The delegates filtered in, a Klingon contingent here, and a Romulan contingent there, until the observation deck was full of lively chatter. It was hard to ignore, though, that even in the diversity present, most chose to pair with their own kind. That was fine, for now, but at dinner, Ambassador Drake intended to change that. The seating chart he’d had Ensign Ortega prepare sat Klingon beside Romulan, and Starfleet between them both. It was only through dialogue that understanding developed, and only through understanding that bonds were forged, the sort that would offer a better future.
“…it is only now that I notice your seating arrangement, Ambassador,” Lady K’Vara VaQor said as she savored a goblet of a bloodwine whose quality was beyond any she’d have expected on a Starfleet vessel. The ambassador had outdone himself. “Either you are very brave, or your security teams are… or perhaps a bit of both.”
“It would not be necessary if our crews did not, consciously or otherwise, choose to segregate themselves among their own,” Ambassador Drake noted. “So yes, I decided to force the issue. What, otherwise, is the point of a cultural exchange program?”
“A cultural exchange program?” Lady K’Vara raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you consider the secondment of our vessels to the Fourth Fleet?”
“What do you consider it?” Ambassador Drake raised an eyebrow.
“Others in this room might see it as a cultural exchange, Mister Ambassador,” K’Vara gently touched his arms as her raised brows of curiosity were replaced by the charm she was known for among her people. “But among my people, we would call it the bonding of two Houses, two peoples, toward a shared future.” She hoped her chosen words indicated the strength of the bond she hoped her House could form with their allies.
“Between our two houses, yes,” Ambassador Drake acknowledged before looking towards a contingent of Romulans engaged in a quiet conversation against the window. Her numerical choice was not lost on him. “And a third, perhaps, the others with whom we share this corner of the galaxy.” He knew he was wading into uncertain territory, but that was the point.
“Perhaps,” Lady K’Vara acknowledged diplomatically, her eyes following the gaze of the Ambassador. “We’re certainly far more open to the suggestion than some in the Empire. Our new allies can rest assured that House VaQor is more than willing to work with them for the advancement of our shared goals.” And there it was, the tongue that often irked her foes on the Council and often saw her elevated above her station in discussions by those her family aligned with. But even as a politician, she could see the benefit such an alliance would be to her people.
“It’s a start,” Ambassador Drake smiled lightly with a tilt of his glass in her direction. “But tell me, Lady K’Vara: what does it take, in your eyes, for this fledgling alliance to blossom beyond your house, to become a bond between our peoples at large?”
“Trust, Ambassador,” Lady K’Vara offered as she took a sip of her wine. “A shared understanding and trust that when the call is received from any side, the others will support. I don’t doubt for a second that the Federation would heed such a call, but the Romulans? What guarantees do we have that a Romulan ship would come to the aid of a stricken Klingon warship, and would do so in good faith?” She sipped her drink again. “I want to believe them, to take them at their word, but if I can’t, how can I ask my people to?”
“If I were to ask the Romulans in attendance for their perspective, would they not say the same of you?” Ambassador Drake countered pointedly. “Would they not point to the skirmishes on their border that came as their empire fell in the wake of the supernova?”
“And they would be right to do so,” the Lady K’Vara agreed.
The admission, made without condition, took Ambassador Drake by surprise. He had not expected it, but it was quite encouraging. “Then, Lady K’Vara, I think there truly is hope for us all that we may together someday see a brighter future.”
“That, I can drink to,” Lady K’Vara smiled, raising her glass in a mutual toast.
As they shared in that moment, an acknowledgement on all sides of what could come of this, suddenly an interruption tore them from their thoughts.
The great cruelty of Starfleet ship design, HoD Hor’keth thought to himself as he arrived at the observation deck’s entrance, was that there stood no doors to kick open. Instead, only the gentle swish as airtight doors would part ways to allow one to progress through them. But occasionally, just occasionally, that swish was a might faster, as if the mindless electronics recognised that speed was needed. It was enough to draw some attention from those closer to the door, which then drew the attention of those further along, before cascading quickly.
Not as fast as a kicked-in door would have, but it was quick enough for HoD Hor’keth, son of Tela-bur, scion of the House of Lorkoth, as he stepped into the observation lounge. Across his shoulders, he carried a dead targ, held in place by his own hands wrapped tightly around the beast’s legs. It was evidently a large creature, nearly half the size of Hor’keth himself, with fearsome tusks and a coat that would, with a little preparation, make a magnificent fur as it glistened in the bright lights of the gathering.
Compared to the scene of the battle-scared, armour-clad warrior striding in with a dead beast upon his shoulders, the man standing next to Hor’keth was almost an afterthought. Of the same age cohort, Torbel bore no scars and his armour was mostly unmarred, evidently far more caring of his appearance than the man he stood beside.
It hadn’t required a knocking down of a door to silence the room. No, the HoD’s entrance with a dead targ on his back, a sight unlikely ever before seen on a Starfleet starship, was more than enough to draw all eyes to him. The room quieted, and all looked his way.
“One does not come to a feast unprepared!” Hor’keth bellowed loudly, addressing the room. “Or without a gift!” His eyes quickly scanned the room, identifying a large but seemingly innocuous side table near the entrance that would do perfect. With a thrust, he heaved the targ over his hand and down onto it with one smooth motion, a heavy thump echoing through the room.
“Hor’keth, son of Tela-bur, commander of the Fek’lhr!” Hor’keth then announced himself loudly for all to hear. “Tor’bel, son of Remik,” he added, gesturing to his second. “An insult on one of us is an insult on both of us!” Then he held out his arms, slightly raised, and grinned broadly. “Now, someone show me to our gracious host!”
“That would be I,” Ambassador Drake proclaimed loudly as he stepped forward, his voice rising to meet the tenor of the Klingon HoD in the otherwise silent room. “And on behalf of all gathered here, I thank you, Hor’keth, son of Tela-bur, for your generosity! A hardy targ will pair excellently with chef’s menu for tonight!” Or at least it would pair with some of it. How it would mesh with Romulan mollusks, he wasn’t sure, but that was part of the fun in all of this.
“I wish him luck, for I wager there are many a picky eater here, all with their own preferences,” Hor’keth said as his gaze drifted not to the Romulans but to his fellow Klingons. “My cook should be making his way to your chef now. These fine folks shall know how targ should be properly prepared!” His grin was dangerous, given away by the glint in his eyes. “Oh, how tonight shall be entertaining.”
“I am sure our chef will be most appreciative of the skilled hands,” Ambassador Drake smirked. A Klingon cook was certainly going to liven up the galley. He then turned towards his own people. “Maddy, would you see to it that HoD Hor’keth’s cook gets squared away?”
“Yes sir,” Lieutenant Commander Lawton nodded as she peeled away.
“That will not be needed,” Hor’keth’s shadow spoke, Tor’bel’s tone far more sedate than his captain. “He intimidated…” Tor’bel paused to reconsider his words. “…asked nicely for a security escort. I reassured your man that as long as he took our cook to the kitchen, there would be no need for anyone to visit your medical facility.”
Hor’keth chuckled lightly. “Your security officers were far more willing when I insisted Ker’mek hand over his knives, at least until they got to the kitchen.”
Lieutenant Commander Lawton paused, uncertain whether to proceed or not.
“But my friend, have you ever seen two master chefs in one kitchen?” Ambassador Drake snake before motioning with his hand for the counselor to proceed still. “Maddy’s just going to make sure we afford your cook every courtesy he deserves.” And to mediate if Ker’mek made too much of a mess, the ambassador thought to himself, but that bit was not worth saying aloud.
Hor’keth accepted the notion and then turned to face K’Vara. “Lady K’Vara,” he uttered with respect. “My mother would no doubt wish me to pass on her acknowledgements if she knew I was to meet you.”
Such bravado impressed many in the Empire, but not the voice of House VaQor, not that she would show it of course. Such respect demanded respect in return. “My presence here was a last minute decision,” the Lady of the House shared. “And please pass my thoughts to your mother. But it is always a pleasure to see you Hor’keth, especially at such an auspicious gathering,” K’Vara nodded respectfully and raised her glass ever so slightly, looking around at the other delegates that had now mostly resumed their prior conversations.
“Auspicious indeed!” Hor’keth’s boisterousness returned in full as he spun around briefly, arms extended as if to take the entire room into a crushing hug. But then he returned to face Drake and K’Vara, looking a bit sheepish for a Klingon warrior. “Ah, I have been so incredibly rude. So rude in fact, I could, I should, be challenged for my slight.” The boyish grin he offered to Drake and K’Vara was him inviting them into the next display. “I have offended my yan qengwI’, my sword bearer, my fighting arm. He who I would storm Sto’vo’kor if he asked it of me.” Hor’keth stepped aside a single step, opening the group to invite Tor’bel by default. “Ambassador Drake, Lady K’Vara, my parmaqqay, Tor’bel, son of Remik, son of Krek. And no finer a swordsman will you find in the galaxy!”
“Whilst I’m sure Vek’tar VaQor, First Blade of the House would question that statement,” K’Vara raised her glass in greeting. “It is always a pleasure to meet a new ally. K’Vara VaQor, Daughter of K’morath, Voice of House VaQor, wife of HoD K’Relan of the House of Merek.”
“He is welcome to challenge that statement at his leisure,” Tor’bel answered with only the slightest of curling to his lip. “No doubt he wears his scars with pride.”
A well-practised laugh cut Tor’bel off as Hor’keth clapped a hand on the other man’s shoulder, interjecting himself to smooth over troubled waters before they even started to swell. “Pride cometh before the blade,” Hor’keth said sweetly. “Ambassador, Lady, it has been a pleasure, but I see a few faces amongst the crowds I would like to speak with briefly before bending either of your ears for an extended period.”
“Always a pleasure Hor’keth,” K’Vara bowed respectfully, “Make sure you check in with my father. He has something he’d like to talk to you about.”
“Of course, of course,” Hor’keth answered. He then offered a polite nod of his head to both Lady K’Vara and Ambassador Drake before he turned on Tor’bel, still staring at K’Vara. A silent expression, a flick of his chin, and Tor’bel offered the same nod to both parties before turning away with Hor’keth disappearing into the gathering.
There was something a little off about her smile as she turned back to the Ambassador, almost like the smile of a politician who knew something others didn’t.
“Such an interesting fellow,” Lady K’Vara smirked as she passed her empty goblet to a nearby waiter. “If you’ll excuse me, Mister Ambassador, I should check in with my husband.”
“Allies come in many forms,” Ambassador Drake replied as he watched her hustle off.
