JP: FltAdml. Tristan Wolf/Adml. Luke Reider & Capt. Mei'konda Delano – Say what now? Pts 1 & 2

[Serala]

So, apparently there is someone now handing out very cold drinks in a very hot place
 

((StarBase 118, Executive Towers))

{{ Time Index: Day 27 of Chin'toka shore leave }}

Fleet Admiral Tristan Wolf was a surly fellow, even on the best of days. As the Chief Administrative Officer for Romulan Affairs, the last decade had not been peaceful or kind to him and that was starting to show. Not that taking his first post on StarBase 118, all those years ago, had felt like he was in for a quiet backwater – the Trinity-Serellan Sector was, after all, the meeting point of three great powers – but he had not expected to see the fall of the Romulan Empire and everything that happened since. He had not expected his hair to go this gray this fast. 

And today was another disappointment: He had intended to leave on vacation, but had not. He didn't really know where he was going – his assistant had booked him a transport to somewhere pleasant, he had been told – but he had been dealing with some nonsense going on across the border all day that had cancelled the plans. There was always some new thing going on with the Romulans – some new faction growing in power, some old Romulan Warbird that had been found abandoned and was now being used to blow up something valuable. If it were up to him he'd send the StarBase 118 fleet across the border and show the flag just to get a day of peace around here. It was up to him, he supposed, but it would be the end of him in Starfleet. And no matter how annoying this gig was, he did have the best seat in the house and that counted for something. 

He turned away from his desk to look out the window of the executive tower at the top of the starbase, then closed his eyes. The bulkhead stretching away below reminded him of another office, nearby, from which he had witnessed something terrible happening, and he didn't want to think of that. Instead, he saw a growing laundry list of tasks on the back of his eyelids, scrolling upwards with incessant and tiring insistence. 

The room was deadly silent. He preferred not to work with music, and this far above the hustle-and-bustle of the base, there just wasn't really any noise. His office was removed even from the corridor by the waiting room, where only two assistants sat, and he couldn't ever remember hearing them through the door, except that one time… 

Wolf: No rest, no break, no sanity. ::He muttered to himself.:: oO Onto the ne– Oo

The doorbell chimed. Another garbage scow dropping off something for him to deal with, no doubt. He swiveled back to his desk. 

Wolf: Enter. 

The doors slid open, revealing the face of Admiral Luke Reider, Chief Administrative Officer of StarBase 118 and the Trinity-Serellan Sector. His old job. 

Wolf: oO This old [...]. Oo

Except, Reider did not look old. He looked young, vital, ready for tennis or handball or whatever old sport was back in fad. The man had looked like that for decades, since his enigmatic encounter with the Erntemaschinen. They had experimented on the crew of his ship, held them captive for months, then sent them away. And none of them had ever shown signs of aging again.

Wolf: oO Lucky [...]. Oo

Reider's hair was still blond as the day Wolf met him. When was that? Almost 20 years ago, now that he thought about it. That made Reider 84 years old. As the other man made his way across the room, Wolf wondered how Reider was still junior to him in rank, and then it occurred to him that he probably would have been the person to put him up for a promotion. 

Wolf: This can't be good. 

His voice sounded tired, irritable. But Reider was used to it – the bearer of bad news many times before, he knew Wolf's bark was worse than his bite. 

Reider: oO Mostly just a pain in the [...] with a bad attitude who should probably retire… Oo You're never going to believe this... 

Reider took a seat without asking or being asked, and dropped a PADD on the Fleet Admiral's desk. Wolf took a deep breath – he hated theatrics – and picked up the glass slate. A report from the Chin'toka, a new ship in the StarBase 118 fleet. He squinted a bit at the PADD. His eyes were tired, like his mind and body, from looking at screens all day.

Wolf: Dead?

Luke nodded solemnly in response, perhaps a bit performative shaming. Wolf could be so callous at times. 

The Fleet Admiral dropped the PADD back on the table desk in disgust. 

Wolf: We just gave him a new ship! You'd think he'd at least have the courtesy of shoving off first. What the hell happened? 

Either Wolf hadn't read the short report on the PADD, or…? No, Luke thought, of course he hadn't bothered to read past the first line. 

Reider: He just dropped to the floor, no warning. No more information, yet.

Wolf: Any intelligence reports that he was being targeted? Any chance he'd been in a bar fight with a Nausicaan lately?

Reider: Intelligence reported-in a minute or so before I came up here. You know how it is. They always dig up some scuttlebutt – whispers and whatnot. It's the Par'tha Expanse so there's lots of political actors. But it'll be awhile before we have anything concrete. 

Wolf: Well they're no help, as usual. ::Reider pressed his lips together.:: What's your plan?

Wolf's presence on StarBase 118 these days was more about convenient positioning for managing Romulan contacts, but had little to do with the fleet here. He could commandeer a vessel when he needed a flagship for a Romulan rendezvous, but most of the time he just pushed PADDs around, as far as Luke could tell. As the Chief Administrative Officer of StarBase 118 – and therefore, the admiral directly in charge of the fleet assigned to this base – Reider was actually the one to decide what to do next, although Starfleet HQ would have something to say about this. Reider would call them next with a proposal.

Still, Reider and Wolf had worked… if not together then at least around each other for 20 years now, and Wolf was the senior-ranked officer on the base. When a captain, no matter how freshly minted, passes away and leaves a crew without a commanding officer, it was a good idea to get his temperature before doing anything too drastic. 

Reider's eyes remained impassive as he mused on the turn of phrase, "get his temperature." He had once read something in a medical history book that alleged people in the old days would check their temperature in the behind. No chance, he thought, that anyone in their right mind would stick a glass pipette full of mercury stuck up there – Reider knew better than most that history is full of myths – but certainly he would have liked to see the sour puss on Wolf's face in that situation. He should have stayed in the medical field. 

Reider: I've got a few ideas in mind, but nothing concrete yet. Anything coming to mind? 

Wolf steepled his fingers in front of his face, thinking for a moment, and then picked up the PADD that had carried the bad tidings. He read it again while the other man waited, watching silently. 

Wolf: Serala. Of course. Now I see why you brought this to me. 

Reider: Sir? 

Wolf: The half-Romulan. With a field commission, she’d be the first person with Romulan blood — that we know of — to command a Starfleet ship. The closest anyone’s gotten, really, and you want to promote her, I assume?

Luke blinked, caught flat-footed. It was just like Wolf to assume that he, or anyone, had what he perceived as nefarious intent, if you could even call it that. The fact that Serala had a Romulan parent hadn’t even crossed his mind. And why would it? She had gone up the ranks like anyone else. Probably had a harder time of it, truth be told. Even if that had been Reider's plan, it certainly didn't seem that far out of bounds, considering. 

Reider: I suppose it’s one option, of many, but then again I really assumed we’d prefer someone a bit more seasoned. 

Wolf’s eyes narrowed just slightly. He seemed to have scrunched down in the plush chair a bit, sinking into himself as if weighted down by his own suspicions and annoyances. Luke had seen this before and now realized his folly – he should have checked the admiral’s schedule first. He should have schmoozed the assistant for information and aborted when it was clear that Wolf was in a mood. He hadn’t had to come up here, but he thought he would earn some points by checking in. He had the lowest expectations of Wolf, and the other man always failed to meet them. 

Wolf: Yes, someone more seasoned. Make sure of it. 

The tone was guttural, and the message was clear: Conversation over.

 

Part 2

(( StarBase 118, Commercial Sector, San Francisco District ))

{{ Time Index: Day 28 of Chin'toka shore leave }}

Admiral Luke Reider, he of no crow’s feet, always thought it was a bit bizarre that this was called the “Commercial District.” There wasn’t really much “commerce.” Yes, people exchanged “Federation Credits” but they were meaningless. He had more credit than he could ever spend in 20 lifetimes, and so did the people selling him the dim sum or the burritos. Truth be told, even when buying something nice for his wife he wasn’t ever really sure if he was paying fair prices for anything. A thousand credits for tulips brought in stasis from Earth? Was that a good price or outrageous? 

The idea of the black market trade seemed even sillier. Perhaps it made sense if you weren’t a Federation citizen, and instead just passing through. But even then, it’s not like your patrons cared how many credits they dropped into your account. A million here, a million there. He had only looked at his “account” once, as an adult returning from deep space duty, to see how much had accrued in the many years he’d been gone. He hadn’t known what he was looking at because he hadn’t known how much was in the account before he left, and frankly it didn’t seem worth figuring it out. 

The shopkeeper stared kindly at him, waiting. He smiled back and lifted the tray of food. The computer already knew him from his com badge and voiceprint, and did all the work behind the scenes to pay the imaginary money.

He gritted his teeth both in sympathy and in worry. The Chin’toka was without a captain, and just by chance he now had an available captain right here on the base; albeit, one who was currently packing his things and preparing to go home to his family for a good long vacation while his new ship received an unexpected refit and an expected crew rotation. After what seemed like a year of command that Mei’konda Delano probably saw as a bit disappointing, he was probably relishing the chance to leave Starfleet behind for a bit. 

Reider was acutely aware of all the fleet under his command — at least down to the upper-staff level. Knowing where they were and where they were going was his currency in trade. Move ships here and there and you could save or lose a planet to famine, a plague, or hostile invaders. But even more importantly was understanding the captains on each of those ships: Who would do a job capably and who would bungle it? 

You live long enough and eventually you start to understand some of those nuances. Starfleet liked to make them all think that by the time you reached captaincy you were a superhuman – species notwithstanding – ready for any task, up for any adventure. But most captains were not. Instead, they mostly relished the mundane, the routine, the easy. Some were space cowboys, admittedly, although they were a dying breed. Only the very few were sensible, diplomatic, wise, and smart. 

Reider still wasn’t exactly sure what mold Mei’konda fit into – though the Caitian was highly decorated, service records could only convey so much about how a person would perform under the pressure of command when all eyes are on them – but he had a sense that this meeting was about to help him understand quite well. Now it was time to make the ask. 

If not for his race, it might’ve been more difficult than usual to recognize Mei’konda Delano.  He was dressed down in loose fitting, light colored linen clothing that his people often wore amongst other races rather than the partial nudity that was the norm on his homeworld. There was a time, earlier in his career, when he’d relished every moment he had to wear his uniform.  One part of him still did, but he’d been looking forward to this return to Federation space for a while.  He’d just wished it had happened under better circumstances, and when they were scheduled rather than six months early.

Mei’konda, the Galaxy class starship’s crew of over twelve hundred, and the nearly forty year old vessel herself had been through a lot in the last year.  A long-range exploration mission, made possible only through the use of the quantum slipstream drive installed during her last major refit, supervised by Mei’konda himself when he was still a Lieutenant Commander, had been productive to say the least.  They’d encountered multiple new spacefaring civilizations, technology, and had made breakthroughs in research in development that would’ve been impossible in known space.

It hadn’t all been smooth running, though.  Evidence of the sneak attack by three warships that had left fourteen officers and crew dead and cut their mission six months short was still evident on her hull, where the ship’s armor was scorched and blasted in places where her shields had failed.  She’d be here at Starbase 118 for a months-long repair and refit, and had been shifted to the fleet’s inactive roster to accommodate this.

Her active duty crew was rotating off, most of them to shore leave before they’d be off to different assignments.  Mei’konda had no doubt that the ship would be recommissioned eventually, off on a new mission.  What he didn’t know was whether or not he’d be on that mission.  One way or another, he had a feeling that the unexpected invitation from Admiral Luke Reider to eat with him here today would provide answers.

For now, he was content to sit in a quiet corner of the Commercial District, using chopsticks to eat the occasional piece of fresh Sushi that he’d bought from one of the shops here.  Mei’konda straightened up as the higher ranking officer approached, and gestured to the seat across from him.  Reider sat down, and spoke.

Reider: So what's the diagnosis for the Astraeus? 

Mei’konda:  We took heavy daamage in the engagement that brought us home, but my crew is efficient and the ship is functional.  She needs extensive repaairs, though.

Reider: Seems like it’ll be a while.

Mei’konda: Dockyards estimaate four months for a full refit, yes.  I would recommend at least six months shaakedown time after it is complete to ensure everything is functioniing as it should.

Reider nodded, looking absent-mindedly at something behind Mei’konda, then lifted the dumpling to his mouth with the chopsticks, having tapped it gently on the small bowl of soy vinegar on the plate. 

They ate in silence for a few moments as the sounds of this San Francisco facsimile added authenticity to their experience. They were seated on the sidewalk of a small side street where a number of the best Chinatown restaurants were. No vehicles came by, of course, it was all pedestrian. But still, it was a nice ambience, and the air always smelled of spice and eucalyptus, which was not a tree that grew in abundance in SF, but could be found all over the Bay Area and so — Luke guessed — it was a bit of subtle fudging on the part of the architects. 

Reider: You were headed home? 

Swallowing another mouthful of the Sushi he’d selected, the Caitian nodded back toward the young looking Admiral.  

Mei’konda: Yes.  The plan was to meet my husband en route to Terra Nova, and spend a few weeks leave with my parents.

The Admiral steeled himself. Now the duty. 

Reider: Well… I’m sorry to have to ask but I think we need your assistance for a while longer. Perhaps even until the Astraeus is prepared to fly again. 

Luke watched the captain for any hint of his emotional state at this. There really wasn’t a danger – he assumed Delano would do his duty. But he didn’t want a resentful captain taking command of a ship he didn’t want in a situation like this. He was putting him in an impossible situation by trying to intuit his emotions, he knew that. 

Mei’konda paused, the ghost of a frown crossing his face.  He set his plate and his chopsticks down, and met the Admiral’s eyes.  He didn’t want to have his leave canceled. What concerned him more was the reason why they might need him.

Mei’konda: How can I help?
 

 

Edited October 24, 2020 by Serala
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[Alieth]

A sim from the WOLF 😲
(You should write more often! Gorgeous you both!)