Post 12 - Raking the Coals

Posted on Sat Jan 9th, 2021 @ 12:42am by Captain Jocelyn Blake & Lieutenant Jordan Hoover & Rear Admiral Joshua Whitford

Mission: Episode 1: Acta Non Verba
Location: Starfleet Headquarters
Timeline: Day 13 - 0545 Hours

[Starfleet Headquarters]
[0545 Hours]

It was raining again. Raining and wet. The late November air made Jocelyn wish for warmer socks in her boots. She wore a long jacket over her uniform, the pointed cuffs of the new style sticking out of her sleeves catching rain and making her hands cold. She tucked her right hand tightly into her side, arms crossed, her R&D thermos in her left hand resting just above her opposite elbow.

She knew she could beam into the complex to avoid some of the weather, but had woken up from the little sleep she had gotten feeling a need to wrap herself up in the weather that so effectively mirrored her mood.

As first days had gone in her life, yesterday had been a doozy. The press were briefed 4 times a day, the first starting before she would have even typically arrived at her desk in R&D and the last making her thankful that she had taken time to eat lunch. Each briefing had been more brutal than the last leaving her with a throbbing headache and a desire to go hide under her covers with a mug of doctored hot chocolate and a pint of ice cream where she could never be forced to come out again. She had, in fact, planned to go that route, but true to form Jordan Hoover had been standing at her door upon her arrival holding a brown paper bag that could only mean a pint of chocolate peanut butter ice cream would be her dinner.

"Oh my word, Jordan, did you develope telepathic abilities in the last 24 hours?"

She moved to open her door with exaggerated exhaustion. The old fashioned key clicked into the less old fashioned lock and she swung the door wide for her friend to enter.

Not even bothering to take off her coat she collapsed backward onto her couch, placing booted feet on the coffee table.

"That bad?" Jordan asked, smirking and heading to the kitchen to unearth spoons.

"Worse," Jocelyn called over her shoulder as he walked into the kitchen. "They hate me."

An unmarked white cardboard pint descended from behind her followed by a spoon. Jocelyn relished the chill on her hands and sat forward, using her heels to kick off her boots before opening the treasure.

Jordan came around the sofa, settling into the love seat to her right. "They don't hate you," he noted, his own pint open and spoon already engaged.

"You weren't there."

"I watched all of the briefings, Joce, they don't hate you."

Jocelyn fixed the man next to her with a pointed stare.

"Ok, it's possible some do. A small handful. But most of them are just following the ring leaders."

A spoonful of the cool sugary confection stopped her from answering immediately and so she took the opportunity to lick it clean and gather her thoughts. Jordan, blessedly, waited for her to respond. She absently thought about how she had always appreciated his ability to wait until she was ready to speak. A second spoonful later and she felt a bit more settled.

"You're right. Not all of them. But it's not just the press, Jordan. There are a number of ..." she cast about for the right word, "... detractors in the higher ups that seem to have taken person afront to my appointment."

"Are any of them Fleet Admiral Sturnack?" he quipped somewhat sarcastically.

"Obviously, no," she flipped back at him.

"Then screw those guys."

Jocelyn sighed. "Most of them maybe, but one is the DCinC. Or the interim at least. Whitford took every opportunity he could to undermine me in public and then showed up at my desk right before the last briefing to vaguely suggest I was about to bring the whole of Starfleet down on the CinC's head."

"Whitford?" Jordan inquired for confirmation.

She nodded.

"Yeah, he's a dick. I shadowed Daphne for an interview with him once. He spent the whole time addressing me even though Daphne's the editor in chief at ACNN." Another spoon of coffee brown chocolate confection made its way to Jordan's mouth. "He's really not worth any space in your head, Joce."

She sighed. "If only it were that easy..."

The next morning, the breeze across the bay brought her back from her reverie and raised goose bumps across her arms and legs despite her attire just in time for her to cross into the main lobby. Like the day prior, the folks coming in and out were low. It seemed the window between 0530 and 0600 was a bit on the quiet side although a few staffers were making their way in, flashing credentials and greeting the security guard on duty.

Jocelyn plastered a smile across her face despite the unpleasantness of her mood.

"Morning Bob!" she grinned as he buzzed her along.

"Morning Captain!" he replied, returning her smile. Perhaps she wasn't universally disliked after all.

[Press Secretary's Office]
[0630 Hours]

The coffee Jocelyn had brought from home was long since gone and she had begun to debate asking Frank to grab her another on his way back through. Although this close to the upcoming press briefing might not be a good idea. Sighing, she tipped the tumbler back to see if there were any lingering dregs that she might have missed.

The PADD in front of her held updated numbers for Chalvana III and notes about the newly appointed Director of Interstellar Aid, Mazikeen Caine, who had to jump into the fray of the situation without much more than a 'welcome to your first day as Director'. Jocelyn had appreciated the woman's gravitas in meetings throughout the prior day although an opportunity hadn't arisen yet for her to congratulate the Trill on her appointment.

A commotion outside of her office caught her attention and she set the PADD down just in time to hear Frank's muffled voice exclaim, "I'll see if she's..." before her door whooshed open of its own accord, no polite signal to inquire if she was available preceding the entrant's arrival.

Jocelyn's expression turned stony as the form of Rear Admiral Whitford made his way through her door, clearly brushing past her aide, and clutching a PADD.

"Rear Admiral," she said, false cheer coloring her tone. "What a surprise. How can I help you?"

"Care to tell me," Whitford's cranium was practically pulsing under the skin, "why my office has received not one, but over fifty official press inquiries about your hiring? Saw your little stunt yesterday," the Admiral blustered, "wasn't impressed. You don't get to just refer back to other departments or Advisers when you don't agree with them. You represent this administration, which means you should be helping to unify our message around here, not dividing us." Whitford slipped down into one of the chairs in front of Blake's desk, not waiting to be invited, and waved to grab the attention of an aide who stepped in to drop off a couple PADDs. "Raktajino, double strong. Please don't keep me waiting," he ordered the young woman before locking eyes with Blake.

"Look," he continued, "I realize this is your first time representing Starfleet on this scale. I'm sure it's all very intimidating and the reporters probably threw you a bit. If it helps, I'm glad to coach you through your next few briefings. Level you up a bit to play on this level," Whitford nodded slowly, the throbbing vein on his forehead relaxing. "But I can't have you going out there and throwing other members of the CinC's cabinet under the monorail again, alright?"

Jocelyn sat back in her chair as Whitford's rant wound down. If her gaze had been stony before it was glacial now, and only those who didn't have the self awareness to follow the chill in her receipt would miss it.

"Respectfully, sir, I'm not sure I follow your point. At what point did I throw any cabinet member under the monorail? I do believe it's known policy that hiring decisions come by way of recommendations to the CinC from various trusted advisors. I wasn't providing any information the reporters couldn't specifically find independent of the briefing."

She set her arms on her desk and laced her fingers, a deliberate attempt to keep from crossing them over her chest which she knew, from experience, would signal to someone like Whitford that she was being defensive rather than asking a legitimate question.

"Don't be coy. I hate coy," Whitford's forehead pulsed again. "You suggested one of Sturnack's advisers has a bone to pick and now the press is digging around for it in our back yard. Words have consequences, Captain," he subtly sneered around the woman's new rank. He'd walked in with a PADD in his hand but, rather than toss the device on the woman's desk, he pinched the information on its screen and threw it onto the closest wall display. An article appeared there, complete with a passage the DCinC had helpfully highlighted:

"Blake, unable to adequately address questions about her appointment, referred to 'recommendations from several trusted advisors' rather than provide the citizens of the United Federation of Planets a clear answer to concerns raised about her fitness for the job. Her intent to dodge the question was clear."

The words hung there, glowing on the screen. "Still feeling coy? Or can we actually discuss this like adults now?" Whitford asked, his expression daring the Press Secretary to retort.

It took every ounce of self control she possessed not to slap the smug satisfied look of the DCinC off of his face. A deep dwelling anger started to work itself way up from her belly, the unfairness of his assertions making her want to run from the room and hide and scream at the same time. In this moment being a light skinned, redheaded woman, was a curse as she felt her face flush with the anger she felt. She knew instantly that Whitford would take it as an admission of guilt no matter what she said next.

She perused the article in question slowly, making sure to leave the Admiral waiting long enough to be an annoyance. When she was done she gave a well controlled laugh. "Sir, this is from The Galactic Dredge," she said, indicating the top of the article. "They're a conspiracy and 'alternative facts' publication. They don't even hold press credentials here. Hardly a source of unbiased and fair reporting, let alone reporting that anyone at Starfleet or the Federation should take seriously. Paying even a modicum of attention to them will just fan their flames."

She paused a moment to see how her response landed before continuing. "You should be aware that I don't know how I came to be on the CinC's short list, but telling them that trusted advisors inform the CinC's selections is straight out of PR 101. If someone has chosen to take it as a witch hunt I can assure you they already intended to do so no matter how I replied to that question."

Blake's gaze may have gone glacial but Whitford was well acclimatized to the cold. In fact, he was quite psychrophilic, bothered not in the slightest by the frozen reception he was receiving from the Press Secretary. "You're right: normally, I wouldn't give two shits about the The Galactic Dredge. Sane people don't read them, why would I?" he shrugged, looking up to nod at the aide who'd delivered his raktajino. "Thank you," came his not-quite-politely-toned reply before turning back to Blake. "The problem, though, is that legitimate news sources can't print rumor and tabloid trash. Which is why," he manipulated the PADD in his lap, throwing another article onto the viewer, "they're reporting on the Dredge reporting it instead. Cute, right?"

On screen was an article from -- of all places -- the Bolus News Consortium. The byline? One T'lon Tressa. A highlighted passage read:

"While The Galactic Dredge is not widely regarded as a reputable news source, newly promoted Jocelyn Blake -- Captain and now Press Secretary of Starfleet Command -- came under fire today by the disreputable publication. In response to concerns that Blake was hired over reportedly more qualified candidates like Admiral Claudia Janney, the Dredge alleged that Blake might have some piece of secret information that was useful as promotion leverage.

Given Captain Blake's proclivity for uncovering truths Starfleet might wish to keep buried -- especially when paired with the Press Secretary's penchant for dodging questions instead of answering them head-on -- some people might buy into the Dredge's allegation, whether it's based in fact or not.

At present, Starfleet Command has not officially commented on such allegations but one thing is clear: Fleet Admiral Sturnack's new administration has been weighed down in the muck before it's really even hit the ground running."

"It goes on," Whitford shrugged again, flashing Blake a wilting gaze, "but that's the gist of it. And the BNC isn't the only one picking it up: there are at least three others in the last twenty minutes. Surprised you didn't see it on the wires," he barbed passive-aggressively, not deigning to mention that he himself had been tying her up as said wires likely came in. "They're right though, Captain. We do have a problem."

Jocelyn frowned at the article published by T'lon Tressa. Of course this was their way around. Of course it was. The byline from the Dredge likely wasn't real either knowing their methods. A tiny corner of her mind wondered which Headquarters press writer wrote it.

The pit of anger that she had been carefully feeding since Whitford threw the original article on the screen began to twine with a deep well of anxiety and uncertainty. It was a feeling she had come to know far too well in the days following Leyton and she couldn't help the spike of anxiety she felt at the recognition. If she kept up at this pace she would be angry enough to burst into tears, her body picking the most humiliating way possible to give the pent up emotions an outlet.

"We have a problem, indeed, Admiral," she remarked a touch of sarcasm in her voice. "And although I flatter myself to believe I'm accomplished enough to keep up with the wires, I've yet to meet a press person who could do that and hold a conversation with a superior officer." She leaned forward in her chair shifting her weight onto her elbows still positioned on the desk. The move caused her glasses to slide slightly down her nose so that she was looking over the rims of them at the Admiral rather than through them. She had gone with solid black today and the edge of her glasses were visible as a fuzzy blur at the very bottom of her line of sight.

"Honestly, Admiral, I am confused. It has never been my understanding that managing the press was a part of the DCinC's job, nor part of your particular background. I'm assuming you took this concern to Admiral Ul-tan before coming to my office, considering that I report to her directly. She hasn't been by to recommend adjustments to my approach so, perhaps, you came from her office directly? Should I go ahead and page her so we can close the loop on this and make sure we're all happy with how the day will proceed? I'm sure you can see the benefits of discussing all together rather than going back and forth." Her hand hovered over her comm badge, preparing to contact Frank and make the request through him.

Whitford's eyes narrowed at Blake's play. A seasoned political operative, he was no stranger to strong arm attempts. Technically speaking, though, the woman was correct: he hadn't gone to her superior officer yet. That said, he did still have a leg to stand on. "Until Sturnack orders otherwise, I'm the Deputy Chief-of-Staff. Ul-tan reports to me and, by derivation, so do you. I'm perfectly within bounds to talk to you about your behavior. But if you'd prefer I order her to fire you instead of doing it myself," he shrugged, leaning back in his chair with a devilish smirk, "believe me: I can make that happen. Might want to make sure I don't have a reason to, though."

He rose then, placing his PADD under his left armpit. Still grey-shouldered rather than wearing the flashy colors of the new uniforms, Whitford looked like a brewing storm by comparison. "I'll let you get back to it, Captain," he nodded, turning to leave as an aide popped in once again.

"Ma'am, I've got the..." she began, PADD in hand, but stopped as the DCinC glared her down.

"Wires? Yeah, she'll be wanting those," Whitford remarked as he slipped past the aide and strode out of the office.

"Is...um, everything ok, ma'am?" the aide asked, handing the PADD over. Contained within were the day's highest-visibility news stories from the galaxy at large, referred to as "the wires" in reference to an ancient method of transmitting the news over communication-carrying wiring.

Jocelyn accepted the PADD absently, frustration cresting behind her visage. With a sigh to push back the tide she nodded at the aide. "It is, thank you Lieutenant."

The aide nodded and, taking Jocelyn's response as an excusal beat a hasty path back to the door. Once she had gone Jocelyn let her head drop into her hands. She fought back tears knowing that it would only take puffy eyes on screen to give the press a whole new thing to speculate about.

Pinching and throwing from the PADD she had just received she found a list of articles on the screen separated by subject. Nestled near the top under the heading of "New Appointments" was The Galactic Dredge. She tapped the PADD to open it and perused it slowly, her stomach sinking ever deeper as she did.

"What fresh hell is this?" she asked the empty room.

Clearly, it was going to be another long day.

=/\= A mission post by =/\=

Read Admiral Josh Whitford
Deputy Commander in Chief
Starfleet Command

Captain Jocelyn Blake
Press Secretary
Starfleet Command

Lieutenant Jordan Hoover
Journalist
Alpha Centauri News Network