The Romulan War_ Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Book 1) - Michael A. Martin [1]
Making a slow half turn to his right, he regarded the stoic woman who stood at his side, dressed, as he was, in a standard blue Starfleet duty jumpsuit. Her characteristically dignified bearing betrayed no trace of worry or any other emotion—including the olfactory distress Archer knew she must have been experiencing. It had taken at least two years of living aboard Enterprise before Commander T’Pol’s sensitive Vulcan nose had become accustomed to some of the much milder odors to which she’d had to adapt in order to live aboard Enterprise.
He’d sometimes ribbed her good-naturedly when her nose would wrinkle in the presence of his beagle. Today, however, he felt no such urge. I hoped to hell the last time I had to come here really was the last time I’d have to come here. The captain paused to take a mental count of each of his previous visits to this ancient, forbidding hall, and came to a stop at three. Let’s hope that the fourth time’s the charm, he thought, drawing in a long, deep breath through his mouth.
But the way the chamber smelled was far less germane to his aversion to this place than were the bruises and scars he’d acquired here, courtesy of an extremely disgruntled Klingon general. Besides, after the ugly turns Earth’s efforts to stop the advancing Romulan fleet had taken lately, Archer would embrace any potential allies, even if they drank methane and farted sulfur.
A reassuring staccato tattoo of hard footfalls began echoing from the far end of the room, approaching from beyond the High Council benches and the Chancellor’s thronelike central chair. Within moments, a dozen or so members of the High Council had taken their places on the benches from which they deliberated the Klingon Empire’s gravest matters of politics and war. The room filled with the low murmur of conversation between the various representatives of the Klingon Empire’s great Houses.
Chancellor M’Rek, his beard seeming longer and grayer than Archer remembered, took his seat a moment later, the dour-visaged Fleet Admiral Krell standing at his side. Archer noticed immediately how closely the scowl Krell favored him with resembled the expressions he’d already seen on the faces of his and T’Pol’s escorts. Like the dour Klingon guards, Krell’s forehead was as smooth as Archer’s, completely bereft of the intricate topography of cranial ridges that M’Rek and all the members of the Council displayed so proudly.
Just as clearly, Krell had neither forgotten nor forgiven the role that Archer and his chief medical officer had played in that unhappy circumstance, irrespective of the incalculable number of Klingon lives those actions might have saved across the Empire.
Krell’s probably also still cranky about having to let Phlox stitch his arm back on after that last little tiff he and I had, Archer thought as a transitory phantom twinge shot across a long-healed broken rib in accompaniment to the memory. Let’s hope this meeting stays civil.
The Chancellor, wearing a warrior’s full armor and a ceremonial cloak of office, raised one mailed fist above his head. The members of the Council responded immediately by falling silent.
M’Rek focused his attention on Archer, his craggy brow ridges and snow-white eybrows casting shadows that turned his eyes into twin cavern fires. “Speak your business, Captain,” he said, his voice booming and reverberating through the entire hall.
“First, thank you for allowing us to speak with you today, Chancellor,” Archer said, doing his best to remember everything he’d been told about observing the necessary diplomatic niceties.
M’Rek acknowledged Archer’s expression of gratitude, while seeming simultaneously to dismiss it, with a single curt nod. “I am a very busy man, Archer. Speak.”
But Krell interjected before Archer could open his mouth. “This Earther and his logic-chopping Vulcan lap targ have