The interview with Admiral Quinn goes... better than usual, in fact. Normally, I get Standard Lecture No. 1, about the Ideals of the Service and the Necessity of Respect for the Chain of Command, and Where Would We Be If Indiscipline Were Allowed To Prevail? That last is one of those there rhetorical questions, that don't need an answer - I know, because I once answered it with "Tijuana donkey show", and the following half hour was no fun at all.
But today it's Standard Lecture No. 2, about the Need for Diplomacy and the Requirement for Senior Officers to Be Aware of Political Realities, and I can tell his heart isn't really in it. He doesn't even follow it up by ordering me to mandatory psychiatric counselling. Some day, I really must get round to going to one of those mandatory counselling sessions. They tell me it's not as dull as it sounds.
Anyway. This leaves me kicking around Earth Spacedock for a while. The Falcon is tied up for a few days, sorting out the thousand and one little details that have cropped up during her first cruise - if I was a proper Starfleet captain, I'd know what they were, but that's why I have people like Tallasa. So once Quinn's finished griping, I have nothing much to do, except wander around and stare at the people */*visible species----3259---3407---4464---5095--56
Or I could look out of the windows.... The sunlight is reflecting off the Atlantic, and I can see that sunset is falling over much of western Europe. I suppose, if I try hard, I could make out the spot in England where I grew up... I've never been back. I don't really want to see whatever holistically balanced organic basket-weaving workshop they've replaced my home town with. It's not like I had real roots there, anyway - my parents fled to England after the Heidenau Excursion Event, just one couple out of the thousands of refugees. Maybe I could go back there, I'm told that part of Saxony isn't radioactive any more. I squint at the globe, but night has already fallen across east Germany. */*diurnal cycles are irrelevant*/* - so are you, Two of Twelve, so are you.
I turn back to look at the crowded reception area, and a familiar figure catches my eye; tall, lanky, blue-skinned, with white hair in a ponytail and a curving scar on one cheek. Yay, my favourite psycho smurf */*species designator not recognized*/* - well, after Tallasa, I guess. And Jhemyl. OK, third favourite. Anyway, it's someone to talk to who isn't inside my head. I wave at her and yell, "Tylha!"
It makes her jump. She spots me, and one side of her mouth curves up in what might be a smile - or a grimace. I'll go with smile. "Ronnie!" she calls back. "Hello!"
I scamper over to her, jostling a Tellarite */*species 4897*/* on the way, ignoring the resultant barrage of invective. "How ya been, kiddo? Haven't seen you since we got back from Klink space. You look tired, are they working you too hard?"
Tylha's antennae twitch. "I got back in from Delta Pyxidis a couple of days ago... I've just got out of the debriefs and the after-action reports...."
"Delta Pyxidis... out towards Rom space, yes?"
"Dealing with the Hegemony of Bresar... sort of."
"Those weirdoes? You've been running into them too? They're all over the Rom sectors like a rash, and they're roping in a lot of Vulcans."
Tylha sighs. "Yes, you could say I've been running into them." She shakes her head. "Probably, we should compare notes."
"Let's do that," I say. "Only, let's act like sensible people, go to Club 47, and do it over a couple of drinks."
"Yes," Tylha says, "that sounds like a sensible idea." She cocks her head to one side and frowns. "Sensible idea... all right, who are you, and what have you done with the real Ronnie Grau?"
---
We find a quiet corner in Club 47 - which isn't easy; Jay Yim is in town, doing one of his regular things, offering new captains unrivalled opportunities to burn out their warp coils for fun and profit. Mostly his, he runs the book on the side. A young black-furred Caitian */*species 5847*/* is positively bouncing up and down, trying to get in on the action; I wonder if I can get two to five on her blowing a nacelle before she reaches Arawath sector.
I grab myself a Saurian brandy, and Tylha gets something Andorian she calls Dh'syara tunnel wine. It looks something like Pernod and smells like week-old lemon peel, but she seems to thrive on the stuff.
And we talk. Turns out we have a lot to talk about.
"D'Kalius is a High Admiral now? That's kind of alarming."
Tylha nods. "Seemed to me he was promoted for political correctness - not on merit. A true-believing fanatic."
"Yeah, well, rapidly expanding military, promotions come fast. D'Tan was writing out admirals' commissions like parking tickets for the Republic fleet."
"Some of them deserve it. I've worked with one Republic VA who's... pretty good." Tylha shoots me a look. "It must be weird for you. You were in the First Romulan War, after all."
"I try not to let it prejudice me. We never even saw the Roms themselves, after all."
"What was it you did, exactly? I looked your name up, once, but all it said was 'decorated for the action at Phi Centauri'...."
"Oh, yeah. Was sort of an engineering solution, actually, you'd approve. They were using some sort of homing torpedoes that tracked our drive signatures... after the old Chloe got hit, I used her EW gear and a convenient nebula to spoof their sensors a bit, so the torps tracked the Roms' own drives instead. 'Tis sport to have the engineer hoist with his own petard... Took out two Rom birds that way, and that left a straight one-on-one fight, which we won." Well, not entirely straight, as the Romulan still had a bridge, while I was fighting the Chloe from the switch gear in the auxiliary control room... but, hell, we won anyway.
"Well," says Tylha, "I suppose it's not relevant to our current problems... I don't see any easy way to torpedo Valikra."
"Does she need torpedoeing?"
Tylha sighs. "I think she does... I mean, reunification is a fine thing to aim for... I think... but not her way. She's too uncompromising, too fanatical. With her in charge, the Hegemony risks turning into some unreasoning cult. That's the last thing we need."
"Galaxy's full of unreasonable people," I say. I look at my empty glass. "And one of them needs another drink. What about you?"
"Oh, I'm fine. This stuff isn't alcoholic anyway."
"To each their own." I look around. The bar is getting crowded, now.
Tylha's combadge chirps at her. She taps it and says, "Shohl here."
"Sir," says a voice. "Message from Admiral Hengest - are you at a secure terminal?"
"No, but I can be," says Tylha. "Just a minute." She stands up. "Excuse me, Ronnie." And she's off.
I look at the bar, and contemplate my chances of getting another Saurian brandy this side of the heat death of the universe. Not good. Not good at all.
Tylha is away a few minutes. When she comes back, she's walking slowly, and her face is blank, and her antennae are wilting like an Andorian who's heard bad news. I know all about Andorians when they've heard bad news, I've seen Tallasa many times. Tylha sits down heavily.
"What's up?" I say. "Or would you have to kill me if you told me?"
She shakes her head. "It'll be all over the news soon enough," she says. "Valikra's dead. Assassinated, it looks like. The Hegemony is blaming the Remans."
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