CHAPTER FOUR
“Son of a gun…
“You walked into the
party
like you were walking
onto a yacht…
“Your hat strategically
dipped below one eye,
your scarf it was
apricot…
“You had one eye in the
mirror as
You watched yourself
cavort
“And all the girls
dreamed that
they'd be your partner…
“You're so vain…
You probably think this
song is about you…
“I'll bet you think this
song is about you,
don't you…?”
- Carly Simon
Rear Admiral (Lower Half) March Patterson was a man accustomed to
getting his way.
He made no bones about it, or apologies for it; when one possessed
greater vision and superior capabilities, it was only fitting that others
should defer. This was not arrogance, in his opinion—just genuine, undiluted
honesty.
Numerous factors, he knew, had combined to place him where he was
today, as one of the ten youngest Admiralty members in Starfleet history: A lifetime of devoted, inspired service;
extraordinary good looks (anyone who said that didn't matter was a naďve fool);
a commanding, charismatic personality; and, were he feeling candid, March would
admit, more than a bit of familial influence.
He was, after all, the eldest son in the current generation of
Massachusetts Pattersons. His forefathers had always guided and shaped naval
policy in whatever service they'd labored: First under the Union Jack as common
seamen—seamen who'd invariably been forced to earn commissions based on
ability, since the lack of blue blood had then been a disadvantage; later, as
officers serving the U.S. Navy during America's rise to prominence in Terran
affairs; then, often as not, heading or influencing the United Earth Space
Probe Agency (UESPA); and now, of course, as movers and shakers in the
Federation Starfleet.
Patterson stood just outside the office of Starfleet's Commanding
Admiral, Alynna Necheyev, and prepared to take the next step in his relentless
campaign to eventually claim the chair and title she currently held.
One thing at a time, March, he thought.
As he'd expected when entering, Necheyev's administrative assistant,
a seemingly ageless Bolian who'd been running interference for her superior the
better part of two decades, regarded him with the same wary appraisal she
probably did every other unscheduled guest that entered the suite of offices
which, in many ways, represented the Federation's center of power. Like a
monarch, Starfleet's C-in-C had all too many petitioners, and all too little
time or inclination to entertain their proposals.
“Rear Admiral March Patterson to see Fleet Admiral Necheyev on an
urgent matter—immediately.”
She met Patterson's demanding expression with one of
quicksilver-blue sheen; his attempt to intimidate and gain prompt entrance had
missed the mark… or slid off it.
“The Admiral is having dinner, sir; and I know for a fact, since I
schedule them, that you don't have an appointment. May I ask the nature of this
'urgent' business?”
He snapped, “You may not.”
It was the wrong tact to take.
“Then, respectfully… she's too busy to see you, sir.”
The tone was clear: Sorry,
Admiral… everybody thinks their
matters are “urgent.”
With an effort, Patterson restrained his temper.
Impertinent little rasped-tongued… he thought. You should be
licking out plasma conduits instead of guarding “The Goddess'“ front
gate—especially in the face of your betters.
What he said, though, was, “Commander… that's for Admiral Necheyev
and I to discuss.” He softened his visage, and gentled his tone, applying a not
insignificant dose of his charm. “I promise I'll be brief, and I'm certain
she'll find what I have to say important enough to excuse the
interruption—assuming you permit me to speak with her.”
Patterson had subtly placed the responsibility for his foray
squarely on his opponent's shoulders. He could see that, for a few moments, she
was still considering an outright refusal, but then nodded stiffly, and touched
her comm panel.
“Ma’am… Rear Admiral Patterson is out here, and says it's urgent he speak with you.”
Necheyev, at least, had a sense of propriety.
“Send him in, Votta.”
He was already past the woman as she glanced back to gesture him
through, having of course relegated her to insignificance once she'd served her
purpose.
His superior’s dinner, March noted in amusement, was a Caesar
salad.
I'll take that as a sign from The Man in the
She set aside her plate with care, and leaned back in her
throne-like chair.
“You may dispense with the usual courtesies and small talk,
Admiral. What may I do for you?”
Necheyev had discerning brown eyes, and severe features, but was
not unattractive for a woman approaching 60 at warp speed.
And she wore her aura of power easily; it made her even more
interesting. Patterson had a stray, diverting series of thoughts about what
she'd be like in bed—whether she'd issue orders there, too. He'd heard her called the “blonde serpent” more than
once, and imagined her wrapping herself around a lover…
…and squeezing him dry.
With difficulty, he refocused.
“I understand you're sending a task force to impress upon the
Romans our outrage at their recent actions, and 'overawe' them back behind
their current borders.”
Her visage gave him nothing: Vulcans could take lessons in
equanimity from this woman.
Undeterred, he finished with, “I'm here to take command of that
operation.”
Now she smiled; it was the emotional equivalent of an Arctic
breeze.
“I have a number of candidates upon whom I’m debating, Admiral
Patterson… and while I acknowledge you're being considered, you aren't my first
choice.
“You have one minute to convince me why you should be.
“My dinner's getting cold.”
Patterson glanced at her meal, which he knew was properly
refrigerated before consumption, and served on a chilled plate.
He promptly got both the message, and to the point.
“One, my recent promotion leaves me an ideal candidate since,
other than serving on the Janeway tribunal these last weeks, I've been on leave
for four months. Thus, you're not pulling me away from an assignment to do
this.
“Two, my last posting before elevation to the Admiralty was USS Endeavor's center seat. You don't have
to worry about committing the task force to a commander who's no longer capable
of making tactical decisions quickly and efficiently.
“Three…” He leaned forward.
“…I want this.”
Alynna Necheyev sighed visibly.
She hadn't anticipated March Patterson's arrival and sudden
appeal, but, on reflection, it made perfect sense: The Romans had grown
formidable enough to represent a real inconvenience, if not an actual threat,
to Starfleet. Eventually, the Federation would have to take a military stand
against their former allies… and considering the rate at which the Empire was
expanding its power base, sooner was probably preferable to later.
An enemy strong enough to give you a good, interesting
little fight if it comes to that, Admiral, she
thought, but not powerful enough to actually win… that's what you see in the
Romans, isn't it? I mean, every flag officer who's not completely incompetent
has “he or she served ably during the Dominion War” on his resume now. You need
something more for the old portfolio,
don't you… something the other dogs in the pack don't have?
And defeating, or at least containing, the
Necheyev had already made her decision, based on far-reaching
intangibles of which he was as aware as she… but wanted to see how far he'd go
with this.
Would he dare to push her… and how hard?
She asked, “Why you over
other equally qualified candidates, Admiral Patterson? You're a fine officer,
granted, but… I've not heard anything I didn't already consider—nothing that
has inclined me further in your favor.”
He was slightly subtler about it than she'd expected, from the
tone she'd heard him use with Votta.
“Admiral Necheyev, I truly didn't meant to be presumptuous; you're
the one in charge, after all. If there's someone else you think will do the job
better, well… then you'll select him or her, obviously. I'm ready for a return
to duty, and thought this might be the perfect opportunity—an ideal fit. Two
months helping my father run Patterson
Interstellar was more than enough for me. I have more contacts now, but my
ears have been mostly chewed off. All the hob-knobbing, schmoozing, and
political maneuvering… it's necessary, I know, but quite tiresome. Hell, it got
so bad I thought sitting on the board for Janeway’s trial a refreshing change
of pace, believe it or not.”
She evaluated his explication.
Not bad. Oblique enough to seem unintentional, but
sufficiently on target for me to take his meaning.
Patterson obviously knew he wasn't the only one with higher
aspirations. Alynna Necheyev planned on being President of the Federation,
eventually, and had begun putting out feelers to various blocs and cliques,
determining the viability of a run for the office after Chris Ride's term was
complete.
And the support of Patterson
Interstellar could be quite important to
the achievement of my ambitions, eh, Admiral?
Necheyev's smile returned; it was one that said both she
understood him all too well…
…and that the two of them were far more alike than she wanted to
admit.