Amanda woke the next morning alone in her hotel room. John had gotten them separate rooms, which was one of the only reasons she'd agreed to come. They had never been intimate and for a while it had bothered her, but more recently she was thankful.

She'd managed to avoid most of the reception altogether by touring the aquarium. She wondered what it meant that she found fish more interesting than most people. She'd been discovered down there by the new Vulcan ambassador and wondered how it must have looked, hiding away and staring at aquatic animals instead of socializing. Yet she realized he was there too, and she didn't have to know much about Vulcans to guess that his motives for walking around a deserted aquarium were probably much the same as hers.

She so often worried about doing or saying the wrong thing with the wrong species. She'd never actually met a Vulcan, and though she thought he was an intimidating representative of his race, talking with him hadn't been as terrifying as she might have imagined. She'd reviewed their interaction carefully as she walked away, hoping she hadn't been rude or botched the Vulcan greeting. She wasn't nearly as proficient at Vulcan as she was Romulan, but she figured it had gone well enough.

Then again, how could she tell? His face had remained motionless and for all she knew, she could've told him to jump off a bridge and gotten the same reaction. She had no idea how Giles got along all day with people who were impossible to read.

She glanced at the digital clock on the wall – 0715.

Her room came equipped with a sonic shower and she was surprised at how effective it was. She still enjoyed the water-based system in her apartment, but she imagined she could get used to this one day if her landlord ever decided to update her decrepit building.

Thirty minutes later she left the room. Her hair was pulled in a loose braid and she wore business casual slacks with a pale pink t-shirt. She analyzed herself in the mirror, feeling the creep of critical thoughts. She rolled her eyes at both her vanity and self-consciousness, then tucked her access key and PADD into a small shoulder bag and left for the observatory.

It was a short walk from the entrance of her hotel. The sun was out for the first time in weeks, making for a bitterly cold day. She wrapped her black pea coat around her more tightly and walked faster. She entered the observatory from the mezzanine level and saw there was a continental breakfast.

She heated herself a wheat bagel, spooned a handful of berries on her plate, and chose water over coffee. She was looking for an available table when she heard her name.

"Amanda Grayson?"

She turned and recognized Vice Admiral Bentham.

"Would you like to sit with me? There aren't really any tables open that I can see," he said, gazing at her and motioning to the small chair across from himself at a table for two.

"Um… alright," she said, forcing herself to smile.

She took a seat, set her plate down, and drank a sip of her water.

"I don't believe we've ever met in person," he said. "Molineaux has told me all about you though. I'm Maxwell Bentham."

"Yes," she said, folding her hands in her lap. "I don't think we have met, but of course I know who you are."

"John says you're quite the catch," he mused, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Does he really?"

She had no idea that John had ever actually discussed her with anyone else. He was so self-absorbed she couldn't believe he knew how to talk about anything but himself.

"Yes, he says you're a brilliant teacher and quite the linguist. Says you speak most of the Federation languages and Romulan. That's quite an accomplishment."

"Oh, well, thank you. And that's not quite true. I mean, I am able to communicate in Romulan quite well, at least what we've been able to understand about the Romulan language with such limited contact, and about eight of other languages to varying degrees of fluency. But I wouldn't say most of the Federation languages, no."

"No doubt you're being humble. Have you ever thought of joining Starfleet?"

"Ah, no," she said, managing a polite grin.

Actually she had briefly toyed with the idea in her last semester of graduate school when she still hadn't found a job and began to panic over what she would do for the rest of her life. She had actually taken the academy entrance exam on a whim one weekend and scored through the roof in language and communication skills, but most of her other line scores were decidedly average. Perhaps she could have done better if she had prepared. She was certainly intelligent and capable of understanding various fields outside of language, but areas like mechanics and mathematics had never come very naturally to her and it was obvious that well-rounded individuals had better opportunities for advancing in the long term.

"It's certainly not for everyone, but we could definitely use some Romulan speakers."

"Well, I would say I actually speak Romulan, per se. It's more correct to say I can talk in Romulan to a sufficient degree. 'Speaking' a language suggests you understand the nuances of the culture; the idioms, axioms, slang, social and political niceties, that kind of thing."

"I see," he said, setting his cup of coffee down.

"So, how are things in Starfleet?" she asked, preferring to turn the subject toward him.

"Space is space, people are people, and life goes on," he said, forming his hands into steeples. "Tell me, do you speak Vulcan? Correction, do you talk in Vulcan?"

So much for changing the subject.

"Um, moderately well, I think. The alphabet is very nearly identical, as are vowel and most consonant sounds, but the Vulcan language is a lot more fluid than Romulan and the syntax has some notable changes. Romulan is quite utilitarian, you see. One word for one idea. Romulan has a wider vocabulary, but there's less room for confusion."

She stopped herself, realizing that sometimes she could prattle on about languages to the point of boring people. Yet Bentham seemed intrigued.

"What about Klingon?"

"I know very little Klingon. Maybe enough to ask for directions to a battle arena and order bloodwine in a way that wouldn't guarantee my swift execution, but I would hardly call myself capable. I've always wanted to learn though."

She had the peculiar feeling she was being interviewed. She took a bite of her bagel, finding it was already cold.

"Well, maybe one day we can talk you into putting on a red shirt."

"Hmmm?"

"Our translators and comm staff wear red," he explained.

"Oh, well, I think I'll stick to teaching."

"Well, I'm glad John brought you, it's been a pleasure speaking with you."

She looked over his shoulder and saw John approaching. He looked confused at the sight of her sitting with Bentham and he walked faster.

"Admiral Bentham, I see you've met my girlfriend, Amanda Grayson," he said, coming to a stop at their table.

"Yes, we were just having a chat about languages," he answered without looking in his direction.

"Amanda, my love," he said, acknowledging her.

"John," she intoned, taking another bite of her cold bagel.

"I've been calling you for the last hour; I was getting worried."

She wanted to say something sarcastically cruel but bit her tongue because Bentham was still sitting across from her.

"Well, here I am," she said, delivering a fake smile. "I turned the alerts off on my PADD at the reception last night. I must have forgotten to turn them back on."

"Well, John and I should be going. We have an 0800 panel on planetary self-sufficiency and I'm the moderator. It was a pleasure meeting you," Bentham said, standing and walking away without further comment, John following on his heels without even saying goodbye to her.

She set her PADD on the table and checked the alert setting. It was indeed still off. She noted three missed calls and two messages from John in her inbox. She was about to click her PADD to off when she thought about what Giles had said last night about sending out a birth announcement. She checked through her "received and read" folder and found nearly a dozen messages that she had never seen, including the one from Giles and several from her section manager at Rosetta from nearly three weeks ago inviting her out to lunch.

That was strange.

Perhaps there was a glitch in her PADD or its software. She began reading the rest of her messages. Thankfully none were critically important, but she still felt badly for never responding. She was grateful that she had failed to receive two from her mother. Somehow she didn't think the 'I didn't get your message' excuse would be believed, but it actually was the truth this time.

She finished her breakfast and departed for the linguistics forum. It mainly centered on semantic messages and body language, which she was quickly engrossed in. It was over after two disappointingly short hours, but she spent the remainder of the day visiting several exhibits including the spaceflight museum and the closed, functional biodome that had been operating for nearly 200 years without human intervention.

At around 1700, she decided to go back to her room and begin getting ready for the formal banquet later that evening. She'd had a dark gray gown replicated for the occasion. She had never dressed up in something so fancy in her life or spent so much money on one garment. It was floor length with capped sleeves and had beaded detailing along the bodice.

She took her time getting dressed and managed to curl her naturally wavy hair into more tame waves. Her mother gave her jewelry for every gift-giving occasion and for once she was glad. She installed a pair of gold drop earrings in each ear and put a delicate gold chain with a ruby pendant about her neck that had once belonged to her father's mother. She had borrowed a pair of flat black evening shoes from Vera and the look was complete. She looked at herself in the mirror for a long time, feeling more confident than she had the night before. She had lost weight, maybe too much, she thought, but the dress fit like a glove around her slender frame. Eventually a smile poked its way onto her face. She shoved her identification and room access cards into discrete the waist pocket of her dress and left her room.

Her next move was a bit more complicated. Should she go get John or go down to the banquet by herself? Neither one sounded great, but she decided on the former option. She padded down the carpeted hotel hallway to room 819 and was about to ring the buzzer to his room when she heard voices coming from inside.

She wasn't the sort of person who tended to eavesdrop, but curiosity got the better of her. She deftly pressed her ear against the door, and could hear John speaking excitedly with whom she presumed was Max Bentham in muffled tones.

"Our timeline got moved up. That's all there is to it. Figure it out," Bentham was saying.

"Elections are still three months away. I've been swamped-"

"We don't have a choice."

"But we're already out on a limb here. Moving there? That's practically Klingon space!"

Amanda crinkled her nose. Her heart began to beat and she thought she should back away from the door, but the conversation continued and she found she was unable to drag herself away.

"If they get to it before we do, it's over."

"Well, if I don't get elected to speaker, it's over too."

"Have you confirmed the location of the find, yet?"

"No, there's been nothing. I don't want her to suspect-"

"She won't suspect anything. Just get it. You're acting spineless. If you can't do this, I'll find another way."

There was a long moment of silence and Amanda peeled herself away from the door. She felt a bit faint. She had no idea what they were discussing, but Klingons? John was the joint chairperson for the Defense Committee.

What timeline? What "find" were they talking about? What did the Klingons have to do with it? Who was "she" and what might "she" suspect?

Amanda's mind started to run away with her, but she quickly began to feel very foolish. Two men were having a private discussion about things that could easily relate to their given professions. She hadn't heard the whole conversation, nor did she have any context, and jumping to conclusions was pointless. She took a breath and rang the buzzer.

John answered quickly, and very nearly did a double take.

"Amanda, you look… really nice," he said, his voice sincere and his face full of surprise.

"You don't have to sound so shocked," she snapped.

Seconds ticked by.

"Are you, going to invite me in? Or should I just wait out here for you to get dressed?"

"Oh, yes, come in. Admiral Bentham is here."

She entered the room just as Bentham appeared from around the corner and nodded to her.

"I was actually just leaving," he announced. "I'll see you downstairs, John."

He brushed past her in the narrow entryway and was gone.

John got ready quickly and they walked quietly downstairs and across the street to the observatory. The night air was bitingly frigid, and Amanda had skipped wearing a coat because it was such a short walk and she disliked dealing with coat checks. She was perfectly happy to preserve the silence, but John apparently was not.

"So, have you enjoyed the conference?"

"Well, I saw the aquarium last night and went to the language forum this morning. I wouldn't call it the highlight of my life, but it's been fine," she said briskly, picking up her pace.

"Good, good," he replied. "Say, how's the family doing?"

"Good, I guess," she answered.

"Mom's fine?"

"I don't know. She normally sends me messages once a week but for some reason they've been going to the 'received and read' folder in my PADD. I'll probably take it in for maintenance on Monday."

John was silent. She looked at him, noting his face suggested he was thinking hard. Finally he spoke again.

"Your dad, how's he doing?"

"He's great. He thinks he found some deposits of something. Somewhere. I forget. But doing well, it sounds like."

"He found deposits? Good for him… you don't remember where?"

"No," she said, frowning. "Does it really matter?"

"Of course it does!"

"Why?" Amanda asked, stopping in her tracks. "Ever since we started dating you've never expressed any interest in me, my family, my life, or generally anything but yourself or your campaign."

His face softened.

"Listen, Amanda, it's just these elections. You have to understand. It will get better, I promise."

She scowled and stalked past him without saying another word.

Sarek had spent the day engaged in numerous activities. His Vulcan economic policy advisor, Metana, had arrived before the sun came up. She was very young and less familiar with human customs than he would like, but she was a skilled economist, easy to get along with, and logical.

Mr. Marcus had arrived in the afternoon looking even more tired than when he had departed the night before.

He delivered remarks about the expansion of Romulan corridor to an audience of nearly 1,000. Giles had given him Sulak's talking points, and he ignored about half of them, favoring instead to raise his own points extemporaneously. He was a gifted orator: many Vulcans were. Many species relied heavily on emotional appeals that eventually devolved into name-calling and threats, but Sarek had a unique ability to sense the turn in his opponent's argument and shut it down cleanly and completely before raising his own well-spoken counterargument. His talent had served him well that day.

Vulcan wanted to extend the perimeter of their sector of space closer to the projected Romulan Neutral Zone. Their proposal would also greatly benefit Andoria and Orion who therefore supported Vulcan in their request. Coridan was not a member of the Federation, but longstanding hostilities with Orion caused them to lodge a formal complaint with the Federation Council and the Vulcan High Council. Most of the Terran government sided with Coridan, and the Federation Council was split evenly on the issue.

The situation was tense, and the political divisions on Earth were making matters worse. It didn't help that the Federation president was Andorian, but it didn't matter where he was from. Terrans and Coridians alike were painting this as a black and white issue, and the president's impartiality would have been questioned regardless of his heritage.

It was supposed to have been a discussion panel, but it had turned into an open debate when a Terran representative named John Molineaux had accused Vulcan of wishing to horde Starfleet resources on defending Vulcan from the Romulans when the primary mission of Starfleet was exploration. Sarek had quickly pointed out that Earth held exactly 81.4% of Starfleet's resources despite only contributing between 13 and 18% in materiel annually. He had encountered humans who could debate quite well in the past, but Mr. Molineaux wasn't among them. He shredded the young congressman point by point, and by the end he had a moderate degree of confidence that some favor had shifted among the Terrans to Vulcan's position, or at least Vulcan had not lost ground.

After the discussion he met with T'Lara, the Vulcan member of the Federation Council, to discuss the matter further. Afterward, Metana had returned to San Francisco and he returned to his lodging to meditate.

He had very little time for personal introspection since his arrival on Earth and it was wearing on him. He sat quietly for an hour, completely purging his mind of the stresses and annoyances that came with constant contact with a multitude of abrasive species. An hour was not nearly enough time, but it had certainly been helpful.

He dressed in black, formal clothing and proceeded back toward the observatory. Giles waited for him by the entrance, shivering with his hands in the pockets of his tuxedo. The reception had begun two hours earlier, but the official function did not start for another ten minutes.

"I hope you have not been waiting for me," Sarek said as he approached.

"No, I've been inside all evening; I just stepped out for some fresh air," Giles replied. "I was going to call you but I didn't want to disturb you during your meditation hour."

"Thank you," he said, beginning to walk toward the entrance of the banquet hall.

They entered to find a room similar to the one from the night before: a large space made small by being packed full of people shouting to be heard over each other. There was food and drink, but Sarek, like all Vulcans, detested directly handling his food and did not consume alcoholic beverages.

The wine and liquor had clearly been flowing for quite some time. Many of the humans had flushed cheeks and unsteady gaits, which he understood to be signs of alcoholic intoxication. He would never understand the human propensity for choosing to consume substances in public that freed them of inhibitions and good judgment.

Sek, the Tellarite ambassador to Earth approached him and he found himself immediately engaged in a discussion about the Neutral Zone. Giles excused himself and Sarek spent the next forty-five minutes reiterating the same details of the proposal before finally removing himself from the conversation as well.

He knew both humans and Andorians in particular enjoyed these social gatherings until the latest of hours. He took a deep breath and started concentrating his mind, trying to achieve a higher degree of focus. He found it difficult in the present situation, but he was certainly capable.

Amanda stood near an enormous potted rubber tree in a corner of the room talking with Giles. She sipped from a glass of champagne; he declined to drink.

She told him about the forum that morning and about Bentham's strange line of questioning at breakfast. Giles had been in Starfleet for fifteen years and knew little about him, aside from his general reputation of being a cold, ambitious, and career-driven man.

She dropped the subject, afraid the wrong person would overhear and they discussed his new family. He lightly teased her for dating John and she was close to telling him her plans for breaking things off with him but decided that was too personal. John definitely had the right to know their relationship was over before Giles did. Eventually the conversation turned into a debate about Tellarite poetic meter.

"I left my PADD upstairs. Let me see yours, and I'll show you that it's a nine syllable count," Giles insisted.

"I didn't bring mine either. No purse, no pockets," she shrugged. "But speaking of PADDs, I did get your message. It went straight to my 'read' folder, along with more than a dozen other messages. Weird, huh?"

"More like you probably have someone reading your mail," he smirked.

"That's impossible. It's never out of my sight."

"And where is it right now?"

"Well, I mean usually. But more than that, who would want to read mail from my mom and friends? Almost all of them were personal messages."

"I don't know," he said, canting his head to the side as though it would help him think better. "But I will tell you that someone doesn't actually need to be in physical possession of your PADD to read your mail. It's pretty easy to access remotely if your PADD settings set to the right specs and someone has the right router."

Amanda frowned.

"Even still, who would do that? And why?"

A Tellarite man interrupted her train of thought. He was stout, even for a Tellarite, and bellowing classic Tellarite obscenities. His bulk obscured the identity of the person he was speaking with, but Amanda instantly knew.

John was drunk. His speech slurred, his lip was curled back in an almost canine snarl.

"You can speak the Federation Standard language, you know," John spat. "That's what's wrong with you. All of you. You come here, thinking you know everything and what's best for everyone…"

John and the Tellarite were talking over each other and Amanda could make out generally what was being said about John. None of it was pleasant, but at least he had the decency to insult John as an individual: John had well passed the border of mild insults into blatantly open racism, and people nearby were growing quiet and watching the scene unfold.

Two more Tellarites had moved in to defend the initial aggressor, whom Amanda learned was Chancellor Gasek. She moved toward John delicately, silently willing him to shut his mouth and apologize. The room was growing quieter and she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck starting to stand up. A server with several wine glasses and a large pitcher on a tray was trying to get by her and out of the unfolding turmoil.

Giles put his hand on John's shoulder and tried steering him away but John threw him off. Then one of Chancellor Gasek's younger compatriots took a swing at John, missing by millimeters. Chaos erupted.

Amanda stood in the middle of the scene, completely dumbfounded and uncertain of what to do. Giles got up and brushed himself off, coming so close to Amanda she tried to take a step back and stepped on the waiter's foot. Someone approached from her left side, saying loudly and firmly to, "Stop this."

She turned to see the Vulcan ambassador from the night before, just in time to watch the waiter collide with him and begin to fall backwards… right onto Amanda. His hands let go of the tray to attempt to brace his fall, and the tray and its contents were dumped right down her back and left side of her body. The wine wasn't the worst part; the pitcher had apparently been holding ice water.

She tried to maintain her composure but she loudly gasped with the awful shock of being drenched in nearly frozen water. John wheeled around angrily, coming even with the Vulcan ambassador. The waiter was just getting to his feet next to her and began yelling at John as the instigator of the disaster.

That seemed to be John's breaking point. He tried to turn and took a swing at the waiter, but rather than hit his intended target, instead his fist landed squarely on Amanda's face.

Her head snapped back and tears instantly streamed from her eyes. Her hands instinctively went to her nose and they were quickly coated in blood. She wasn't sure if the room went silent or if she was too absorbed in her own pain and surprise to process sound. She was acutely aware of liquid dripping from her chin and she wasn't sure if it was blood or tears or both.

She tried opening her eyes but the tears blurred her vision. She felt utter panic. She wanted to get out of this mess, but there were several people pushing her from behind and she couldn't find an escape route. Slowly the sound level began to fade back in and she could hear more people actually screaming now. Giles grabbed her hard by the arm and pulled her toward the rubber plant they had been standing near earlier.

She managed to make out the figure of John trying to fight a Tellarite and a human. He was swinging wildly, and it seemed like his two opponents were unsure how to attempt to bring him down. Then a third figure appeared and grabbed him by the neck and she watched his body crumple to the floor lifelessly.

He's dead. He's dead. They killed him. He's dead.

She began to hyperventilate. Black spots formed in her field of vision and she felt her body going weak. A pair of strong arms gently lowered her to the ground as she lost consciousness.