Sorehl

Because it wasn't a satellite launch. It was a test of their long-range missile capability, which the U.N. told them not to do since they are also a nuclear power. We see how effective that was. The "satellite" in question didn't even separate from the final stage and went splash in the Pacific. Even if it had made it, all it was designed to do was broadcast a signal hailing their "Great Leader". So this was just a bit of belligerent saber-rattling to get attention, frighten the Japanese, and provide some negotiation leverage for their next blackmail attempt. Upside: maybe it'll remind the new U.S. administration why we continue to need a missile defense program. And why our European allies actually don't want us to trade it away. Bias Alert: I should note my RL involvement in the aerospace community, currently employed in the missile defense sphere, so you may feel free to consider my bias in the above statements.

Again, why humans use the recurrence of a particular position in their planet's sidereal orbit to commemorate events is... what else can I say? Illogical. Nevertheless, I extend thanks for acknowledging the anniversary of my emergence into mortality.

To quote Tachyon quoting Douglas Adams, space is mind-bogglingly big. The orbital space above the Earth is, well, larger than the surface of the Earth. Then you have to add that third dimension, up. (But don't fret - even Khan had a problem using it.) Objects can orbit at one of various orientations, called inclination. They can orbit at any height. The orbits can be roughly circular, or wildly elliptical like a Molniya orbit. (For a look at a previous discussion of orbits and what's where, see the topic Ringed Earth.) You can't actually rear-end someone in the same orbit. An artifact of orbital mechanics is that the geometry, and where you are along the path, determines your speed. If you change your speed or direction, the orbit itself changes. The key is that, even when orbital paths cross, the satellites aren't there at the same time. We have collisions at intersections on Earth because: 1) We have much more traffic, 2) We're usually limited to two-dimensions (note that overpasses solve this), and 3) we tend to be further restricted to specific trafffic corridors (flight paths or roads) and popular destinations. None of these are true in orbit (although the congregation of GEO satellites comes close).

I may be breaking "thread resurrection" protocol, but after the Iridium/Russian satellite collision in February, I think this is still topical. In a previous post (above), I mentioned there are a number of orbital waste management schemes, but no one felt there was a good business model for it and no government felt the risk outweighed the tremendous cost. The topic comes up again in today's news: http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,512766,00.html First, warning: Objects in image may be larger than they appear. The artist's renderings of orbital debris exaggerate the size of satellites by factors larger than I want to compute. A typical satellite may be 3m in length. In the picture, they're the size of New Jersey. If we had hundreds of New Jersey's orbitting Earth - well, we have unfathomable problems on so many levels. The article cites the need for a civil agency to track all the objects, but this is routinely done by NORAD. Problem is: if two objects are heading toward the same point, who's job is it to move? After the Iridium collision, the Russians blamed the US for not getting out of the way. They assumed no responsibility for tracking their own device, alerting others, or trying to move. It's the classic parking lot collision extended into space. Second, this article focuses mainly on Low Earth Orbit (LEO) objects, which is where most of the crowding is, but isn't where the most expensive and valuable satellites (namely, communications, GPS, and remote sensing) are. The guidelines suggested by the UN are already standard features on American launches, especially because of the liability issues. The article mentions several countries that seem to just not care. Mir used to dump garbage bags out the airlock. China intentionally took out one of its LEO satellites - generating thousands more tiny pieces in the worst possibe place. Deorbiting objects from Mid-Earth Orbit and Geo-sync is not as simple as using a laser, a fire hose, or creating drag. These orbits are thousands of miles away from the Earth, far beyond its atmosphere. It can take a hundred pounds of thruster fuel to change an orbit by just 50 miles. And every pound you send up can take a thousand pounds of rocket fuel to lift off the Earth in the first place. And Superman charges too much to toss junk into the Sun.

I assume by space debris, you mean matter that falls to Earth rather than orbital debris like satellites. The latter topic is discussed elsewhere on this board, so I won't treat it here. By far, the vast majority of material that falls to Earth burns up in the atmosphere. This is due to the tremendous decelleration involved in an object moving at several km/sec (yes, that's kilometers per second) in a vacuum hitting a comparatively dense wall of atmospheric gases. And there's a lot of it, mostly grain sized. The Earth is estimated to gain about 40 tons of mass each day in interplanetary material. Meteors do land on garages, but this is rare because: 1) Sizable meteors that can survive re-entry are less common than grain-sized ones, and 2) Not much of the Earth is covered by garages, and 3) People don't always see or recognize a meteor when it does hit something. A meteor capable of making a crater would have to be quite large. The largest, recent one was the Tunguska blast of 1908, even though it appears to have vaporized before hitting. No crater, but it was like a 10 megaton blast and knocked down forest trees 15 miles outward. Things do skim the atmosphere and bounce off. There's a famous film of a 3m-8m meteor doing this over the Grand Teton National Park - you can find more information about it by searching The Great Daylight 1972 Fireball. The Space Shuttle operates in low-Earth orbit (~200mi up) and it moves in a trajectory that matches the Earth's rotation. Orbits that move against the Earth's rotation are called retrograde and take extra fuel to get up there in that direction - you're actually having to fight against the spin and still reach orbital velocity. Tachyon hit all the right points about gravity and orbits. If you're in orbit, you're still being pulled by the planet. You're just moving so fast that you're falling over the edge of the Earth's curve. (The weightless effect is because you're all falling together, like riders on the Vomit Comet.) Imagine firing a cannonball so fast that during the time it falls downward, the Earth's surface curves away from it. If you can keep that speed up, you just keep falling around the planet. Satellites and shuttles work by not just rocketing up to space where there's little atmospheric drag, but also by rocketing sideways so they are moving fast enough to fall around the Earth. That's why launch columns curve away and don't go straight up.

"Hello," came the pleasant greeting, almost a drawl. Sorehl looked over his shoulder. He was struck by the incongruity of a simplistic, innocent salutation from a being capable of such unfathomable duplicity and deception. On a hillside near his home on Avalon, the Vulcan turned from his stooped position to look up at the slight form of the Vorta. He patted his son on the backside, encouraging him to join his older sister. "Go see T'Ael," he prompted. "Go climb." The Vorta's eyes followed the boy, not yet two years old, as he toddled up the hill toward a wooden structure. "Vulcan family values," Semil commented. "The 'next good thing' you moved onto?" Sorehl stood, brushing the blades of grass from his knees. "A pursuit no less, and perhaps more, worthy. And one that I never truly left." He wondered how the Vorta had come to quote words from a private conversation now several years old, but kept the question to himself. He had long since learned that there was little chance in learning the source of such detailed intelligence. Semil mused silently for a moment, then noted, "No doubt Commander Blair informed you of my coming." Sorehl nodded. Had the house's proximity alert failed to reach him, the Camelot Station XO made certain to advise him each time the Vorta requested beam-down to the colony. Especially when he didn't come alone. Sorehl resisted the temptation to look for the Jem'Hadar escort, who was doubtlessly shrouded, invisibly watching his charge. He found it mildly threatening to have a creature of such lethality near his children, but recognized the protection it also offered. Semil had enemies. In fact, he mused, the Vorta had little else. It had been two months since Blair explained that Semil wanted an unofficial audience with the Federation. Since the Hundred were not recognized as a distinct political entity, they could not exchange formal ambassadors. Semil had pressed for informal discussions with his retired foe, as proxy. This would be the third such visit. The Vulcan gestured toward the steps which led to the terrace overlooking the hill and surrounding trees. It was late enough in the day that the mists had burned off, clinging only to the lowest clefts and shadowed areas. The axial tilt of Avalon was negligible, providing a year-round uniformity. The weather was cool, moist, and temperate with little seasonal variation, so the forests grew wide and large, with abundant foliage. Climbing the steps behind Semil, his mind flashed back to the first diplomatic overture he'd been ordered to make to the Dominion, during the first months of the war. That encounter had led to his imprisonment, the lies and illusions they had used to confuse him, and the unfortunate necessities of his escape. Deception and loss seemed to swirl in the wake of the Vorta. But the informal meetings had been revealing, especially since it was clear Semil wanted Sorehl to report their conversations. Despite their low-key presence, the Hundred had broad awareness of events in the Quadrant, even supposedly secret ones inside the Dominion. Although his clearance was still active, Sorehl was no longer privy to Starfleet operations and briefings. In passing along intelligence from the Hundred, he had learned a great deal that his reserve status would have kept from him. During their first meeting, Semil admitted the Hundred knew about a classified mission Excalibur was conducting for the Dominion. He claimed to have confronted attaché Jeralla Ramson about it months earlier. He noted that they had not exercised a threat to reveal the nature of the Founder's silence to the worlds of the Dominion, but they were observing Excalibur carefully. Indeed, the intimate level of detail they possessed suggested they either had an operative on the Vorta Council or aboard the ship itself. In their second meeting, Semil had expressed concern over escalations in the Scorpiad civil war, including the outright decimation of several Al-Ucard colonies. The Vorta had actually tried to argue a moral imperative for Federation intervention. Sorehl had noted this argument was probably intended for his wife, Ambassador T'Salik, who was serving as official liaison to the Scorpiad representative at Camelot. Since knowledge of the insurrection was limited to observations by exploratory craft, battle details were welcomed and confirmed by Tactical Command. During their last discussion, Semil had lauded Starfleet for frustrating an attempted Romulan incursion into the Gamma Quadrant. "During the war," he'd sneered distastefully, "we should never have shared our plan to create our own cross-quadrant wormhole with them." Sorehl had been forced to admit he had no knowledge of such an event, but if true, it was a testament to Romulan engineering. The Dominion attempt had ended disastrously, wiping out an entire system in Cardassian space. Semil insisted the event had happened, weapons fire and all, and asked compliments be sent to the starship Reaent when it eventually arrived at Camelot for repairs. In all, the teachings of Surak had proven wise. Although Sorehl knew what the Vorta agent was capable of, overcoming his personal distaste had provided useful knowledge to the Federation - at the very least easing tensions with the Hundred. What would he learn today? Reaching the top of the steps, he dismissed the musing. On the terrace, he gestured toward an elevated flagstone bench and initiated the session. "What brings you to Avalon this morning?" * * * * * The Vulcan girl leaned against the cool plexisteel that separated the interior dining space from the terrace. She watched her father take a seat across the firepit from the alien visitor. After a moment, she heard a faint rustling behind her, marking her mother's transit across the room. "Mother," she asked, not turning around, "why does he keep coming here?" There was a pause, as if considering the answer. "It is no secret," T'Salik replied. "He comes to converse with your father." T'Kel turned away from the window. "But why? He hates him." The ambassador scrutinized her daughter uncertainly. "I am not certain one can ascribe emotional..." "But after what he did," she interrupted, "why would he think father will help him?" T'Salik folded her arms, resting them on her swollen belly. It would be only a matter of weeks before the next addition joined their home. "It is unlikely he is seeking help for himself," she explained. "He knows your father is not inclined to be a... charitable audience. Potentially, that makes him a more powerful advocate." "That doesn't make any sense," the girl protested. "Only Nixon could go to China." * * * * * "They have found it," Semil declared. When the Vulcan showed no sign of response, he elaborated. "The device for communicating with the Founders." He paused. "I can neither confirm nor deny facts of which I am unaware," Sorehl observed. Semil frowned. "The Hundred have no interest in preventing this," he explained, "but they will not allow themselves to be excluded from contact with the Great Link. If the Founders break the silence, their heirs will not be satisfied with the Vorta Council as their spokesman." Sorehl stared evenly. "Should you not be speaking to the Dominion about this?" "Don't be foolish," Semil scoffed. "They'll deny everything. Keevan denies they lost contact with the Founders in the first place. Taenix denies they even need contact. And Lexin is so desperate that he agreed to solicit secret help from Starfleet." He looked away. "The only reason the Hundred hasn't announced the Founders' absence is fear the Jem'Hadar will revolt and kill all the subjects they hope to rule. But if the Vorta try to keep the Founders to themselves..." The Vulcan shifted his weight, leaning an open palm against the rough, warm surface of the flagstone. "I don't understand," he admitted. "You have heard Eloi preach of tolerance and self-determination," Semil reminded him, "but you'd be wrong to think other members of the Hundred see the galaxy as he does." The Vorta looked conflicted, almost pained. "They see themselves as children of estranged parents who sent them out to be persecuted by the solids, then returned to an empty house and an abandoned inheritance. They think my people have corrupted the purity of Founder rule. Worse, they think the Great Link has been polluted by Odo and the disease introduced by the Federation. "Until now, they've been content to lure worlds and converts, preserving the empire they intend to win. But if they think the Founders will come back," he paused, leveling his own stare, "they may be willing to destroy the whole Quadrant to keep the disease from spreading..."

The Civilian Command Interface Tutorial was a holographic construct designed to assist Starfleet officers in resolving command-related issues while working under a civilian oversight structure. Programmed with several templates, it was conversant in interstellar protocol to assist starbase operations employing non-Federation authority structures - such as those shared with Klingon or Romulan officers, or in the current case, a Ferengi ambassador. Such situations were not uncommon, utilized in locations as diverse as Akaria Base, Deep Space Five, Deep Space Nine, Empok Nor, and Camelot Station. Given the mission particulars of Sky Harbor Aegis, the summoned hologram had assumed a template based on Captain Sorehl of Vulcan, a former commanding officer of the facility and one specifically acquainted with diplomatic dealings with Ambassador Drankum. The CCIT had been invoked by Ambassador Joy Two to address "broad concerns" and "rumblings" among unspecified officers. After providing a summary of program intention and parameters, the hologram had noted that to be effective, it would be necessary to distinguish actual command difficulties from the typical transition anxieties that emotional species encounter with any sudden, unexpected command change. Ambassador Joy began by asserting a lack of respect from the commanding officer, then requested permission to "vent for a bit" and work toward her problem. The android had commenced by listing a series of interpersonal issues, explaining her rationale for believing Ambassador Drankum was the exception to a self-defined norm. The monologue touched her distain on many subjects. Ultimatums. Habitually abusive and insulting behavior. Contempt. Unprofessionalism. Eventually, there was a pause to request comment. The tutorial filtered through this lengthy input, searching for keywords that would prompt choices among its logic tree of protocol. But the totality of the remarks seemed to be more a litany of slights. It was not clear that she had identified a specific command issue needing resolution. The CCIT was about to state this conclusion and note the limitation of its programming when Ambassador Joy decided to continue. The tutorial plucked several keywords that could suggest serious topics to be expanded, but it was unclear whether she was seeking resolution on any particular one of them. Sexual harassment. Ultimatums. Subservience. Information control. Secrecy. A recent attempt to forbid communication. Attempts at resolution via humor. Egotism. Racial slur. Stubbornness. She shifted to a review of her personal history with the Ferengi, providing far more information than had been available in his database. This summary seemed to build toward an assertion that her opinions were well-founded, implying they were unlikely to be changed. Finally, she concluded with hyperbolic statements, declared like affirmations, that Drankum would never own her. The hologram sat, processing this firehose of inputs. He raised his holographic hand briefly, requesting a pause for his own response. "You have a great deal to say on the subject," the CCIT offered, in a dispassionate rendition of its Vulcan template. "As you suggest, I may not be qualified to comment on matters unrelated to civilian command and crew interface. It is clear I lack sufficient information to advise on resolution of a specific command-related issue." "You spend significant dialogue recounting the details of past transgressions against you. Previous memorandum and Control Tower logs suggest this is a frequently revisited subject. While there are therapeutic and syllogistic motivations for such listings, I have never found such an exercise to be efficacious in dealings with emotional beings. Indeed, it often has the detrimental effect of working emotions into a lather, as advanced justification to be unleashed for an expected conflict. You may be inclined to dismiss the advice to surrender prior injustices as too Vulcan-centric, but it has demonstrable precedent for initiating productive agreements. "You cited a recent 'attempt to forbid communications' with your sisters. Reviewing the memo in question shows no such order. Rather, the memo advises that there are matters of station operation that may need to remain confidential. This may be a case of your previous experience with autocratic rulings coloring your perception of Drankum's response. There is danger in such perception. Seeing the worst possible implication of every comment will make everyone guarded, confrontational, and intransigent. "It does appear you intend to approach your professional relationship with Mr. Drankum as a continued diplomatic exchange. This does not seem accurate, given the command-related elements of his new role. More than being empowered as part of the Starfleet command chain, Drankum now represents the governing civilian authority. This does not make him the law, but he is mandated to execute the law. You do not owe the subservience of a slave, but you do owe the obligations of general citizenship. I do not think you doubt this." "It may be emotionally distasteful, but unlike the equality demanded in diplomatic meetings, this governing role does imply a small measure of deference. Does it allow sexual harrassment? Certainly not. You have grounds for direct complaint, and even an insistence that it not continue. Such behavior can merely be the result of cultural differences, but protections against them are among those values codified with legal remedies. Does it permit ethnic slurs? No, but be aware that the negative semantics of the term 'robot' may not intended. You have done the right thing to advise him of such, rather than to start referring to him as a 'troll'." "But I would caution that not all such slights rise to this level. I trust your diplomatic career has involved interactions with Tellarites, for whom carefully crafted insults are a sign of respect and typical interplay. For the Zaldans, who see platitudes and courtesy as an insult, brutal honesty and outright belligerence are welcomed. These species were not required to abandon their values for diplomatic discourse. "Your attempts to reply with humor seem wise, although this matrix can offer little advice on the subject. While it is appropriate to respond by adopting the methods of one's counterpart, it may be equally appropriate to maintain a contrasting air of grace and class. The latter is certainly the Vulcan preference. The phrase 'point of order, decorum' is an excellent illustration of a gentle but firm reminder of an expected standard." "I would note that, from the history you recounted, it does appear you are projecting deeper issues than the current behavior of one Ferengi ambassador or even your prior dealings with him. I am not qualified to counsel on this, but an awareness of this projection may reduce a tendency toward conflict." The tutorial paused, recognizing the length of its comments had fallen into monologue, as well. It blinked its holographic eyes, as if the cursor to an ancient operating system, and awaited the next input.

I can't imagine anyone, beyond the actual host team, is able to change the established canon for a particular sim - in this example, for Talon. I think players, within the bounds set by their own hosts, should be free to develop additional breadth for the race they play there. If Jorahl wants to weave in something non-Rihanssu for his Romulan and his host is good with it, so be it. It's one of the freedoms and frustrations of sim discontinuity. The great Andorian gender debate comes to mind. Nothing in TOS or Enterprise suggests the Andorians have anything but the basic male / female dualism that most species demonstrate. But the Pocket Book series, particularly the DS9 relaunch, developed an intricate four-gender system based on Data's throwaway comment that Andorian weddings require four people. Which is right? Is one canon and the other heresy? Since there are relatively few Andorian characters, it looks like hosts have given freedom to let Andorian characters decide which background they'd like to use. For Talon, I imagine an established in-sim canon is a must - which elements of Duane to embrace, which elements of Nemesis to ignore, and internally developed stuff like political families and leaders. But as rich and well-developed as it may be, other players in other sims are free to utilize and ignore it at their leisure. If one sim gives a race and name to the Council President of the Federation, it doesn't mean the other sims have to use it or like it. If the Romulans launch a war on Talon, the folks on Aegis or Republic might choose to keep sailing through Pax Galacta, make some news references to distant, or jump right into their own Romulan battles. I don't think you're suggesting otherwise. But I also don't think Jorahl's details are meant to (or can) impose on how Talon runs things - that's for its hosts (with player input) to choose. Different, related note: Crossovers are awesome. Even when continuities don't line up exactly, intermeshing storylines between two sims is just fun. If you can find ways to do it and pull it off, you usually wind up with a pretty memorable event.

I don't disagree that the society Duane imagined was far richer than what the TNG (and certainly Nemesis) writers imagined, and I'm sorry to see that so much was underutilized. (I absolutely hated what she developed for Vulcan history in Spock's World, but that's another string for another day. :::mutters::: Laughing Vulcans...) Indeed, it was reading The Romulan Way in my first year of college that pushed me into becoming :::gasp::: a Trekkie. I certainly wouldn't discourage Romulan players or Romulan sims from continuing to play with those Duane-esque elements (pun intended). But I do like Jorahl's concept of there being multiple or at least subcultures in their society. Trek often makes the mistake of homogenizing every species that isn't human - Earth has a babel of languages and religions and histories, while Vulcan has one. I know I purposely make reference to "alternate" Vulcan viewpoints just to suggest depth. The continuum between emotional mastery versus suppression is one example. Sorehl is a student of Surak, but thinks kolinahr is an abomination. I think Jorahl referencing other worlds and other perspectives seems reasonable. I know I did a log suggesting the Romulan Continuing Committee was a lot like the old Soviet Politburo. I didn't hear any negative feedback on that, but was there any? I wouldn't discount the TNG Romulans too much, either. We got wonderful episodes like "The Enemy" and "Face of the Enemy" (hmm, sensing a theme) as well as characters like Tomalok and Vreenak. But we did get Sela, too... :::more muttering::: It's a subject for another string, probably, but the Romulans seem to be a curious mix of totalitarianism and overzealous patriotism (ala Soviet Russia) with the efficiency, treachery, and racial xenophobia of a Nazi regime. Neither is a perfect fit, nor are both a complete picture, but I'd be interested to hear what images people use in their background development.

The failed development of a Romulan version of the phase cloak was established in TNG: The Next Phase - it wound up phasing Geordi and Ro during transport. Whether the Romulans went back to the drawing board and resolved their problems is unknown. (Since the Romulans tend not to give up on any technological advantage, I imagine them continuing their research.) And of course, the Federation developed one years earlier, with its own problems, as established in TNG: "Pegasus". As for the existence and dangers of quantum singularities, one need only look to the TNG episode "Timescape". This episode established that warbird's use an artificiial singularity to power their engines, and showed that one mode of catastrophic failure was the complete collapse of the ship. (Note: This was due to the interference of creatures who inadvertantly damaged the singularity by trying to procreate within it - a cautionary note on such exhibitions if I ever heard one.) Such singularities don't actually require much mass. What they require is sufficient density - Tachyon's description of microsingularities seems right on the mark. (And in true geek mode, I felt a shudder of thrill seeing Hawking radiation used outside a textbook.) I tend to agree with Tachyon that Romulan singularities would be micro, but there was a reference to the Hirogen using similar technology, with the singularity being a centimeter in diameter. If they do work like a black hole, the old adage of "a teaspoonful would have the mass of the Earth" would suggest it's massive indeed. From the one episode we saw them, quantum singularities seem to have properties related to gravitational singularities (black holes), but the difference in name may suggest other differences.

Romulan discipline is a curious notion, but one hardly placed on par with that of their Vulcan cousins. Their engineering prowess, particularly considering material scarcity, is something to be acknowledged and admired. That said, the curious frequency at which it suffers defeat at Federation hands must be that much more disheartening - to those not bound by non-emotional rules.

Until now. One of the Iridium satellites I mentioned in previous remarks got mowed down by a 2000-lb discarded Russian satellite. One of the reasons this has never happened before is that the Pentagon (specifically NORAD) tracks all these items and is supposed to advise a working satellite to nudge itself out of the way - why it didn't happen for an object that was well above the tracking threshold size will be a source of investigation.

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.

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. 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 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 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 I’m under no obligation to see him.” He straightened a PADD on his desk. Blair leaned back. “I could try that, but he insists he has no one else to talk to,” he sighed. He paused, as if weighing whether to make some admission. “He’s threatening to leave the station.” Sorehl considered the weight 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.

I picked up my copy and started into it last night.

This is an outstanding log, Delevan. It really captures the flavor of Cardassia and the current environment. Well done!

The Tuesday staff for 11/25/08 is pleased to announce that Cadet Kirkriker has graduated from the Academy. Congratulations!

Having read the Entertainment Weekly article today with quotes like: "Transforming a defunct old property into a cool 21st-century event flick may seem like business as usual for Hollywood, but Trek presented... a much heftier challenge: how to make this hunk of retro sci-fi cheese meaningful as mainstream entertainment, as relevant pop, as big business." ...does not make the Vulcan heart soar. Nor does the assessment: "...the Trek brand has devolved into a near-irrelevant cultural joke, likely to inspire giggles and unprintable curses from even its most ardent supporters." Abrams' quotes are even worse: "I don't think people even understand what Star Trek means anymore." "All my friends liked Star Trek, I preferred a more visceral experience." Most telling is that the article cites the abysmal performance of Nemesis and the Enterprise series as need for a reboot, but ignores the fact that their poor performance was in part due to ignoring continuity and upsetting the fan base. I'm not even interested in owning either one - reinforcing things with my "dollar votes". We'll see what they do with it, but I'm not particularly interested in seeing Clone Wars added to the Trek canon. I hope they prove me wrong.

From the official Star Trek website, a "Remastered" picture of a Gorn cruiser like the disabled one encountered at our last Tues Academy. Perhaps we might learn just what happened to its crew next time?

A summary of the conference between Sorehl and Drankum, as played at the 09/05/08 sim. Drankum had been summoned back to the station by a young, familiar face. Jeralla Ramson, the young Cardassian girl who’d grown up at SB405 and the Canar Trade Mission he’d established there, showed him into what she said would be a private conference with a spokesman from her native government. Noting the low lighting, he entered and heard the door hiss closed behind him. “This had better not be another joke,” he warned aloud. There was a single table at the center of the darkened room. Two glasses sat on the table, a small one filled with green liquid, the wider one with something purple. In one of the two chairs, a figure sat in the robes of a Cardassian aesthetic with hood raised. Almost immediately, the figure gestured to the open chair. Standing, he drew back the hood. The face was not Cardassian. “Please come in, Ambassador,” Sorehl invited. Drankum turned his head slightly. “No,” he growled, the anger clear. His voice rose to a near scream, “The Great Depository, you aren’t supposed to be here! Damn you!” He slammed his fist into the conference table, refusing to even look at him but instead the table itself. The Vulcan tried to diffuse the tension. “Really, Drankum,” he cautioned, almost playfully, “you must learn to govern your passions. They will be our undoing.” “You weren’t supposed to be here,” he growled again, anger still lacing his words. “I believe you walked out on our last drink,” Sorehl implored. “Please, Drankum, sit.” The Ferengi looked up at the Vulcan, shaking his head. “There is no time....” Sorehl pulled back his own chair, lowering himself into it. “We measure time by artificial standards, my friend,” he reasoned. “Let us not rush headlong into anything that need not come to pass.” His voice grew more quiet. “I must admit, I am... embarassed to be here.” Drankum tilted his head at the remark, some of the muscles in his shoulders visibly relaxing. A calm actually seemed to come over him. “For what purpose?” The former captain’s response was not direct. “Earlier, you accused me of conceit. Now I sit here at the height of it, believing that somehow, despite the efforts and negotiation of fine diplomats, that somehow I might have the means to help bring us back from this brinkmanship. Is that not indeed conceit?” Drankum stood up straight, resuming his composure. “It was a trait that never suited you.” “Agreed.” Sorehl inclined his head slightly and blinked. “Worse yet… I am here to implore you based on ‘emotional’ merit, building on our shared foundatoin. I am here to convince you to answer when I ask, ‘What would you have me do?’” The Ferengi diplomat moved to stand behind the chair across from Sorehl. “You asked me that already,” he answered pointedly, “though I don't believe I actually answered.” “No,” Sorehl confirmed. “Once again, you said there was no time. But I am here to make time to listen.” Drankum eyed him skeptically. “To listen? To listen to the arrogance of the self- righteous people I defended? To listen to the arrogance of peoples that I tried to protect - who only cast us aside without a second thought?” He forced a smile. “There is a lot one could listen to around here.” “Yes,” Sorehl confirmed again. He leaned in, steepling his fingers. “I have no standing with the Federation. I laid down my role as Commissioner several weeks ago. As such, I can negotiation nothing. But I can listen and see if we can understand each other.” He leaned in further, unusually furtive. “What can we do to keep this from happening?” Drankum let out a low chuckle. “Understanding? That requires trust.” Sorehl seized on the word ‘trust’, which they had traded at their last meeting. “A commodity that cannot be bought?” Drankum looked wistfully in the distance. “A commodity that cannot be sold either.” He redirected his gaze to the Vulcan. “To you, I will trust. What you can get them to do, I will trust. Beyond that...” Sorehl was uncertain he could get them to do anything, but he could not gauge his ability without knowing the task. “Let me help,” he pressed, invoking the favorite three words of the famous essayist from Zeta Orionis. Drankum finally sat in the chair. “They did not ask,” he noted bitterly, “nor pretend to ask.” Sorehl nodded. He had previously admitted similar guilt in that. There was a long pause, as if Drankum were waging some internal debate. At last, he continued. “The Ferengi Alliance does not... want... this station.” The admission seemed to have taken significant effort. His Vulcan mind sifting through possibilities, he opted not to try to conjecture what their want truly was. Instead, he moved on the opening itself, “Then help us work toward what they do want. Take the higher road and step back from this brinkmanship, so we can work this out.” Drankum propped both hands on his cane, bringing it under his chin to rest. He looked across the table at the Vulcan, then sat up and took the glass of purple liquid. And then they talked…

The follow-ups to this log are contained in On the Table and Ferengi Amendment.

The following is a continuation of the private conference between Sorehl and Ambassador Drankum, ending with the alert that concluded the 09/05 Aegis sim. On the table, the glasses remained largely untouched. "The arrogance... the humon attempt at a robot moans on about following the will of the treaty, while the Federation itself ignores the rights of anyone it doesn't feel important," Drankum pushed. "And to think I defended them..." Sorehl listened carefully as the Ferengi elaborated his position. He was acutely aware he did not represent the Federation in this discussion. Indeed, he was merely an interested third party speaking at the behest of the Cardassian government – an impressive bit of maneuvering on Jeralla Ramson's part. He pushed away thoughts of pride in the Cardassian diplomat he'd known when she was a young girl. As she explained, receiving the Order of Damar eight years ago had bestowed certain rights of Cardassian peerage, including the authority to act as a steward of the Castellan, under direction. And so Sorehl had come. After their opening confrontation, Drankum had been remarkably candid in his remarks. Sorehl had initially questioned the wisdom in seeking a personal audience, dismissing such an effort as 'cowboy diplomacy' and an obvious conceit. But others, including his wife and Jeralla, had appealed. Ultimately, he conceded to their logic. He was no diplomat, but reasoned that the weight of shared experiences and trust could offer a breakthrough with his colleague. He measured his response to continue that trend. "It could be said the presence of a fleet, even non-hostile, constitutes an abeyance in and of itself," the Vulcan observed. Drankum tilted his head and adjusted his posture, "Funny, isn't it, that not one living being actually thought the Ferengi were going to stand up to the mighty humon Federation? I actually would have paid to see the looks of some humons when word spread. But it does make one... reconsider... doesn't it?" He leaned both hands on his cane again. "Assuming for a moment that the mind-numbing debate about violations are accurate, are we going to consider who's made the greater violation, or merely the first?" He seemed ready for such a debate. Sorehl knew he could not be drawn into that discussion. It was well-tread ground covered by a salvo of sternly-worded memos. Various articles of interstellar law hinged on determining such fault, but his role here was to listen and prompt. "It is not for me to say," he sidestepped, "but it is hard to motion for a return to normalcy and discussion under duress of a forcible seizure." Drankum stood and, with a huff, resumed his position behind the chair. "No one has forcibly seized anything," he argued. The word 'yet' hunt silently on the end of his statement. "Do you see an invasion force on this station? If we really wanted to provoke things, the humons and their pawns would already be off this hunk of junk!" "Implied threat is still threat," Sorehl noted. "I was advised there was even a torpedo fired.". "And it detonated harmlessly," Drankum pointed out. "A pure mechanical malfunction... that might have also served to reinforce to the humons they should actually follow the law they claim to hold so dear, especially about the treatment of diplomatic persons... not to mention the unprofitable Aegis Treaty itself." The Ferengi stared at Sorehl for a few moments, noting the lack of reaction. Clearly, Drankum had taken umbrage at being initially refused the right to return to his ship during negotiations. Then, without warning, a slight tilt of the head revealed a moment almost out of place. "No, I didn't find it a good party line either, but it went through several focus groups with good success..." he muttered under his breath. Resisting detainment was a matter the onboard diplomats would probably support, Sorehl reasoned without saying. But it was time to press for the heart of the matter. "Drankum," he began, "I have heard your grievances. But you have not articulated what your people want." The ambassador had already admitted it was not the station they wanted. The Ferengi moved to the front of the chair, leaning against the table, "What do we want? What do we really want?" The tone was all that was needed to show that something massive was about to break through to the surface. With a slight chuckle, Drankum turned and started to slowly circle the table. "How about... the Ferengi Alliance wants others to abide by what they claim to? Maybe we don't feel the Cardassians have done enough to repay their debt to the quadrant. Maybe we want to ensure that the humon Federation stops acting like it is the Great Depository's gift to the universe!" There was a pause, Drankum turned... now at the opposite end of the table and looked back at Sorehl. "Is that enough?" Sorehl looked over the figure across from him. Perhaps it was simple observation or an errant touch of nostalgia, but at that moment, he could perceive how the Ferengi diplomat had aged in the last few years. He was no longer the vibrant figure he had been upon arriving in the Canar system over a decade ago. He was no longer the person spurred by ideas of pure profit or a comfortable retirement. This was a man who was worn, jaded, and now clearly hurt. "It would be if it were the truth," the Vulcan said softly. He waited for an explosive reply. There was none. Drankum instead remained in place, as of frozen in time. Seconds went by without comment, close to a full minute before anything resembling a sound could be heard. By the time it was over, the elder Ferengi had clearly lost the resolve he had when entering the room. "It is all true... but signs of the greater issue. The Ferengi Alliance requires... to be treated as we really are. For all the latinum in the galaxy, all I gave up for the humons... for this... for the supposed 'greater good', I demand the respect I have earned! I'm not standing here to listen to some poor excuse for a lifeform tell me how the galaxy is run when I was helping craft it while they were still in the womb. The arrogance... the disrespect.... the back stabbing betrayal of a bunch of hypocritical liars!" Again, time seemed to freeze. "Officially, the Ferengi Alliance does not believe or see how the Aegis mission is complete," Drankum said, regaining his composure. He knew he was challenging the very basis of Sorehl's report to the Federation Security Council. "But… we have been convinced that it cannot remain static," he conceded. "We have no interest in dissolving the partnership that made Aegis possible, but do see... the need for evolution." Drankum walked back towards the empty chair and tossed a Ferengi padd on the table. It slid, coming to a stop in front of the Vulcan. With interest, Sorehl raised it to his vision, quickly scanning the text. A minute or so passed in silence. "This is a counter-proposal," he summarized aloud, "expanding the scope to allow mutual defense of previous reconstruction efforts." He looked up. "And in the Ferengi position, this would permit the relocation near Breen space?" Drankum nodded. "There's a provision for authorizing, and later revoking, such a move," he explained. He took a deep breath. "If this is approved, I can essentially guarantee that the Ferengi Alliance will authorize defense against the Breen." Sorehl knew he could make no such promises, but the Allies would welcome a formal alternative from the Ferengi. Without ending the Aegis mission, it was almost what the diplomats had already been working. Indeed, the language seemed to address other outstanding issues raised by Ambassador Joy. "I am nothing but a messenger in this regard," he noted, "but I will convey the proposal and my opinion." "Conceit may not suit you, but you're even worse at humility, Captain Ears," Drankum scoffed. "If you endorse it, you know they'll approve it." "I know no such thing," he countered. There was one issue, he knew, that could prevent anyone from even looking at the proposal. "It will be argued that this proposal could have been without the threat of force. In fact, this text is dated weeks ago, just after the Federation's amendment." Drankum nodded, "Actually, it has existed since your visit here. Shame people couldn't be bothered to consult others before moving forward with their plans for galactic reorganization." Before anything else could be said, the alarms started to sound. The Ferengi's communications device almost immediately sounded, but he did not answer. Instead, Drankum slide into the chair, stared at the glasses on the table and sighed. "You do not have much time to prevent..." the Ferengi said in almost a whisper before letting out another sigh and falling deeper into his chair. After a second or two, he looked up at the Vulcan, "Prevent the arrival of the enemy we all created here..."

I heartily concur with Gromvik on this one. The Lost Room was a very original concept that created a lot of rules for itself and followed them well. I admit that when it ended, I wanted more. Kinda hoping it could turn into a real series...

The following is a joint Drankum/Sorehl log, taking place off-station... In humon terms, it had been eleven years, two months, five days, twenty-three hours and some odd minutes. Then again, who was counting? Now, all that time later, he stood looking at a familiar site in a place he had not actually visited in half a decade. The blinking and flashing illumations from the sign he had cared about so much had not changed, many of the vendors nearby were still the same. The carpet of the Promenade had clearly been replaced, obviously done by some humon engineer without any idea for quality. The bulkheads showed no signs of age, no hint of the horrors they might be able to speak of if such was possible. The windows still displayed the amazing view they always had. Then, there was the silence. His arrival had taken place at an extremely odd hour. The Command Center had actually scrambled when the hail had come in. Even with the nearby trade route, traffic simply didn't happen at 0230 CTS. The Promenade was, by all accounts, empty. A few night shift workers quickly went thru the tasks of cleaning and there was a chance an engineering crew might be roaming near the doors of an apprently malfunctioning turbolift, but other than that no real movement could be detected. He had stood leaning against the outside bar for several minutes before finally entering the establishment. What he wanted was exactly where it should have been, a testiment to the quality staff that Patty Santi had put into place. At that moment, a brief thought entered his head about how comical the unverse actually was. Who would have thought that what once was then, now and would become could be so... painful. The departure from Aegis had been blunt and unannounced, the destination unknown to all but a select few. His arrival home and subsequent meetings had gone almost as planned. The decisions had been made, the course of action set into motion weeks before finalized. Surprisingly, the only odd revelation dealt with the Klingon Empire. At the end of the meeting, the timeline he was required to follow gave a giant gap. He had decided...no...that was wrong. As difficult and impossible as it was for him to admit, he had not decided to visit this place but instead had been drawn. A real chance existed that it might be the last visit he would be able to make... the last time to... well, that was the question, wasn't it? When he sat down, the table was set for two. A tall bottle filled with purple liquid sat across another filled with green hued contents and circular in shape. Two glasses sat, one in front him and one at the chair to his left. The only thing missing was his guest... who he knew would eventually find him. * * * * * The runabout glided past a starship under repair and eased into a shuttlebay towards the top of the mushroom-shaped station. Starbase 405 was in the night phase of its orbit, with the planet below outlined by a slowly waxing blue crescent. The tireless commanding officer had greeted him by subspace, then cleared his arrival. Within moments, he had confirmed the presence of whom he sought, then offered his present location. Disembarking from the runabout, a mere fifteen paces took him to the turbolift in Shuttlebay One, which whisked him to the interior of the primary module, then up seven decks to the lowest level of the Promenade. Although darkened, the Promenade bore a familiar air. He had often paced along the rounded corridor of its outer path. The doors ahead were among the most familiar and unchanged, gliding open at his approach. * * * * * Drankum looked up as the electronic motors engaged and the doors opened. Standing, a faint smile came across his face and a motion to the green bottle, "Unless your tastes have changed... I do believe this is the best year I have in stock." Still in the doorway, Sorehl raised an eyebrow. "Vulcan port," he identified from a distance. He unfastened the adhesion plate on his cloak and took it off with a flourish, draping it over one arm. "2313," the Ferengi added, motioning him toward the empty chair with his cane. The Vulcan closed the distance to the table. "I don't know which I find more remarkable – your recollection of obscure vintages or your ability to predict my arrival so exactly." He touched his fingers to the glass – it had warmed to the optimum temperature. The elder Ferengi would normally had laughed at the comment, but instead lowered himself into the chair and leaned back, reviewing the Vulcan closely. Before waiting for further discussion, he poured himself a drink, casually avoiding eye contact with the taller Vulcanoid. "For the record, no vintage is obscure... one must simply know where to look." He paused, took a giant sip of the purple colored liquid, and continued, "Almost like politics..." Before he could elaborate on that thought, he shifted in his seat again. "Besides, if there is one thing I have learned in my time here, it's that you always have a knack for showing up at just the right moment," the Ferengi said matter-of-factly. "And unlike the other unprofitable fools in this quadrant, you're the one person I trust to sit down for a drink with right now." The former captain lowered himself into the vacant chair. "You're aware, of course, that I avoid intoxicants as a rule," Sorehl noted. Nevertheless, he slid the glass toward his edge of the table and lifted it, taking in the scent. "But I shall make an exception in this instance." He took a respectable sip, nodding as a compliment. Drankum recalled the one occasion he had seen the Vulcan imbibe – a toast in this very room, at the end of the Dominion War. But his own mood was too dark to acknowledge this latest gesture. He rolled the glass in his fingertips. "I knew they would send you," he revealed, a sudden edge to his voice. Sorehl took the glass from his lips. "No one sent me," he countered. "You know very well you invited me to find you, Ambassador." "What a conceit," Drankum scoffed loudly, nearly spilling his drink. "You're growing delusional in your old age, my Vulcan friend." "And yet you included me on the distribution of your response to the treaty addendum," the former captain noted. The cane fidgeted on his lap, but there was no response. "And you purposely avoided my attempts at subspace communication." "Did you call?" Drankum asked, failing to contain the sarcasm. "My assistant must not have routed your messages." Sorehl set the small glass down, glancing over to the Canar Trade Mission office adjoining the bar. Its doors were barred by an officious looking lock and seal, below a conspicuous FCA closure notice. "Why are you here, Ambassador?" Drankum rolled the cane across his legs. "There are days, Captain Ears, that I miss being... here, the way things used to be. Dealing with Ambassador Briel's unprofitable nagging on the surface or the years of debate to create the Ferengi Trade Route thru this sector. Compared to what has come since, it almost seems...," he hesitated for a moment, "to have been a more profitable time." Sorehl recognized the evasion, or at least the delay of nostalgia. The latter was one of his own emotional failings, but this was not time to indulge it. "Clearly, your government has reservations about the relocation of Aegis," he pressed on, "but they've expressed nothing specific. There are rumors of massive financial shifts, enough to corner a market, perhaps even enough to destablize a region. What is going on?" The Ferengi forced a smirk, "You know, the negotiations that allowed that floating space palace to be put up over the Cardassians were almost worse than the war itself. The sad part was, your humon Federation was the focus of most of the concerns." He took a giant drink from his glass, literally causing three-quarters of it to vanish into his mouth before pouring himself another. After a rather large swallow, he looked at Sorehl directly, "Odd how I defended the humons, said to the others they were wrong! It wouldn't be that way! This time things would be different!" He continued to stare at the Vulcan but almost look past him, almost as if he wasn't sitting in the opposite chair. "I trusted them, Sorehl," he muttered with anger reverberating in his words. It was only the fifth time Drankum had ever refered to his counterpart by name in all the years they had known each other. "I actually believed the humons. I stood up for them when their own unprofitable excuse for a lifeform Ambassador sat at the table with a piece of latinum lodged in his brain." There was another pause, then in a voice that almost projected sorrow, "And this is how they repay it... repay the Ferengi... repay me." The former captain tilted his head, listening. After a lapse of silence, he considered his response. "Drankum," he began slowly. There were no titles now. "I will be the first to admit I have underestimated the symbolic impact of the Ferengi Alliance's commercial and economic investments. I am probably… ill-equiped to understand such motivations. But this doesn't excuse my dismissal of them, even without intention." As he said it, the Vulcan sensed there might yet be other motivations, some deeper, some personal. Drankum resumed eye contact with Sorehl, "You do realize, Captain Ears, you are one of the last ones left in this unprofitable galaxy I actually trust, don't you?" "And you have my respect," the Vulcan answered, "a currency that cannot easily be bought." A wistful look returned to the Ferengi's features. "All the others are gone. Spawn, Muldoon, the Bulloc and his party, the Great Depository...no one to remember how we pulled together to survive that wicked Swarm." He patted one leg in remembrance. "I find myself alone these days, a child with latinum in his pocket but no where to spend it. Now I am forced to...," there was a pause again. Drankum shifted in his seat, leaning forward, "Do me a favor...don't let them destroy any more of my reputation. Profits I have, latinum I have, power I can buy...but regardless of what is coming, do not let the humons forget all I did before." Sorehl slid the glass away from him. "I am led to believe I bear some personal responsibility for this escalation of tension." And then, he fell back to the teachings of Surak. "What would you have me do?" he implored. As if not hearing the question, Drankum resumed looking past the Vulcan. "They caused this," he insisted, gesturing outward with his chin. "They set in motion the entire mess. How unprofitable am I that this will cause me to become the very thing I plundered to prevent," he said softly. "There is a humon saying, a Greece tragedy. And I have walked into one." Suddenly, he was on his feet. Sorehl stood at once. "Drankum, there is no need…" "No," the Ferengi said waving him off, "the course has been set and cannot be changed." With a hurried stride, he stabbed the cane in front of himself and rushed to the entrance of the bar. Halfway out, he paused again and looked back at the Vulcan. "Farewell my profitable friend... I hope the future is more generous to you than it will be to me, " he said with the faintest glimmer of sorrow in his voice. Then, the Ferengi turned and was gone. Sorehl made no move to stop him, knowing such a vain action would only aggravate a tense situation. There was no mistaking the warning. But what was coming?

There's a rumor that, during TNG's run, they imagined an episode about a Federation-wide version of the Olympics and planned to cast Arnold Schwartzenegger as a guest. Which makes me wonder. Assuming the Olympics continue on into the 24th Century, would Earth open the games to alien competitors? We saw a DS9 episode where Vulcans had a distinct advantage playing baseball, given their increased strength and stamina - is that fair? Or would the Olypmics limit themselves to humans, including those living on other worlds (or stations or ships) and let some other pan-Federation competition among alien species develop? If there were an interstellar sports competition, which species would dominate which sports?