“We are going to be late,” insisted Ambassador Droll. “We cannot afford to be late, Captain.”
The portly man had stormed onto the bridge of the Colonial, the namesake of her line, draped in his finest cobalt suit and flustered over the delay in their departure from Gestalt space. His shuttle had not left the planet on time. Having finally boarded the destroyer he immediately besmirched the Colonial Fleet for their tardiness and demanded to be shown, post haste, to the ships Captain.
Captain D’Foose, hero of the Colonies, disliked the man instantly. She found herself wondering why Vice Commodore Shipwright had selected this man to attend the Coalition summit on Cerea. The man did not strike as the sort of person with whom Lance would associate and why he had selected Droll as ambassador to Cerea, she imagine, she would never know. There were simply so many things to find disdainful about the man that she doubted she would ever see any redeeming merit in him. However, she reminded herself, Droll was handpicked by Lance and that had to mean something.
He was grossly over weight and it looked as though the strain of shifting his own girth took a considerable toll on him. Sweat beaded on his forehead and thick blue veins were transparent on his neck and wrists in spite of his rolling fat. The invasive odor of human stink permeated the air around him and seemed to roll off of his clothes in gut-wrenching waves of repulsion. Badly balding, his hair had begun a retreat from his skull in four completely uneven locations and seemed to be spreading like mange towards the top of his skull. Even his skin was a nightmare of blemishes, boils, warts and moles upon moles with their own strands of wiry, greasy hair sticking from. His posture was horrible causing him to slouch on his left while pushing his right shoulder back away from his chest which had the effect of giving him a grossly lopsided appearance. Even his clothing looked to be saturated with stink and sweat and when he moved his poorly tailored clothes threatened to burst their seams.
Captain D’Foose turned, calm and collected from her work and set upon the man her most dismissive of glares. With eyes impassive and features non-committal she studied him for a moment before responding and when she did it was with her most icy tone that she spoke.
She said, “I assure you that we will arrive at Cerea within the designated time frame, Ambassador Droll.”
“Welcome aboard the Colonial,” she added after a moment.
“Save your pleasantries,” snapped Droll. “I am going to retire to my quarters. I assume one of your navy robots can show me the way. I expect that we will be underway immediately. You will contact me in my quarters to inform me that we have departed.”
D’Foose was a hero of the Colonies, her name well known among the population. She had become something of a celebrity within the heavily militarized society that was Gestalt and had come to expect a certain degree of respect from exploits. Certainly she was a soldier first and so used to taking orders, used to having commands barked at her and used to taking it with a smile and grain of salt, however; even the most refined soldier in any serving force had troubles taking orders from civilians and D'foose was no exception.
Ambassador Droll was a civilian through and through. He was the sort of man who had never done a days physical labor in his life and had grown fat on from the labors of others. Men like Droll were extremely rare within the Colonies as their regimented society and near communist approach to the greater good left little room for men of his sort to develop. Unfortunately the developing nature of the Colonies, still a young political entity when compared to the Galactic equivalents, there existed a very limited need for men of his sort.
“Of course,” replied D’Foose with a mock smile. “One of my men will show you to your quarters and I will personally inform you when we are under way.”
Droll paused as if expecting to be rebuffed for his gruff approach. Quick on the uptake, he nodded (all six chins jiggling in unison) and said, “Very well.”
With that Droll stalked off of the bridge leaving D’Foose to her own thoughts.
“We're almost loaded,” interrupted the voice of her Executive Officer a few moments later. He had approached with a data-pad in hand and moved to stand beside his commander. “The supplies should be fully stored within the next ten minutes.”
D'foose nodded and tapped her thumb print into the terminal. The bridge was busy but quiet. Her crew knew their jobs and carried them out without complaint or complication. They had all done this countless times prior as it was the top priority of the Colonial Defense Fleet that all vessels should stand at no less then eighty percent readiness at any given time. Unlike their usual tours, however, this mission would take them far beyond the borders of Colonial space and deep into the Western Coalition proper.
“Thinking about the voyage ahead?” The XO asked. “Think we'll have any challenges?”
D'foose chuckled. “There's a rancor in the berth. I'm more worried about the trouble he'll cause inside then anything else.”
The XO chuckled but he knew that her concern was genuine. She was worried that the Vice Commodore had miscalculated in his selection of Ambassador Droll and those they would all suffer for it.
*
“Captain on the bridge,” barked the XO while snapping to attention.
D'foose stepped onto the bridge and with a nod to her XO, ordered, “As you were.”
According to ships time it was still early in the morning. The Colonial, blasting through hyper-space on the longest leg of their journey en route to Cerea, was just changing shifts and was due to arrive at its destination shortly. It had been a long voyage, thanks in large part to their guest, Ambassador Droll. Much as he had expected, and verbalized numerous times throughout the trip, they were behind schedule and would arrive late.
“Good morning XO,” offered D’Foose as he passed her a fresh cup of coffee. “Anything eventful happen last night?”
He winced and she saw it.
“He's awake?”
The XO nodded.
And then, as if the whole thing had been scripted, the length and breadth of Ambassador Droll flooded the bridge with his abundance. He was positively vibrating so intense was his anger and it translated into more sweat and stink. “We are late! How can you explain this, Captain?”
“I do not,” said D’Foose with a shrug. “We will arrive at Cerea within the hour and even I cannot break the laws of physics and so speed your arrival.”
Provoked, Droll exploded. Slanderous venom spilled from his lips like so much offal and for the continued duration of their travels Droll took it upon himself to make certain that every crewman, from the lowliest non-commissioned personnel to the highest enlisted man. So fierce were his attacks that D’Foose honestly contemplated throwing the man in the brig and calling the mission a wash. She was truly frightened by why he might do on Cerea.
When, at last, the Colonial made orbit above Cerea it was with some glorious pleasure that Droll informed D'foose she would be accompanying him to the planet and that she would be there to represent the Colonial Defense Fleet. She protested, tried to demur his invitation but, citing the orders of Vice Commodore Shipwright, he won the debate and so made her shuffle into his shuttle and ferry with him down to the planet.
*
“At least it's pretty,” D’Foose observed.
The Colonial party had landed on Cerea at the Embassy, or whatever the locals called it, and were greeted with the sights, sounds and smells of Cerea. It was a beautiful planet according to some aesthetics, but D'Foose was a true Colonial soldier and so preferred the sterile, metallic comforts of her starship, barracks or otherwise.
“Bah,” snarled Ambassador Droll. “We’re not here to take in the sights Captain, we’re here to represent the Colonies.”
You’re some representation then, she thought but what she said was, “It looks like someone is coming to show us inside.”
Six Colonial Commandos had accompanied the diplomatic envoy and they arranged themselves in rank and file behind the Ambassador and their Captain. They were clad in the typical finery of the Commandos, in their bulky, bone white, power armor and had polished their gear to a high gloss shine. They were, after a fashion, impressive.
“Very good,” Droll started towards the doors, breezing towards and then past the menial orderly sent to escort their party to the summit. Without pause to allow the man to offer his welcome, nor to greet the diplomatic party, Droll hissed, “We’re late and would prefer not waste any more time.”
And then, with an air of arrogant overbearing he added, “Take us to your leaders.”
