Post 26 - Diplomatic Pleasantries

Posted on Fri Apr 23rd, 2021 @ 1:55am by Fleet Admiral Sturnack & Rear Admiral Joshua Whitford & Admiral Maurice Chambers & Rear Admiral Ojo Ris & Captain Jocelyn Blake

Mission: Episode 1: Acta Non Verba
Location: New Romulan Embassy - Embassy Row, San Francisco
Timeline: Day 18 - 1330 Hours

[Romulan Embassy]
[Embassy Row - San Francisco]
[Day 18 - 1330 Hours]

The Embassy of the Romulan Star Empire was both imposing and non-descript in its exterior. It was a large, square building made up of three floors of offices, large conference rooms, and the usual accoutrements that accompany a small satellite of any large government. From the outside, if one was not immediately cognizant of the words Embassy of the Romulan Star Empire emblazoned in the blocky glyphs of the residing diplomats' home tongue emblazoned above the arched double doors, it was nearly impossible to miss the bird-of-prey symbology. The raptor's wings spread wide to encompass the full arch of the doors, the two twin planets of Romulus and Remus clutched in its talons. Removed of its Romulan identifiers, though, the building could almost be described as bland.

On this particular afternoon, a flurry of arrivals was taking place. Various dignitaries and representatives from Federation governments -- whose own embassies were littered along what was affectionately referred to as 'Embassy Row' -- and high ranking Starfleet officers had made their way into the building, all there to attend the Romulan Embassy's grand opening.

Thorough security checks were underway, manned by the twin security forces of Romulus and Starfleet, a sight that, for some, came as a shock and for others felt like the obvious new growth of the fledgling relationship between the Federation's member planets and the notoriously xenophobic Romulans.

Passing the security check, guests were ushered then through the main concourse and through another set of doors out into what could only be described as a piece of Romulus transported to Earth. The central courtyard of the building was climate-controlled, keeping its denizens at a happy 70 degrees while San Francisco's 45 degree December weather had required many to bundle up for the trek to the opening ceremony. A path wended its way through a small garden, opening onto a terrace where temporary seating had been set up, small name cards placed on each seat to indicate where each guest was to settle.

In a nod towards their hosts, the Romulans were serving champagne and guests were encouraged to take a glass and mingle until it was time to begin.

"Someone should have warned me that a second pip came with ceremony," Ojo Ris said to his aide while he helped fasten the Rear Admiral's dress collar. "I would have passed it up," Ojo rumbled with a tilted smile on his long, somewhat craggy face. He sighed into his reflection, "It is an honor, Consul Rikutha... Commodore Joteen...." he rote practiced in his mirror visage. He affixed his earring to his ear and then let his curtain of black hair all but obscure it. "Alright, let's get this over with," Ojo rumbled again, "I don't think I've hoped for a Klingon coup or another disaster on Cardassia this much in a while," he mused again with a smile to his aide.

The broad, very tall man swept away from the mirror with a sigh. Ojo made the journey from his quarters to the reception area in the new Embassy, a journey he timed to be eleven minutes, twenty-two seconds. It was so typical in its blandness, and its bold statement. This was Romulan territory, taken by conquest or diplomacy made no difference to the Romulan mind. Ojo stepped inside with the rest, his height and shoulder girth robbing him of the innocuous presence he would have preferred.

A small but elegantly presented room to the side of the courtyard held the event's principle guests: the two Romulan dignitaries-- Consul Rikutha and Commodore Joteen--the Federation President and Vice President, and Starfleet's own CinC along with the usual retinue that followed such an august gathering.

Fleet Admiral Sturnack held a flute of champagne by its stem, having learned over a hundred years prior not to grasp the glass around its middle. A certain cerulean had chided him that doing so would prematurely warm the contents of the glass and no one enjoyed their champagne on the warm side. Acknowledging and dismissing the thought -- the woman in question has been dead for many years now -- the Vulcan returned his focus to the gathering at hand, his eyes roving the room for familiar faces. Finding President Patel, who'd newly entered the room, Sturnack approached with a nod.

"Greetings, Madame President," he intoned with a nod. "It is rare to see you in person. Rare but also," he lifted his glass in a human-style toasting gesture, "a welcome happenstance."

"Sturnack, I'd like it if you called me Najale," the woman replied austerely, her voice warm. Unlike her Vulcan companion, who wore the dress variant of the new Starfleet uniforms, President Patel was bedecked in an extravagant gown in navy chiffon. An ornamental scarf threaded with gold draped around her shoulders and then flowed down, tapering at her waist. She, too, held a glass of champagne in hand and raised it to clink against Sturnack's.

"Najale then," Sturnack nodded, lowering his glass after taking a sip. "I suppose we should mingle with our Romulan hosts?" With his companion's confirming nod, the Vulcan led the way to where Rikutha and Joteen stood. "Greetings Consul," he nodded to the former. "Commodore," tipped his head to the latter then. "Congratulations on the opening of this embassy."

Consul Rikutha was a woman with a severity to Northern Romulan features, the ridges on her forehead giving her already hawkish Vulcanoid traits even greater disdain. Her mouth was turned in a sour, austere neutrality as if she was barely tolerating that someone had placed rotten milk under her nose. Shrewd and cold blue eyes surveyed the room like a robot scanning for intelligent life, and finding little. Approached, she set eyes on the Vulcan first and then the being in navy that he helped to guide. Her nod was a silent one, ahead bow of cautious diplomatic respect. Yet it seems quite brittle on her countenance.

Commodore Joteen too had a coldness, but his was one of a gentleman soldier, and more- this was a refined intellectual. He wore the uniform of the Romulan forces. It was he who spoke first, "Jolan Tru, Madame President," he greeted with a nod of respect, "Fleet Admiral Sturnack." The Romulan dared practice the Vulcan salute of greeting- a motion that grew a scalding if muted glance from Rikutha.

"Madame President," Rikutha spoke, "Fleet Admiral," Rikutha stated, "Fine day."

"Yes," Patel's gravely but friendly voice entered the mix, "We greatly look forward to many years of collaboration and friendship with the Romulan Empire. Tell me," she smiled wide, the practiced facade of a career politician, "Are you ready for the real diplomatic work to begin?"

The Romulans exchanged tested looks. And again it was Joteen who spoke up, "Where our interests parallel, Madame President, we are pleased to hear your dignitaries' suggestions." He raised a glass of champagne, "And where possible, move forward on consensus."

Rikutha's eyes narrowed, "I am sure we will have little need to bother one another often," she stated.

"Perhaps not," Patel flashed her most elegant, winningest smile, "but then again, you never know. Our new friendship should be more than just in name, wouldn't you agree?" She raised her own glass of champagne then, looking sideways at her Vulcan companion in expectation before eyeing Rikutha and Jooteen as well. Clearly, she meant to unite the powers represented in a moment of galactic cohesion.

Sensing an opportunity to underscore the President's intent, Sturnack raised his own glass and proposed a toast. "Acta non verba," he said, intentionally speaking in one of Earth's not-really-that-dead languages. "To deeds," the Commander-in-Chief intoned, his right eyebrow-raising in customary fashion, "not words." The translation finished, he, too, studied the faces of the two Romulan dignitaries before him, wondering how they might respond.

"Here, here," Patel warmly responded, lifting her glass within clinking distance of Sturnack's. "To deeds, not words," she nodded, tapping her champagne flute against the Vulcan's.

Rikutha and Joteen almost in stereo raised the hawkish brows upon their severe features. Joteen turned to his counterpart, "I understand our forces have intercepted and eliminated Breen slavers near the Quinor system," he said, "The Cardassian military continues to be subpar in defending their own borders."

"And so close to Bajoran territory," Rikutha added.

Sturnack noted that neither of the Romulans had deigned to engage themselves in his toast. And not only that, the dignitaries had entirely passed on cementing the notion of its nod towards partnership, instead opting for small talk about military matters elsewhere. It was not, as was often said in nomenclature, an "auspicious start." Turning from the front the Romulans now presented, the Vulcan engaged the President in some small talk of his own. "Madame President, were you not just discussing this matter this morning?"

Jewels sparkling around her neck, Patel looked up and nodded her head with the slow grace of a doe. "I was indeed, Fleet Admiral. It's quite mystifying, the whole situation. Our Klingon allies have intercepted Breen slavers as well. And what's very interesting," Patel's dark eyes glimmered with an edge, "is that the slavers have somehow gotten their hands on cloaking technology. From where is anyone's guess, really, but I understand," her throat flashed as she slow-turned to Rikutha, "the devices are Romulan in nature. But of course," Patel bowed her head to Joteen, "we understand the Romulans would never deliberately outfit the Breen. I'd been hoping to lean on our new partnership to share intelligence and explore the issue together but..." she trailed off, shrugging, "perhaps I should speak with the Praetrix directly on that?"

Joteen raised a brow, "That defeats the purpose of an Embassy, doesn't it?" He countered.

"The Praetrix sent us to deal with the Federation," Rikutha said more bluntly, "She is engaged in far more important matters on our open frontier. Are you suggesting Breen pirates you cannot contain are worthy of her attention? How distressing that both the Federation and the mighty Klingon Empire are incapable of reining in such minimal threats."

Joteen added, "If they have technology that appears Romulan to you, it is because your agents have failed to recognize a knockoff." They had touched on Romulan engineers' pride just then.

It was to Joteen that Patel spoke first. "Of course it defeats the purpose of this Embassy. But," the President put her hands up in an oh well gesture, somehow not spilling her champagne, "if we can't even engage in an amicable toast dedicating ourselves to partnership, I find myself very concerned that your reason for being here is minimal at best. I'm sure the Praetrix will be dismayed to hear diplomatic efforts have already begun to break down..." she trailed off, eyes roving toward the large viewscreen from which the Praetrix would soon make her address. "Unless," she began again, turning to Rikuta then, "you are, perhaps, more dedicated to cooperation than you were a few moments ago?" She sipped from the effervescent liquid in her glass, her eyes steel over its rim.

Rikutha simply walked away from the President, leaving Joteen alone. "You are on Romulan soil, Madame President. Romulans do not adopt alien influences or traditions as easily as your Federation does. We have no such concepts as luck, or superstition that a raised glass will better anything. Actions, Madame President."

Sturnack spoke up then, sensing an opportunity to attempt diffusing of the situation and again spark partnership. "It is entirely possible our understanding of your technology is too limited to make a...definitive," he chose the word carefully, "judgment. You could certainly assist in that regard. If the Breen are using Romulan technology," the Vulcan arched an eyebrow, "it could also potentially explain another disturbing discovery we've made in the Chalvana system. Perhaps we could discuss these matters after the opening ceremony?" Clearly, the CinC did not intend to talk about the artificially created coronal masses that were threatening two planets in said system in front of so many, including various members of the press.

"It can be discussed," Joteen stated to the Vulcan. "Your understanding of our technology is limited by design, and incompatibility of theoretical function. I will look at your data." He swayed to look at Rikutha who had made her way well out of the crowd, "I cannot speak of the Chalvana system or its pressing matters." He returned to the Federation's gazes, "You have unfortunately offended the more knowledgeable of us on matters of intelligence." He tugged his uniform, "However. You may proceed."

Elsewhere, the grandfatherly Admiral Chambers had made the circuit of the room, having finished his flute of champagne, he now wielded a small green bottle of mineral water. Maurice provided the expected perfunctory fake smiles and bottle tilts as he made his way through the throng of people until a familiar redhead caught his eye. "I really much give it to the Tal Shiar. I just started drinking these things a couple of months ago," Maurice stated as he appeared next to the Press Secretary. He raised the bottle for another sip but paused as he caught Whitford's eye across the room. Raising the bottle, he provided his falsest smile yet of the event, murmuring through his smiling teeth, "They couldn't have just left the schmuck back at Command, could they?"

Jocelyn had been at the embassy for an hour already, herding the press pool to the Romulan Embassy's briefing room for a pre-event briefing and then acting a bit as tour director as she guided them back to the event space and to their own corner near the back of the room where they could be prevented from badgering various dignitaries. Her role, she knew, was to keep them from interrupting the event and so she, along with Frank and a few others from the Starfleet Press office, mingled with the crowd of journalists who had been making her life a nightmare for the last week.

She had finally found a touch of reprieve and was skimming hurriedly through the wires when Admiral Chambers appeared at her side, his now notorious green bottle of seltzer in hand. She chuckled, not pausing in her skimming until his comment regarding leaving someone back at Command caught her attention. Raising her eyes she followed his somewhat sarcastically executed salute to the decidedly unpleasant visage of Read Admiral Whitford. As Chambers caught his eye his face twisted giving the expression that he had just swallowed a lemon.

An unexpected giggle escaped from between Jocelyn's lips. "I don't know. He could give the Romulans a run for their money on extremely unpleasant double meanings." The thought made her frown. "Although, he has gotten more vocal in his demands for my head lately." She thought back to earlier that morning and the unexpected visit from Fleet Admiral Sturnack offering her an opportunity to resign in light of the previous night's events. He had noted that Whitford, himself, had suggested the move. With that thought the fear and frustration flooded back and her face fell.

"I wouldn't mind terribly if we left him here altogether rather than return him to Headquarters," she continued, deadpan. "The Romulans can have him."

"Hmmm," he responded, sipping his beverage. Still nodding and smiling at the guests as they passed, he replied, "Not a bad idea. If we left him here, they would sue for peace within days. Just to get us to take him back. Then the real question would be, would peace be worth taking him back?"

A chime sounded through the two spaces alerting everyone that the event would begin shortly. Event ushers began assisting the guests as they made their way to the individually designated seats. Before them, an understated platform with a large podium appearing to be made of white and grey marble set the stage. A series of chairs lined the sides of the platform and a large view screen hung behind the podium, no doubt for the use of those guests who were joining from far away locales, unable to be present in person. Praetrix Donatra herself would be utilizing such functionality, unable to leave Romulus given all that was on her plate locally. She'd been able to carve time out, at least, to attend the opening virtually, presenting the keynote address that would open the diplomatic function.

Jocelyn grinned at Admiral Chambers. "I supposed he's saved from our deliberation on that subject for now," she noted. "Duty calls."

Turning quickly away she began ushering the press to their assigned seats toward the back of the venue.

The clipped sound of boots walking atop a hollow space alerted those who were paying attention to the arrival of the events' master-of-ceremonies. A tall Romulan man approached the podium, his flared eyebrows sweeping back severely above his eyes, practically meeting his dark hair which was cut short in a style that resembled those seen popularly on Vulcan. He wore a tailored overcoat, crisscrossing just at the waist, that flowed down to just above his knees. A belt-like sash crossed from right-shoulder to left-hip, clearly displaying the man's rank: a member of their military then, it seemed.

As he reached the podium, setting a small PADD atop it, he cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally amplified so that all could hear. "Distinguished Guests, Members of the Federation Council, Starfleet Command, and Honored Members of the Romulan Star Empire," he began, his voice resembling that of heraldic criers from Earth's Medieval period, "we welcome you to this sacred ground to mark the opening of this embassy and to celebrate a new chapter in partnership between our twin worlds, Romulus and Remus, and their sister planets throughout the galaxy."

A hush had fallen across the space, broken only by the periodic flash of an image recording device from the press pool in the back.

"And so, it is my immense honor and privilege to introduce Praetrix Donatra," the man concluded, stepping back from the podium with a sweeping yet distinctly military motion. Stepping backward to the side of the stage, his face was turned to the screen, which hung behind the platform. The dignitaries seated in the chairs had turned toward the screen as well, following the Master of Ceremonies' gaze as the face of the Praetrix appeared on the screen.

Donatra was a young woman for a planetary leader but the mantle suited her well. She, too, stood spine straight and shoulders back, her posture evoking her time as a military leader in the not-so-distant past. Her features, though severe, were relaxed as if the opening of an embassy in San Francisco was no more than an everyday formality.

"Honored guests," she began, "it is with great disappointment that I cannot be with you on Earth today. This day, of all days marked in the history of our great peoples, is one which heralds a new age for us. Gone are the days of suspicion and uncertainty between Romulus and the members of the United Federation of Planets. Gone is the long-held secrecy and distrust which has prevented us from collaborating and growing together; prevented us too long from standing together for peace in the galaxy. And so it is with great solemnity, but also with great hope, that we undertake the opening of this embassy. May it be…"

The Praetrix's sentence was cut short as a sudden buildup of pressure and a thundering, concussive wall of sound radiated from somewhere, pummeling those in its path as the booming roar rent through the courtyard and beyond. In the wake of the blast, the viewscreen had flickered out, technology cascading to failure rapidly as smoke from smoldering fires dotting the hall filled the space. Donatra was gone -- safe from the bomb’s devastation -- but others were distinctly not so lucky.

Those on the platform itself had been thrown from their chairs, security personnel moving rapidly to secure their charges, their own lives in the line of fire as secondary explosions boomed throughout the space to either side of the gathered dignitaries. Those in their chairs had been concussed as well, blown back with diminishing severity the further away people had been seated from the dais. The faces of those still alive were marred with blood, burns, and bruising. The bodies of those who'd not survived lay limp, some burning in the fires left behind.

As the sound of the explosions receded, the ringing-of-ears rushed in to fill the silence. Like listening through a wall of muffling water, the desperate shouts and shrill screams sounded tamped down and swimmy to those who'd bore the brunt of the explosions' roars and lived. As lighting fixtures blinked on and off -- or failed entirely -- the hazy eyes of attendees tried to focus on what was happening around them, arms and thoughts flailing and failing to grasp for stability...to grasp for sense.

The scene of the bomb's aftermath was nightmare incarnate...

Maurice remembered thinking that the Romulan didn't seem unhappy in the slightest by not having to be on Earth, but how he found himself to be lying on his face, he couldn't recall. Yet there was no denying that he was indeed on the floor of the Romulan Embassy. The dead Romulan in front of him was proof enough of that, and yet all he could think was how his uniform tunic was again trying to choke him to death. As his head cleared, clarity rushed in, replacing the ringing in his ears with the sounds of screams and agony. He attempted to catch his breath and wheezed hard from a punctured lung. Chambers managed to lever himself onto his knees and saw the broken metal chair leg protruding from his chest, "That will do it, won't it?" But the dead Romulan next to him failed to reply as he got to his feet. He instinctively pulled down on his uniform, but the metal refused to allow him leaving it bunched around his neck, "Now that just fucking figures."

"You'll pay for this, you'll all pay for this!" Shrieked a furious Romulan aide, her fingers burned, yet stained in the blood of Ambassador Rikutha laying lifeless on the ground. Nearby, Ambassador Joteen was being administered a form of CPR by a set of Starfleet medics with a despondent Romulan looking on. One of the medic, grim-faced, was shaking his head. "Come on, come on.... anything?"

"The other medic checked their tricorder readings and slowly closed it with a shake of their head.

Elsewhere, black eyes studied the ceiling with a hollow, unmoving gaze. Blood oozed down toward his tear duct and dripped down his flat cheek by way of the crease that his nose made. A jagged piece of metal stood out, off center, from the middle of Admiral Ojo Ris' forehead. A white sheet was pulled over him a few moments later.

The tangle of bodies and equipment that made up the gaggle of press lining the back of the venue had fared only mildly better than those near the front. Most of the press had been standing and so as the pressure of the blast spun outward they were knocked from their feet, limbs tangling and cracking, those in the front pressing heavily into those behind them. Several near the back lay concussed and bleeding--others, entirely unmoving. Jocelyn, herself, had been just to the side of the group, stepping to the edge with the intent to relieve one of the press pool of an unapproved recording device just after the start of the Praetrix' speech.

The errant device was crushed in her palm now, jagged edges digging into her hand. The wall of the room, what had originally been a number of feet behind her was now the structure from which she steadied herself. Her vision swam as she stood, staring down at her bloodied hand as if looking at a limb entirely disconnected from her body. For a moment she had the ludicrous sentiment that it would figure that today, of all days, would wind up this way.

Bringing her other hand to her temple she paused, pressing tightly against the bridge of her nose before realizing that no glasses were present to get in her way. A deep ache was building in the back of her head, running through to immediately behind her eyes and somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware that she had lost blood and that, perhaps, this was not a good thing.

"Captain Blake!" The voice came at her like something out of a fog. A new addition to the press pool had stumbled over to where she stood. She looked the man up and down, trying to recall his name and failing. Instead she settled on a nod of confirmation. The presence of the reporter shocked her back into the moment and she went into autopilot immediately.

"Can you walk?" she asked the man, not bothering with any formalities.

He nodded, a trickle of blood dripping from his nose.

"OK. Get as many of the press out into the lobby as you can. Straight to the security officers at the doors. They'll tell you what to do from there."

The man gaped at her for a moment until she shouted "Go!" and then, following her own orders, made her way into chaos of the injured and dying.

As Blake waded into the miasma, a woman in a blood-speckled gown of navy chiffon lay still amidst the rubble. A shard of some kind of metal had gouged and wedged itself tightly into her side, dark rivulets of blood trickling down from the wound to join the growing pool beneath her. Sparkling earrings -- somehow still attached to the President's ears -- were marred and dull from blood of a different color: this one green, trickling between the diamonds and causing them to look almost poisoned. But where was the source of this other blood? For now, it seemed elusive.

"It's the President!" someone shouted loudly, waving down the closest medic team. They'd begun beaming to the Embassy's periphery and storming into the hall, wildly looking for those who needed their aid. With quick strides, they were at the President's side, checking her over.

As help came to rouse President Patel and carry her -- still living -- from the carnage, a pair of once-shiny black boots protruded from under a large section of fallen ceiling nearby. A pile of rubble had clearly cascaded down, hitting the owner of the boots like a ton of bricks. But while the building materials themselves were not so heavy, the abundance of sharp rebar and other shard-like debris had riddled the man underneath with unending cuts and contusions. This, all on top of the tonnage breaking his bones as it hammered below in the wake of the blast, collapsing on top of the Vulcan who'd been sitting next to Patel.

Staring up at Blake were the vacant eyes of Fleet Admiral Sturnack. Glassy but unfixed, the Vulcan's eyes looked up in her general direction, moving almost imperceptibly amidst the growing amounts of verdant blood pooling in their corners. Face awash in the life-giving liquid, close inspection revealed that the CinC's lips were moving. Quickly but quietly, barely any sound at all escaping them. But form words, those lips did.

One skilled at lip reading might just make out what the Vulcan was trying to say. "I'm sorry" was unmistakeable to read. The last word, however, was not so easily understood. Was that an "uph" sound at the beginning? Or was it an "Of?" With soundless lips, it was so hard to tell. Following the first sound, however, came what looked like "roar" or "door," ending with "ah" or "uh."

Uph-road-ah?

Of-door-uh?

"I'm sorry, Ovrora," Sturnack silently mouthed for no one to understand, his gaze fading.

Falling to her knees, Blake gave the words no mind as the reality of the situation hit her. "Medic! We...we need a medic!" she screeched, her voice breaking from the fear and dust and death in her throat. "Somebody...someone get a medic!" Jocelyn cried out in anguish, wanting to move pieces of the rubble but unsure if it would do more harm than good. As she knelt beside him, Sturnack's lips stopped moving and those eyes -- having looked almost kind only two hours before -- closed maybe for forever.

The world seemed to move in slow motion as medics approached, waving Blake away to make room at the CinC's side. Pieces of rubble were moved in agonizing slowness, each removed chunk of debris revealing more and more injury to the Vulcan's body. And when he was finally slid across the floor and onto a stretcher, Sturnack left behind a gory trail of viridescent loss. Hoisted up into the air -- assisted by anti-grav -- the medics rushed the CinC from the scene, disappearing through crowd still dispersing. The Vulcan was only one of many led away in this fashion, while others with less severe wounds were tended on the scene.

So much for the opening...

=/\= A joint post by... =/\=

Fleet Admiral Sturnack
Commander-in-Chief
Starfleet Command

and

Admiral Maurice Chambers
Director, Starfleet Operations
Starfleet Command

and

Rear Admiral Ojo Ris
Director, Starfleet Intelligence
Starfleet Command

and

Captain Jocelyn Blake
Press Secretary
Starfleet Command

and

Romulan Dignitaries (played by Kyle)

and

President Najale Patel (played by Brad)