The Art of the Impossible

“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” he said, taking note of the older man’s collar, indicating he was a full lieutenant and therefore one grade rank higher than Troi.

“Quite all right,” the man said in an all-business tone, then offered his hand. “Elias Vaughn.”

“Ian Troi, science officer,” he added, though Vaughn had not indicated his own position. “I take it you’re going to the reception, also?”

“Yes.”

Troi smiled even as he scratched his neck. Lieutenant Vaughn had packed quite a lot of disdain into that one syllable. Not the party type, apparently.

They entered the lounge together, and Troi found his ears assaulted by a cacophony of sound. I’m willing to bet most of it is from the Klingons,Troi thought with a wry smile. He’d never actually met any Klingons (or Cardassians, for that matter) until today, but he knew their shared reputation for boisterousness.

The lounge didn’t have any external windows, but someone had thought to activate the large viewscreen that took up most of one bulkhead—it showed the Betreka Nebula, the swirling gases and particulate matter making for a lovely backdrop. Ever the scientist, Troi was hoping they’d get the chance to explore the nebula in more depth on this mission. Garrett had already given him a we’ll-see on the subject.

Speaking of the Carthagefirst officer, she walked over to greet Troi. The commander held a glass filled with an amber liquid. Knowing Garrett,Troi thought, it’s bourbon.“Lieutenants, pleased to see you both,” she said. “I didn’t know you knew each other.”

“We, ah, don’t,” Troi said. “We just bumped into each other in the hall.”

“Well, help yourselves to refreshments,” Garrett said, indicating the entire room. “And please, mingle. The object of this reception is to help everyone relax.”

Troi looked around the lounge, and didn’t see much by way of relaxed people. Numerically, the room’s occupants were more or less evenly split among the Klingon delegation, the Cardassian delegation, and Federation representatives. Though several Carthagecrew members were distributed around various parts of the room—no doubt following Garrett’s urgings to mingle—everyone else was keeping to themselves. Troi also noted that Captain Haden hadn’t put in an appearance yet. But then, he had left most of the details of this to Garrett. Vance Haden had never had much patience with this sort of thing.

Three tables had been laid out with food and drink. The near table with the odd-smelling, ostentatious—and in some cases, wriggling—food and the smoking beverages had to have been the Klingon food. The far table with various peculiar-looking egg and fish dishes was probably Cardassian. In the center of the lounge was a table covered in raw vegetables from several different Federation worlds, slivers of sandwich meats from Earth, fruits from Trill, gristherafrom Andor, and a bowl of allirapunch from Betazed. Troi especially appreciated the latter, as he’d gotten all but addicted to the stuff during his six-month tour on that planet.

Of course, I had plenty of it the last few weeks,he thought with a happy smile. He had returned to the Carthagefrom his honeymoon less than a week ago, and he missed Lwaxana terribly.

Garrett added, “I wish more people were intermingling.”

“The food could perhaps have been arranged differently, Commander,” Vaughn said.

“Really?” Garrett said with the pleasant, small smile that the entire complement of the Carthagehad learned to fear. “I wasn’t aware that catering was a skill cultivated by Starfleet special operations.”

So that’s who he is,Troi thought.

Vaughn shrugged. “No, but observation is. Not that any of these people are inclined to talk to each other socially in any case, but by keeping the different foods so far apart, you guarantee that each nation will stay near the food and drink they’re most comfortable with.”

“Yes,” Troi said, “but if we put the Klingon drinks near any of the Cardassian food, it’d probably cause a chemical explosion.”

Garrett let out a small exhalation that might have been a laugh. “Mr. Troi raises a good point. Excuse me.” She went off to speak with one of the Federation delegates.

“Have you ever had allirapunch, Lieutenant?” Troi asked after an uncomfortable pause.

“No.”

“Then you’re in for a treat. Come with me.” He led the older man to the Federation table and scooped some of the punch into a glass for Vaughn.

“I take it you enjoyed your honeymoon?” Vaughn asked.

Troi almost dropped the glass. “Uh, yes. How’d you—?”

Vaughn came very close to smiling. “I could try to impress you by telling you that I saw the wedding ring, and I know that Vance Haden would only allow that kind of bending of the uniform code if you were recently married, and also observe that you have the glow common to a newlywed—but the fact is I read your service record on my way here.”

Suddenly, Troi grew nervous, even as he handed Vaughn his punch. Why is a special ops goon checking my service record?

This time Vaughn really did smile. “Relax, Lieutenant—I read everyone’sservice record.” In fact, Troi was relaxed—but, he noted, Vaughn was finally starting to do so. “The note about your recent marriage just happened to stick in my head, is all. I met your wife once a few years ago. She’s quite a woman.”

Troi’s face split into a huge grin as he said, “Yes, she is. I’m a lucky man.”

Vaughn held up the glass. “To the happy couple.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Troi then suited action to words. The punch wasn’t as good as what they’d had at the reception on Betazed, but that was fresh, not replicated.

“Not bad,” Vaughn said. “A bit acidic for my taste, but quite pleasant. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Not just for that—for defusing that little contretemps between me and the commander.” He took another sip. “I suspect that my presence here is a bit of an a

He wasn’t kidding about being observant,Troi thought as he grabbed a carrot and a stalk of celery. “So why areyou here anyhow?”

“To be a bit of an a

Troi smiled at that. The first aliens to land on Earth and make contact with humans were the Vulcans in the twenty-first century, who did so after Zefram Cochrane’s famed Phoenixwarp-speed flight. The second was a Klingon, who crash-landed ninety years later in an American cornfield and blew up a silo. Both, in their own way, set the tone for future relations—the former as a valued ally in forming the Federation, the latter as an implacable enemy until very recently.

“And considering that the last time we made peaceful overtures to the Cardassians they used it to sabotage our relationship with Legara IV, Starfleet Command is concerned about them as well.”

A new voice said, “And heaven forfend we disregard the concerns of Starfleet Command.”

Troi turned to see a white-haired Trill dressed in a brightly colored tunic and pants that made Lwaxana’s outfits look almost subdued. “You must be Ambassador Dax,” Troi said, offering his hand. “Ian Troi.”

Dax tilted his head quizzically. “Troi? You mean you’rethe one who succeeded in roping down the infamous Lwaxana?” He returned the handshake with his right hand, after moving a large Klingon mug to his left.

Troi wondered what it was Dax was choking down, and how, exactly, he did it. Just from here, the smell was enough to put Troi off his allira.“I wouldn’t call it ‘roping down,’ sir, more like going along for the ride.”

“Aptly put,” Dax said with a hearty laugh. “You have my respect, Mr. Troi. From all I’ve heard, Lwaxana is quite a woman. I’m sorry I missed the ceremony.”