Well,he conceded, perhaps not you specifically.
Most of the discussions likely revolved around the man he had replaced, along with the events that had transpired to bring about that replacement. It went without saying that Diego Reyes had been respected by his crew, to say nothing of the feelings carried by any close friends among them. Nogura was certain that a sizable percentage of Starbase 47’s population supported the former commodore, whether they agreed or disagreed with the decisions he had made and the actions he had taken. Doubtless, some of those people would believe that the sentence imposed on Reyes was too harsh. They had that luxury, of course.
Bringing his glass to his nose, Nogura closed his eyes and savored the wine’s supple aroma before taking another sip. He was adjusting to a more comfortable position in his chair, content to wait quietly for his meal, when he heard a familiar voice from behind him.
“Admiral Nogura, I hope I am not disturbing you.”
Turning in his seat, Nogura looked up to see Ambassador Jetanien regarding him. The Rigelian Chel, despite facial features that did not lend themselves to a wide variety of expressions, still managed to appear more than a bit disconcerted.
“Not at all, Ambassador,” Nogura replied. “Would you care to join me?” Even as he asked the question, he realized that the chairs already at the table would not accommodate the Chel’s unique physiology.
Jetanien, however, having obviously encountered this situation on more than one occasion, was already taking action. A simple wave to one of the cabaret’s staff produced two more employees as if from thin air, carrying a backless chair better suited to the ambassador’s special seating requirements. Jetanien thanked them and perched on the seat, across from Nogura.
“Excellent service here,” the admiral remarked.
“I am something of a regular patron,” Jetanien replied. He indicated Nogura’s plate and its partially consumed meal. “Eating alone can be unhealthy, you know. Drinking alone also has its share of negative benefits.”
Smiling, Nogura held up his wineglass, swirling its contents. “Hazards of rank, I suppose.” Long ago, he had adopted the custom of enjoying a quiet drink with his evening meal after a long day’s work. It did not matter to him that he usually dined in solitude; such was the fate of a flag officer serving without peers at any duty station. “Besides, I can hardly blame the crew for giving me a wide berth. I can’t imagine any of them feel particularly comfortable approaching me, even in such a casual atmosphere as this.” He waved his free hand to indicate the nightclub’s interior.
Jetanien made a sound that sounded like water draining from a sink. “I doubt that any of them harbors any true ill will toward you, Admiral. After all, you played no role in Commodore Reyes’s court-martial and subsequent conviction.”
“Nevertheless,” Nogura countered, “I’m the one Starfleet sent to replace a man they respected.” He released a small sigh. “Damn shame, too. What a waste of a good officer.”
“One could argue that the commodore’s intentions were honorable, Admiral,” Jetanien said, resting his oversized hands on the table.
Frowning, Nogura shook his head. “You know what they say about good intentions and the road to hell.” He glanced across the table before adding, “Well, maybe you don’t.”
“I do indeed, sir,” the ambassador replied. “Despite his motivation, Commodore Reyes was still in the wrong, legally speaking. Morally speaking, that is a topic all its own. I do not know what I might have done were I in his position, but I’d like to think that he was acting on behalf of a greater good.”
It was an interesting viewpoint, one Nogura found hard to fault. Of course, Jetanien and a select few members of the station’s senior staff had all been briefed on Starfleet’s true mission in the Taurus Reach from the beginning. For Jetanien now to state that he believed Reyes to have been acting toward a higher, more august purpose, would that not also constitute an admission that earlier decisions and actions taken in the name of security—some by the ambassador himself—were less than moral? Were they perhaps illegal?
Let’s save that particular can of worms for another day, shall we?
A server approached the table and set down before Jetanien a large bowl of what looked like something that might have been retrieved from one of the station’s waste-extraction centers. A faint aroma wafted from the bowl, and Nogura could not help wrinkling his nose in mild protest.
“I apologize if the odor is bothersome,” the ambassador said as he brought the bowl to his mouth, “but they make a pickled keesabeetle broth here that is unmatched in flavor.”
Nogura shrugged. “ Unmatchedis as good a word as any,” he said, wiping his nose and draining his wineglass. “Ambassador, can I assume that you didn’t visit me this evening to counsel me on my dining habits or to discuss the former Commodore Reyes? Have you heard anything new from the Klingons with respect to Lieutenant Xiong?”
Emitting an irritated snort, Jetanien shook his head. “Lugok maintains that no prisoners were taken from Erilon. Either he’s an accomplished liar, which I doubt, or else he’s not being kept informed with regard to this situation.”
Nogura frowned and leaned forward to glare at the Chel. “So, what are you doing about it?”
A deep, resigned sigh escaped Jetanien’s birdlike mouth. “At the moment, nothing. Lugok has gone quiet, apparently on orders from the High Council. All diplomatic relations have been frozen.”
“It’s not just you and Lugok,” Nogura replied, “but you know that. The truth is, no one on either side is talking to anyone about anything, and everyone’s getting itchy trigger fingers.” After taking a moment to listen to the gentle, almost soothing buzz generated by the conversations of other patrons, Nogura finally leaned back in his seat. A dull ache had begun to manifest itself behind his left eye, an early warning of an impending headache.
The least of my problems,he conceded.
“I appreciate your efforts, Ambassador,” he said, “but the unfortunate reality is that as far as the larger picture is concerned, Lieutenant Xiong—regardless of his unique knowledge and capabilities, is a single man.” He waved a hand in the air above him, gesturing toward the ceiling. “All of this—our mission, whatever secrets might still be waiting for us to find out there—is liable to become very unimportant in the coming days and weeks, and Xiong’s probably nothing more than one of the first casualties in a conflict that will see him joined by countless others.”
Jetanien gave an irritated grunt and said, “I find it hard to disagree with you Admiral, given current events, but consider this. What if the Klingons dohave Xiong and by some miracle and with his assistance—coerced, of course—discover some dreadful weapon that can be turned against the Federation?”
“If that’s the case, Ambassador,” Nogura replied, “then I imagine the war will go very quickly, and very badly, for us.”
48
The spoon, which was more like a small shovel or a gardening tool than an eating utensil, was almost too large for his mouth, though Xiong had learned the trick of balancing the heavy metal bowl in his left hand. This allowed him to concentrate on forcing down whatever it was in the bowl that had the nerve to call itself his evening meal. It was a pallid, cold gruel, as tasteless as it was devoid of color. He had eaten it twice a day every day for however long he had been Komoraq’s unwilling guest, trying to imagine that the bland paste was anything else.