Meet the Press, Part 1

Posted on 31 Jan 2013 @ 7:35pm by Raifi Zaren & Trija Natyal
Edited on on 31 Jan 2013 @ 9:24pm

3,213 words; about a 16 minute read

Mission: Episode 03 - Frontier
Location: Starbase 103/San Francisco
Timeline: MD -02: 1200 hrs

[ON]

"'The Ferengi economy was once called a post-Federation-era miracle due to its rapid economic growth with relatively equal income distribution,' - true - 'but now - thanks to the spectacularly failed attempt at alliance with the Federation,' - spectacularly failed; really? - 'they have undergone a sea change financial crisis-'"

"Zaren."

"'While some' - unnamed - 'quarters are pointing to problems of careless capital account liberalization and financial globalization, archaeoeconomists and sources in the Ferengi government consider the old development model based on strong government financial control and the lack of economic support from the Federation to be the main cause of the crisis.' You couldn't find a current economist? 'Since the alliance has failed, the Grand Nagus has introduced a neoliberal economic restructuring together with all-out financial opening, and there appears to be a great deal of excitement over these new changes from Ferengi expatriates.' Obviously. 'An archaeoeconomist at the Bajoran Institute of Sciences has called this restructuring plan one that will liberate the Ferengi economy entirely from dependence on the Federation' - Thank you for your competence, Bajor.'"

"Zaren, are you listening to me?"

Eyes still on his PADD, Raifi Zaren lifted a deep bowl from the desk and slurped a 'mocha' that was ninety percent pure melted chocolate and ten percent coffee. Despite the beverage, and probably due to his hobbies of fencing and que'el quin, he was a lean man, rather gaunt, and looked like he would have been more at home either on a lawless, unnamed world taking advantage of shopkeepers, or on a runway on Cthtara Prime. He set the bowl down. "'Still.'"

"Zaren-"

"'Still!' he says. 'There is an argument to be made' - by whom? - 'that a reform this drastic in the financial sector of the latinum-dependent Ferengrinar may actually destabilize the region in the long run.' Oh, Freskill. Come on. 'Moreover, instability following in the wake of the Dominion War highlighted a currency depreciation that was already underway and still has not been adequately addressed.'" He sat back. "Because telling the universe that the decisions of the Grand Nagus are sending one of the Federation's strongest and most widespread economies hurtling towards imminent financial ruin is really going to help the situation," he muttered.

"I thought Truth was your guiding light."

"Freya," he greeted the woman in the doorway. "I didn't see you."

She rolled sloe-black eyes at him, "I've been talking to you for the last ten minutes."

"Truth is my guiding light. Unless it's baseless speculation that will do more harm than good and has no actual sources that can be referenced. And knowing Friskell, he just threw the tag ending on for ratings. He'll learn, eventually, that this job is about more than a console upgrade and glamor." He pushed away from the desk, "Ten minutes? Really? Did you say anything interesting?"

"I try never to say anything interesting; if I did, someone might actually make me work for a living. You've got a call," she told him. "From one of the Starfleet ships."

"Which one?"

"Vulture... Vitriol..." she shrugged. "Do you want me to patch it through? Or do you want to reread that story about the economy that wouldn't die even though no one cares about it except the Ferengi?"

"I care about it," Zaren told her. He'd been working with Freya for the last two weeks, since his previous producer had taken maternity leave. She was smart, but her apathy grated his nerves; she was too young to be so disenchanted. "How can you not care about it?"

"Because it doesn't effect me whatsoever."

"Doesn't-" He pressed his fingers to his temples. "Doesn't effect you? Twenty percent of the shops on this station are run by Ferengi. The bar is run by Ferengi. At least half the transport ships that dock here are run by Ferengi. The state of their economy effects you in almost every way."

"And if it weren't for them, we'd have Starfleet," Freya deadpanned. "And Bajoran transports. And Terran merchants. Or we wouldn't have merchants, because we don't actually need merchants."

"Don't-?" Zaren looked at her, mildly horrified.

"Someone would fill in. Anyway, whatever happens to their..." she waved a hand vaguely, "'capitalist utopia' or whatever, it isn't as though the entire race will be wiped off the map."

"Look. There's the slave trade around Orion, which is..." he wiggled his hand in a 'not great' gesture. "There's piracy throughout the Cardassian Union and the Romulan Empire. Again, questionable. There's a smattering of corporations run by politically motivated Federation citizens-"

"Like your family."

He ignored that. "But then there's Ferengrinar. Infatuation, justification, appropriation, obsession, and resale. Pride and bastion of intergalactic expansion and cooperation for the sake of-"

"Latinum."

"Maybe, but they have fight and spirit and persistence and-"

"Greed."

"Yes, greed, but interesting greed."

"Because they play tongo."

"They invented tongo, but that's beside the point." He cocked a brow at her, "Was it the Venture?"

"Yes. That was it."

"I'll take it in here." He looked back at the article as she meandered out of his little shuttle. It wasn't much, but it got him where he needed to go and if he needed quicker transport, he could always catch a lift in the hanger of one of the larger, faster ships. In this shuttle, he slept and completed his reports and traveled to the next story. Time and again.

Of course people would care about the potential collapse of the Ferengi economy. The backlash would be phenomenal. As his vidscreen winked on, Zaren found himself grinning at a familiar sharp-toothed Ferengi. "Akre! Amo kino ku?"

"I have some information you might find interesting."

"What's that?"

"New star system discovered."

Zaren paused in the act of shuffling through a neatly stacked pile of PADDs. "Come again?"

"They've been exploring the northern sector block beyond the Typhon Expanse and-"

"Who else have you told?"

Akre eyed him, coyly, "Those seventy bars of latinum, I owed you?"

"Debt cleared."

"Then you're my one and only."

"And your ears are gorgeous." He scanned through the LCARS system. "You're on the USS Venture; still making those garish suits?"

"Where there's a market, there's a way."

"What's the nearest starbase to you?"

"The word is we're going to Starbase 185 to meet up with a Planetary Science Division vessel."

"Better and better. Akre, I owe you a drink."

"When."

Zaren laughed, "Soon. Very soon." He noticed the time on his PADD, "I've got to contact the network. I'll let you know when I'm on my way." He shut off the vidlink, calling, "Freya, see if you can't get me a log on whether or not a Planetary Science Division vessel is being sent out to the northern sector, to meet up with the USS Venture," and opened a contact to the main FNS network branch.

Banthen Hargraves appeared on the vidscreen, elegant and tanned, in a dark blue silken blazer. His voice was coaxing and smooth, but under his affable and peacock-like exterior, he was as obsequious as they came. Which likely explained how he'd talked his way into becoming the head of the Sol FNS anchor system without ever having actually broken a fresh story. "Ah, Raifi. Good to see your spotted hide again," the Terran cooed, slicking back his thick black coif. "How's the middle of nowhere treating you?"

"One-o-three isn't the middle of nowhere, Banthen; it's just not Central."

"Still working that Ferengi economy story?"

"It looks like I should be, but no, I'm on the refugees."

"Oh, the Romulans."

"Yes, the Romulans," Zaren cupped the bowl of chocolate in his hands. "When are we on?"

"Ten, nine-"

Zaren sipped the chocolate and set the bowl aside, "I've got a good lead. After we wrap the segment."

Banthen's smile brightened, if that were possible, as the small light on the bottom corner of the screen flashed green.

"Two, one-"

"This is Raifi Zaren coming to you from Starbase One-o-Three, where still more displaced Romulan citizens are arriving following Hobus's supernova early last year. Here's the latest news on the situation: the operation in refugee relocation to the MS 1 Colony was supposed to target and assist sixty-thousand Romulan refugees; a population comprised of women, men, and children. The Federation promised to provide assistance to all refugees to cover their basic sentientarian needs, and Starfleet, specifically, was supposed to address the needs of groups with special conditions according to intergalactic standards. Moreover, the operation was supposed to ensure synergy with the ongoing program interventions in the local community to maximize outcomes and ensure acceptance and engagement of local communities in the refugee operation. Starfleet's presence there also would have encouraged the citizens of Bolarus to get actively involved in the rescue mission. As it stands so far, the humble colony population of MS 1 has been coordinating the entire operation for the refugees by themselves for the last two months, and have, according to refugee sources, been giving very little attention to their own needs in favor of looking after these displaced Romulan citizens. That's an especial concern now when they are affected by the current drought. Here at one-o-three, there are refugees who have nowhere to go and no contacts anywhere else lining up in bedraggled shuttles, waiting for a dock so they can get a safe space to do basic repair work. These are shuttles that can't get much farther than this, and New Berlin isn't even considering opening up their immigration policy." He glanced at the bottom of the screen, "That's all for now, from Starbase One-o-Three. This is Raifi Zaren, signing off. Clio Edwards will now take you to the Parisses Squares Championship Finals. Clio-"

"And we're cut," Banthen's producer's voice came from just behind him, then he leaned forward as the light blinked to red to show they were off. "Lead, you were saying?"

"So you were listening," Zaren grinned as Freya handed him a PADD. "Put me through to AP Trija Natyal, would you?"

"Natyal isn't in house right now. You can tell me. It's not like I'll-"

"-steal this one the way you stole the last two leads I slipped you? No hard feelings, Banthen," he said, because honestly he didn't mind, "but this one: I want. Just patch me through." He smiled, waiting.

"The heads aren't going to like that last segment."

"I didn't like the fact that the story was there to tell," Zaren commiserated.

The Terran shook his head and pushed a button, transferring Zaren to the AP he'd requested. As the vidscreen reawakened, the Trill leaned closer with a widening grin. "Trija Natyal, you minx, you've gone blue."

The Betazoid on the other end of the screen rolled her eyes in an amused, motherly sort of fondness. "Oh, can it, Zaren. What do you want now?" she asked the Trill on vidcomm in front of her. Her private home office behind her spoke volumes, if not her hair and plentiful accessories. Pearl earrings, embroidered clothing, and something halfway resembling a tiara resting atop the mountain of blue curls on her head. Royal paintings and tapestries adorned the walls, and her desk was spread over with dozens of trinkets that probably cost a small fortune. Her dark black eyes were calculating as ever. "Let me guess. That silly Romulan crap you've been spouting for the last two and a half months." These weren't guesses, but rather the words of a woman who knew her reporters well. Zaren was one of the few trained in the field, even if he drove her up the wall half the time. The sad thing was that she was actually considering it. Zaren was fully qualified and trained to go out and get the stories, on starships to boot, with the experience to match. He would be useful to putting out the word, but she wasn't sure it was the word she wanted. Starfleet needed press. Good press. Recruitment-style press. She wanted big holovids with buff, handsome young men pointing fingers down and proclaiming in heroic, soothing tones that Starfleet was the answer! You can believe in the Federation! We want you! Zaren? Not her guy. She blinked at him lazily.

"Not crap, which you very well know," Zaren chided. "Those refugees have gone two months without assistance; the colony is in overflow and the drought there is making survival without essential replicators unsupportable-" He held up his hands. "Not my point. I've got a lead." He looked at her seriously, "And I want it, Trija. This is a good one."

She started upward, straightening her posture and pointing a finger at him. "Everybody knows that the Romulans are boring, Zaren. No one cares. What's this lead?" Trija asked skeptically. "Because if you go traipsing off to the galaxy to only the Deities know where and come back with more protestors at my front gate, I'll hang you up by your spotted little neck!" she huffed in exasperation.

"Someone needs to-" He stopped and restarted. "What if I told you that I have it on very good authority that Starfleet has discovered an entirely new solar system?"

The blue-headed producer almost perked her ears up. Almost. Her eyebrows drew together as she worried an earring between her thumb and index. "Whose good authority? Don't come to me with some half-cocked Ferengi bar trader, Zaren. And what does this have to do with the Federation?" she asked keenly, eying him like a hawk unsure whether to nurture her hatchling along or kick it off of a cliff.

"It came from a very old friend, who happens to be a Ferengi tailor aboard the USS Venture, but-" he continued before she could shut him out. "I ran a data quest and I've got two guys on Vega IX saying a Nova-class just shipped out from their docking area to meet up with the Venture. Planetary Sciences Division. Which means..." he led her. "New planets... life sustainable..."

Planetary Sciences Division. The name rung a bell. A big one. A gigantic, lumbering church bell. Five church bells in concert. You could almost see the wheels turning in her head as she processed this. "You think the Federation wants these planets," she parsed out in her flat tones.

"What I think is that they want to see new colonies out there," Zaren said. "Never before seen, glorious, inhabitable, life sustaining planets," he wooed her. "Tell me that's not something you want to see for yourself."

Trija uttered a long sigh. "And you're telling me that's the angle you're going to cover?" She didn't believe it for a second. Zaren always had something coy up his sleeve, one way or another. That eye was just telling her so, even from across space, with it's eerie, unmoving stare. "Federation colonies," she repeated again. "What's the name of this Nova-class, anyway?"

Zaren double checked his PADD. "The Galileo," he told her. "I don't know what angle I'm going to cover. I do know that getting coverage of newly discovered planets, moons, and stars will shortlist you for executive producer."

"You're not going up there by yourself," Trija laid out her boundaries immediately as she was prone to do. "You'll take a team with you and --" she stopped, mid-speech, mouth hanging open for a minute. She tapped one of her long lacquered nails against her chin. "Wait a damn minute, Zaren. Don't think you can pull one over on me! I am the Third Daughter of the Thirteenth House of Betazed, young man," she drew herself up proudly, "And I'll have you know that you are not going to the USS Galileo to get some crackpot --"

Zaren lifted his brows. "Trija," he soothed. "I'm not pulling one over on you. I came to you first, didn't I? This is a fresh find."

Trija deflated just a little. "You mean to tell me you know nothing about this crazed Vulcan idiot everyone's whining about? The guy is off of his rocker, Zaren. You have to promise me you aren't going to go chasing ghosts. Put Romulus on hold. If this is legitimate, it could be a huge deal for us. For you, too," she reminded him.

"Vulcan?" Zaren wondered aloud. "No; I want to see this system. I want to tell people about it. I want you to run the show. I put myself entirely in your hands. You're the best. A story like this needs the best." Although the fact that she was concerned about him meeting someone on the ship... that didn't do anything to dissuade him from his course of action.

Another eyeroll. But he was right, in a way. They couldn't pass this up. It was a decent story. Morale booster. People needed to see the Federation doing something good for a change, and the Frontier or... whatever... was the way to do it. "Call Fenta. Get a cameraguy, I'll be there in two days." She hoped she wasn't going to regret this.

"Fenta?" Zaren straightened. "Trija, come on, I brought you this story. You're going to write me out?"

"Fenta. You want your story, Zaren, you'll bring her. I won't have you mess this up. This is the opportunity we have been waiting for, years in the making."

It was an opportunity he had waited three lifetimes for, but bringing that up was pointless. Jool Fenta. "She's-" he flexed his tongue against his lower lip. "Are you sure she's right for this kind of story? Trija, I promise you, I can handle this."

"She will bring in the ratings. That's what we need. She's an excellent reporter and she has a lot of gall. She will work with you on this. You can bring whoever you need for backup. This discussion is over, Raifi. I'll see you in two days." He wouldn't pass it up. Couldn't. And if he stepped over the line, at least Fenta was someone to buoy him. At least, she hoped. She leaned over and disconnected the system, fixing a curl atop her head. The man was going to kill her one day.

Zaren eyed the darkened vidscreen. She didn't trust him. That was unfortunate, but not something he could control. He'd wanted to give her an opportunity to see something magnificent. To open her mind and her soul up to a brand new perspective. And she was bringing armor against such a discovery in the form of Jool Fenta. Not that Fenta was an entirely displeasing woman. She had her points, she could be charming, and she was very... shiny. It wasn't his job to make this call. Trija knew that very well. What she had in her head about why, though, he couldn't fathom.

[TBC]

Raifi Zaren
FNN Journalist
Starbase 103
(pNPC Lilou Peers)

Trija Natyal
Assistant Producer, Federation Four Network
San Fransisco, Earth

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