2323.Q4 - Honiani, Yan-Ros, Obar - Pt 1
- Location
- Australia
Joburg IV, Sol Sector
The wind buffets you.
Your short-cropped hair is tossed side to side, your antennae swaying. It picks at your clothes and tugs you along. Like an old friend leading you on, you imagine some would say. But not you. Oh no. A spacer through and through, to feel air in motion still gives you goosebumps. When your world is a bubble of oxygen held by a thin film of metal in an uncaring void, air should not be moving like this. If your oxygen had somewhere to go, it was almost assuredly outside, and you were in trouble.
A tenth birthday party comes to your mind, candles on the cake and tiny fires that twist and dwindle and finally asphyxiate as your zhen-mother helps check your safety mask. That EPS blowout on the old freighter had been frightening enough at the time - the passage of time only taught you how near-run it had all been. But then, every childhood has its perils, right?
Somewhere far above orbits the Typhoon, your ride for the upcoming whirlwind tour of your coreward spaces. It has been on your mind for the whole time you have been groundside. It's just a natural defence mechanism, truthfully - when your home can fly away without you, or run into any number of crisis, you keep it front of mind during the odd leave or away mission. But then you crest the gentle slope to the top of a lookout, and for one of the vanishingly few moments in your life thoughts of space and ship fade away. Your thoughts lie instead with the majesty of the golden sea of Joburg grain fields. Hundreds of square kilometers are dedicated to it, all across the central continent. Slow ripples spread gently look so much like the videos your mothers used to show you of the ancestral seas.
It feels calming, wave after wave passing by. Far more than the bustle of Hillcrown city behind you. The ninety-year old first settlement of Joburg IV, it's a beautiful city, sure. All the signs of urban planning are plain to see, so different to the history-steeped bedlam of the other human cities you know on old Earth. Sat atop the crest of a large round-top hill, the image of the crown atop the meadow-clad head is plain to see.
Of course, you aren't here for a vacation, nor are you alone. Even up above, the Typhoon is kept company by the UES Liberty. Walking a pace behind you is the head of the United Earth Space Probe Agency. Following up the slope to the lookout are the heads of the Vulcan High Command, Tellarite State Forces, and the Andorian Guard. Though by no means a proper summit, everyone has gathered officially to discuss potential late-arising issues for the upcoming Federalisation. In truth, almost everything is handled. Instead what you have has the feeling of a farewell party for dearly departed friends - a 'wake', the UESPA Director tells you at one point. Four proud services with a tale of friendship, rivalry, furore and adventure. Each are as steeped in the history of their services as you are, and they share their tales like drunken uncles when the convoy arrives at base.
Oh, the tales make you never want to leave. The valour of the ancient VCS T'Ana Hlu breaking Orion battle lines, the tenacity of the Obselle, four hundred years past running a ten year mission to track and deter an ancient battle drone. The tragedy of the UES Bellwether in her six-hundred day long last stand, praying on a distress call no one ever heard. TSS Ord Mag Hunnuck and the wild first days of Tellarite exploration. Raise your glasses, raise your gazes, raise your toast to empty chairs and full memories where legends great and small will never die.
-
Rigel System, Rigel Sector
"Admiral, we'll be docked at Starbase 10 in five minutes," said the dreadfully young voice.
"Thank you, Ensign," you reply. You glance around the guest room and its cozy comfort. The Captain had offered you his quarters, of course, but you aren't fussed by things like that. You travel light, a single squat cylinder of luggage. Anyone who saw how you travel would know you for a career spacer. Anyone who saw how you had not rigid corner in your pack would know you for your civilian background, too. No sharp edge, no rough surface, and no pointed tips. Nothing that didn't come with its own means of being stowed safely - sure signs of one who is used to gravity plates that are only "more or less" trustworthy.
You collect up a few necessary items and head off toward the nearest transporter room. It's a short walk, but a good one for getting one's bearing on the ship; one of the main radial EPS trunks runs directly beneath the deck plating. An Andorian can learn a lot about the health of a drive system by listening to the subtle harmonics, just outside human hearing. But even the human can feel the faint vibration. You take a moment to listen. The Typhoon is a tightly run ship and the sounds are silky smooth. Starfleet Engineers may be all mad but there was always a method to the madness.
A bright young Lieutenant a third your age is at the transporter controls alongside a more seasoned Petty Officer. A quick exchange of greetings and then you are shredded to minute pieces, collected in a great vat of a buffer, wrapped in an annular confinement beam, and then spat out across the void. At the other end, someone is somehow entrusted to "catch" this beam of disparate matter, and through a tremendous feat of science and engineering, this actually happens, and you are fed through another vat, shunted through coils, and then stitched back together molecule by molecule. By some venture of insanity you are expected to trust that they can keep all of your neurons connected to the correct neurons. By another tremendous feat of science and engineering, this seems to occur, and at the transporter room servicing the nerve center of Starbase 10, you pat down your uniform.
The Surgeon-General has the right of it. Transporters are for cargo, not the dignity of a sentient person.
"Welcome to Rigel, Admiral ch'Tharvasse," comes a voice with all the hallmarks of a rough-edged Ranford native. A tall Andorian shen approaches you, Vice Admiral's starburst on her jacket.
"Much appreciated, sh'Nathriq" you reply. A veteran of the Explorer Corps, including having completed one a Five Year Mission aboard the Courageous that ended just before the turn of the century, the shen has made a name for herself as steady in a crisis and an excellent manager of people. Vice Admiral sh'Nathriq runs the Tailward Theatre, leaving only Admiral Lathriss between you and her in the reporting chain. Officially, anyway; in practical terms, nothing approaches his desk without the imprimatur of John Harriman, another Explorer Corps veteran with decades of experience.
Anyth gestures to her side. "Let me introduce you to the local sector commander, Rear Admiral Nkumba."
From behind the Vice Admiral comes a human man, a broad smile on his face. "Admiral, I hope you still remember me from out time on the Saratoga together."
"Francis Nkumba," you say while extending a hand, which the other man takes. Your powder blue tones contrast sharply with his dark skin. "How could I forget? We couldn't have accomplished half of what we did without you and the rest of the flag staff on that cartography campaign."
Looking perfectly pleased with himself, Admiral Nkumba takes a step back. If you had to guess, he is most thrilled to be recognised by someone for something other than the loss of the USS Polaris. That had been a tough time for everyone, when the fleet was justifiably worried that their Captain might be scapegoated for the start of the Caitian-Dawiar War. In your role as Chief of Staff to the famous Grey Lady at the time, you had fought like the devil in the various twisting corridors and salons of Paris to defend Nkumba's name, bruising any number of toes as you did it. And you are proud to have done so. Nkumba has proven to be every bit as capable a flag officer as he was a captain, which is very capable indeed.
Anyth sh'Nathriq says, "Your meeting is ready to go in Conference Room 1, just behind the control room, Admiral."
"Thank you," you reply. "Any surprises?"
Anyth glances at her PADD. "Not so much. General Nasrallah of the MACO, Superintendent Qinow of the Yan-Ros, Marshall Gian sh'Henyfk of the Andorian Guard, Vice-Marshall Opellis of the Amarkian Gendarmes, General Nyrro of the Frontier Police, and a number of specialists. Looks like everyone."
"Good, good," you reply. "Well, let's go say hello."
-
Great Hall of the Sun, City of Roen-doba, Nahr, Tobar System
Your escort for the day is a charming officer named Loohnbahr. Tall, like all Obar, a creature of loose, slowly swaying limbs and mossy hairs, he can point to just bout any corner of the halls you traverse and point out some amazing anecdote or history lesson. The Great Hall of the Sun is an palace from centuries past, now repurposed as the seat of planetary government. A dizzying array of mirrors conveys photosynthesis-inducing natural light to every corner, including the upper levels with their vast vaulted ceilings, a marvel for the time of its construction. They maintain the old system, even though new far more efficient means of enabling Obar to get their daily dose of sunlight are available.
"So what would you say attracted the Obar to join the Honiani?" you ask as you tread through one of the busy halls, feeling downright dwarfish among the throng.
The Obar man ducks his head and you hope you haven't hit a nerve. "They offered to help us restore the ecology of our world, which ... I am regretful to say, we woefully mismanaged as our species grew of age," he says. "Lakhept, well, I trust you know their views on restoring to nature what you take out in at least some way?"
"I've seen their starship-artpieces," you say.
"Then you can see the appeal," he replies. "We built out widely, and competitively. We had wars. One day, we realised that we would be doomed by a changing ecology, and we had to come together."
You nod and say, "This was after you reached the stars, if I recall?"
"Yes, though with only Warp 1 engines." Loohnbahr sighs and shrugs. "Even optimistically, reasonable colony worlds were decades ahead of us, and too many would die if we delayed. So the rival nations came here, in peace. It shames us that it took such dire circumstances."
"A noble accomplishment," you reply. "The story of the Obar echoes that of many species. Both triumphs and tragedies." You gently elbow the Obar, making contact on his hip with the height difference. "You could be the humans, or worse, the Vulcans, with the slaughter they visited on themselves."
"Yes...," says Loohnbar slowly. "It seems strange for such those with such warlike pasts to have such peaceful presents."
"But then, you managed it yourselves. You do not even have a fleet of your own, after all?"
"No, only our guard," affirms Loohnbar, "Which we hope to bring together with the various peacekeepers of the Federation."
That is what you have hoped to hear, of course. "I look forward to facilitating it."
-
Vail Orbit, Vail System
Afraid?
To visit the surface of Vail, the Federation's soon to be newest members?
Absolutely you are. Petrified, even. Only those with very questionable self-preservation instincts are not. But a few simple precautions help keep your nerves in check, and best of all, you're sure no one notices them. The Typhoon's chief medical officer has much to learn about the unusual Yan-Ros musculature, after all. The chief of security would love to see how the Yan-Ros guard against their wildlife; who knows when it could come in handy with how insane people keep wanting to ship the local wildlife off-world. And hopefully notices the ship security bodyarmour under your jacket. It doesn't make you look too chubby - thankfully, like most spacers, you are very particular about your calorie intake.
You'll have to write-up a reprimand for the Captain for bursting out into laughter when she saw what you were doing.
Transporters aren't the most reliable around Vail, unfortunately, so they're usually only used for cargo. No kink in your antennae, shuttles are the only way fit for a sophont to fly. Of course, your paranoia fails to pass notice. When you land, the old veteran ranger who meets you has one robotic leg and a robotic replacement for a lost eye. Whatever was in the replacement eyeball gives her perception's a little extra kick, because she laughs just as the Captain of the Typhoon did.
"Nervous, Admiral?" she says, big disarming smile on her face. "Fear not, the Red Claw is much reduced on Vail of late, and criminals give us a wide berth lately."
Your face sours like you've been chewing lemons. "Red Claw? I'm used to sophonts wanting me dead. It's the planet full of Crunchers that has me nervous."
"Oh, a Cruncher wouldn't even notice that armour vest," she remarks casually. "But come, I'll show you around the Council Chambers and introduce you to the heads of the Ranger Academies, and the heads of our R&D."
You spend the whole trip resisting the urge to snap-roll around corners with phaser drawn, but to your surprise ... it's actually a really boring trip. Just meeting people who could all casually snap you in two.
-
Koliate Tower, Okatha
The Enterprise won't arrive for another week, but the preparations for the ceremony are already well underway. The great promenade that leads from the Koliate Tower, the Toum Pelech, with its great statues down the middle of the street, is lined with great banners in the colours of the Starkin and the Federation. There are also a thousand and one smaller details, a lot of which you suspect would require you to be a professor of Lakhept and Honiani cultural practices to understand, but the astonishing sight from the top of the Tower is what captivates the attention.
Your host and counter-part among the Honiani Fleet is Lord-Admiral Mordius Menoch, a gaunt-faced man of old scars and tales of battle. He stands overlooking the vista with you, hands clasped behind his back. Like most of the fleet commanders you have dealt with, there is a sense of deference. Even setting aside the transnational nature of your service, you command more capital-grade explorers than Menoch commands starships. No matter how polite and accommodating you are, millions upon millions of ton of duranium sit behind your words, and that will always sit in the mind. There are many who would be seduced by the feelings that engenders, but you haven't gone through fifty years of service to a higher cause just to be caught by the allure of being the big thaan on the iceberg.
You have been discussing details normally handled a few rungs on the ladder below you, but you have your reasons. Talks about what the Honiani Fleet expect from Starfleet vessels in their garrison space, the way the new sector would operate. Even some suggestions about known officers who could be the inaugural Sector and Task Force flag officers, and some possibilities you joining task forces in the region. But you're done now, and it's time to part ways. The Typhoon would tomorrow lay in course for Starbase 10, whereupon another ship would relay you back to Earth in time for the Enterprise and Basilica of Lakhept to arrive. But for today...
"Computer," you say when you have returned to your guest stateroom. "Open a hail to the SS Livonos, registry number NC-1984."
"One moment please," the computer replies, and you wait, impatiently, by the monitor in your room. A few seconds later, a Honiani Signals Directorate emblem comes up with a 'Patching through Okatha Starbase' message. Then you see the inside of a civilian freighter bridge. It's a little messy at first glance, and the chairs a little worn, but the controls you can see are spotless. The safety equipment hanging in the back of the room are all dust-free and well maintained, the lights aren't uneven at all like they can be on some other more carelessly run ships. In short, it looks just like how you left it. No one is in the chair however.
"Just a minute!" a voice calls out from off-screen.
"Take your time, Zena," you reply to the monitor.
There is a noise that sounds almost like a squawk. "Shey!?" An Andorian woman with greying hair pops into view from the side.
You grin and say, "Sure as the ice caps."
"Ah! I wasn't expecting to hear from you until we were back in..." Zena sh'Tharvasse slows down and comes to a halt with a dawning realisation. Her eyes light up like lamps. "Hang on, there's no lag time. Where are you?"
"I came in on the Typhoon. Dirtside on Okatha at the moment," you explain. "I have to ship out again tomorrow mid-day, but I can beam up and join everyone until then."
Zena nods rapidly, a bright smile on her face. "Of course, of course. Hang on." She hits an intercom button at the side of the screen. "Makyth, Lis, get to the transporter room, prepare to receive a guest."
This is the first chance since you came back from sabbatical that you have had a chance to see your family in person, rather than by subspace comm when they were in the right part of the galaxy. Sometimes it was just worth taking on a few extra missions to make things line up.
"SS Livonos, one to beam up," you say.
-
The wind buffets you.
Your short-cropped hair is tossed side to side, your antennae swaying. It picks at your clothes and tugs you along. Like an old friend leading you on, you imagine some would say. But not you. Oh no. A spacer through and through, to feel air in motion still gives you goosebumps. When your world is a bubble of oxygen held by a thin film of metal in an uncaring void, air should not be moving like this. If your oxygen had somewhere to go, it was almost assuredly outside, and you were in trouble.
A tenth birthday party comes to your mind, candles on the cake and tiny fires that twist and dwindle and finally asphyxiate as your zhen-mother helps check your safety mask. That EPS blowout on the old freighter had been frightening enough at the time - the passage of time only taught you how near-run it had all been. But then, every childhood has its perils, right?
Somewhere far above orbits the Typhoon, your ride for the upcoming whirlwind tour of your coreward spaces. It has been on your mind for the whole time you have been groundside. It's just a natural defence mechanism, truthfully - when your home can fly away without you, or run into any number of crisis, you keep it front of mind during the odd leave or away mission. But then you crest the gentle slope to the top of a lookout, and for one of the vanishingly few moments in your life thoughts of space and ship fade away. Your thoughts lie instead with the majesty of the golden sea of Joburg grain fields. Hundreds of square kilometers are dedicated to it, all across the central continent. Slow ripples spread gently look so much like the videos your mothers used to show you of the ancestral seas.
It feels calming, wave after wave passing by. Far more than the bustle of Hillcrown city behind you. The ninety-year old first settlement of Joburg IV, it's a beautiful city, sure. All the signs of urban planning are plain to see, so different to the history-steeped bedlam of the other human cities you know on old Earth. Sat atop the crest of a large round-top hill, the image of the crown atop the meadow-clad head is plain to see.
Of course, you aren't here for a vacation, nor are you alone. Even up above, the Typhoon is kept company by the UES Liberty. Walking a pace behind you is the head of the United Earth Space Probe Agency. Following up the slope to the lookout are the heads of the Vulcan High Command, Tellarite State Forces, and the Andorian Guard. Though by no means a proper summit, everyone has gathered officially to discuss potential late-arising issues for the upcoming Federalisation. In truth, almost everything is handled. Instead what you have has the feeling of a farewell party for dearly departed friends - a 'wake', the UESPA Director tells you at one point. Four proud services with a tale of friendship, rivalry, furore and adventure. Each are as steeped in the history of their services as you are, and they share their tales like drunken uncles when the convoy arrives at base.
Oh, the tales make you never want to leave. The valour of the ancient VCS T'Ana Hlu breaking Orion battle lines, the tenacity of the Obselle, four hundred years past running a ten year mission to track and deter an ancient battle drone. The tragedy of the UES Bellwether in her six-hundred day long last stand, praying on a distress call no one ever heard. TSS Ord Mag Hunnuck and the wild first days of Tellarite exploration. Raise your glasses, raise your gazes, raise your toast to empty chairs and full memories where legends great and small will never die.
-
Rigel System, Rigel Sector
"Admiral, we'll be docked at Starbase 10 in five minutes," said the dreadfully young voice.
"Thank you, Ensign," you reply. You glance around the guest room and its cozy comfort. The Captain had offered you his quarters, of course, but you aren't fussed by things like that. You travel light, a single squat cylinder of luggage. Anyone who saw how you travel would know you for a career spacer. Anyone who saw how you had not rigid corner in your pack would know you for your civilian background, too. No sharp edge, no rough surface, and no pointed tips. Nothing that didn't come with its own means of being stowed safely - sure signs of one who is used to gravity plates that are only "more or less" trustworthy.
You collect up a few necessary items and head off toward the nearest transporter room. It's a short walk, but a good one for getting one's bearing on the ship; one of the main radial EPS trunks runs directly beneath the deck plating. An Andorian can learn a lot about the health of a drive system by listening to the subtle harmonics, just outside human hearing. But even the human can feel the faint vibration. You take a moment to listen. The Typhoon is a tightly run ship and the sounds are silky smooth. Starfleet Engineers may be all mad but there was always a method to the madness.
A bright young Lieutenant a third your age is at the transporter controls alongside a more seasoned Petty Officer. A quick exchange of greetings and then you are shredded to minute pieces, collected in a great vat of a buffer, wrapped in an annular confinement beam, and then spat out across the void. At the other end, someone is somehow entrusted to "catch" this beam of disparate matter, and through a tremendous feat of science and engineering, this actually happens, and you are fed through another vat, shunted through coils, and then stitched back together molecule by molecule. By some venture of insanity you are expected to trust that they can keep all of your neurons connected to the correct neurons. By another tremendous feat of science and engineering, this seems to occur, and at the transporter room servicing the nerve center of Starbase 10, you pat down your uniform.
The Surgeon-General has the right of it. Transporters are for cargo, not the dignity of a sentient person.
"Welcome to Rigel, Admiral ch'Tharvasse," comes a voice with all the hallmarks of a rough-edged Ranford native. A tall Andorian shen approaches you, Vice Admiral's starburst on her jacket.
"Much appreciated, sh'Nathriq" you reply. A veteran of the Explorer Corps, including having completed one a Five Year Mission aboard the Courageous that ended just before the turn of the century, the shen has made a name for herself as steady in a crisis and an excellent manager of people. Vice Admiral sh'Nathriq runs the Tailward Theatre, leaving only Admiral Lathriss between you and her in the reporting chain. Officially, anyway; in practical terms, nothing approaches his desk without the imprimatur of John Harriman, another Explorer Corps veteran with decades of experience.
Anyth gestures to her side. "Let me introduce you to the local sector commander, Rear Admiral Nkumba."
From behind the Vice Admiral comes a human man, a broad smile on his face. "Admiral, I hope you still remember me from out time on the Saratoga together."
"Francis Nkumba," you say while extending a hand, which the other man takes. Your powder blue tones contrast sharply with his dark skin. "How could I forget? We couldn't have accomplished half of what we did without you and the rest of the flag staff on that cartography campaign."
Looking perfectly pleased with himself, Admiral Nkumba takes a step back. If you had to guess, he is most thrilled to be recognised by someone for something other than the loss of the USS Polaris. That had been a tough time for everyone, when the fleet was justifiably worried that their Captain might be scapegoated for the start of the Caitian-Dawiar War. In your role as Chief of Staff to the famous Grey Lady at the time, you had fought like the devil in the various twisting corridors and salons of Paris to defend Nkumba's name, bruising any number of toes as you did it. And you are proud to have done so. Nkumba has proven to be every bit as capable a flag officer as he was a captain, which is very capable indeed.
Anyth sh'Nathriq says, "Your meeting is ready to go in Conference Room 1, just behind the control room, Admiral."
"Thank you," you reply. "Any surprises?"
Anyth glances at her PADD. "Not so much. General Nasrallah of the MACO, Superintendent Qinow of the Yan-Ros, Marshall Gian sh'Henyfk of the Andorian Guard, Vice-Marshall Opellis of the Amarkian Gendarmes, General Nyrro of the Frontier Police, and a number of specialists. Looks like everyone."
"Good, good," you reply. "Well, let's go say hello."
-
Great Hall of the Sun, City of Roen-doba, Nahr, Tobar System
Your escort for the day is a charming officer named Loohnbahr. Tall, like all Obar, a creature of loose, slowly swaying limbs and mossy hairs, he can point to just bout any corner of the halls you traverse and point out some amazing anecdote or history lesson. The Great Hall of the Sun is an palace from centuries past, now repurposed as the seat of planetary government. A dizzying array of mirrors conveys photosynthesis-inducing natural light to every corner, including the upper levels with their vast vaulted ceilings, a marvel for the time of its construction. They maintain the old system, even though new far more efficient means of enabling Obar to get their daily dose of sunlight are available.
"So what would you say attracted the Obar to join the Honiani?" you ask as you tread through one of the busy halls, feeling downright dwarfish among the throng.
The Obar man ducks his head and you hope you haven't hit a nerve. "They offered to help us restore the ecology of our world, which ... I am regretful to say, we woefully mismanaged as our species grew of age," he says. "Lakhept, well, I trust you know their views on restoring to nature what you take out in at least some way?"
"I've seen their starship-artpieces," you say.
"Then you can see the appeal," he replies. "We built out widely, and competitively. We had wars. One day, we realised that we would be doomed by a changing ecology, and we had to come together."
You nod and say, "This was after you reached the stars, if I recall?"
"Yes, though with only Warp 1 engines." Loohnbahr sighs and shrugs. "Even optimistically, reasonable colony worlds were decades ahead of us, and too many would die if we delayed. So the rival nations came here, in peace. It shames us that it took such dire circumstances."
"A noble accomplishment," you reply. "The story of the Obar echoes that of many species. Both triumphs and tragedies." You gently elbow the Obar, making contact on his hip with the height difference. "You could be the humans, or worse, the Vulcans, with the slaughter they visited on themselves."
"Yes...," says Loohnbar slowly. "It seems strange for such those with such warlike pasts to have such peaceful presents."
"But then, you managed it yourselves. You do not even have a fleet of your own, after all?"
"No, only our guard," affirms Loohnbar, "Which we hope to bring together with the various peacekeepers of the Federation."
That is what you have hoped to hear, of course. "I look forward to facilitating it."
-
Vail Orbit, Vail System
Afraid?
To visit the surface of Vail, the Federation's soon to be newest members?
Absolutely you are. Petrified, even. Only those with very questionable self-preservation instincts are not. But a few simple precautions help keep your nerves in check, and best of all, you're sure no one notices them. The Typhoon's chief medical officer has much to learn about the unusual Yan-Ros musculature, after all. The chief of security would love to see how the Yan-Ros guard against their wildlife; who knows when it could come in handy with how insane people keep wanting to ship the local wildlife off-world. And hopefully notices the ship security bodyarmour under your jacket. It doesn't make you look too chubby - thankfully, like most spacers, you are very particular about your calorie intake.
You'll have to write-up a reprimand for the Captain for bursting out into laughter when she saw what you were doing.
Transporters aren't the most reliable around Vail, unfortunately, so they're usually only used for cargo. No kink in your antennae, shuttles are the only way fit for a sophont to fly. Of course, your paranoia fails to pass notice. When you land, the old veteran ranger who meets you has one robotic leg and a robotic replacement for a lost eye. Whatever was in the replacement eyeball gives her perception's a little extra kick, because she laughs just as the Captain of the Typhoon did.
"Nervous, Admiral?" she says, big disarming smile on her face. "Fear not, the Red Claw is much reduced on Vail of late, and criminals give us a wide berth lately."
Your face sours like you've been chewing lemons. "Red Claw? I'm used to sophonts wanting me dead. It's the planet full of Crunchers that has me nervous."
"Oh, a Cruncher wouldn't even notice that armour vest," she remarks casually. "But come, I'll show you around the Council Chambers and introduce you to the heads of the Ranger Academies, and the heads of our R&D."
You spend the whole trip resisting the urge to snap-roll around corners with phaser drawn, but to your surprise ... it's actually a really boring trip. Just meeting people who could all casually snap you in two.
-
Koliate Tower, Okatha
The Enterprise won't arrive for another week, but the preparations for the ceremony are already well underway. The great promenade that leads from the Koliate Tower, the Toum Pelech, with its great statues down the middle of the street, is lined with great banners in the colours of the Starkin and the Federation. There are also a thousand and one smaller details, a lot of which you suspect would require you to be a professor of Lakhept and Honiani cultural practices to understand, but the astonishing sight from the top of the Tower is what captivates the attention.
Your host and counter-part among the Honiani Fleet is Lord-Admiral Mordius Menoch, a gaunt-faced man of old scars and tales of battle. He stands overlooking the vista with you, hands clasped behind his back. Like most of the fleet commanders you have dealt with, there is a sense of deference. Even setting aside the transnational nature of your service, you command more capital-grade explorers than Menoch commands starships. No matter how polite and accommodating you are, millions upon millions of ton of duranium sit behind your words, and that will always sit in the mind. There are many who would be seduced by the feelings that engenders, but you haven't gone through fifty years of service to a higher cause just to be caught by the allure of being the big thaan on the iceberg.
You have been discussing details normally handled a few rungs on the ladder below you, but you have your reasons. Talks about what the Honiani Fleet expect from Starfleet vessels in their garrison space, the way the new sector would operate. Even some suggestions about known officers who could be the inaugural Sector and Task Force flag officers, and some possibilities you joining task forces in the region. But you're done now, and it's time to part ways. The Typhoon would tomorrow lay in course for Starbase 10, whereupon another ship would relay you back to Earth in time for the Enterprise and Basilica of Lakhept to arrive. But for today...
"Computer," you say when you have returned to your guest stateroom. "Open a hail to the SS Livonos, registry number NC-1984."
"One moment please," the computer replies, and you wait, impatiently, by the monitor in your room. A few seconds later, a Honiani Signals Directorate emblem comes up with a 'Patching through Okatha Starbase' message. Then you see the inside of a civilian freighter bridge. It's a little messy at first glance, and the chairs a little worn, but the controls you can see are spotless. The safety equipment hanging in the back of the room are all dust-free and well maintained, the lights aren't uneven at all like they can be on some other more carelessly run ships. In short, it looks just like how you left it. No one is in the chair however.
"Just a minute!" a voice calls out from off-screen.
"Take your time, Zena," you reply to the monitor.
There is a noise that sounds almost like a squawk. "Shey!?" An Andorian woman with greying hair pops into view from the side.
You grin and say, "Sure as the ice caps."
"Ah! I wasn't expecting to hear from you until we were back in..." Zena sh'Tharvasse slows down and comes to a halt with a dawning realisation. Her eyes light up like lamps. "Hang on, there's no lag time. Where are you?"
"I came in on the Typhoon. Dirtside on Okatha at the moment," you explain. "I have to ship out again tomorrow mid-day, but I can beam up and join everyone until then."
Zena nods rapidly, a bright smile on her face. "Of course, of course. Hang on." She hits an intercom button at the side of the screen. "Makyth, Lis, get to the transporter room, prepare to receive a guest."
This is the first chance since you came back from sabbatical that you have had a chance to see your family in person, rather than by subspace comm when they were in the right part of the galaxy. Sometimes it was just worth taking on a few extra missions to make things line up.
"SS Livonos, one to beam up," you say.
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