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Ambassador Moose

The Last Word... Or The First.

The Last Word... Or The First.

 

Christopher T. Moose stood in the small observation lounge studying the ship outside the long viewport which comprised the main wall of the lounge. Certainly, there were sleeker and more dramatic silhouettes than that of an old galaxy class starship, but the exterior view of the USS Arcadia always filled him with a mixed feeling of excitement and awe.

 

On this occasion, Moose also felt a touch of déjà vu. He remembered the first time he had seen the Arcadia from this angle. He had been standing in an observation lounge much like this one, freshly minted from Spacefleet Academy and about to begin his first assignment. Had it really been that many years ago? Why was that memory more vivid than yesterday? The ship was slowly growing smaller outside the window instead of larger, but that was the only difference. The emotions swelling in his chest were the same.

 

The others must be feeling similar sentiments, he thought as he surveyed his silent companions in the lounge. All except Terza, of course. The unflappable Trill had cornered one of the ship's stewards and was grilling the young man about which amenities would be available to them on the voyage.

 

The steward was just one of many attendants assigned to the Federation delegates. Moose had already offended many of them by refusing their hospitality. Offended or frightened, he wasn't sure which. Moose had never been comfortable with being pampered. He certainly hadn't demanded it as a ship's Captain. But it was not optional for an Ambassador, accepting service was a mandatory sign of respect towards the giver. He would have to get used to it.

 

It was in this area that Yeoman Bleeth was proving to be as indispensable to him as she had been on the Arcadia. She had an uncanny knack for instinctively knowing what made him squirm, even when he didn't know it himself. She filtered out the minor annoyances while simultaneously navigated him around the serious tests of protocol. She isn't Yeoman Bleeth anymore, he reminded himself. Yeoman was a military designation. Like the others, Yasmine was now a Diplomatic Attache.

 

She approached now with one such test of protocol. He was a pinched, dour looking man who's very presence inspired a heightened level of obsequiousness in the stewards. Moose wouldn't have believed that possible. "Ambassador," she began in a tone designed to remind Moose that she was referring to him. "May I present Gowen Vardon, Benai Prime of the Coalition and our host for the journey to Paktar?"

 

"I trust that your needs have been well attended?" asked Vardon smoothly. His voice was like ice, and it chilled Moose to the marrow. Was this an actual physical reaction or a psychosomatic response to his intonation. Little was known of the Benai, but their telepathic prowess seemed unrivaled in the Federation. Moose steeled his mental defenses, centering his focus until the chill went away and reminding himself not to drop his guard, no matter how plush the surroundings.

 

"Your staff has been most accommodating, Prime Vardon. There should be no need for further discipline." Moose saw Yasmine shudder, recalling the fate of the guards who had detained them too harshly while their credentials were being checked.

 

"Then I am pleased," said Vardon smiling a smile that was not altogether convincing. "Mrs. Moderi seems extremely uncomfortable. I was afraid that as an Axian, she may have experienced some... disrespect from our crew. Axia has still not successfully petitioned for tenure with the Council."

 

"Nor has the Federation, of which Mrs. Moderi is now a citizen. I trust no disrespect will be forthcoming." Veiled threats and innuendo... this part of diplomacy Moose could handle. Moose was very impressed with Rowan. She had only just arrived in Federation space when this delegation was formed, free of her overbearing husband and ready to start a new life. Realizing her worth to the expedition, she volunteered to serve her new government by returning to her old. And considering how many Federation citizens had actually spent time in Coalition space, Moose had hardly been in a position to refuse her. Out of respect for her courage, he vowed silently to keep her safe from her former oppressors, no matter the cost.

 

Vardon smiled, changing the subject before Moose gained too much ground. "I apologize again about the accommodations, Ambassador. I wish we had private suites available for you, but we weren't expecting such a large delegation and have a limited amount of shielded quarters."

 

Moose had been surprised by the large delegation as well. He had assumed he would be traveling alone, perhaps with an aide or two. But Paktar was a three month journey from Federation space, unless you were granted access to the shortcut through the Romulan Empire. Reinforcements would be slow in coming, so all needs had to be anticipated up front. Admiral Atragon insisted on a minimum delegation of seven. Moose added two more. Although his audience with them months ago had been rushed and confused, Moose recalled nine chairs on the Coalition Council. This evened the score. "What do you mean by 'shielded'?" he asked.

 

Vardon smirked at Moose as if he had just asked for the formula of water. "Our method of faster-than-light travel can be a bit... disorienting. Our people are seasoned for it. Yours are not. As our journey progresses, we will have time to prepare other quarters. Moving Mr. Gio to his own room will be our first priority."

 

Moose stiffened. He knew he'd be sharing a room, but with Terza? He wanted to protest, to request someone... anyone else. But Moose didn't dare present anything but a united front towards his hosts. They would exploit any weakness revealed to them. So Moose's issues with the Gio symbiote had to remain private. Vardon had no idea just how awkward it was going to be for them to share such an intimate space. Or did he...

 

"I leave you now to enjoy the view," said Vardon with the same icy formality he always used. "It will be another two hours before you will need to retreat to the safety of your quarters. Until then, please enjoy our hospitality." And with a controlled nod of the head, and a glance that could pierce your soul, Gowan Vardon, Benai Prime of the Coalition, slid off into the bowels of his ship.

 

Moose returned to the long viewport which comprised the main wall of the lounge. The Arcadia still floated peacefully outside, although smaller now than it had been. He scrutinized it like a tourist at the ruins on Risa, barely noticing as a steward presented him with a glass of champagne before scurrying off silently. He had barely had time to say good-bye. Brianna instinctively understood, and he'd had a moment alone with Samantha as he prepared the Creme Brule. But he and Nisha would likely never repair the friendship that had pulled them through those early years. How had he allowed his friend to grow so distant? And he would loose contact with Dana Quest as well, not only leaving friction between them but failing his obligation to his dear friend Kelly to look take care of her son David. He felt he had no choice, but it seemed that duty always demanded he turned his back on those he loved. No wonder he failed with Khiaara, may she rest in peace. No wonder he had failed with everyone he cared about. He hadn't even tried to call his mother.

 

With a flash of blue, the Arcadia fired up it's nacelles and began it's course back to Starbase 331. It grew visibly smaller by the second, like a remedial geometry problem from kindergarten. "If one starship travels at warp 5.6 heading 102 mark 5, and another starts from the same point heading 282 mark 33 at warp 3, how long will it take for them to loose visual contact?" Too soon, he thought. Much, much too soon...

 

Christopher T. Moose

Federation Ambassador to Paktar

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