The Sky's the Limit - Marco Palmieri [81]
He could not resist glancing over at Worf, who looked predictably outraged. Almost, but not quite, he growled. M’ret, who had been watching a tank of gleaming fish with some wistfulness, favored the Klingon with another sharp, quick smile, finding such consolation as he could in Worf’s discomfort.
“Captain,” came Commander Riker’s voice from the bridge. “Incoming message from Draken IV. Admiral William Ross.”
“Put him through, please, Number One.” Picard rose punctiliously.
DeSeve started to back away. Surely three sought-after Romulan defectors had to be of more importance to an admiral than one aging Starfleet traitor. He blinked, forcing his eyes back into focus. Surreptitiously, he touched a bulkhead. Something about the vibrations in bulkhead and deck troubled him. He dismissed it as nerves, of a piece with his stammer. Twenty years of fear and only disgrace to look forward to could do that to a man. He forced himself not to flinch.
But the way the ship was tuned had started to sound wrong.
Worf growled. Odd that the Klingon sensed what Romulans with their Vulcanoid hearing apparently did not. But Worf knew this ship. He heard it too. M’ret’s two aides, hearing only Klingon anger, bristled.
“Gentlemen,” M’ret murmured. They subsided without looking at Worf, awaiting further orders.
The blue seal of the Federation formed on Picard’s desktop monitor, angled now so that the captain and all his guests could see it, and bright enough to make DeSeve’s eyes water. By the time they cleared, Admiral Ross’s image had replaced it.
“Captain”—he acknowledged Picard, gesturing for him to seat himself once again—”I understand you had some difficulty making pickup.”
“We encountered d’Deridex-class imperial warbird Khazara, Toreth commanding, sir. You should be in receipt of Counselor Troi’s report by now.”
The admiral nodded. Even from his limited field of vision, he surveyed the ready room. The tired, pained look on his face at the sight of DeSeve only intensified his resemblance to the man from whom DeSeve flinched every day in the mirror, from burly height to graying hair to the jowls of early middle age. If only DeSeve’s loyalty had matched his waywardness of mind, he might have been someone like Ross.
“My thanks, Counselor. And my regrets for your kidnapping. An investigation is in progress to prevent additional such incidents.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Picard returned to business. “Admiral, may I present our guests?”
“I think I am fairly well acquainted with them, by reputation at least,” Ross answered. Now, that was an answer that could cut several ways.
Intelligence, DeSeve thought. This admiral had to have deep connections with it, or Starfleet would not have selected him to receive M’ret.
“Mister Vice-Proconsul. Gentlemen.” Ross inclined his head.
A formal nod from M’ret. Stiffer bows, accompanied by old-fashioned heel clicks, from his aides.
“I am somewhat premature in welcoming you and your aides to Federation space, but there has been a change in plans.”
Picard paused as if listening to something. Then he stiffened, clearly prepared to take Enterprise to Red Alert.
“Nothing like that, Captain. We sent out patrol ships and enabled our tachyon detection grids the instant your first transmission arrived. Vice-Proconsul, we had planned for you and your aides…”
“N’veran and Revaik.” M’ret supplied their names crisply, as if Admiral Ross had been courteous enough to ask. They were of old families; they deserved the dignity of an introduction, even to an admiral. After all, who knew what Ross’s parentage might be?
Stop thinking Romulan, DeSeve rebuked himself. Birth doesn’t matter, only integrity.
“…to be debriefed here. In fact, that’s why I came out to take charge of this operation. However, Vulcan has convinced us of the logic”—Ross almost concealed his grimace—”of