Articles of the Federation - Keith R. A. DeCandido [26]
Also seated at the table were Admirals Ross and Akaar, Captain Hostetler Richman, and Secretary Shostakova. Akaar sat ramrod straight in a chair that barely fit his massive form, huge arms folded over barrel chest. Abrik knew that the Capellan was some kind of royalty in exile or other, and he certainly had the attitude for it; Abrik had always found the admiral to be a pompous ass.
Ross was engaged in a whispered conversation with Hostetler Richman. Probably comparing intelligence notes. Ross did a great deal of work with Starfleet Intelligence as a junior officer, and in fact had been Hostetler Richman’s mentor.
What the hell is taking so long? Abrik thought as he gazed at the wall chronometer. Piniero and the councillors should have been here by now. At this rate, we may as well wait until Bacco’s back on-planet.
Originally, the Monet Room was one of a dozen secure meeting rooms on one of the basement levels of the Palais. During the Dominion War, many offices and operations were moved to the belowground spaces, making it necessary to convert several of the other meeting rooms to office space. This particular room had become Zife’s “war room,” where much of the top-level strategizing had been done. After the war’s end, the Monet Room remained where the Federation government’s security operations were conducted-or, at least, discussed.
“I have a question.”
Abrik looked over at Shostakova, who was sitting quietly three chairs down from him. He pointed at his own chest. “Me?”
“Yes. Your spots-do they go all the way down?”
Abrik couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing.
At the secretary of defense’s nonplussed expression, he quickly said, “I’m sorry, Madam Secretary, but I haven’t been asked that question since I was an ensign. Yes, they go all the way down.”
She nodded. “Interesting. I wonder why that is.”
Frowning, Abrik said, “Excuse me?”
“I simply wonder what quirk of evolution led to- “
Before Shostakova could continue her musings, the door opened to reveal Piniero, along with Councillors T’Latrek, Mazibuko, and Molmaan. They went for four of the empty seats, Piniero looking like a coiled spring, two of the councillors looking somewhat more calm, and the third looking angry. From T’Latrek, a Vulcan who had a reputation for grace under pressure, the calm was to be expected. Abrik didn’t know Matthew Mazibuko all that well, so for all he knew, he had a reputation similar to T’Latrek’s. As for Molmaan, the look of anger was to be expected from a member of a species who, as a rule, didn’t hide their feelings.
“Sorry,” Piniero said, “but the president only just took off from Luna-the function ran late.”
“Someone could’ve told us that half an hour ago,” Abrik muttered.
As she sat in her chair, Piniero smiled sweetly. “A half hour ago, we didn’t know it was running late, and we were concerned that we’d lost contact with the president. It was just solar flares, though, and she’s on her way back.” She touched the intercom in front of her. “Zachary, we’re here-put the president and the ambassador through.”
The wall opposite the Monet painting had a large viewscreen, which lit up with a split-screen image, Bacco on the left, Ambassador Alexander Rozhenko on the right. Rozhenko was the son of two previous Federation ambassadors to the Klingon Empire. One-quarter human and three-quarters Klingon, Rozhenko’s parents were Worf, son of Mogh, and K’Ehleyr. Abrik wasn’t entirely sanguine about his qualifications to replace his father, who had served with distinction for four years before declining to continue in the post, citing a desire to return to Starfleet. That was, to Abrik’s mind, Starfleet’s gain, but the Diplomatic Corps’ loss. Worf was one of the few people who could navigate the treacherous waters of the Klingon-Federation alliance;