The Games Begin
[Day 1: 0700 hrs]
[Office of the Chief of Staff, Bravo Fleet]
‘...the berthing space alone for all the guests’ starships is beyond our capacity.’
‘Your capacity is tremendous, captain, and plenty of guests are not bringing their starships. Hm. A little to the left.’
‘We are refitting a large bulk of the vessels due to the Beta Quadrants already. If every commander wanders up with their ship, we can barely offer basic maintenance.’
‘Then don’t offer them basic maintenance. And again. Most of their ships are performing, I suppose, duties.’
‘I don’t -’
Commodore Beckett lifted a finger, and that was enough to silence Starbase Bravo’s Captain Drang. ‘The spaceways around Bravo will be busy for the coming days, Captain. How astute of you. Perhaps I can turn your keen eye to somewhere more useful, though.’ He flourished at the far wall of his office. ‘I think The Fighting Temeraire won’t make enough use of the light on that wall.’
Captain Drang was a long-suffering man with a perpetually hang-dog expression, for which he was supremely grateful as it meant his face didn’t have to do much work as he stared at Bravo Fleet’s Chief of Staff. ‘I’m not a man for art,’ he said, which sounded like the most polite way of saying he couldn’t care less.
‘Hm,’ was all Beckett said to that, tapping his long finger against his lips. ‘You should try sometimes, Captain. It might move something in you. No, I think the Caravaggio there.’ A sweep of the hand across the holographic interface on his desk brought the specific painting sparkling to illusionary life on the wall. ‘Of course, this is all temporary. The paintings themselves should arrive next week.’
‘Sir.’ Drang straightened his back as if military posture would break through the pretension. ‘Even if the docking space is not an issue, the number of guests arriving imminently leaves berths - for people, rooms - at a premium.’
‘Simple enough,’ said Beckett, not looking up from his decorating. ‘Diplomats and staff officers should have their status recognised. Otherwise I’m sure responsible Starfleet captains and the vultures of the press will find it in themselves to share a room if necessary for the duration.’ He glanced up. ‘Voluntarily, of course. Allocate a holodeck and offer them a free hour of holodeck time if they bunk up.’
Drang opened and shut his mouth. That might work, and he resented the idea of saying as much. ‘Then there is the matter of security -’
Beckett stood, and the rather squat, stout Drang was abruptly reminded of how blasted tall the Commodore was. ‘Captain Drang.’ His voice was low, melodious, irritated. ‘You were appointed to oversee the final construction and christening of Starbase Bravo because your record suggests you are a man who thrives under pressure, and that you’re very good at juggling all manner of issues. In a matter of hours, admirals, captains and officers, from across Starfleet, diplomats from all our neighbours, noted experts, and - again - those vultures in the press - will be descending to witness the rebirth of Starfleet itself.’
Drang thought that was an overstatement, but he’d learnt better in his brief acquaintance of Beckett than to interrupt him while he pontificated.
‘They expect to see a well-oiled operation. That the starbase is burdened will be forgiven. That the starbase may not bear the burden will not. Now.’ Beckett straightened. ‘Can you bear that burden, Captain?’
Drang was not an imaginative man. It was why he commanded starbases, and not starships. It was why he was assigned to projects which needed hard work and grit, not flights of fancy or flashes of genius. A lot of people thus mistook him for a stupid man, and Drang was not a stupid man. He was more than bright enough to take Beckett’s unsubtle meaning.
‘The burden will be beared, Commodore.’
‘Borne,’ mused Beckett idly. ‘Good. The opening ceremony is at 1200 hours. I assume that the station will be ready for the multiple holofeed transmissions? Our own, and civilian.’
Drang clicked his tongue. ‘Yes, Commodore.’
‘I’m expecting lunch with the Fleet Admiralty afterwards,’ carried on Beckett, barely seeming to need Drang to chip in. ‘You’re welcome if you have the time.’
‘I don’t... maybe, Commodore.’
‘And of course Meeting Room A must be ready for Vice-Admiral Knox and his staff tomorrow.’
‘It’s ready, Commodore.’
‘Good.’ Beckett frowned, then at last looked at Drang. ‘If everything is in hand, then you’d best be about it, Captain. I have the conference itself to make ready for.’
‘Thank you, Commodore.’ It took everything Drang had to not say this through gritted teeth, but he knew this was, at least, a dismissal. Freedom. And he took it, marching crisply out of the Commodore’s office and into the sweeping, busy, frantic corridors of Starbase Bravo preparing as if for a swarm of locusts to descend.
Not locusts. But admirals. Captains. Researchers. The press. Diplomats.
It was going to be a long five days.