5: The First Interview
Captain Horatio Hornblower of the USS Lydia was fuming. His ready room was exactly four of his long strides across, rather large for a ship its size, but it was too small for Hornblower. He needed the bridge, or a corridor, or the gym. But he had to be satisfied with the small, cramped ready room. A captain did not pace and fume in front of his officers and crew. A captain had to be angry in private.
For what was probably the twentieth time he passed his fishbowl mounted in the wall. His reflection was distorted by the curve of the glass, but Hornblower knew that his features were also pinched and contorted in frustration. He couldn't blame the sight of his face entirely on the glass, and then little blue fish swam by, wiggling its fins as if to taunt him with the fact that it was making do quite well with its space constraints.
Hornblower struggled with his anger. He hated surprises, loathed them. The bird of prey was a surprise of the worst, most unwelcome kind. Why hadn't he been informed? What was it doing here?
The fish stopped when it reached the side of its bowl. With wide, wide eyes, it regarded the glass, regarded Hornblower, then began peacefully back-paddling across the tank without so much as blinking. It had been a surprise, too -- years before, when Bush outranked him in the Renown, she'd told him that he would either wear a long hole in his floor or give himself a heart attack from his fretting like an old woman as he did. A week later, the fish had shown up on his bed in his quarters, complete with bowl. The attached card informed him that it was a Tellorian Blue Puffer, and when Hornblower picked the bowl up, he almost immediately dropped it again when the thing expanded up like a Terran blowfish.
Only, as Bush told him later gleefully, the damn thing could live for over fifty years. If he survived his fretting and became a flag admiral, he might still have it on his desk.
Bush had also informed him that it was a male, that its name was Napoleon -- Hornblower assumed that she had meant the first, the successful general, not the short-lived and unfortunate Franz or the politician who could have been Napoleon's nephew or might not have been, depending on the degree to which Josephine's stepdaughter had been unfaithful to her husband -- and that it was meant for stress relief. He could keep it with him. He could watch it and be soothed. Hornblower then attempted to explain to Bush why the name Napoleon needed a numeric appellation afterwards, and she'd ignored him and started tapping on the glass in an effort to get Napoleon to puff up again.
Napoleon had refused; Bush began to resort to more extreme measures. Napoleon seemed to find nothing even remotely frightening about her, and the situation had, in fact, almost been funny and quite distracting from his fretting.
Now, though, there was nothing amusing about anything. Napoleon's peaceful swimming did not calm Hornblower's churning brain. There were too many variables. There were too many dangers. Why had he not been informed? What could he do?
The Lydia was likely fast enough to outrun the Bird of Prey. Those modifications increased the Bird of Prey's firepower, but diminished her speed. Warp 9 for five hours had put Panama a solid distance behind the Lydia, but weeks of fighting Maquis raiders had left their mark on her warp drive as well as her interior. The ship had shuddered when she slipped into warp; Hornblower had called up the readouts and seen the numbers himself. The Lydia could not, in fact, sustain Warp 9. Engineering had suggested -- strenuously -- that the ship slow to Warp 5.
At Warp 5, though, it would take over a week to cross the border into Federation space. And another two weeks after that to the nearest station. If they were lucky, they might shave a few days off by rendezvousing with another vessel and offloading the ambassador, but there was nothing in range.
It was a long, empty stretch of space from Panama to the Federation. A long, long stretch of space.
And then, there was the Ambassador herself. The woman did not even have to be there to infuriate Hornblower further -- the thought of her was enough. He had told Bush to alert him of any change in circumstances, then retired to his ready room to work off his rage.
Hornblower had reached the wall of his ready room, and with a snarl, he spun around and found himself facing his replicator.
They had been out in the Badlands for months, and monitoring the Demilitarized Zone for longer than that, and Hornblower's supply of real coffee had long since been depleted. He loathed replicator food in general, but he hated replicator coffee in particular. It was utterly vile.
"Coffee, four sugars, hot," he ordered the panel, more to have something to say than from actual desire to taste it. When the steaming mug appearing a few seconds later, Hornblower took a tentative sip -- and promptly spit the offending liquid back out. He slammed the mug back into the replicator and cursed. He was about to hail Chief Polwheal to get him to fix the damn thing again, but quickly decided against it. The Captain's replicator was very low on the list of Polwheal's priorities. And complaining repeatedly about it would only start gossip amongst the enlisted crew about how the captain needed to have a properly working replicator because he could not handle a little hardship. And what would start with the enlisted crew would soon find its way to the senior staff. Hornblower could not have that.
There was a buzz at his door.
"Enter!" he snapped.
Now properly groomed and flawless and with her secret diplomatic papers undoubtedly prepared -- Hornblower must remember to have Comm tell him if the Ambassador tried to send any encrypted messages without his knowledge -- Lady Barbara entered his ready room. Gerard was leaning out of his Tactical station, almost falling over, to watch her as she came in.
"May I have a moment, Captain?" The Ambassador's voice was polite and composed and reasonable, and that only made Hornblower's temper rise more.
"Please," Hornblower strained from behind clenched teeth. "Have a seat, Madame Ambassador." He gestured to the chair on the far side of his desk, then straightened his jacket. It would not look so awkward to sit down now.
Lady Barbara composed herself afresh on the chair. She wore small gold hoops in her ears. It was an unusual choice of jewelry, but not unattractive on her.
He took a deep breath and tried to slow his rapidly churning brain. "Were you aware that Alvar is in possession of a modified Klingon bird of prey?"
"I was." She even looked at him while saying it.
"Why did you not inform me?" Hornblower demanded. He knew that his anger could be heard in his voice.
"It was none of your concern, Captain. Military intelligence of that level is a matter for the -- "
"The presence of this bird of prey becomes my concern when it threatens my ship and my crew!"
"Captain, your ship was in no dan -- "
"That ship could have opened fire on us! That ship threatened the lives of my crew! You knew that the Legate had that ship, but you did not warn us. You had time to tell us not to send a welcoming party, but you failed to tell us that there was a ship of force, a ship of superior strength and firepower, in the hands of a potentially hostile agent. You may know diplomacy, Madam Ambassador, but when I know when I've been led into danger without warning."
Lady Barbara leaned back in the chair. Her expression remained as peaceful as ever, but she seemed to be tilting her chin up a little -- yes, she was quite definitely lifting her chin. One of his shots had told. "Captain," she said, quite calm, and ah, she was dropping her chin back down. "I had assumed that your ship was capable of defending herself."
"That is not the point!" Hornblower raised his clenched fist a few centimeters off the desk with every intent of pounding it for emphasis. But he checked himself when he remembered the gestures and insanity of Alvar, a display he had just so recently witnessed.
"Then what is the point, Captain?"
Hornblower brought himself under control with a wrench. He took a breath, held it, could see out of the corner of his eye that Napoleon was paddling around the large stone in his tank, and then exhaled.
"Madame Ambassador," Hornblower replied, sounding a little more calm. He cleared his throat. "I will remind you that you are a passenger aboard my ship. And as such, you will share the fate of the Lydia and her crew."
"Is that a threat?" She was lifting her eyebrows at him now, and she almost sounded amused.
"It is a fact. Our responses to hostile threats will be far better if we know that they exist."
Lady Barbara considered this for a moment, considering him with calm gray eyes. Something flickered in them, and then she broke away -- she was still looking at him, but no longer with that intense, sustained regard. "I was sent to Panama to attempt to gain Alvar's trust in handling the Maquis situation. The Federation has only tenuous diplomatic relations with the Cardassian Union -- "
"Ah, are they?"
Those gray eyes narrowed sharpy, but only for a moment, and then Lady Barbara settled herself more comfortably against the chair. "I was sent to Panama in attempt to alleviate the Maquis situation, Captain. Our intelligence reported that Alvar was not only capturing and holding Maquis terrorists, but also also torturing and executing them."
"Torture?" It was Hornblower's turn to settle back in his chair. "That's hardly unusual for a Cardassian."
Lady Barbara sighed deeply. "Yes, but with brutality and lack of discrimination unusual even for Cardassians. Maquis cells have been responding to his methods by increasing the level of their attacks on anything in the sector and decreasing their own discrimination. They're attacking civilian targets as well as armed ones. It would destablize this sector and points beyond."
Her head had been tilted a little as she explained this to him; now that she was done talking, she straightened her head, and the rings clinked against each other. Unusual ornamentation, but charming nonetheless. He had seen them before, but he could not re --
Hornblower remembered where he had seen them before, and his blood went cold.
A counselor. The counselor aboard the ship that had taken him and Maria back to Earth after the -- after the time that they had spent on the starbase. The counselor had tried to talk to him; when she had seen him studying her earrings, more for a lack of anything to look at than anything else, she had explained that she had gotten into the habit of wearing them during her training on Betazed.
And the Ambassador was actually part Betazoid.
Hornblower began to run navigation equations through his head.
"Ha-h'm. Where did the bird of prey come from?" His voice had become more level, miraculously, now that he was concentrating on the methods of predicting the period of a quasar.
She shook her head. "I don't know, Captain. With the recent war between the Cardassians and the Klingons, Alvar could have gotten his hands on a captured ship. He's had it for some time, from the looks of the modifications that have been made -- I only saw it once before I had to, ah, leave the capital, but I know that it's commanded by a particularly capable Gil, hand-selected by Alvar."
"Alvar has indicated to me he does not intend to let you return to Federation space."
"I suspected he might try something, but I thought a Starfleet vessel may dissuade him." Strangely enough, this seemed to distress Lady Barbara. She pressed her lips together; she was clearly fighting to control her expression, and she rose out of her chair and turned away from Hornblower. "As for why, Captain Hornblower, I do not know. Alvar is mad. Perhaps I offended him."
Hornblower said nothing. He had begun thinking of spherical trigonometry, spheres and cones, as well as what might embarrass the Madame Ambassador so. What would provoke such strong feeling from her? Was it embarassment at not having completed her work?
When she turned to look at him, she had recomposed her face. "Does your replicator work, Captain Hornblower?" The one in my quarters can't seem to synthesize so much as a glass of water."
"I'll tell the Chief to look at it, Madame."
She shook her head, "There's no need. I'm accustomed to the occasional blips that occur on starships on long-term deep space assignments, and believe me, Captain, I'd rather be on a Starfleet ship with a malfunctioning replicator than the most well-supplied bunker on Panama." A pause, and the Ambassador gestured to the replicator. "May I?"
Hornblower nodded, and she turned back to the replicator.
"Water, 18 degrees."
The water appeared; she sipped the water hesitantly, as if she could read Hornblower's doubts about the replicator's ability to produce palatable potables. There was a moment where she considered the taste that it left in her mouth, and then the Ambassador exhaled. "I haven't had fresh water in days. Thank you."
Again, Hornblower said nothing. He could say nothing, for he was busy reciting the parallel postulate of Euclidean geometry. Also, studying the way that the Madame Ambassador's shoes were almost entirely covered by her gown. She still had her back to him, and she had gone over to the wall on that side of the ready room and was studying the furniture. It was a small area; there was only really the desk, a small couch. There was a port on the left side of the room; Napoleon was in a recess set in the wall, and there was also a bookshelf set into the wall.
The Ambassador appeared to be studying it, but she suddenly turned and looked at him again, giving him the full force of those gray eyes and the strong, almost fierce features.
"I should have informed you about the bird of prey, Captain. You have my apology."
Hornblower was caught utterly off guard. "Excuse me?"
She paused for a moment, then turned back to the wall -- to Napoleon, in fact, who promptly puffed himself into balloon shape.
"Your lovely fish, Captain. What species is it? I've never seen anything like it." Napolean, who was so calm and sleek in normal circumstances, had grown to three times his normal size, and his fins had to pump furiously to keep himself upright. It was as if he knew, somewhere in his tiny piscine brain, that floating around upside down or stuck on its side would be horribly embarrassing in front of the Madame Ambassador, Granddaughter of the Lady of the Eighth High House, Caretaker of the Still Waters of the Sacred Seeing Pool and Reland Forests.
"It's a Tellorian Blue Puffer. His name is Napoleon." Hornblower wasn't exactly sure why he had told her the fish's name. Should he tell her that someone else had named the little blue floating ball?
"He's precious," she said, smiling, then moved a few steps over to examine his shelf of books ensconced on the wall.
Hornblower rose from his seat and with a hesitant step moved closer to her, and the Ambassador put her fingers on the edge of one of the bookshelves. "I see you enjoy the classics Captain. And in traditional bound Earth form, too."
"I do, Madame Ambassador."
"Please," she said, smiling at him as he came to stand at the bookcase. "Call me Lady Barbara. That would be more pleasing to the ear than Madam Ambassador on an extended journey like this. And far more comfortable to the ear than 'ha-h'm' as a delaying tactic." Smiling a little, she took another sip of her water. "The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire," she read aloud. "I could never quite bring myself to get through it. I hope you don't think less of me for it."
"Of course not, my lady." He swallowed hard against her criticism and her notation of his throat clearing. It was irritating to be seen through so easily, and he thought of how shabby his collection must look to her. No doubt she had been to the great traditional libraries on Earth. Perhaps she had grown up with an extensive private one.
"And you also have Pope and Frost. I have always found old Earth poetry to be most appealing. My mother was very fond of it."
"I admit I am very particular of which I read." She was peering at the additional titles, leaning forward, with her mouth open a little -- it was a charming picture, really, with her hair pulled back a bit, but also waving softly around her face, with those earrings as ornamentation. They were standing rather close now.
"I suppose you wouldn't -- "
The door buzzed again.
"Yes?" Hornblower answered, instantly straightening himself and tugging on his jacket. The doors opened and admitted Commander Bush, a smudge of some sort of mechanical grease across her forehead.
She looked down at Lady Barbara, then back at Hornblower. "Sir, may I have a word with you?" Bush asked, her voice formal.
"Of course. Lady Barbara, this is my first officer, Lieutenant Commander Wilhemina Bush."
Bush inclined her head, "Madame Ambassador."
"A pleasure, Commander," Lady Barbara replied. Hornblower noted that she did not invite Bush to call her "Lady Barbara."
"If you would excuse us, my lady," Hornblower said graciously. She nodded and stepped through the door. Hornblower was certain that he saw Gerard trip over his feet in eagerness to great her when she returned to the bridge.
As the door shut, Hornblower once again resumed his seat behind his desk. He greatly enjoyed the air of authority the position afforded, and also liked the space it required subordinates to keep from his seat. Bush did not sit, but remained standing, her hands clasped formally behind her back.
This was going to be bad.
"Sir, Engineering isn't going to be able to repair the starboard nacelle. They're trying, but it's not looking good. Our last encounter with the Maquis clipped the third relay on the cooling system, and they can't go in while the drive is engaged."
Hornblower exhaled slowly, his jaw once again setting back into a hard line.
"Are we venting plasma?"
The expression on Bush's face was steady and stolid, the very model of a Starfleet officer performing her duty. "No, sir. Not yet. Engineering recommends opening the ducts to encourage it and thinks we'll get an extra day and a half at Warp 5 if we do. If we're lucky and vent at the maximum rate, it'll cool the nacelle enough to give us two days at Warp 7 before the nacelles break down completely."
Hornblower considered the arrangement of books on his shelf for a moment. Napoleon had deflated and gone back to his normal, calm swimming, and Hornblower studied him for another moment before reaching over to the tissue box on the side of his desk and handing one to Bush. The Federation border was eight days away at Warp 5, three at 7.
"Then we'll vent."
"Aye aye, sir."
Hornblower let out his breath slowly. Napoleon had reached the far end of his tank and turned to start a fresh lap.
"And then, Mr. Bush, if need be, we'll fight."