From the Inner Sanctum

[Sorehl 0]

In the confines of his private study, Sorehl rested a hand against his bearded chin and failed to suppress an upraised eyebrow. From his desk console, the text he’d received from Ambassador Joy Two starkly illuminated his face and the darkened room around him. The text was equally illuminating from a personal perspective. [A copy of this memo can be found under The Logic of Emotion]

 

Given the recent change in command on Sky Harbor Aegis, Ambassador Joy had sent an earlier missive in which she had shared concerns about diplomatic roles, including a comparison of command relations under Admiral Iruam Goran and Captain Muon Quark. Her antipathy of the admiral was both admitted and well-established. Sorehl had composed a response and acknowledged her previous conflicts, but he advised her not to view all incoming command officers through that particular lens – as if they had to prove they wouldn’t be just like Goran. Experience governs perception, came the unbidden mental axiom. It was entirely possible that Mudd-class androids, like Vulcans, were no more immune to pre-conceived notions and self-fulfilling prophecies than more emotional species.

 

Drankum could be stubborn, coarse, and irreverent. Indeed, these were some of his defining qualities. But then, few alien species measured favorably against Vulcan norms. This was precisely why he had learned not to judge them by the standards he valued in his own life. Yet he knew Drankum understood the differences of command. Sorehl would not have gained the eventual respect of the Ferengi diplomat if he had not proven himself through their shared experiences. Drankum would no doubt continue to exhibit an “excess of personality,” but Sorehl had somehow come to understand the underlying convictions of that particular Ferengi – a perspective forged from more than a decade of their curious relationship.

 

Not that Joy's concerns were unfounded. As diplomats, the two shared equal passions, but employed wildly divergent methods. It was entirely likely that clashes would occur.

 

Surak had counseled that One could not force change in the Other; One could only initiate the change Within. It was this axiom that motivated his reply. He began to compose: “The expectation that Drankum respect your mission is hardly unreasonable, but it is logical to assume such expectations will be mirrored. If there is a desire for a change in tone, then your most powerful tool is to initiate the change. Drankum is no respecter of demands and posturing, he knows these props too well from his own diplomatic experience – and I believe your particular programming is disinclined to use them. Sternly-worded memos will not impress him, either. He is a being who revels in frank discourse. As with most creatures, he will tend to respect your role as you extend respect to his new-found one. Clean slates are excellent surfaces. I say none of this to educate you, of course, but only to remind you of elements which you know so well…”

 

His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice behind him. “A Vulcan counseling an android on how to deal with a Ferengi? There’s gotta be a good punch line in there somewhere.”

 

Sorehl paused in his work, turning his chair to face the unannounced visitor. “Even humans consider it impolite to read personal correspondence covertly,” he noted.

 

In contrast to Sorehl’s casual robes, Commander John F. Blair stood there in full uniform. He rolled his lips inward and folded his arms. “Vulcans are too evolved to be offended by something as trivial as invasion of privacy,” he countered. He bounded toward an empty chair and dropped into it with feigned clumsiness. “Besides, if you couldn’t hear me, it’s your own fault. Your wife let me in.” He fidgeted with exaggerated discomfort, finally rocking the chair until it squeaked. “I like the ones in your old office better.”

 

Sorehl noted that, although it had been more than a year since he’d stepped down from command of Camelot and entered the Reserves, Blair still didn’t refer to the room on the station as his own office. He remained convinced that his Vulcan friend would soon abandon civilian life and return to service.

 

“I trust reading my personal correspondence isn’t the reason you came down,” Sorehl prompted.

 

“No,” Blair admitted. “For that, I just beam into the Inner Sanctum while you’re asleep.” He had given the nickname to the study, this room of the Vulcan’s private residence carved into a rocky hillside on Avalon. Having already built a home here, Sorehl and his family had established themselves in this fledgling colony, an experiment of Allied cooperation in the Gamma Quadrant. With Camelot Station keeping silent vigil overhead, Blair was a frequent visitor, popping in at nearly random hours.

 

The former captain continued to level a stare.

 

“Right,” John continued, “moving on.” He took a breath, usually a signal that he was transitioning to a more serious tone. “Semil is pressing for an audience.”

 

Sorehl sat up, looking toward his monitor. “You should remind him that I am a private citizen. I have no influence in Federation affairs.”

 

“Yeah,” Blair retorted slowly, “which might have worked if you hadn’t done that stint as Commissioner to the Security Council.”

 

During his return to the Alpha Quadrant, Sorehl had been drafted and sent to Sky Harbor Aegis to conduct fact-finding and assess its continuing mission. In the aftermath, the Council and the Admiralty had opted to end its presence in the Cardassian system, a symbolic end to the taint of occupation at the close of the Dominion War. It was hard to argue his influence hadn't resulted in change.

 

“Very well,” Sorehl countered, “you should advise him that I’m under no obligation to see him.” He straightened a PADD on his desk.

 

Blair leaned back. “I could try that," he sighed, "but he insists he has no one else to talk to.” He paused, as if weighing whether to make some admission. “He’s threatening to leave the station.”

 

Sorehl considered the ramifications of that threat.

 

Officially, the Federation did not recognize the Hundred as a distinct political entity. As a rebellious offshoot of the Dominion, the Council had determined that support for them would amount to interference in internal matters, much like the Al-Ucard and Eritan rebellion in Scorpiad space. Starfleet was directed to do nothing that would aid the “infant” changlings in their bid to assume control of the galactic power their parents had abandoned.

 

It was a remarkable reversal in position. The lengthy Gamma Quadrant history of Excalibur and Camelot was inexorably linked to the Dominion request for help in suppressing that rebellion. Things had turned out quite differently. Over three years and the eventual Scorpiad Conflict, it had been the Hundred who had proven the better ally. It was the Dominion who had destroyed the Romulan forces on t’Rogora. It was their Vorta who launched the purges of dissent on their own worlds. It was they who’d abandoned Camelot as unworthy of protection.

 

But the Hundred – with the turncoat Vorta Semil as their spokesman – who had defended the station, who had rescued Ambassador T’Salik, and who had kept their secrets, even while revealing their own to liberate the wormhole. They had honored promises to avoid open warfare, seeking political solutions in their bid to control Dominion worlds. Although the Federation refused to give them diplomatic recognition, as a token they had continued to hold a wing of the Alexandria-class station and a seat at the Round Table.

 

If they left Camelot, their tenuous allegiance might go with them.

 

Sorehl steepled his fingers. It was illogical to let his personal distaste for Semil erupt in avoidable conflict. Their shared history – deception, imprisonment, mental anguish, even murder – was a hard thing to set aside. Ironic, he thought, considering the counsel he had just been writing.

 

His own reversal was swift. “Very well,” he announced, turning his chair back toward Blair. “I shall make arrangements to meet him onboard.”

 

The commander twisted his lips. “Actually, he said he wants to come down here.”

 

“To the colony?”

 

“To the house,” Blair specified. “Something in keeping with the unofficial tone.” He got to his feet. “But he probably just wants to see the Sage of Camelot in his natural setting. I’ll let him know.”

 

Sorehl endured the mockery with his typical reaction – he ignored it and got to his feet.

 

“Well, I’ve got to get back,” Blair admitted. “You can go back to brooding and dispensing wisdom. I’ll show myself out.”

 

Sorehl watched him retire from the study and returned to his seat. Words hung on the screen expectantly. “Mr. Not-A-Diplomat,” he quoted to himself quietly. He went back to work.