The Listening Hour

Posted on 2025, Fri Oct 10th, @ 3:14pm by Commander Jack Riley Jr & Vice Admiral Jack Reacher Jr & Lieutenant Daven Voss & Commander Alesha Veyra & Civilian Rennak Torvak & Civilian Yarin Drax & Civilian Elder S’Kai

5,374 words; about a 27 minute read

Mission: Episode 2: Pillars of the Theater - USS Vigilance, Star Base 113
Location: Starbase 113 – Diplomatic Conference Hall
Timeline: Two Days After

The great chamber thrummed with restrained tension. Starfleet engineers had designed the space for neutrality: polished duranium walls softened with cultural tapestries from dozens of Federation worlds, circular seating that gave no one position dominance, and a broad viewport behind the head of the table that framed the endless stretch of stars beyond. Yet neutrality was an illusion today—the air felt charged, every voice weighted with centuries of suspicion and hard memory.

Vice Admiral Jack Reacher sat at the Federation’s place at the table, his expression composed, but his presence radiated command. He had chosen not to wear dress whites—today required steel, not ceremony. One hand rested on the tabletop, the other on a slim datapad containing intelligence readouts. He wasn’t just here to listen. He was here to ensure the talks did not dissolve into something far worse.

To his left sat Prime Minister Rennak Torvak, the Andorian’s antennae angled sharply forward, posture taut as a drawn bow. “Let me make this plain,” Torvak said, his voice edged like the icy winds of Andoria. “Zytchin III will not be reduced to a Federation protectorate by another name. Too many powers have claimed to ‘defend’ smaller worlds while carving them into pieces. We will not accept the Federation repeating that pattern here.”

Across from him, Governor Yarin Drax, robes drawn close, adjusted his Bajoran earring as though to remind everyone of Bajor’s scars. His voice carried the weight of lived occupation. “Prime Minister Torvak is correct. I have seen what happens when stronger powers use diplomacy as a mask for control. My people still bear the wounds of Cardassian rule. Zytchin III deserves self-determination without compromise.”

Commander Alesha Veyra, the Starfleet liaison, leaned forward gracefully, her dark eyes steady. “Governor, Prime Minister—you misjudge our intent. Starfleet has not come to dictate your sovereignty, but to guard against those who would truly strip it from you. There are… pressures, from beyond your borders. I can feel them pressing against this chamber even now. If Lieutenant Voss confirms my impressions, perhaps you will understand the necessity of Federation presence.”

A rasping breath drew every eye to the far side of the chamber. Elder S’Kai, draped in ceremonial robes of green and ochre, raised his scaled hand. The Zytchinite leader’s voice was a gravelly resonance, heavy with age and tradition. “Federation words come like shifting winds. Promises change, fade, and vanish. But the bones of my people do not change. Zytchin has endured without your shields, your treaties, your fleets. If you come here only to speak, then you waste your time. If you come to listen—then perhaps this council has meaning.” His reptilian eyes flicked to Reacher, weighing the Admiral as though deciding whether he was capable of listening at all.

Reacher did not flinch. He let the silence breathe, then answered in his gravel-deep voice, slow and deliberate. “Elder S’Kai, Governor Drax, Prime Minister Torvak—no one here has forgotten what occupation means. The Federation does not seek to repeat those mistakes. We’re here because intelligence shows fractures forming in your world—fractures that will not wait for patient debate to widen. My role is not to dictate outcomes. It is to make sure none of you wake up to find decisions made for you by powers who care nothing for your traditions or your sovereignty.”

He turned slightly, his gaze passing from one leader to the next, then landing on two Starfleet officers seated nearby. “That is why I’ve brought officers I trust to read the currents beneath the surface of these talks. Commander Riley is my Deputy Chief Of Staff, Planning and Operations, and Lieutenant Voss… Lieutenant Voss sees the patterns most others miss.”

The room stilled again, every delegate’s gaze now fixed on the two younger officers at the Admiral’s side.

Lieutenant Daven Voss sat rigidly at the Admiral's side, acutely aware of every eye in the chamber now fixed on him. His hand moved unconsciously toward his temple spots before he caught himself and forced it back to rest on the table.

Oh good. This is exactly what I signed up for.

The internal voice dripped with sarcastic frustration as his mind raced through the implications of what Reacher had just done. This—this—was precisely why Intelligence was supposed to operate in mystery and subterfuge. Not because intelligence officers were inherently theatrical or enjoyed playing spy games, but because anonymity was operational security. Being unknown meant being effective. Being announced by name, rank, and specialty to a room full of multi-government representatives was the professional equivalent of painting a target on his chest and handing out the coordinates.

Lieutenant Voss sees patterns most others miss.

Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. Now every intelligence service in this chamber—Andorian, Bajoran, Zytchinite, and whoever else had managed to slip an observer into this circus—would be building a file on him before the session even adjourned. They'd catalog his methods, research his background, identify his weaknesses, and probably assign someone to monitor his movements for the duration of his stay in the Beta Quadrant.

He drew a careful breath, forcing Telak's systematic discipline to override his frustration. The Admiral hadn't made a mistake—Reacher didn't make mistakes, apparently. This was deliberate positioning. Making Daven's role transparent was supposed to establish credibility, show these delegates that Starfleet wasn't hiding its intelligence assessments behind closed doors and compartmentalized briefings.

The logic was sound. Daven even agreed with it in principle.

He still wanted to strangle whoever thought "introduce the intelligence analyst by name to a room full of foreign powers" was good operational security.

Great. Just great. Now I get to perform.

He stood slowly, channeling every ounce of diplomatic composure Miran had ever possessed while his own thoughts continued their sarcastic commentary. When he spoke, his voice carried measured professionalism that completely contradicted his internal monologue.

"I understand your suspicion of Federation promises. You've heard reassurances before from powers claiming protection while pursuing control."

And now you're hearing from an intelligence officer who's been helpfully identified for your convenience. Feel free to start surveillance whenever it's convenient.

"My role here," he continued, his hands resting on the table's edge with deliberate calm, "isn't to convince you of Federation benevolence—it's to present what the intelligence patterns show about forces affecting Zytchin III whether any of us are comfortable with them or not."

Riley's job didnt directly relate to this meeting, but it indirectly would affect any and all plans he would be making, so it was helpful for him to be there. He sat in the row of chairs behind the Admiral. He took notes and had a few tabs about upcoming task force operations open on his padd aswell. There was several ships in the 2 task forces that were free for new mission, he was trying to decide which ones to reccomend the Admiral assign to which mission. Having an Intel specialist on the staff, even if only temporarily, was beneficial. Since several key staff members hadnt yer arrived, the Beta Quadrant Theatre Intel Section currently only consisted of 2 analysts and one officer who specialized in field operations, so Riley had been lending a hand, filing the daily reports and so on.

The silence following Voss’s statement was brittle—fragile enough that even the faint hum of the environmental systems seemed intrusive. Prime Minister Torvak’s antennae twitched, the movement sharp and telling.

“So,” Torvak said at last, his tone carrying that particular Andorian blend of frost and pride, “Starfleet sends us an intelligence officer to tell us about our own planet. How generous.”

Governor Drax leaned forward, robes rustling. “I remember the last time an outsider claimed to see ‘patterns’ on Bajor. They saw occupation as opportunity. Forgive me, Lieutenant, if I don’t find your analysis comforting.”

Voss kept his composure—barely. Reacher could see the flicker of restraint in the man’s jawline.

Daven's jaw tightened imperceptibly as Torvak's words landed with their carefully crafted dismissal. His hand moved toward his temple spots before he forced it back to the table.

Oh, wonderful. We're doing historical grievances instead of discussing actual threats. I'm an intelligence officer, not a therapist for wounded civilizations.

Miran's diplomatic memories supplied a dozen calibrated responses to validate their concerns. Daven ignored every single one. He had facts. He had data. He had analysis that shouldn't require navigating everyone's emotional baggage.

"Prime Minister Torvak," Daven replied, his voice maintaining professional composure, "I'm not here to tell you about your own planet. What I'm here to explain is the three-hundred-twelve percent increase in encrypted communications about Zytchin III originating from outside this sector over the past four months. Communication patterns you don't have the sensor arrays to detect."

Elder S’Kai gave a rasping hiss that passed for laughter among his kind. “Perhaps your patterns will tell you when the next outsider will arrive to promise protection. They always do.”

Reacher exhaled through his nose, slow, deliberate. He’d sat through wars, tribunals, and more political double-talk than a Romulan Senate session—but this council was testing his limits. He leaned forward, voice roughened by restrained irritation.

“Let’s be clear about something,” he said. “Starfleet didn’t come here to dictate, or to spy. We came because we’ve seen this before—worlds teetering on the edge of civil fracture, ripe for exploitation. I’d rather have you angry at me now than writing eulogies later.”

Prime Minister Torvak’s antennae angled even sharper. “Admiral, what you call prevention looks a lot like interference. And your presence here…” he gestured toward the Starfleet delegation with a sneer, “…has already drawn attention from powers you claim to guard against.”

“That’s because your government can’t keep its comms encrypted for more than five minutes without leaking to half the quadrant,” Reacher shot back before he could stop himself.

Commander Alesha Veyra’s lips parted in alarm. “Admiral—”

But it was too late. The damage was done.

Torvak stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the deck plating. “If this is the Federation’s idea of diplomacy, then perhaps your kind should confine yourselves to your starships and leave planetary governance to those who understand it.”

Reacher rose too, slow but unmistakably dangerous. “And perhaps if you spent half as much time protecting your people as you do grandstanding, we wouldn’t need to be here.”

Gasps whispered across the table. Elder S’Kai’s eyes gleamed with perverse interest. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

A pair of local security officers—Andorian, both—shifted near the edge of the chamber. One, taller and clearly Torvak’s bodyguard, took a step forward. “Prime Minister,” he said, voice low but firm, “perhaps we should adjourn—”

Reacher turned just as the guard’s hand brushed his arm in a guiding motion. It was meant as a polite intervention. It wasn’t received as one.

In a single fluid motion that looked far too practiced, Reacher’s hand came up, redirecting the Andorian’s wrist before his other fist connected squarely with blue jaw. The impact echoed through the chamber like a dropped engine coil.

The guard went sprawling backward, antennae twitching wildly as he hit the floor with a grunt.

For a heartbeat, no one breathed.

Then everything happened at once.

Torvak lunged forward, shouting in Andorian. Drax was on his feet, yelling for restraint. Alesha Veyra tried—and failed—to reassert control. Security personnel flooded through the doors, weapons drawn but uncertain where to point them.

Reacher straightened, rolling his shoulder, face calm except for the dangerous glint in his eye. “He touched me first,” he muttered, half to himself.

Daven remained seated through the entire altercation, watching with the kind of detached analytical interest usually reserved for observing particle decay patterns. His hand moved to his temple spots as the Andorian bodyguard hit the floor with a satisfying thud that echoed through the suddenly silent chamber.

This would be the point in the holovid, Daven thought, where the intelligence officer reveals they're secretly a master of Klingon mok'bara or some obscure Vulcan nerve-pinch variant, then proceeds to subdue everyone while quipping something devastatingly clever. Unfortunately for this gathered group, Daven's most lethal skill was making people uncomfortable with sustained eye contact and detailed questions about their communication protocols.

Miran's diplomatic consciousness stirred, and suddenly the entire scene clicked into focus with uncomfortable clarity.

They were terrified, Daven realized. All of them. And it was infinitely easier to manifest that fear as aggression toward each other than acknowledge they have absolutely no idea how to respond to the threats he just outlined.

Attack the messenger. Attack each other. Attack the Admiral. Attack anything that represented the uncomfortable reality that multiple hostile actors were coordinating operations against their world and they were woefully unprepared.

Riley was stunned at first, but as a former member of various elite and special operations teams, dropped his padd and rushed over to restrain his CO. What had promoted this seemed trivial the security guard simply touched Reachers arm. This was not at all what he was expecting.

"Sir!" He grabbed the Admiral from behind and physically pulled him back from table.

He then whispered in his ear "I dont know what angle you're playing, but striking a subordinate is a felony sir. Im gonna let you go, if you hit me, your careers over, understand sir?" At this point Riley was trying to save the Admirals career, Admirals that hit subordinates usually end up wearing a different type of uniform, a prison jumpsuit.

Reacher sighed, brushing off his sleeve as though dusting away the entire exchange. “Alright,” he said flatly. “Since we’re all up now, shall we call this recess productive maybe?”

Veyra buried her face in her hands. Torvak, nursing his pride more than his guard, barked something about “Federation aggression.” Elder S’Kai’s chuckle rattled deep in his throat.

The chamber doors hissed shut behind the retreating chaos. Reacher turned slightly toward his officers, voice low. “Next time I ask for a diplomatic assignment, remind me I’m not built for peace tables.”

He paused, glancing at the sprawled Andorian still groaning near the floor. “And someone tell medical to send an ice pack.”

((After the recess))

Reacher leaned back slightly in his chair as the tension settled like dust after a firefight. The room was quiet again, save for the hum of environmental systems and the faint creak of Elder S’Kai’s chair as the old reptilian shifted. The Admiral’s gaze swept across the table—Torvak’s rigid posture, Drax’s narrowed eyes, S’Kai’s unblinking stare, and Veyra’s patient restraint. He’d seen rooms like this before—different uniforms, same tension. Whether it was gang negotiations in Los Angeles or interstellar diplomacy in the Beta Quadrant, the rules were the same: everyone thought they were the toughest person in the room until things went sideways.

“Alright,” Reacher finally said, voice carrying that steady gravel of command edged with something drier. “Let’s not pretend this is a choir practice. You all came here expecting a fight—verbal or otherwise. I’ve seen enough of both to know which one ends cleaner.”

Torvak’s antennae flicked sharply, but Reacher held up a hand before the Andorian could bite back.

“Prime Minister, Governor, Elder—Starfleet isn’t here to take over your world. I didn’t fly halfway across the quadrant just to draw new borders on someone’s map. We’re here because every sensor sweep we’ve got shows that someone else is watching your borders a little too closely. And when predators start circling, you don’t debate the color of the fence—you reinforce it.”

He gave a faint smirk, leaning forward. “Trust me. I’ve dealt with worse negotiations back in Los Angeles, and those didn’t have translators or breathable air.”

That earned a flicker—just a flicker—of amusement from Veyra. Even S’Kai’s slitted eyes narrowed in what might have been the Zytchinite equivalent of curiosity.

Reacher’s tone softened just enough to sound less like an order, more like a warning wrapped in weary experience. “You don’t have to like us. You don’t even have to trust us. But you do need to believe that sitting here talking is better than trying to rebuild your capital after someone else decides they like your minerals, your location, or your people.”

He leaned back again, steepling his fingers, and gave a small nod toward Riley and Voss.

“That’s where my people come in. Commander Riley’s already charting the operational coverage for the region—ships, stations, everything we can spare without gutting the frontier. Lieutenant Voss has been tracking the data streams and anomalies that led us here in the first place.”

He turned his head toward the two officers, giving that subtle, knowing smirk that every seasoned leader has—the one that said your turn, don’t screw it up.

“Gentlemen, I think our guests would appreciate a little less speech and a little more substance. What do the numbers say? And—more importantly—how bad’s the weather looking?”

Reacher folded his arms, posture relaxing into that deceptively casual stance that came naturally to someone who’d spent years in body armor instead of dress whites. He’d made his move—now it was time for his people to step into the line of fire.

He couldn’t help thinking, as his gaze shifted toward the viewport’s endless stars, that galactic politics weren’t so different from South Central—just bigger guns, colder rooms, and no backup once the shooting started.

"Alright," Daven began, his voice carrying analytical precision tempered by understanding. "The Admiral asked about the numbers and how bad the weather looks. I'll give you both, but let's start with something I think everyone in this room already understands but hasn't said out loud."

He paused, letting the statement settle as he activated the holographic display.

"You didn't grant Vice Admiral Reacher this audience because Starfleet asked nicely. You granted it because your own intelligence services have already detected anomalies. Unusual ship movements. Communication patterns that don't match normal commerce. Sensor readings that suggest surveillance. Something made you concerned enough to sit down with Federation representatives despite every legitimate reason to maintain distance."

His fingers moved through the holographic interface with fluid precision. "More significant is the coordination pattern. Initially, these seventeen communication nodes operated independently. Different encryption protocols, different schedules, no synchronization. But nineteen days ago, they began temporal alignment. They're now transmitting within a two-hour window of each other, using complementary frequency bands that suggest deliberate coordination."

He pulled up the three-dimensional tactical map, Zytchin III pulsing at the center. "From an intelligence perspective, we've identified three distinct approach vectors that could reach your world while minimizing detection by both your sensor arrays and Starfleet patrols."

The routes lit up sequentially as he traced them. "Vector one exploits subspace interference near the Romulan border. Vector two threads through systems with minimal Federation presence. Vector three uses gaps in Starfleet patrol patterns that aren't publicly documented—which means either excellent reconnaissance or an information security problem on our end."

Daven stated carefully as he looked at the gathered individuals. "Whether that manifests as military assault, covert infiltration, economic coercion, or something else, I can't say definitively. But the pattern analysis—combined with diplomatic experience recognizing pre-conflict indicators—suggests something is conducting coordinated reconnaissance." He said.

"We're here to help whenever and however you need Prime Minister. It's as simple as that. You can say all the buzzed words you want railing against coercion and interference, but it's clearly not the case, our track record with you here while the station was built has proven that. There's something or someone angling at somethjng to do with your world. We're offering assistance to figure who or what it is and why they are watching you this closely. The Federation doesn't do strong-arm diplomacy. In this case, we're offering a la carte assistance. The Lt here has done great work finding these threads and vectors. If it's a threat to you, it's probably a threat to us to. So we'll be doing our own operational responses whether you like it or not." Riley stopped, because a point needed be made here...and by someone above his pay grade.

Emphasis on the "...or not" part of his sentence Lt. Voss thought to himself. He knew that Starfleet would not send a Vice Admiral to meet with the leaders of this planet just to feel warm and fuzzy. The problems of our friends and neighbors had a way of becoming our problem if left unchecked. The question was whether the gathered leaders would make the smart choice or just a political one.

Lieutenant Voss remained silent as Commander Riley made his points, his eyes fixed on the holographic display even as his mind worked through the tactical implications. The communication patterns, the approach vectors, the coordination timing—all of it pointed to someone with significant resources and sophisticated intelligence capabilities.

His gaze lingered on vector one, the route exploiting subspace interference near the Romulan border. The encryption protocols Riley had mentioned, the operational sophistication, the careful coordination—it all had a familiar signature. Romulan, his instincts whispered. More specifically, elements that hadn't embraced the Free State's rapprochement with the Federation.

But he kept that observation to himself, his expression remaining professionally neutral. Zytchin III was too far from traditional Romulan spheres of influence for any significant Imperial remnant faction to justify the resource expenditure. The logistics alone would be prohibitive—supply lines, operational security, maintaining surveillance assets this deep into what was essentially Federation-adjacent space. It didn't make strategic sense.

Unless they're not the primary actors, he thought, mentally filing the possibility away. Unless they're working with someone else, or this is about something bigger than just this world.

Still, there was no point introducing Romulan complications into an already delicate negotiation when the evidence was circumstantial at best. The planet's leaders were already wary of Federation involvement; throwing Imperial shadow games into the mix would only muddy waters that needed clarity.

For a long moment after Riley finished speaking, no one moved. The only sound was the low, rhythmic hum of the environmental systems and the faint crackle of the holographic projection still hanging in the air. Prime Minister Torvak’s antennae tilted toward one another—Andorian body language for deep consideration. Drax’s fingers drummed once, twice, against the table’s surface. Elder S’Kai’s eyes, unblinking and ancient, stayed fixed on the rotating tactical overlay as if he could read the truth in the shifting light.

Reacher broke the silence with a quiet exhale that somehow still carried the weight of command. “Well,” he said dryly, “if that doesn’t sound like a party invitation, I don’t know what does.”

The corner of Riley’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t look up. Voss, for his part, didn’t even bother to hide the faint sigh that escaped him. They both knew that tone—it was the same one Reacher used just before a suspect in an interrogation room realized they weren’t walking out without a confession.

The Admiral leaned forward, elbows on the table, gaze sweeping across the assembled leaders. “Gentlemen, Elder—this is what we call a pattern of concern. You’ve got unknowns probing your perimeter, communication grids acting like they’re part of someone else’s network, and vectors that shouldn’t exist without inside knowledge of Federation patrol routes.” He let the statement hang for a beat, then added, “Now, I’ve been in this game long enough to know two things. One: coincidence doesn’t exist in intelligence work. And two: the universe has an unlimited supply of idiots who think they’re smarter than they are.”

That earned a faint sound from Drax—something halfway between a scoff and reluctant amusement.

Reacher pressed on. “Riley’s right. We’ll be conducting our own operational responses regardless. That’s not a threat—it’s insurance. Because if this situation gets worse, I don’t plan to tell Starfleet Command we stood by wringing our hands while someone set fire to your atmosphere.”

He tapped the edge of the holographic table, and the image zoomed out, showing not just Zytchin III but the surrounding star systems—the trade routes, the patrol arcs, and the sectors stretching toward Romulan space. “If this were Los Angeles,” Reacher said, a faint grin ghosting across his face, “I’d call this a ‘hot corner.’ Too many players, too many lines crossing at once. You want to keep peace in a neighborhood like that, you start by knowing who’s carrying the biggest stick—and who’s stupid enough to swing it first.”

He looked up, meeting each delegate’s gaze in turn. “I don’t need you to like the Federation. You just need to decide whether you’d rather have us with you when whoever’s behind this finally shows their hand—or wish you had when it’s too late.”

Elder S’Kai’s eyes flicked to the Admiral, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble. “You speak like a soldier who has buried more than one mistake.”

Reacher didn’t flinch. “That’s why I don’t plan on burying another.”

Silence reclaimed the hall again, but it felt different this time—less defiant, more contemplative. The holographic stars spun lazily between them, casting fractured light across faces that, for the first time since the talks began, seemed united by the same quiet unease.

Reacher leaned back, arms crossing loosely. “Alright,” he said at last, tone easing but eyes still sharp. “You’ve heard the data, you’ve seen the picture. Now we find out whether we’re fighting ghosts, spies, or someone stupid enough to think Zytchin III’s a soft target. Commander, Lieutenant—get me an actionable pattern overlay by 0800 hours. Let’s find out who’s been playing in our backyard.”

He turned back to the table. “As for the rest of you—I’d suggest we all take a breath and think about how to make this less of a headline and more of a plan.”

He rose slowly, the faint creak of his chair breaking the stillness. “I’ve seen too many neighborhoods burn because the people in charge waited for proof instead of acting on instinct. Let’s not add another name to that list.”

Reacher nodded once toward Riley and Voss—an unspoken cue that the meeting’s next steps were theirs to handle—and started for the exit. The conference doors hissed open, framing the Admiral in the stark light of the corridor beyond. He paused briefly, glancing back at the chamber filled with wary faces and quiet fear.

“Try to keep the peace until I get back,” he said dryly. “I’d hate to miss the fireworks.”

The doors closed behind him with a soft pneumatic hiss.

"So, first, on behalf of the Federation, allow me to apologize for the Admiral's behavior. We will be free to answer any more questions that you have at this point." Riley let out a nervous smile. He wasn't a fucking diplomat, and wasn't even really sure what angle the Admiral was playing at yet.

Daven stood frozen for approximately three seconds—which, given the speed his mind typically processed information, felt like an eternity—as the conference room doors hissed shut behind Vice Admiral Reacher.

Did he just... did the Admiral just give a dramatic speech about Los Angeles gang territory and then walk out? Leaving me—the Lieutenant who's been in this job for literally two days—to handle diplomatic negotiations with three planetary governments?

His hand moved unconsciously to his temple spots as he processed the tactical disaster unfolding before him. Miran's diplomatic memories were screaming protocols about proper negotiation procedures and the importance of consistent senior representation. Telak's engineering discipline was calculating the probability of this situation deteriorating further. His own analytical mind was simply stuck on: What the actual hell just happened?

This is fine. Everything is fine. He tried to rationalize with himself.

This is exactly the kind of on-the-fly diplomatic improvisation that makes intelligence work impossible. How am I supposed to conduct analysis when the senior officer keeps changing the tactical situation without warning? he continued to think.

He glanced at Commander Riley again, silently communicating please tell me you have some idea what we're supposed to do now through sustained eye contact that was probably more desperate than professional.

"Commander Riley can address specific operational questions about fleet deployments and defensive coordination," Lieutenant Voss stated, gesturing toward his fellow officer with what he hoped looked like confident delegation rather than desperate plea for assistance. "And I can provide additional intelligence analysis on the threat patterns we've identified. Between us, we should be able to address your concerns without requiring the Admiral to sit through detailed logistical discussions."

Please let someone in this room believe I know what I'm doing.

The three representatives of their worlds stared at Voss, then looked to Riley, then finally back and forth to eachother before the Prime Minister, rose to his feet.

"We will accept the phase 1 preliminary assistance you have offered. Though we retain the right to refuse further assistance if your presence becomes meddlesome." He bowed curtly and made for the exit. The other 2 reps both made similar pledges and also exited, eventually leaving just Riley and Voss in the room. After noticing the deer in the head lights look begin to fade from Voss' eyes, Riley swung his chair around, stood, and straightened his uniform.

"Dont worry Lt. I'm wondering what the fuck I just witnessed too. But we got the deal done and we'll likely get commendations for it." He walked past Voss ans gave him a pat on the shoulder.

"Now lets go get a drink before we get the call about our Admiral getting arrested." He winked at the intelligence officer.

Lieutenant Voss stood motionless for a moment after the last delegate departed, his brown eyes still fixed on the conference room doors as if expecting them to swing back open and reveal this had all been some elaborate Academy training simulation gone horribly wrong.

Miran's memories supplied dozens of carefully orchestrated diplomatic victories that had required weeks of preparation and meticulous protocol management. Somehow Vice Admiral Reacher just improvised his way through inter-governmental negotiations like he was breaking up a bar fight in Los Angeles, and it worked.

"We got the deal done," Lieutenant Voss repeated slowly, his voice carrying equal parts relief and bewildered irritation. "We got the deal done through what I can only describe as the most chaotic, protocol-violating, improvisational display of diplomacy I've ever witnessed—and I'm carrying the memories of a career diplomat who survived three near-wars." he said incredulously. "And apparently this is just... how things work in the Beta Quadrant?" He asked rhetorically.

"Apparently..." Riley replied non chalantly from the doorway.

He felt the tension that had been coiling in his shoulders since the meeting began finally start to release, replaced almost immediately by a different kind of frustration. The analytical part of his mind—the part that liked patterns, procedures, and predictable outcomes—was deeply offended by the sheer randomness of what had just succeeded.

He touched his Lieutenant pip—still shiny, still new, still representing a rank he'd held for less than two full days. "Miran is probably spinning in whatever metaphysical space joined Trill go to when they die. Telak would be calculating the statistical improbability of this outcome. And I'm just... I'm trying to process that this is apparently how the Beta Quadrant operates." he surmised.

 

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