3: The Ambassador
Hornblower tugged at his uniform jacket. It did not sit on his shoulders the way that a captain's uniform ought, and he glanced down the corridor again to make sure that there were no officers or crewmen in the corridor before returning to his reflection in the computer screen in the bulkhead. Command red was not flattering on him, Hornblower felt. He was so sallow. It brought out the yellow in his cheeks and emphasized, in addition, the softness of his stomach.
His combadge chirped.
"Bush to Hornblower."
Hornblower tapped it while attempting to order his hair. It was thinning in the front more than he would have liked. "Hornblower here."
"Sir, we're receiving continued hails from the surface."
"Answer them, Commander," Hornblower snapped irritably.
"I did, sir," Bush said, a little hurt. "The gentleman will only speak to you."
"Who is it?" he asked impatiently.
"The governor of the planet, sir. He calls himself Legate Alvar."
"Legate?" There was only one legate in the Cardassian Union, and he was not on this isolated planet.
"Yes, sir."
"Stall, Mr. Bush."
"Stall, sir?" Bush sounded confused.
"Yes, dammit," Hornblower growled. "Keep the man busy for a few minutes."
"Aye aye, sir. Bush out."
Hornblower grumbled to himself. First, there had been the Ambassador's original demand for transportation, which had forced them to divert from the Badlands to this remote Cardassian planet. Then, there was the Ambassador's sudden demand for immediate pickup. It had saved him a trip to the planet in a transport, but as a consequence, he had to meet her in the most hurried way, without anything in the way of ceremony as a crutch.
And now, on top of it, he had Bush attempting to handle an irate local official. The replicators were going to start malfunctioning again. Perhaps he would return to his ready room ankle-deep in sludge. Again. Hornblower could feel it in his bones.
But at least the security team that Bush was quick to provide was waiting for him in the transporter room. Hornblower clasped his hands behind his back.
"Energize," he said sharply to the transporter chief.
Shortly thereafter, two women materialized on the pad. The shorter was overburdened with several large bags; she looked frightened out of her wits. The taller, on the other hand, looked more annoyed that frightened. She wore a grey-blue dress suit and upon materializing uncrossed her arms in a most irritated fashion. She wasn't even remotely pretty, in Hornblower's opinion, as her face was too long and her nose too large. It was the Wellesley nose. Hornblower had seen it frequently enough on her brother's face, and she reminded him of a Terran equine, especially with her face pinched like that.
She was quite definitely more mannish than pretty. Even Bush was prettier.
The overburdened assistant was trying to step off the pad when she started to fall under the weight of the bags, only to be saved by a security officer. The other woman did nothing to help her companion. Hornblower shifted his feet and cleared his throat, she was clearly waiting for help off the pad but he was not inclined to offer her his hand. Imperiously, she looked down that nose of hers at the officer nearest. "Please be so good as to have my baggage transported to my quarters."
Lieutenant Gray, the most senior security officer of the detachment, fidgeted. He glanced over at Hornblower. "The captain is over there, ma'am."
Without looking over she continued. "Retain the bag containing my diplomatic console, Hebe. I'll have dictation for you shortly."
Gray directed nervous look to Hornblower, who let Gray have the smallest of nods. Gray swallowed. "Yes, ma'am."
The Ambassador, in fact, continued to ignore Hornblower until she had finished stepping down from the transporter pad. She took her time about it, Hornblower noted, and he was very much conscious of his internal struggle. It irritated him to think that if he offended this woman he might forfeit his career. Not even his superior height or the fact that she had sent an emergency message to his ship gave him confidence as she approached him. He took refuge in icy formality.
"You are the captain of this ship, sir?" the Ambassador said as she stared at him boldly.
"Captain Horatio Hornblower, USS Lydia, at your service, ma'am." Hornblower gave her a stiff jerk of his neck which might charitably be called a bow. Charitably.
"Lady Barbara Wellesley, Granddaughter of the Lady of the Eighth High House, Caretaker of the Still Waters of the Sacred Seeing Pool and Reland Forests and Federation Ambassador. I see you received my message."
"Yes, Madam Ambassador. Your first was relayed to us via Admiral Riley. We also received your second message." Hornblower strained to keep his voice level, but his thoughts were becoming almost frantic as he tried to process the implications that the Ambassador was Betazoid. He chastised himself for not taking the time to check her personnel file; it was impossible to tell by looking at her. Grey-blue eyes were uncharacteristic of that species, after all, and she spoke so directly. Almost sharply, in fact.
"Ah," she said, considering. "Did the Admiral take his time in relaying it? I did say it was an emergency."
"The Lydia is the only ship in this sector, and we came with all haste -- "
She waved him off with dismissive flip of her hand. "Well, no harm done. You're here now. I presume we'll be leaving the system shortly."
At least the frantic feeling had completely fled. It was replaced by irritation, which was easier to deal with in some ways. Hornblower cleared his throat. "My lady, we have been received repeated hails from the surface. Would these have any connection to your emergency message?"
"It is most likely that they do, Captain Hornblower. But they are most likely the business of the Diplomatic Service rather than a starship captain such as yourself."
Hornblower bristled, and this time, he wasn't entirely able to exercise his irritation by gripping his hands behind his back. In his irritation, in fact, he forgot all of the careful mental schooling he usually practiced. He could feel his ears grow warmer as he blushed.
He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that she was correct. It was not his business to pry, only to follow his orders. He was only a starship captain. And it was a small and rather old starship at that. Failing to provide all the comfort and accommodation he could for this woman could spell the end of his active career. Her displeasure would resonate in her brother's ears, and Hornblower would quickly find himself behind a desk at some remote and uninteresting starbase, he and Maria condemned to rot in some forgotten sector of the Federation.
Maria would not like being back at a starbase again.
And Hornblower would, himself, be doomed to a life of monotony and paperwork. He would spend the rest of his days kowtowing to dignitaries far less distinguished than the Granddaughter of the Lady of the Eighth High House, Caretaker of the Still Wate --
The Ambassador had crossed her arms again. "Stop that, Captain. I may only be a quarter Betazoid but you might as well be screaming at me."
"My lady, I -- " he stammered and tried to find something to say. Was it possible that his ears had turned even pinker?
"I can't tell what you're thinking, Captain, only that you're thinking loudly."
"Well, ha - h'm," he cleared his throat. He resented the fact that he was forced to take on a passenger with his ship in such a state as it was, and in the middle of a difficult assignment in the Badlands. Having a Betazoid on board only added to his problems.
"I want a shower, Captain, I've been cooped up in a bunker for the past three days. When I've had one, I'll tell you what is suitable for you to know."
Hornblower tried to wrestle with his irritation quietly. He tried to rejoice quietly, too, that he had thought of a weak point. "We have quarters available, madam, but they may not be what you are accustomed to; this is not a Galaxy-class starship."
"I have been on many classes of starship, Captain Hornblower." She had heard him rejoicing, hadn't she? She could be intentionally misstating her abilities so that he would underestimate her. "I have never had issues with the size or appearance of my quarters. And you need not worry about the placement of the quarters on the ship. I have never been spacesick."
She had remarkable blue-gray eyes.
Hornblower let out his breath. Slowly. He was not nettled that his attempt to ruffle her had failed. He was not. "Of course, Madam Ambassador. Gray, have the Ambassador's baggage follow us. This way, please."
He stepped to the door, then gestured that they should precede him through it. It was a gesture the Ambassador seemed to appreciate, looking at him for a moment before nodding briskly and gestured for her assistant to follow. Hornblower straightened his jacket and followed them. As he led them through the maze of corridors -- a left, if you please, Ambassador, then a right, Ambassador, along this corridor, which we call Epsilon -- on the habitational deck, he could see Lady Barbara's looking from side to side. She was avidly studying his ship, and now, she was slowing her pace to walk beside him.
"What class of ship is this?"
"The Lydia is a Steamrunner frigate, Madam Ambassador."
"I was under the impression that all Steamrunners were to be decommissioned and replaced by Intrepid and Defiant class vessels."
"There are several dozen still afloat, Madam Ambassador."
Hornblower winced. She must have heard the defensive tone of his voice. It had been obvious; perhaps even the security men following at a distance and wrestling with the baggage had heard it. The Amassador's next comment proved that she had quite definitely heard it. "I was not making a comment on your ship, Captain. Clearly, it is commendable that she is still in as good shape as she is. A credit to you and your crew."
Unfortunately, this only made Hornblower fidget more. Thus far, he had arranged their route so as to avoid, as much as possible, the areas that were still under repair. Earlier in the week they had an ecnounter with several Maquis raiders. Bush was particular enough about the state of the ship on an ordinary basis, and she had turned into a slavedriver once word of the Ambassador's passage had come through.
Hornblower cleared his throat and steeled himself. "Your quarters are down towards the end of the corridor. Ha-h'm."
And indeed, Lady Barbara's expression changed once Hornblower had turned them about in the corridor. Hornblower almost tapped his combadge to send an irate message to Ops -- and had, in fact, written a note to himself to rake Bush and Gerard over hot phaser banks -- when he saw Lady Barbara smile. It was slow, but it seemed genuine. It reached those remarkable blue-grey eyes, and she must have been smiling at his outrage and subsequent fidgeting of finding such a blatant contradiction to his assertion that Steamrunners were space-worthy vessels.
"We have been engaging Maquis raiders for some weeks, my lady. It has left the ship with some scars," Hornblower managed to sputter out.
She smiled as she ducked under a hanging cable. The Ambassador had turned her head specifically so that he might see her smile. "I have no doubt, Captain. A little bruising wouldn't hurt an iron horse like a Steamrunner."
A muscle in Hornblower's cheek twitched. He wasn't sure if it was a left-handed complement or a true one; the last time he had heard anyone use the phrase "iron horse" had been in reference to steam locomotive engines. An appropriate twist of phrase for the Lydia's class, but it was also an insult to her design and capabilities. Hornblower cleared his throat rather loudly and gestured towards the door. "Your quarters, madam."
Lady Barbara thumbed the door and stepped into the quarters. Her assistant followed eagerly, dumping the one bag that she had carried on the deck.
"A Steamrunner has few of the luxuries of even an Excelsior class, madam," Hornblower said. It was dark in the quarters; the Ambassador's assistant was trying to turn the lights on manually, but only three of the five responded well. A fourth flickered spasmodically, then shut off, and Hornblower straightened. He was prepared, once again, to defend his ship.
But the Ambassador gave him another smile. "I've traveled in worse, Captain. These are very spacious and will do quite nicely. I half expected it to be one room."
"These were the chief medical officer's quarters." It was the only thing that Hornblower could think of to say.
She turned round toward him. "You've no doctor on board?"
"No, madam. We took a direct hit to one of our outer decks. It destroyed most of sick bay and resulted in the deaths of our medical staff."
"Those poor officers," she said, and she seemed genuinely saddened. "I'm sorry to hear of it."
"And we've not put back into starbase to take on a new staff."
The Ambassador had finished surveying her quarters; the assistant had begun laying personal effects. Something that looked like a personal, portable console. When she turned it on, the Diplomatic Corps insignia appeared and requested that the user present identification.
But the Ambassador was studying him. There were a dozen feet between them, but her eyes were very intent on him, and she was studying him. Reading his thoughts, most likely, and Hornblower steadied himself. Perhaps if he thought about stardust. The Elondar Nebula, for example, with the core of old stars light and the outer fringe of hotter, younger stars, and she must be sensing this because she smiled, quite deeply and warmly and, in all truth, suddenly. In a way that accentuated the shape of her eyes.
"These quarters will do nicely, Captain. Now, if you excuse me, I really need to get the grime of that planet off of me."
"Madam Ambassador, the hails from the -- "
"A shower, Captain," she said as she gently pushed him towards the door. "And not before."
The doors slid shut in front of Hornblower's face. They remained shut, and with a growl rising in the back of his throat, he stomped towards the nearest turbolift.
"Bridge," he snapped, hitting his combadge with entirely more force than necessary. "What's our status, Bush?"
[as an aside, info on the Steamrunner class (which is rarely seen in Trek) can be found here: http://www.trekmania.net/the_fleet/utopia/fleet/steamrunner.htm ]