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progress, Fox had returned to the space station to find that the ambassador had been replaced.
    The Klingon in front of him had insisted on starting over. The previous agreement was void, but he wanted to negotiate in good faith. In his many years in diplomatic service, Fox had been lied to by masters. This Klingon was no master. In fact, his heart didn’t even seem to be in the task.
    Admiral Solow had been right, as had his aide—the far too arrogant and far too young Lieutenant West. The Klingons were preparing for war and using the talks as a pretext to stall. Now, Fox was doing the same.
    So each side argued, advocated its positions to buy time to kill each other more spectacularly when war came. Fox had seen many failures in his long career, but none as bitter as this one. And in no negotiation had the stakes ever been higher. Fronde might have been thefirst to die because of Fox’s failings, but he would be far from the last. And that was only if the Federation won. Loss was too horrible to contemplate, yet it was a real possibility. And the specter of Federation defeat kept Fox at the table, trying to buy Starfleet time to make sure it didn’t come to pass.
    The Klingon demanded a change on procedure for negotiating trade disputes. “Completely unacceptable!” Fox shouted, on his feet again. The Klingons respected strength and anger, even in this mock, fraudulent situation. Fox found that he was happy to accommodate them.

Chapter Four
    EARTH
    L IEUTENANT W EST ENTERED Admiral Solow’s office and stood for a moment in silence. The admiral studied his computer viewscreen and gave no indication that he had heard West enter, but the lieutenant had no doubt the admiral knew he was there, so he waited. After about two minutes, Solow got up, acknowledged West with a nod, and said, “Let’s go.”
    Anyone who didn’t know the admiral well would have thought he looked distracted, but West knew better. Solow was incredibly focused on the problems he was working out in his mind. He had no time for petty matters, and it had become his staff’s job to take care of as many details as possible. The admiral needed his concentration. Hell, the entire Federation needed the admiral’s concentration.
    There was no conversation as they walked to the transporter pad. Small talk had completely disappeared. And besides, there was nothing to discuss. Both men had read the reports. And the reports had been clear. The meeting to come was a formality. In other circumstances, Admiral Solow would simply have sent West, or one of the other staff; the person they would be meeting with was possibly the only man in the galaxy that Solow would engage in a discussion that was mere formality.
    â€œEnergize,” Solow ordered the transporter operator, and West felt the beam take him. He had traveled by transporter more times in the last two weeks than he had in his first twenty-three years. The novelty had disappeared.
    West and Solow materialized on the Federation president’s transporter pad on the fifteenth floor of the Palais de la Concorde. Waiting for them was the president’s chief of staff, an Andorian named Shrel, who said, “Welcome,” and led them down the hallway.
    No other staff met them. Everyone else was too busy. Protocol had become less and less important, even in the president’s office. There was no conversation. They were quickly ushered through the president’s office doors, and West saw President Wescott sitting at his desk, looking over a communication intently. He looked up for a moment and nodded at them.
    Wescott was alone in his large semicircular office and West knew why: the staff were all busy. Things were too hectic for any of them to make an appearance at this meeting. West had stepped into this office for the first time just two weeks ago. Then, he had been impressed by the panoramic views of Paris. Now, he felt nothingbut impatience to get back