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Authors: Dayton Ward
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merit.
“Rezek,” she called over her shoulder, “prepare a secure communiqué to Romulus. I want to speak to Ditrius.” Her next actions would require soothing the troubled, feeble minds of the senators, and in her absence the vice proconsul would find himself burdened with that thankless duty. It was necessary, if she was to continue with her mission, and she could only hope that the headstrong officer was up to the task.
Yes, Toqel decided, the time for bolder, more decisive steps was fast approaching.
6
It was going to be one of those days, Admiral H. Franklin Solow decided as he peered through the expansive picture window of his office. The view of early morning sunlight illuminating the calm waters of San Francisco Bay was spectacular, even with the hint of dark gray beginning to discolor the horizon and promising rain in the hours to come. He already could feel the first dull pangs of a headache beginning to take root beneath his temples, radiating inward and settling in behind his eyeballs. Normally, it would take until late afternoon on a Wednesday—Thursday, if he was lucky—for Solow to begin feeling these initial assaults on his mind and his sense of well-being. When it started before lunch on a Monday morning?
I should’ve called in sick.
Forgoing his normal beverage of choice, black coffee, Solow instead had ordered a tall glass of chilled orange juice from the food slot in his well-appointed office. The juice had aided in swallowing a pair of analgesic tablets he had taken more from habit than with any real hope of alleviating his headache. Releasing a sigh that signaled his surrender to whatever personal discomforts chose to visit him on this day, Solow turned from the window and moved toward the high-backed chair situated behind his wide, polished oak desk. On the desk’s surface was a collection of reports, files, memoranda, and other administrative flotsam which was part and parcel of a Starfleet flag officer’s job.Not for the first time, Solow wondered how quickly the Headquarters building would burn to the ground with the aid of the considerable amount of flammable materials housed just in his office.
And here I sit, with no marshmallows. Truly a tragedy if ever there was one.
Lowering himself into his chair with something less than ideal professional decorum, Solow eyed his assistant, Lieutenant Commander Cheryl Allen, who sat in the middle of three chairs positioned before his desk. The woman’s pale skin contrasted sharply with the bright red of her uniform dress, and, as he often did since the commander had begun working for him, Solow wondered if she might burst into flames when subjected to direct sunlight. “Okay,” he said, pausing to drink from his glass of juice. “Let’s have it.”
Allen, long ago having grown accustomed to the admiral’s relaxed demeanor when working in the confines of his private office, nodded as she held up the data slate that had been resting in her lap. “We’re still compiling the latest information and readying the newest set of reports for you, sir.”
“Anything new?”
“No, Admiral.” When the commander shook her head, the action was so animated that it caused the locks of her dark blond pageboy hairstyle to swing from left to right. Solow had commented on it early during their working relationship, fearing that Allen’s head might actually detach from her body and fly off to parts unknown. “Starfleet Intelligence is cross-referencing Captain Blair’s report against what we know of Klingon ship upgrades, but there’s been no chatter about anything like this. Whatever they’re up to, they’re keeping it very well hidden.”
Nothing bothered Solow more than a Klingon acting in anything other than the brusque, uncompromising manner that characterized their species. One of the benefits of attempting to understand a culture so predicated on a military mindset or warrior ethos was that—after a time—such an adversary became
“Rezek,” she called over her shoulder, “prepare a secure communiqué to Romulus. I want to speak to Ditrius.” Her next actions would require soothing the troubled, feeble minds of the senators, and in her absence the vice proconsul would find himself burdened with that thankless duty. It was necessary, if she was to continue with her mission, and she could only hope that the headstrong officer was up to the task.
Yes, Toqel decided, the time for bolder, more decisive steps was fast approaching.
6
It was going to be one of those days, Admiral H. Franklin Solow decided as he peered through the expansive picture window of his office. The view of early morning sunlight illuminating the calm waters of San Francisco Bay was spectacular, even with the hint of dark gray beginning to discolor the horizon and promising rain in the hours to come. He already could feel the first dull pangs of a headache beginning to take root beneath his temples, radiating inward and settling in behind his eyeballs. Normally, it would take until late afternoon on a Wednesday—Thursday, if he was lucky—for Solow to begin feeling these initial assaults on his mind and his sense of well-being. When it started before lunch on a Monday morning?
I should’ve called in sick.
Forgoing his normal beverage of choice, black coffee, Solow instead had ordered a tall glass of chilled orange juice from the food slot in his well-appointed office. The juice had aided in swallowing a pair of analgesic tablets he had taken more from habit than with any real hope of alleviating his headache. Releasing a sigh that signaled his surrender to whatever personal discomforts chose to visit him on this day, Solow turned from the window and moved toward the high-backed chair situated behind his wide, polished oak desk. On the desk’s surface was a collection of reports, files, memoranda, and other administrative flotsam which was part and parcel of a Starfleet flag officer’s job.Not for the first time, Solow wondered how quickly the Headquarters building would burn to the ground with the aid of the considerable amount of flammable materials housed just in his office.
And here I sit, with no marshmallows. Truly a tragedy if ever there was one.
Lowering himself into his chair with something less than ideal professional decorum, Solow eyed his assistant, Lieutenant Commander Cheryl Allen, who sat in the middle of three chairs positioned before his desk. The woman’s pale skin contrasted sharply with the bright red of her uniform dress, and, as he often did since the commander had begun working for him, Solow wondered if she might burst into flames when subjected to direct sunlight. “Okay,” he said, pausing to drink from his glass of juice. “Let’s have it.”
Allen, long ago having grown accustomed to the admiral’s relaxed demeanor when working in the confines of his private office, nodded as she held up the data slate that had been resting in her lap. “We’re still compiling the latest information and readying the newest set of reports for you, sir.”
“Anything new?”
“No, Admiral.” When the commander shook her head, the action was so animated that it caused the locks of her dark blond pageboy hairstyle to swing from left to right. Solow had commented on it early during their working relationship, fearing that Allen’s head might actually detach from her body and fly off to parts unknown. “Starfleet Intelligence is cross-referencing Captain Blair’s report against what we know of Klingon ship upgrades, but there’s been no chatter about anything like this. Whatever they’re up to, they’re keeping it very well hidden.”
Nothing bothered Solow more than a Klingon acting in anything other than the brusque, uncompromising manner that characterized their species. One of the benefits of attempting to understand a culture so predicated on a military mindset or warrior ethos was that—after a time—such an adversary became
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