Ketsurui Yuumi took in the appearance of the conference table one last time.
The delegations for the nations for the third International Relations Conference were going to arrive within the hour. The conference room, near the center of Pisces Station, was round, walled with blue-grey starship paneling that seemed to soak up the white, natural lighting beamed down from black-rimmed lights in the ceiling. The thickly carpeted floor also was a Star Army blue-grey, cascading down the sloping circle outside the wooden floor that contained the main table.
That table was about 15 meters in diameter, built of dark-stained, smoothed oak free of knots and blemishes, and contained terminals and projectors for the delegates and their staff. A beverage dispenser was set behind each "area," with simple glass cups to catch one of the many liquids the dispenser could produce from a drip-spout. Each area also had projected above it a kind of electric-blue placeholder for each delegation.
A larger volumetric projector was at the center of the table, set into the massive, globe-like post that was between the table and the curling, reaching arms that gave the table balance.
The chairs were black, cushioned and very adjustable.
No banners. No streamers. No decorations of any sort were found anywhere on the station, outside of volumetric panels informing people where to go and providing information. Star Army personnel, hand-picked by her most valuable staffer, acted as escorts and guides.
Ketsurui Yuumi meant business. If the delegates wanted to party, they could go back to their rooms — set up with the comforts of home for each delegation. When the delegates and their staff stepped in this room, there would be no missteps. It would not be something publicly broadcast, though reporters could hound the delegates all they wanted in the public areas of the station.
The madness and bombastaic foolishness of the past two conferences would not happen on her watch. There were goals to meet. Goals that would guarantee, for now, the safety of the Empire's people. She could suffer the poking and jabbing of politicians who wanted to kick Yamatai when it was down. It was nothing compared to what she already had withstood, in what seemed like a lifetime ago.
One last look at the table. Yuumi nodded and turned away, walking out into the concourse, the blood red of her business suit — her personal "power suit" — catching a little of the duller blue-white light above.
With a thought, she engaged the long, flesh-toned mic that came from the earpiece in her right ear. "Everything in place?"
"Yes Premier," 33-year-old Tanaka Miki, Yuumi's chief deputy minister, said from her position near where the Nepleslian delegation was set to dock. "Nervous?"
Yuumi made sure the clips were holding her hair bangs back just so; she wanted to present an "open face" to the other delegations. "Immensely. I hear the Iroma delegate is a chauvinist sex pot. At least he's not Vanderhuge. That man makes me weak in the knees. I don't know how I'll ever make it through the introductions without dropping to the floor in an orgasmic puddle."
"Just think of Yamamoto," Miki replied, referring to Yuumi's middle-aged, balding Yamataian man, who was assistant deputy minister. "He's a cold shower in a suit."
"Hey, salarymen can be sexy too," Yuumi said as she walked to the Gartagen's arrival dock. "And he rides an airbike."
"Must be the airbike," Miki said, hints of laughter in her voice. "So does that mean I can have the Gartagen delegate? I don't need sex. I just want to touch his skin alllll day."
"I'll trade you to him for a barrel of retsina," Yuumi dryly replied. "You're probably not worth two barrels."
"See if I give you flowers on your birthday," Miki replied. A brief silence followed. "You think it will work out?"
"If it doesn't, we're gonna have a tough row to hoe. Keep your eyes on the prize."
"Yes ma'am," Miki said.
The waiting for arrivals began.
The delegations for the nations for the third International Relations Conference were going to arrive within the hour. The conference room, near the center of Pisces Station, was round, walled with blue-grey starship paneling that seemed to soak up the white, natural lighting beamed down from black-rimmed lights in the ceiling. The thickly carpeted floor also was a Star Army blue-grey, cascading down the sloping circle outside the wooden floor that contained the main table.
That table was about 15 meters in diameter, built of dark-stained, smoothed oak free of knots and blemishes, and contained terminals and projectors for the delegates and their staff. A beverage dispenser was set behind each "area," with simple glass cups to catch one of the many liquids the dispenser could produce from a drip-spout. Each area also had projected above it a kind of electric-blue placeholder for each delegation.
A larger volumetric projector was at the center of the table, set into the massive, globe-like post that was between the table and the curling, reaching arms that gave the table balance.
The chairs were black, cushioned and very adjustable.
No banners. No streamers. No decorations of any sort were found anywhere on the station, outside of volumetric panels informing people where to go and providing information. Star Army personnel, hand-picked by her most valuable staffer, acted as escorts and guides.
Ketsurui Yuumi meant business. If the delegates wanted to party, they could go back to their rooms — set up with the comforts of home for each delegation. When the delegates and their staff stepped in this room, there would be no missteps. It would not be something publicly broadcast, though reporters could hound the delegates all they wanted in the public areas of the station.
The madness and bombastaic foolishness of the past two conferences would not happen on her watch. There were goals to meet. Goals that would guarantee, for now, the safety of the Empire's people. She could suffer the poking and jabbing of politicians who wanted to kick Yamatai when it was down. It was nothing compared to what she already had withstood, in what seemed like a lifetime ago.
One last look at the table. Yuumi nodded and turned away, walking out into the concourse, the blood red of her business suit — her personal "power suit" — catching a little of the duller blue-white light above.
With a thought, she engaged the long, flesh-toned mic that came from the earpiece in her right ear. "Everything in place?"
"Yes Premier," 33-year-old Tanaka Miki, Yuumi's chief deputy minister, said from her position near where the Nepleslian delegation was set to dock. "Nervous?"
Yuumi made sure the clips were holding her hair bangs back just so; she wanted to present an "open face" to the other delegations. "Immensely. I hear the Iroma delegate is a chauvinist sex pot. At least he's not Vanderhuge. That man makes me weak in the knees. I don't know how I'll ever make it through the introductions without dropping to the floor in an orgasmic puddle."
"Just think of Yamamoto," Miki replied, referring to Yuumi's middle-aged, balding Yamataian man, who was assistant deputy minister. "He's a cold shower in a suit."
"Hey, salarymen can be sexy too," Yuumi said as she walked to the Gartagen's arrival dock. "And he rides an airbike."
"Must be the airbike," Miki said, hints of laughter in her voice. "So does that mean I can have the Gartagen delegate? I don't need sex. I just want to touch his skin alllll day."
"I'll trade you to him for a barrel of retsina," Yuumi dryly replied. "You're probably not worth two barrels."
"See if I give you flowers on your birthday," Miki replied. A brief silence followed. "You think it will work out?"
"If it doesn't, we're gonna have a tough row to hoe. Keep your eyes on the prize."
"Yes ma'am," Miki said.
The waiting for arrivals began.