G-go: Thanks for all the reviews! Your Warbird concerns should be answered here, I hope. Treating it as AU is fine. An annihilation reactor is just another term for a matter/antimatter reactor (which produces energy by annihilation).
Pesterfield: Thanks for pointing that out.
Thanks to: jauc, WWLAOS, Darkness Surrounds, JadziaKathryn and grayangle.
Joshua MacLeod drummed his fingers on his desk and glanced at the clock, again. A few more minutes. Halfway through his first term as President of the Republic, MacLeod had been forced to learn anew the value of patience when he ascended to the office. Though active in politics his whole adult life, MacLeod had never held elected office until tossing his hat in the ring for the presidency. He had instead been the CEO of one of the Republic's largest corporations, and while that position had given him plenty of executive experience, he'd been woefully unprepared for the snail's pace at which things got done in government. True, dealing with recalcitrant shareholders was similar, but shareholders had nothing on members of Congress. MacLeod was convinced that no matter what policy he proposed, someone would oppose it, if for no other reason than MacLeod had thought of it. It was maddeningly frustrating for a man who was used to having people jump when he gave an order, but it had been a good learning experience too.
The current situation was a prime example. He was awaiting the arrival of the Romulan Ambassador, who had been asked to present himself at one o'clock in the afternoon. It was now twelve after one. While it was said that one did not keep the President waiting, in practice there were all kinds of things, major and minor, that could combine to produce delay: traffic, the need to process through security, etc. That didn't mean that MacLeod enjoyed it when people were late, but he'd become accustomed to it now. He glanced at one of the two other people in his luxurious office.
"How much longer, Bill?" MacLeod asked.
Bill, a dark suited member of the Presidential Security Service, spoke into a microphone woven into the fabric of his jacket lapel, then touched his ear as listened to the reply.
"Sixty seconds, Mr. President," he announced in the no-nonsense tone he always used. MacLeod hid a grin. He made a point of using the first names of the service staff of Lexington Hall, the Selenker presidential mansion, as well as his security teams. Most of them enjoyed that: there was a special thrill that went with having the most powerful man in the Republic know your name. It had certainly impressed the Hell out of a very nervous Joshua MacLeod thirty-five years earlier. Of course, MacLeod knew now that it was impossible to remember all those names. He, like the man he'd met all those years ago, had a staffer who followed him around, reminding him of the names of the people he was meeting. Bill was an exception to the rule. MacLeod saw him every day, so remembering the mans name wasn't difficult. There was also the fact that Bill was a bit uptight, and didn't really like MacLeod calling him by his given name. But there was nothing he could do about it.
MacLeod turned to the other person present, Secretary of State Ko Tarant.
"All set, Tarant?" MacLeod asked, his lips quirking into a somewhat strained grin. Ko, a Bajoran by race, grinned back.
"I don't see why this time will be any different than last time, Mr. President."
MacLeod nodded. "Or the time before that," he commented.
"Or the time before that," Ko rejoined.
The exchange could have gone on for some time, but was interrupted by the main door to the office opening. MacLeod's Chief of Staff stuck his head in the door.
"Ambassador Pardalus of the Romulan Star Empire to see you, Mr. President," he announced.
"Send him in," MacLeod ordered briefly.
Pardalus glided into the room, stopping in front of MacLeod's massive desk and bowing gracefully.
"President MacLeod, it is my honor to answer your summons," Pardalus intoned formally, his accent lending his words a peculiar but not unpleasant lilt.
MacLeod gave Pardalus a steady look, then glanced at Secretary Ko, who took his cue perfectly.
"Pardalus, your government is up to its old tricks again," Ko said chidingly.
"Oh?" the Romulan asked innocently. MacLeod had to hide another grin. He was sure Pardalus knew quite well what Ko was speaking of, and was merely feigning ignorance.
"They tried to slip another cloaked ship into the system," MacLeod growled. Pardalus nodded in understanding but a flicker of puzzlement crossed his face as well.
"I see," he said slowly, his tone confused. "Our Agreement of 2299..." MacLeod cut him off with a wave of his hand.
"You're right, Pardalus. Under the terms of the Agreement I wouldn't normally call you in for this, we'd just dispatch a Note to your government." That was the normal procedure. After several incidents in which Romulan ships had been damaged or destroyed by Republican ships, tensions between the Republic and the Empire had risen to the point where full-scale war was expected. Conflict was averted by the adoption of a gentlemen's agreement: the Romulans could send as many cloaked ships as they wanted in the Selenker System, while accepting that the Selenkers would destroy any such ships if they detected them. It had become a game, almost, with the Romulans using the Republic as a test bed for new cloak designs as they struggled to get ahead of whatever means the Selenkers were using to detect their ships. In the decades since, the Empire had lost forty-seven ships in Selenker. A similar number had managed to escape (or been allow to get away, though MacLeod didn't see any reason to tell Pardalus that).
"Well then..." Pardalus began.
"They used a Warbird this time, Pardalus," MacLeod said flatly.
Pardalus winced, and MacLeod felt a twinge of sympathy. It was one thing to lose a scout (the usual case), quite another to lose a capital ship with a crew of a thousand or more.
"Mr. President, I have no knowledge of any change in my Government's position regarding relations with the Republic. Selenker is far too valuable to us as a trading partner for us to provoke you unnecessarily."
MacLeod nodded but said nothing.
"Just the same, Pardalus," Secretary Ko threw in, "Given the unusual choice of ship, we'd like an explanation."
Pardalus nodded again. "Of course. I'll contact my Government immediately on my return to our embassy." He hesitated a moment and added, "Were there any survivors?"
MacLeod shook his head. "Its warp core destabilized, I'm afraid." Given the cataclysmic nature of the Warbird's demise, the Navy hadn't even bothered to look for survivors.
"I understand," Pardalus said. "If I may be excused...?"
MacLeod shook his head with a laugh. "I never like to end meetings on a down note if I can help it." A nod to Ko resulted in the Secretary producing a bottle and three glasses from a small cabinet. The liquid in the bottle was a shimmering, electric blue. Commonly known in Human dominated space as 'Romulan Ale' it was more like whiskey than ale, with even more varieties. This particular bottle, Pardalus noted, came from the northern continent of the planet Remus, specifically from an archipelago off said continent's western coast. It was an obscure label, not well known outside the Empire. Pardalus smiled as Secretary Ko poured. He was sure it was no coincidence that it was his favorite version. Taking the glass offered him, Pardalus took a moment to savor the complex bouquet of the drink.
"To peaceful relations between our people," MacLeod proposed, raising his glass.
"Here here," Pardalus agreed.
Picard watched the R.S.S. Victory grow from a barely visible dot into a veritable mountain of gleaming alloy that utterly dwarfed the shuttlecraft Galileo.
"That is a big ship," Riker breathed admiringly. He was sitting in the pilot's seat, guiding the Galileo on the course mandated by the Selenkers. They were approaching from portside aft, and would have to round the Victory's bow before docking in the starboard shuttle bay.
"Very kind of our hosts to allow us an all around view before we land," Picard added from the right hand seat. He studied the leviathan with professional interest. Victory was a third again as long as Enterprise, and far more voluminous, her one hundred and fifty meter diameter hull being in the form of a slightly flattened cylinder with rounded ends. And she needed that volume, to store the huge amounts of fuel her fusion reactors craved.
The ship's eight impulse engines were mounted in pairs at cardinal points around her stern. The wide separation, Picard knew, was for purposes of survivability. Likewise her warp nacelles. Unlike most navies, the Selenkers dispensed with the usual two large nacelles, replacing them with dozens of small ones mounted all over the ship. Such an arrangement had advantages and disadvantages. On the downside it was a more complex design, which meant added costs in construction and more maintenance headaches, but on the upside it essentially eliminated the likelihood of a single hit disabling the warp drive. It was, Picard thought sourly, one of the few times frugality bowed to survivability in Selenker ship design practice.
His eye noted the yellow squares painted on Victory's flanks. They outlined her weapons bay hatch covers - her gun ports, one might say. There were thirty-two of them in three rows, eleven on the top and bottom, the remaining ten in the middle. Picard felt a slight shiver run down his spine. He didn't know if was her size, or her unusual design, but she looked lethal.
"It's hard to believe she only masses three and a half megatonnes," Picard said, half to himself.
"I don't think she does," Riker said unexpectedly.
"What's that?" Picard asked, turning to face his first officer. Deanna, seated behind them, had leaned forward, a scowl on her face.
"We keep deviating from our programmed course," Riker explained, gesturing at the control panel. "Not much," he elaborated, 'But enough that..."
"Why does a course deviation mean Section 31's mass figures are wrong?" Deanna interrupted frostily.
Riker gave Deanna a steady look. "Because the guidance system is programmed with their numbers, and it isn't keeping us on course," he said patiently.
"Section 31..." Deanna started to say.
"...are only human, and can make mistakes like anyone else," Riker finished. Deanna's scowl didn't vanish, but she sat back, saying nothing. Troi might be an ideologue, but she wasn't so far gone as to put ideology ahead of reason.
"Can you estimate how massive it really is?" Picard asked. It was Riker's turn to frown.
"Well, this thing's sensors aren't the best, and the guidance computer wasn't really designed for analysis, but based on the rate of deflection...maybe twice as much."
Picard pursed his lips in thought. He'd always thought the official numbers were unrealistically low. After all, the Victorys had been listed as only slightly more massive than the preceding Yamashiro class, which were considerably smaller. Then Picard had an unpleasant thought. What if all the mass figures were low? It was a cornerstone of Star Fleet tactical thought that Selenker ships were lightly built, in order to reduce per unit cost. That made a certain amount of sense, given the Selenkers' legendary frugality, but it was at odds with what he'd seen with his own eyes so far.
Picard turned toward the others. Besides himself, Riker and Troi, Dr. Crusher and Lt. Worf were along for the occasion.
"Keep your eyes open," he ordered, "for anything that might support or refute Will's theory." He added the qualifier to mollify Troi. Riker might be able to cross her openly and get away with it, but Picard didn't care to take that risk. He hid a smile. There were recorders in the shuttle, of course. Any review of the data they contained would show that it was Riker who had questioned Section 31, not himself. He didn't think anything Will had said would get him in trouble, especially if they could bring back enough evidence to prove Section 31 wrong. Still, if someone down the line did take exception, that fact that he had neither supported nor encouraged Riker would likely keep any of their ire from splashing on him.
Captain Denise Richards, Selenker Navy, was in a foul mood. Well, that was a little harsh, she admitted to herself. Irritated, yes, foul, not so much. Half of her irritation came from the fact that her beautiful ship was about to be infested by a gaggle of Fed-rats, a prospect that didn't please her at all. The other half was because she'd essentially been ordered to invite them aboard by no less a person than Admiral Cynthia Braye herself. Richards clenched her teeth at the memory of receiving the e-note from the CNO. It was unusual for a mere captain, even the commander of a fleet flagship, to get messages directly from the highest ranking member of the service, so she'd opened it immediately, and immediately regretted doing so.
"I'd consider it a personal favor, my ass," Richards snarled.
"What was that, Skipper?" Richards glanced to her left. Commander Jill Cunningham, her executive officer, was looking at her.
"Nothing important, Jill," Richards said with a shake of her head. "Just marveling at the mindset of the high command is all."
Cunningham chuckled. "Somehow I doubt it's that innocent," she smiled.
Richards had to grin. She and Cunningham had been in the same class at the academy. They hadn't been friends then, but they weren't enemies either. Richards had gone farther and faster, career wise, but Cunningham didn't seem to resent it.
'Probably because she knows I'm not exactly thrilled with it either,' Richards mused. She gave a slight sigh. She was sure that she had earned every promotion and special opportunity that had come her way, but that had to be balanced against the fact that a number of people, far more than she was comfortable with, believed she had slept her way to where she was now. More than once she had cursed her inheritance of her mother's lush figure and blonde locks, along with the breathy soprano voice that kept so many people from taking her seriously.
"No, it isn't," Richards admitted. "I don't like having a scheduled deployment postponed so I can make nice-nice for a bunch of God-damned Commie sons-of-bitches."
Cunningham gave her a serious look and Richards relented.
"Ok, ok, I'll be polite," she promised.
"I never doubted that," Cunningham quipped. "You take all your assignments so seriously..." she trailed off mockingly. Richards glared, then turned her attention to the honor guard. They were all waiting at the edge of the hanger bay, safe behind a partition of transparent aluminum, for the Fed-rat...er, Federation, Richards corrected, shuttlecraft to land. It was on short final, plainly visible through the open doors of the bay. The Marines of the honor guard were smartly turned out in their dress blue uniforms, gleaming rifles grounded butt down at their right feet as they stood at Parade Rest. Lieutenant Jabbar, the detachment commander, stood rock still in front of them, his eyes staring straight ahead. He carried no rifle. Instead, a sheathed sword hung at his left hip. Ensign Nog, diminutive and nervous looking in his Ferengi cut dress whites, would greet the Federation party along with Bosun 2nd Class Tucker, who would pipe Captain Picard aboard in fine bourgeois Selenker style.
"I'll be polite," Richards repeated, "But I'm not going to go out of my to make them feel welcome, either."
Picard kept his expression neutral as he started down the short ramp formed by the lower half of the shuttle's access hatch. He paused at the bottom step, waiting. Just to one side were two people, a Ferengi in an officers uniform, and a Human male in the garb of an enlisted crewmember. The Human raised a bosun's pipe to his mouth. A moment later the old familiar notes sounded.
"Pee-wheeee-oooo!"
The Ferengi spoke, his amplified voice echoing in the cavernous hanger bay, proclaimed, "U.S.S. Enterprise, arriving!"
The dark skinned man in the Marine uniform moved just enough to bark, "Pre-sent, ARMS!" In one motion the Marines moved their weapons to the ordered position, as their commander swung his sword to its equivalent location.
Picard had known to expect the militaristic ritual, but that didn't mean he liked it. Still, he was guest, so he played long. Stepping to the hanger deck he paused and saluted the Selenker flag, then the Ferengi officer.
"Permission to come aboard, ensign?" he asked gravely.
""Granted, sir," the ensign replied. "Welcome aboard the Victory, Captain Picard. I'm Ensign Nog. If you and your officers will follow me, please?"
With the others in tow, Picard followed Ens. Nog toward a pair of senior officers. One was a short blonde... No, she was short only compared to her companion, he realized. It was hard to tell through her uniform, but she had a curvaceous figure that looked soft, somehow. Her face and eyes were anything but soft, though, the eyes especially reminding Picard of cold blue steel. Four broad rings of gold at the cuffs of her jacket marked her as a captain, Captain Richards no doubt.
The woman beside her was a distinct contrast. The three cuff rings of a full commander adorned her jacket, but that wasn't the thing that struck Picard most strongly. Nor was her dusky bronze skin and tall, lean, muscular physique her most striking feature. It was, for some reason, the fact that she was a Klingon. Why that should seem odd was something he didn't really know. Most likely, he reasoned, it was just that there were so few Klingons in the Federation, and only one in Star Fleet. Simple unfamiliarity. That was it.
They halted just short of the two. Nog stepped between the parties and made the introductions. When he was finished Picard extended his hand.
"Captain Richards, it's a privilege and an honor to be your guest." Richards' eyes tightened slightly, then she relaxed and much of the steel left her expression.
"The pleasure is mine, Captain Picard," Richards replied in a voice so soft and sensuous that Picard almost started in surprise. Richards gestured at the Klingon beside her. "My XO, Commander Jill Cunningham."
"Cunningham?" Picard repeated.
Cunningham bared her teeth in what Picard had learned was the Klingon equivalent of a smile.
"My great-grandfather decided to take a Human name when he emigrated to the Republic," she explained. "Apparently Cunningham sounded the most like his Klingon clan name."
After Picard introduced the rest of his officers, Captain Richards laid out their schedule.
"First a tour, then dinner. I always enjoy a chance to show off my baby," she said, a hint of genuine warmth touching her face as she gestured at the ship around them.
"I look forward to both," Picard assured her.