders in person. You are being tasked with a sensitive and important diplomatic mission, hence the need for a secure personal briefing. The Federation envoy will explain everything to you. Expect beam up to your ship at oh-nine hundred hours tomorrow, for immediate departure to the Antarean sector. You are under the Envoy's command as far as the parameters of the mission are concerned, but you will retain full control of your ship, Captain. And I trust you will already have laid in supplies for a deep space mission of up to three months' duration. Good luck."
The Admiral's cool eyes bored into Tom's slightly puzzled ones for a moment, then looked down at the roses he was still carrying. She raised both eyebrows, asked, "Boothby?" but without awaiting an answer she was gone, forcing O'Niall into a run in order to keep up with her effortless stride.
"Well," Tom said as her steps receded, his voice coloured by a tinge of relief and amusement. "Now you've met Nacheyev. Was the experience everything you'd hoped?"
Harry's face was ashen. "I compared her to the Borg Queen, Tom! And she heard me. And … and … she knows who I am!" he croaked.
"You did no such thing. And if you did, she'd probably be flattered. As you will be, when you replay that little piece of conversation with the angst filters off."
Tom clapped his best friend on the shoulder with his rose-free hand. "Besides, the comparison is not entirely wrong. Come on, Har; you look like you need a drink. We just gained an unexpected hour, and no one will miss us. Great time to play hooky."
"Drink? In uniform?"
It was probably evidence of the extent of Harry's trauma that he managed to go from terrorized to scandalized with rather dizzying speed. Tom was having none of his best friend's mood swings, though, and rolled his eyes.
"Come again? When did you ever go to Sandrine's without your uniform on? Or when did the Captain or Chakotay, for that matter? And Will Riker plays poker for highly illegal Romulan ale, with all four pips on prominent display."
Tom sighed demonstratively. "Bottom line is this, Harry. If you get anymore uptight, we'll be able to use your butt cheeks to synthesize dilithium. Loosen up. That's an order."
Harry slumped into himself a little. "You're right. I just … I don't know how to act, I guess. I've never been a First Officer before."
"Well, start by turning back into Harry Kim The Almost Unflappable and join me for a drink. We can take it from there."
"Yeah, okay. Fine." But Harry was obviously not quite done being fretful. "But we still don't know what our mission is. I mean, how can you be so … so unconcerned? Not knowing what's expected of us? Sometimes I just don't get you, you know that?"
Tom shrugged. "Yeah, I know. Laid back to a fault, that's me. But lemme tell you something, Har. If our mission is what I think it is, spending another few hours not officially knowing where we're headed is just fine with me. And besides, when did we ever know what we were up against next in the Delta Quadrant? As the lady says, the Envoy will explain everything. So tomorrow, we'll be a step ahead of where we ever were for seven bloody years."
Harry snorted. He may not have entirely calmed down yet, but Tom had a sense that he seemed to have realized he was acting like an idiot, and was trying to summon his old sense of humour.
"Ah yes. The Envoy. Wonder who he is."
Tom pursed his lips. "What makes you think it's a he?" He thought for a moment. "I don't think Nacheyev said. Plus she didn't give away any details whatsoever. All of which leads me to believe our envoy is a woman."
"Huh? How do you figure that - Paris logic? Tuvok would be proud."
Tom grinned, little devils dancing in his eyes.
"Yep. Elementary, my dear Kim. Nacheyev likes being surrounded by men. Have you noticed her EAs and senior staff are all guys? She's great buddies with my Dad, and her favourite sidekicks are Hayes and Bullock? She won't give Sulu the time of day and barely tolerates the Captain. So when she doesn't use a pronoun, it's because she doesn't approve of the person's gender. Take the way she looked at B'Elanna's roses. It all makes perfect sense."
"No it doesn't. Got anything else?"
Tom became serious again. "Nope. Just a hunch."
And since he didn't think it right to rat out Picard's own issues with the Ice Queen and the information he had gleaned as a result, Tom refused to say anything more on the matter of their forthcoming mission.
He did, however, let Harry pay for the beer.
…..
With Voyager having secured one of the outer berths at McKinley, Earthrise filled the observation window in the ready room without being obstructed by one of the station's spidery arms. It was a sight Tom never tired off: the jewel tones of his home planet – sapphire, emerald and topaz - kissed by swirls of white clouds. Shuttles moved gracefully around it like a swarm of fireflies, blinking until they entered the atmosphere, others emerging to join the dance.
The poker game with friends and colleagues on the Enterprise had gone on rather longer than any of the players had intended, but with the two ships about to head off in different directions and no idea when they would get together again, none of them had wanted to break it up. And so, Tom found himself dozing over the ship's supply reports. He was startled into wakefulness when the hail came.
"Transporter room two to Captain Paris. The Federation Envoy is ready to beam aboard, sir."
"Acknowledged. Be right there."
Tom set down the PADD and straightened his jacket. He entered the bridge on his way to the turbolift and gave Harry a quick nod as he went by his chair.
"Commander? It's show time. Care to join me? Lieutenant Asil, you have the bridge."
They headed into the turbolift together. "Quarters are prepared, Har?" Tom asked as the lift glided down.
"Yessir. The ambassador's suite, with fresh flowers from the airponics bay, not replicated, as requested. And a chocolate on the pillow? I mean, come on, Tom. What's that all about, anyway? You never struck me as the kind of guy that sucks up to VIPs."
Tom grinned. "Oh, that. Inside joke. Something Chakotay once told me about, when he felt mellow enough to have an actual conversation with me. Anyway, just more of that hunch I mentioned. You still haven't figured it out? Probably just as well. If I'm wrong, at least you won't laugh at me."
Harry shot him a dirty look and opened his mouth to make a retort, but they had arrived in the transporter room where a young female Bajoran crewman was busy communicating with the ground station at Starfleet Headquarters.
"Ready, sirs," she intoned when they entered. Tom flashed her a quick smile.
"Thanks, Zelis," he said, and nodded the go-ahead. The tinkle of the transporter had barely finished when his smile deepened into one of genuine pleasure. He'd been right.
"Welcome aboard, Admiral. Or should I say, welcome home?"
Kathryn Janeway stepped off the platform, her own responding smile as wide and sparkling as the Milky Way. Harry fired another quick glower off at his new Captain – couldn't he have given him a hint? – and lunged forward to relieve his former one of her duffle bag.
Kathryn looked around the transporter room and took a deep breath, savouring the air.
"It smells the same," she stated, with a very definitive, decisive nod.
Then she looked up at a grinning Tom Paris with a mock glare. "You could at least pretend you were surprised, Tom."
"Sorry," he replied, not in the least bit apologetic. "There are only so many good roving diplomats to go around, and since we only talked a couple of weeks ago, I sort of figured you weren't on another job already. And Nacheyev made a point of mentioning that I'd retain command of Voyager, meaning the Envoy wasn't a civilian and outranked me."
Kathryn raised an eyebrow. "Picard and his love of clues must be rubbing off on you."
Tom chortled. "Let's show us to the VIP quarters – not that you wouldn't know where they are – and then you can brief the senior staff on the mission."
"I assume you've wormed the gist of that out of someone too?" she asked in her most gravelly voice, albeit not without affection, as they headed into the turbolift. She didn't really seem to expect an answer, though, and turned to Harry in almost the same breath.
"And how are you, Commander? It's been way too long. Congratulations on your little boy, and on the assignment. The extra pip suits you."
Harry responded with his toothiest grin. If he had been nervous at Headquarters the day before, none of that was obvious today, and the last couple of minutes seemed to have positively infused him with extra energy.
"Thanks, Cap … Admiral. Yes, great assignment. But having you here is the icing on the cake."
Tom suppressed a grin when the lift doors opened and he had to gently steer Janeway to the left with his hand on her elbow; her treacherous feet seemed intent on sending her to the right.
"We've put you into the state quarters, Admiral. I hope you'll be comfortable there. I'm sorry, but your old accommodations are taken."
Kathryn took her almost-mistake in stride. "Of course they are. And I hope Miral likes them as much as I used to. Well, I see you gave me the one with the bathtub? I'd hoped you would remember! I'll only take ten minutes to drop off my gear. See you in … your ready room at oh-nine fifteen."
She shook her head with a rueful grin.
"This will take some getting used to. But I promise I will do my best to remember that she is your ship now, Tom. If I don't, you have my permission to elbow me in the ribs."
Tom laughed and shook his head. "She'll always be yours, Captain. Always."
…..
Word that Captain ... no … Admiral Janeway was onboard Voyager for the duration of their as yet undefined new mission spread around the ship like wildfire, especially among those members of the crew who had served under her in the Delta Quadrant. Tom could practically hear the excited chatter on the ships comm system; even Asil had indicated, ever so dispassionately, that she was looking forward to the chance to meet her father's old friend.
B'Elanna – who had been in on his suspicions, much to Harry's disgust - had suggested that he invite Janeway for a private dinner with the senior staff, but it didn't seem right to Tom that they should hog her for themselves on the very first day. There would be many opportunities over the next few weeks. Instead, Tom asked Chell to prepare an open reception in the mess hall for 1800 hours. Beta shift would lose out a bit, but he assumed that the event would last for a couple of hours, so that everyone should get a chance to at least drop by on a break. The ship would leave the station around noon and should be fully settled into deep-space warp by then.
But first the briefing, followed by departure protocols. Tom had scheduled the senior staff to assemble at 09:30; this gave himself and Janeway a few minutes for a quick one-on-one in the ready room.
"You've done some redecorating," Janeway observed as she stepped into her former sanctum and scrutinized the blue upholstery. The colour was accented by a few of Tom's favourite objets d'art – including a full-sized replica of Van Gogh's Starry Night – and a veritable holovid shrine to Miral in various stages of her precocious development.
"Like it? I decided to lay off the antlers and other relics though. I figured the blue was manly enough, especially after all those years of gelato mint."
Janeway chuckled and wrinkled her nose in olfactory memory as she remembered the cleanup Voyager's crew had had to do after the Hirogen takeover. The smell of their grisly war trophies had lingered in the ready room for weeks, although in hindsight she had almost preferred that to seeing her ship becoming a tourist attraction for two years. Vandalism took many forms ...
She inspected one of the holovids of Miral, smiling at the image of her goddaughter taking apart a model of the Enterprise with great concentration.
"I like it," she said, looking around once more and setting the picture down on the desk again. "Not wildly different enough to cause me serious grief, but definitely more you than me."
Janeway settled into her favourite position on one of the corner couches, while Tom perched on a chair, waiting.
They had long since learned that as between them, directness paid untold dividends, and any wrapping up of tough messages in sugar coating only led to confusion. Clarity, on the other hand, had always brought them far beyond mere understanding.
"Please let me make this flight. Please."
"What makes you think it was your idea?"
"I would have shot you down." "I know."
"Are you okay with me coming onboard like this, Tom?" Grey eyes bored into blue.
Tom chuckled. "It was only a question of time, given your new line of work, and besides, it isn't like I have a choice, is it?"
He turned serious.
"Frankly, if I'd had my druthers, I'd probably have preferred to have a few more missions under my belt and really learned how I want to run this ship, make it more of my own, before submitting myself to your scrutiny."
He shrugged. "But on the other hand, if I screw up, there's no one I'd rather be doing it in front of than you – you won't hesitate to tell me, and probably have some useful advice how to do better. How about you? How do you feel about being back?"
Kathryn's eyes narrowed. If she had expected the reciprocal question, the slowness of her response certainly did not give any indication of it.
"It's odd, I can't deny that. As you know I've been back onboard a few times, while she was in San Francisco and of course for your instatement, but this is the first time I feel like I've really been back. But yet – not. It feels different, somehow, and this," she gestured around the ready room, "is just an example. The changed crew configurations will be another thing to get used to, I guess. Harry, a Lieutenant Commander and First Officer. But if you've managed to adjust to all this – and it seems you have – I'm sure I can, too."
She chuckled. "I should warn you though - I have a feeling I'll probably be trying to get into your quarters at some point during the night."
They sat in silence for a moment; there really wasn't much more to say. The truth was what it was. The ship had been hers for so long …
"The mission. Denaros and Talar?" Tom broke the silence first.
She gave Tom a measured look. "You're either clairvoyant, telepathic, or even better connected already than I would have given you credit for, Tom Paris. But yes. Denaros and Talar. The 'Binary War.'"
Tom's jaw clenched briefly. "A case study in atrocities to rival anything the Cardassians came up with, judging by what I managed to find."
Janeway simply nodded.
"I'm afraid you're right. Vicious and personal, as only fights between close neighbours or relatives can be. And the Federation has been asked to try and help them put an end to that."
"You'll have your work cut out for you, Admiral."
Another nod. "I count on you and … your crew to help me, Tom."
Their eyes locked again.
"Always."
"Thank you. Then I have to ask you for only one thing before the briefing."
"And that would be …?"
"Mind if I use your replicator?"
…..
They entered the briefing room together, Tom carrying the mobile holo projector Janeway had brought and setting it down on the table. The assembled senior staff rose in unison, the universal gesture of respect for a member of the admiralty. But formality went by the wayside almost immediately, as the EMH beamed from ear to ear and, refusing to wait for any formal introduction on Tom's part, practically pounced on Janeway.
"Admiral! I am delighted to see you again. Delighted!" His enthusiasm morphed into a frown when he realized just why she had only given him one of her hands to pump. "Even if you don't appear to be taking your nutritional intake any more seriously than you ever did."
This latter remark was directed, with carefully calibrated disdain, at the steaming cup of coffee in Kathryn's left hand. She raised it in his direction in mock salute.
"I've cut down," she lied, before casting her eyes around the briefing room and nodding at Harry and B'Elanna with a wide smile. Baytart and Ayala were greeted in turn.
"Lieutenants," she said. "Good to see you again, and good to see that Voyager has you both back."
"And Ensign, congratulations!" This last was directed at Icheb, Voyager's freshly-minted science officer. Despite his customary slightly morose solemnity, Icheb still managed to convey the impression of someone beaming with pride at Janeway's formal use of his new rank.
"You must be Lieutenant Asil," Janeway finally turned to the one member of the senior staff who had not served with her in the Delta Quadrant in some role or another - and the one of Tuvok's children she had never actually met in person.
"You are the image of your mother."
The Vulcan ops officer raised an eyebrow. She was used, on board this ship in particular, to being compared to her father, but as far as anyone would have been able to tell, was not displeased by the reference instead to T'Pel.
"It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Admiral," she said simply.
Janeway turned to Tom. "With your permission, Captain?"
Tom nodded. "The hour is yours," he said, and activated the holo projector for her before settling into his chair at the head of the briefing table. With a slight hum, the image of a star system sprang up and expanded to take up most of the space between the three officers.
"You'll need to see the orbits to take in the whole picture," Janeway explained. "Computer, animate at five thousand times rotational speed."
At the centre of the ensuing dance were two stars of roughly equivalent magnitude and brightness. Evidently twinned, despite the considerable distance between them, they slowly moved around one another. Each was in turn circled by a number of planets with eccentric but apparently steady orbits, some with sizeable moons. Two cold gas giants occupied the outer parameter - moving in slow motion, and trapped in different but equally wildly elliptical orbits that encompassed both suns. A small star cluster nearby shimmered like a swarm of fireflies on a hazy summer's night.
"Here in the centre, we have the binary suns of Denaros and Talar. It used to be known in the Federation as the Denarian system, but the Talari took offence. They won't talk to anyone who calls it that. So, as a matter of Official Federation policy, we don't."
Janeway stared at all the officers in turn to make sure the point would register. Tom couldn't resist a firm, "Yes, Ma'am," which caused her lips to quirk a little.
"What do we call it, then?"
"Nothing, if we can avoid it. If we have to, we refer to the two sovereign civilizations that live there by their names. And we can call ourselves lucky that their alphabet is similar to Standard, and that they have accepted the order in which the references are made on that basis. Denaros and Talar. Always."
The two cultures that dominated the sector had taken very similar evolutionary paths, as well as being roughly equivalent in their development. Relations were established early and peacefully, initially by means of communications and then later, when the Denarians had developed space travel, face-to-face, with intermarriages and exchanges being common occurrences. Whether thanks to parallel evolution, bribery, or good old-fashioned industrial espionage, the Talari caught up quickly to any of the Denarians' technological advances.
Before long, though the colonization race was on. Both suns, by quirk of cosmic fate, were blessed with several M-class worlds, which were the first to be subject to expansion, without noticeable controversy. In addition to the Denarians' home world, their sun boasted three planets and two moons that were suitable - if not for mass settlement then certainly for resource exploitation; Talar for its part had two planets and four moons in its immediate vicinity.
"And they got along nicely up to when?" Harry asked. "When they ran out of places to go, developed warp capability and headed for the neighbouring systems?"
"That's pretty well when the problems started," Janeway confirmed with a nod. "Although warp technology remains very rudimentary. They get up to a maximum speed of Warp 1.5, but that's all they really need given the distances in the cluster. Some early enlightened leaders, when they were still limited to impulse, had agreed that each race would be entitled to take over the worlds that circled their respective suns, so everything went swimmingly while they were confined to those."
"Nothing of interest in the gas giants? Seems to me that a common orbit around both suns could give rise to disputes, if there were any resources to be had."
"Very perceptive, Tom. Luckily they are what they are – balls of uninteresting gas, so that bought a decade or so of peace. There were treaties regulating relations between the two peoples and regular diplomatic contacts, trade, and people-to-people relations. But expansion into the neighbouring systems started to cause frictions almost immediately. The Talari got there first, by virtue of proximity, and quickly started to lay claim to and colonize five uninhabited M- and L-class planetoids here …" she pointed at a small star, "… and here."
"At what point did the Denarians cry foul?" Harry frowned, as he examined the layout of the region. Habitable systems were rare, notwithstanding the unusual bounty caused by the particular qualities of these twin suns.
"First landfall outside the system," Janeway said. "They argued for a shared approach; the Talari wouldn't hear of it and started settling all five worlds. The Denarians declared the colonies illegal and things quickly soured, to the point of a cold war and military mobilization. But the real conflict was ignited by this little guy here. I don't blame you for overlooking it."
She leaned over the table and pointed at a tiny object that moved around both suns in a slightly wobbly elliptical orbit, between the two suns and the closer of the two gas giants.
"A rogue planetoid, that managed to get trapped by the gravity of both stars. It got pulled into this wide orbit, almost like one of Earth's comets, by some freak confluence of gravity and fate. And unlike the gas giants, it was of interest. Computer, close in on and show composition of Stellar Object XT-3476."
The projection zoomed in on the small planetoid. In rapid succession, different sections lit up while lines of text appeared on the side of the projection. B'Elanna gave a little gasp.
"We should have run across something like that in the Delta Quadrant."
According to the analysis provided, the asteroid's core was a blend of duranium and dilithium ore; the airless caves that riddled it like a Swiss cheese were filled with dilithium, neo-dilithium and benomite crystals, formed in near-ideal conditions. And if that were not enough, veins of latinum, bernicium and other precious metals shot through the outer mantle. The list didn't end there.
Tom whistled. "The celestial jackpot," he muttered to himself. "Inter-stellar travel on the hoof, plus the money to pay someone to build the ships."
Baytart added, more to himself than anyone around the table, "Happy Ferengi Christmas."
"Indeed," Janeway agreed, taking the various observations in stride. "Not only that, but all this bounty is easily - and equally - accessible to both cultures in the course of its orbit."
She paused, and her jaw clenched. "The first shots in the Binary War were fired within a single day of the first ship – a small Denarian military runabout – landing on the planetoid. The crew made the mistake of staking a claim on behalf of their government, and it got system-wide play. A Talari cruiser that had been sent to explore it and was only a day behind the Denarians swooped in and took the crew hostage. When the Denarians refused to retract their claim, the Talari publicly executed the crew. The Denarians retaliated by attacking one of the 'illegal' Talari colonies a week later. That was twenty-eight years ago."
Tom's voice was soft. "And from there straight to Armageddon. Which you have been asked to sort out."
"Yes. It's been kind of a slow-motion Armageddon, because neither side has the technology to allow for swift movement, despite the relatively small distances. But what they've lacked in attack speed, they made up for in thoroughness. Luckily, both sides have grown weary; their resources are running low, and for the first time in almost three decades the interest in peace seems to outweigh the willingness to keep fighting."
Asil interjected. "Given the difficulties for such bitter enemies to agree, a request for neutral, outside assistance is a logical step."
Janeway nodded. "Yes. For obvious reasons, neither system is a candidate for membership in the Federation yet, but they are getting close to expanding up to its borders. Peace in the sector is very much in our own interest."
"Just one very practical question, Cap… Admiral." Tom's eyes carried a dangerous glint, as he posed a question to which he suspected he already knew the answer.
"While you and the locals argue about the shape of the table for peace talks, who'll be guarding Fort Knox?"
Janeway gave her former helmsman a sharp glance, and nodded in appreciation of his ability to cut to the chase. The two words she uttered dropped into the sudden silence like a sharpened blade.
"You are."
AN: "Arbitre" is French for 'referee'; also called 'president(e) de jury' in fencing. This individual presides over a match and decides, amid a web of rules and prohibited actions, when the action starts and stops, when time is up, and who should be awarded a hit when there is a doubt. It's fun if you like standing on your feet all day, moving along with the action, wolfing down really lousy food in between rounds and being hated by half the room when you make a difficult call in favour of the other guy.
As you may have figured out by now from my chapter heading and these little explanations, the language of fencing is French; this makes things sound rather courteous, in an old-world-diplomacy kind of way. Fencers like to think of themselves as polite, chivalrous and respectful people - when they're not arguing with the judge or trying to ram their blade into the other guy's vitals, that is.