Ahmad Fazari's Story

“I don’t know,” said Ahmad, “and I guess it doesn’t really matter. Well, not to me at least. All I care about is that you’re Aerilyn, and you’re my friend. I’d be quite the racist if I went around demanding to know everyone’s racial background. Hell, I don’t share my own unless asked, though I’m pretty sure it’s on the Bureau’s website somewhere.” He leaned a little closer. “I think I’m scared to check,” Ahmad whispered, before leaning back into his seat and reaching for his tea. The couple on the other side of the cafe had finished chewing each other’s faces, and were now busily cuddling against one another while watching the closed captions on the muted TV, which was showing some news program. There was something about a flood in Indonesia.

Ahmad’s gaze glanced away from the scars, choosing to watch his own tea for a moment as the surface rippled with the vibrations in the table from Aerilyn’s movement. “I can understand that, I suppose,” he said. “I had a bit of the opposite reaction with my family, I think, and it’s been about as long coming. I’ve not wanted to know much about part of the family.”

“Hm. Yeah. I guess you could say I’ve got a little family of my own at the Bureau. Or did.” Ahmad frowned at that. “There was Arianne. She’s been like an aunt to me. Even now. Well, a family of her and I. I guess that’s not much of a family.” He gave a little laugh at that. “But I know. She’s getting up there in years, and when she goes, it looks like it might be you and me. How’s that for man-made family?”

[color=black]The tall, middle-aged woman with fair hair cut severely along her shoulders wore her bangs in much the same fashion as the rest of her hair--cut in a straight edge that fell slightly above her imperiously arched eyebrows. The woman's angled features did little to hide her strong, square jaw, and her eyes were a constant blur of motion. Dressed in a conservatively cut, dark scarlet pantsuit with an upturned collar and a subtle gold chain draped about her neck, Jelisaveta Dvořák gave the perfect appearance of a contemporary European noblewoman. Her movements were fluid, practiced, deliberate as her gaze flickered about the tunnel system leading toward the main chamber. "I absolutely hate parties." The words slithered through her lips with near palpable disgust. "Especially political parties." Her gaze smoldered, though she was aware of all of the Terrans in their party, including the woman who had befriended her sister.

"I'm with you on that one," replied Ahmad Fazari from behind the taller woman. The TIB's Acting Director was dressed, for once, in a formal black pinstriped pantsuit with a pressed white shirt and subdued red and gold tie rather than his standard jeans and polo. He'd begun to grow a beard that in the last two weeks had slowly crept over his youthful jaw to cover it with now soft and supple hairs. Soon enough, it would be sufficiently dark to give him the appearance of maturity. "Sir, we're almost there," he said to the rather tall, lanky man with short-cropped silver hair and glasses perched over his nose walking behind both Fazari and Jelisa. Luis Galdámez, the last Prime Minister of a sovereign Terra, offered only a curt nod as his hand smoothed the wrinkles from his brown tweed suit. His appearance was almost professorial, perhaps a bit grandfatherly. But looks, as Fazari knew well from discussions with both of them, could be quite deceiving. "You didn't have to come, you know," said Fazari, and this time he was speaking to Aerilyn. [

"I can defend myself perfectly well, Rayburn," Jelisaveta said without a trace of hostility in her tone. As the four emerged from the tunnels and onto one of the platforms, Jelisaveta pushed her hair behind her shoulders, staring over her aristocratic nose and sharp cheekbones at the crowd as she laced the long, slender fingers of one hand over the other. Beneath the simple gold enjoined wedding and engagement bands on her finger, the shadows of callouses were visible over the woman's flesh. Though she was usually addressed only as Mrs. Dvořák, Fazari knew from her dossier and her mother that Jelisaveta's proper title was Colonel Dvořák but did not bother to correct anyone. The tall woman was better known as Drulović's daughter than as anything else, though among the council of the Terran Resistance lately, that had begun to change. Fazari cleared his throat, removing his hands from his pockets as Regievko loomed before them.

They were strangers here among Scatterrans, among Coalites, Belkans, Sadiks, and Oriyaks. But the Terrans had sent people they felt would represent them well. Galdámez, the orator known for his pragmatism, attachment to realpolitik, and hatred of idealism. Fazari, at the moment, the intelligence chief. And Jelisaveta, whose simultaneous rigidity and relaxed posture proved a perplexing paradox for the young TIB Director who did not know what to make of the Colonel in civilian dress.

[color=black]The Terrans remained silent while Regievko spoke, Fazari's hand occasionally fiddling with the top-most button of his dress shirt, visibly uncomfortable in the formal clothing that fought against his every instinct. His eyes moved idly among the Scatterrans, watching Kampf with reserved interest. It was strange for him to be in this atrium among powerful men, among men who commanded starfleets of millions and billions of soldiers, when his mantle was much smaller. He suspected that his predecessor had had a far more forward and long-reaching outlook than he could struggle to comprehend at the moment, with Aerilyn beside him close enough to hear her soft breathing and Jelisaveta on his other side, perched on the edge of her seat though maintaining a deliberate appearance of disinterest over her features. Fazari observed that in the right lighting, at the right angle, Jelisaveta's expression might have been written on her mother's face.

Galdámez sat behind the others, hands folded casually over his knees as he leaned back into his seat, peering through his glasses with half-squinted eyes. There would be talk of dividing Terra, of splitting the profits, the spoils of war. After all, that was how it always was. It could be no other way. The de facto civilian leader of the Terran government in waiting was patient while the Belkan spoke, keeping his reserved gaze on their Emperor's figure. But he was already resigned to this alliance with the devil. Galdámez shifted his weight, adjusting the lapels on his suit jacket and straightening his tie before he stood. "And what part do we have to play in this galactic chess game, Minister?" The man's voice was quiet, entirely unremarkable, though it had a bit of character, a hint of ferocity barely restrained behind the diplomatic words. "Our soldiers itch and hunger for war and vengeance, but I fear our people have much to risk from either this alliance or the present situation." Jelisaveta's eyes flickered toward G

Galdámez offered a nod in acknowledgement to Regievko, his expression betraying nothing other than the benumbed emotions of one who's spent too much time suppressing them. So the Coalition's Prime Minister wanted the Terrans to believe that he held them in high esteem, that he respected them for their achievements. He adjusted the glasses on the end of his nose, finding himself perhaps overanalyzing. It had always been a dreadful habit of his. "I'm certain that our people will be more than eager to improve on their military prowess," he said without a hint of sarcasm. Galdámez knew that Regievko expected to benefit in some fashion from the Terrans' current situation, though that was a given. Negotiations were always weighted toward the more powerful, no matter the kind words and well-practiced rhetoric designed to appease and placate. He chose not to acknowledge this fact.

When no one was watching, Fazari slipped his hand into Aerilyn's, his warm fingers closing around hers as he leaned a few centimeters toward her. His eyes remained on Kampf, though he was careful not to stare. The young Arab now, finally, appeared closer to thirty or thereabouts. The addition of a beard had been a good investment in first impressions.

Jelisaveta had hardly moved in her seat, not once spoken to draw attention to herself in the atrium, though Fazari had seen her enter a room and command the attention of every soul inside by her mere presence without uttering a single word. He did not know how she did it. She pressed her hand over her suit jacket, smoothing the wrinkles with a firm stroke, though she did not turn to watch Galdámez standing behind her as he spoke. She allowed his words to project over her head without visible expression, pressing her lips together and finally, leaving her hands resting over her knees.

Jelisaveta's eyes flickered between Regievko and Kampf, her lips drawing into a wider line, her eyebrows increasing the curve of their arch. With one finger, she rubbed the side of her gold wedding band, feeling the familiar engraved lettering. One side in Cyrillic script, the other in Latin. Intertwined, overlapping, mirror images yet diametrically opposed and irreconcilable but for the brief contact that they made in passing. Much like the two men she now observed before her. The Colonel who refused to introduce herself that way now seemed almost bored... until the smallest hint of a smile began to creep into the corner of her lips. Fazari caught this strange expression, but he found himself without the faintest idea of what it meant.

It was overcast the day their shuttle arrived on Niihama, its silver fins painted with the Terran seal slipping in and out of view among the hovering gray clouds like an elusive bird of prey gliding in silence among the heavens to look for some prey among the city spires below on the Taiyou homeworld. When word had arrived that Terra’s Dragon was alive, if not quite well, and had been retrieved among the prisoners freed from Ragnaar Anchorage, it had been as if the entire Terran fleet had been infused with a burst of new energy and stricken with a newer, more powerful thirst for vengeance. For Drulović! had been the fleet’s rallying cry in the weeks since the receipt of the Aschen video, and For Drulović! was shouted with greater strength and fury when Terran marines led assaults against Aschen outposts by the Azrican Corridor.

She deserved no less than the best welcoming party. Both of the TNG’s prime ministers, former and present, had boarded the shuttle along with Nenad Drulović and Ahmad Fazari, the present director of the TIB. They had made the journey in near silence, save for perfunctory interruptions about inane and vapid topics that lasted only a few minutes at a time, before finally approaching the spinning Taiyou capital. Once they had arrived on-world, they were escorted from the landing pad toward the Imperial Palace. Ahmad craned his neck backward, squinting through narrowed eyes at the tallest parts of the angled roof where the palace’s lines were stark against the sky. “You can’t see the sun,” Nenad muttered, struggling a bit to keep up with his younger companions and nearly tripping over himself along the stone walkway toward the doors.

Galdamez shrugged, adjusting his glasses and the lapels on his suit jacket before running his finers through his hair. “It’s overcast. No different from plenty of days in Wing City. I’d just be happy we’re going to get to see her.” He furrowed his brows, trying to hide the smile that was playing at the edges of his chapped lips.

One of the other doors opened, and Jelisaveta appeared, approaching the group. Ahmad nodded toward her, and Jelisaveta offered a hand toward the white-haired Cranford, who was dressed in a long, dark woolen coat with brass buttons. Instead, Cranford reached for her and wrapped the thin, lanky woman in an embrace. “It’s good to see you, Colonel Dvorak,” he said, patting Jelisaveta’s back. “Have you been to see your mother?”

“She’s in the best hospital on Niihama,” replied the middle-aged woman, removing herself delicately from Cranford’s embrace as she brushed her hair over her shoulders. “But let’s go. The Emperor is waiting.” She gestured with a jerk of her head toward the palace doors, and they fell into silence, approaching the palace. “The throne room’s not a long walk. Only a few minutes, I think.”

Galdamez, Jelisaveta, and Ahmad knelt easily on the red cushions, their knees sinking slowly into them, while Cranford and Nenad had visible difficulties with kneeling, taking longer to accomplish the same task. Jelisaveta reached for her father's arm steadying him as he knelt on his cushion. When the food arrived, she reached with long, narrow fingers for some of the Taiyou delicacies before them.

"I would humbly ask, Tenno Heika, why it is you insist that Arianne should remain in your care rather than return to her own people?" Nenad asked, smoothing the wrinkles from his dress shirt before reaching for a few bits of fish and rice on the tables in front of the Terrans. Galdamez shot the man a sharp look, his own eyes narrowing at the old man.

"I understand that the Director has likely been through significant trauma, and that your world has much to offer in security and stability for her as she recovers, Tenno Heika," said Galdamez, maintaining an even tone while avoiding making further eye contact with Drulovic's ex-husband.

Cranford shook his head. "She's been through enough," he said. "I don't see why she can't return. The strain of treatment could prove too much for her." He coughed, clearing his throat, and watched the Emperor's feet, avoiding meeting his eyes. "I don't doubt that you mean the best, but I'm just not sure she can take much more."

"Technically speaking," said Galdamez between bites of some type of sushi, "Drulovic resigned from service a few hours before Malijin and Guzman's rump Parliament surrendered to the Aschen. She's no longer in a position to make that choice, Ed. It's not only for national security; it's for her own good."

"Technically speaking," Cranford retorted, "all of us resigned from service a few hours before the bastards did it. Yet here we kneel."

"Please," said Jelisaveta, raising a hand. "Please. My mother is a strong woman. She's been through more than I can imagine, and I have no doubt that she will acclimate to appropriate treatment. I have an idea of what they've been doing to her for the last almost two years, and she's going to need the kind of support she'll only be able to get here on Niihama if any of us, her included, want her to overcome what they've done. We can't offer that kind of help in the fleet, and Tenno Heika is right -- we can't go back to Terra. Any of us. Including my mother."

"I'm not so certain about that, actually," said Nenad, shaking his head. "I'm not sure if she can handle it. She's never handled containment or authority well." Ahmad nodded to that, the faint hint of a smile appearing around his lips as the old man spoke.

The decidedly unremarkable hovercar bearing Ahmad and Aerilyn Fazari arrived outside the gates, as the Arab man, now aged visibly so that he seemed closer to his age than his previously youthful appearance might have suggested -- likely a result of the recent war -- stepped from the vehicle and opened the door for his spouse, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He had eschewed the formal tuxedo that most of the human men were wearing in favor of a simple dark suit and subdued cranberry tie.

"I won't lie, Aerilyn," he said. "It's probably the first time in a while that I've been to a party quite like this. Maybe ten years or more." He laughed a bit, quietly, nervously, offering the brown-haired woman his soft palm to take.

Behind them, in a nearly identical hovercar, a driver in a plain black smock opened the door for an older Black man with thin, gray hair, now almost entirely white, as the engine quietly hummed. "Thank you," said Jamal Morrison Lebrun, blinking slowly at the driver as the mechanized lift lowered, allowing him to wheel onto the path leading directly to the door. He was followed moments later by an old, fair-skinned woman with sharply cut dark brown hair -- by all accounts, artificially colored -- who gripped the driver's hand with an iron grasp as she followed her companion.

"I'm afraid I find these affairs distasteful, Mr. Lebrun," said Arianne Drulović, with evident disdain in her otherwise businesslike tone. Standing, she was barely taller than Lebrun in his powered wheelchair. The older woman seemed distinctly out of place, rather underdressed, and perhaps too somber, in her plain black suit and dark teal scarf, with only her familiar saint's medallion hanging about her neck.

Lebrun gave a small, jerking motion of the head, glancing momentarily at the Intelligence Director. "There's good food and wine, Arianne. Enjoy yourself. You deserve some fun once in a while." He wheeled toward the door, careful to maintain a slow enough pace for Drulović to follow, leaning heavily on a plain wooden cane as she walked, a limp quite evident in her movements.

"I'd rather be at home with a good book and a cup of tea, alone," she replied, her voice tinged with bitterness. She eyed Lebrun's pressed white shirt collar and perfectly aligned bowtie. "I'm surprised you managed to find a tuxedo for this, I'll admit."

Ahmad laughed a bit, closing his hand over Aerilyn's against his arm, and gave her a comforting squeeze. "I, uh, yeah. I'm really not great at these kinds of things. Give me a good old-fashioned con and a hotel full of geeks anytime." He rolled his eyes, his smile wavering for a moment as they crossed the threshold into the entryway, accosted almost at once by the music and animated chatter of the other guests. Ahmad squinted his eyes, nearly squeezing them shut against the suddenly blinding flashes as a few of the camerapeople snapped a series of photographs in rapid succession. "Ah, shit," he mumbled.

"Aerilyn, Rubano; Rubano, Aerilyn," Ahmad said, incredibly pleased with the fact that he'd managed to avoid stammering at all in making the introduction as he gestured between the Center-Rightist Chairman and his spouse. "I'm, uh, I'm just here for the, uh, for the food is all. Invitation arrived earlier in the week, and thought maybe, maybe it might be good to get out of the a -- house for a bit." He offered a quick smile that barely hid his near-cringe. "And, yeah, we thought maybe it'd be a good idea to, ah, to come with the Director. She's right -- " He quickly twisted his head to catch sight of the older woman trailing behind as Lebrun wheeled farther into the festivities.

Ahmad grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, ah, we're just going to be going now," he said, urging Aerilyn to follow him after Rubano and praying he wouldn't have to speak to the damned reporter. Oh Allah, protect me from open-ended questions that I can't produce answers to within a socially acceptable amount of time. He could already hear his imam laughing at him for what must have been a ludicrous, spur of the moment pleading. "Thank you, Minister," he added, already flushing at the realization that this reaction was quite a bit delayed.

This was weird. Everything about this goddamned request. Ahmad Fazari didn't like it one bit. Then again, he rarely did, not when the old woman sent him on these ill-explained errands with very precise instructions. He wasn't her special assistant anymore, but her deputy director. Which either meant that she now thought him mostly useless (a sobering proposition) or that she trusted him and him alone with whatever task he'd been entrusted to carry out, only hoping that at least this time, it wouldn't result in criminal charges.

It was about eleven in the evening, and Ahmad stepped outside the Bureau's old headquarters building inside Fort Veritas, looking to his left. About three miles down the road, where the droll barracks buildings sat, was his destination. He held a thermos sealed tightly, and a small envelope sealed in antique style with wax. This was absurd. But it was what the director had asked of him, and so he would do it.

Ahmad considered walking the distance, then decided against it. Not as cold as it was now that temperatures had dropped for the night. He climbed in his car and drove the three miles, parking very illegally by one of the barracks. (It wasn't like the base police were going to do anything about it. Probably.)

Upon entering, it was easy to figure out where a certain Chiss admiral was staying, because of the special guards stationed outside a door that in all other respects was completely unremarkable, as plain and austere as every other fixture and furnishing in the place. Ahmad swallowed, then approached.

"Excuse me... I'm looking for Admiral Thrawn. Can I go in?"

For a moment, the Guards were silent, turning their heads towards the man who approached them. Their H.U.D's did their job in identifying him, and they nodded. The one on the right side of the door pressed the button, and the door slid open. Thrawn's cell was neatly kept, but their was coming rather stale. The room was filled with small holographic projections of art, a holo-communicator set on the table and projecting them as best it could. Thrawn sat in the center, staring at each of the pieces of art. Even a piece of music played dimly.

"Good morning. To what do I owe this visitation?" Thrawn asked, blinking, and turning his bright red eyes to the man entering. "Tell, me, Deputy Director Ahmad. What can you gleam from this painting?" he asked, shifting the projector to zoom in and solely display a single piece of art from the Imperium of Man.

Ahmad stepped into the room, bewildered momentarily at Thrawn's peculiar assortment of possessions. He and the old woman were not too far off in their affections and eccentricities, though Ahmad certainly hadn't been expecting, well, this when he'd headed here. Then again, he supposed he hadn't expected much in this vein of idiosyncrasy the first time he'd met her either.

When Thrawn addressed him, Ahmad turned his attention to the painting indicated, unsure where this was going. Some kind of bizarre test, no doubt.

"It's... It's from somewhere in the Imperium of Man," Ahmad volunteered, squinting at it. "I'm not really sure what else I'm supposed to know? Um... Why are you showing me this?" This was so far outside his wheelhouse.

Thrawn considered Ahmad's reaction to seeing the painting for a moment before nodding. "It is indeed from the Imperium of Man. From art, I can gain details about a people that many others could not from years of observation. I merely wished to see if you could garner anything from it." Thrawn reached over, and turned off the holo projector, standing before the man who had entered his cell. He was in a more relaxed wear, his boots neatly placed off to the side, and wearing his trousers and undershirt for the moment. Despite this, he still looked more dignified than many others in the military while they were in full uniform.

"Now then, as I was saying... to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" he asked carefully. Those glowing red eyes taking the man in with measured respect and suspicion.

Eyebrows raised a moment, Ahmad considered Thrawn before him. "Ah... Um. Okay. Well, I haven't really ever studied art or culture that much," he said, quickly adding, "not that I think it's not important. My background is definitely much more firmly in the science realm, so I know I tend to be more ignorant of, er, cultural things. Everything outside geek culture, that is."

Ahmad glanced at the now deactivated holovid projector then looked back at Thrawn. "So anyway, I'm here because the TIB Director asked me to bring you these." He juggled the still-warm thermos and the envelope, eventually just offering both to the admiral. "That's some of her fresh brewed tea, and, well, the letter is for you too."

He looked decidedly more casual than his counterpart, wearing well-loved jeans and a t-shirt with a logo for an obscure video game, under a hastily selected blazer (for the semblance of vague professionalism), and worn sneakers chosen for comfort and practicality. Sometimes, some of the soldiers on base mistook him for someone's kid.