“At least the Tholians had the decency to call before visiting,” Mac muttered under his breath, a touch louder than he really should have for an officer of his rank.

The aft shuttlebay had been cleared of ancillary staff, all finding places to observe unobtrusively or some other task around the ship to occupy their time. While one shuttle was undergoing some major maintenance and was therefore in a bit of a state, there just wasn’t much the techs had been able to do, aside from tidying up their tools. Aside from that, the shuttlebay was now empty save for Mac, Sidda and two security guards standing on either side of the main hatch into the ship proper.

They were now ready to receive visitors.

“Atlantis, right?” Sidda asked. “Always wanted to meet a Tholian, but they don’t tend to circulate in the semi-legal transport circles. Sticklers for rules and laws and the such.”

“You should read the entire Tholian cultural index,” Mac said. “Direct, to the point. And still able to find ways to be complicated. Have a weird relationship with time and space.”

“Send gifts to those they like,” Sidda followed up. “Blake told me about the sheets. Jealous.”

Mac couldn’t help the slight smile that crept up on him. “They are nice sheets.”

The craft that glided through the atmospheric shield at the far end of the shuttle bay was much as had been described to Mac. It looked like a large rowboat with an enclosed cabin atop it, like some kid had drawn a boat and then decided it needed to go into space. Concessions to the impulse engines were granted in the design, with moulding around the vents to resemble dragon heads, while a pair of totally ridiculous looking and out-of-place oars protruded from either side, going through the motions as if the craft was on a body of water.

“We’re drinking after this, right?” Sidda asked as the Hysperian craft extended landing legs and settled onto the deck plating.

“Yes,” Mac found himself answering straight away.

The landing legs were another concession, practicality winning out over style. The Hysperian ‘boat slip’ had been described as having cradles in the report Mac had read, but someone had, at least during this craft’s design, asked ‘what about ship’s without cradles?’ and been listened to. And the rest of the display that unfolded was right in line with what he’d read about Hysperians.

A door on the cabin opened and out stepped two footmen, carrying a pair of stairs that were set over the side, fixed in place and checked before they stepped aside. Then another two, this time armed, stepped out, carrying banners, as they climbed up a stair, over the side, then down to Republic’s deck, flanking the stairs. One banner bore the emblem of the Kingdom of Hysperia, while the other bore the seal of the Viscount Crashanburn.

“I have received Betazoid matriarchs with less pomp and ceremony,” Mac grumbled. Then he straightened his back, put on a diplomatic smile that hid his thoughts on the matter and stepped towards the ‘boat’ in preparation for their visitor.

The man who emerged finally was certainly colourful. He couldn’t have been much taller or heavier built than Mac, but by his style of dress, he was clearly centuries, if not millennia, out of time. A long light blue tunic gave way to cream leggings, and a belt of golden discs hung around his waist and were obviously of purely decorative function. He wore a shockingly white fur cloak, but with an inner lining that was dark red. The wide-brimmed hat on his head was black on black on black; black body, black band, black feather. The last time Mac had seen such a stupid hat was his last foray through the Musketeer holo programs.

And to cap it all off, the man’s long blonde hair looked immaculate and was matched with a short, pointed beard and moustache that had to have more structural integrity holding it to its ridiculous length and curls than Republic had holding it in one piece.

“His Lordship, the Viscount Otto Birmingham Elroy Biscotti Crashanburn III,” the footman bearing the Crashanburn banner shouted for all to hear. He’d timed it perfectly such that Crashanburn’s feet had just settled on the decking as he’d finished the introduction.

Crashanburn took a moment, looking curiously around the shuttlebay as if he had just entered some mysterious realm, before settling his attention on the two Starfleet officers approaching him. He looked bored, gave a sigh, then continued walking towards them in his dark blue slippers, the sound of the cloak brushing across the floor the only noise he made.

“Captain Charles MacIntyre,” Mac introduced himself. “And this is Commander Sidda Sadovu. Welcome aboard Republic, Viscount. I have to apologise; we weren’t expecting you to visit.”

It was the most diplomatic way he could think to ask ‘why are you here?’.

“Uh, such drab and depressing uniforms,” Crashanburn said, dismissal dripping from every word. The affectation he spoke with couldn’t have been selected willingly, but a product of upbringing. It was somewhat nasally, slightly high-pitched in weird ways, like someone practised specifically to be as annoying as possible with just their spoken words.

Or who carried such power with those words that no one dared say anything against them.

“But Starfleet’s poor fashion aside,” Crashanburn said with a wave of his hand, the matter made irrelevant because he merely wished it so, “If I am trusting your blacksmiths to assist mine in completing their most basic of tasks aboard the Hohenzollern, then I must insist on inspecting the work of your engineers.”

“I see,” Mac replied. “Then perhaps we-”

“I knew such a man who obviously could rise to a position of responsibility within Starfleet could see reason,” Crashanburn interrupted, not a care in the world of having interrupted someone who was speaking. Crashanburn took one look towards the door with the two security officers flanking it and waved them away. “Send word, the Viscount Crashanburn shall grace the halls of the good ship…Republic. At once!” The ship’s name seemed stuck in his throat as he said it, disdain for the concept evident.

Both officers looked at Mac, only moving once he had nodded in assent.

And as they opened the door to the rest of the ship, one of them tapping at their commbadge to warn everyone of what was to come, Crashanburn took at as the invitation he had made for himself, striding forward, one hand raised level with his shoulder as he went and the banner wielding footman racing to fall into step behind their liege.

“Come, Captain MacIntyre, I wish to see your ship,” the Viscount ordered.

“Can we have the Betazoids back?” Mac asked Sidda under his breath as they both walked to catch up with their uninvited visitor.

“I’d settle for a Klingon invasion,” Sidda replied. “The Jem’Hadar. Pakleds even.”

“Only if we’re lucky,” Mac got out just before they got too close to whisper. “Viscount, this way please, we can start with main engineering.”