Last week's b7friday topic was advanced technology. 500 words, set in season 2 during Gambit.
Krantor had said two hours and it was almost time to contact him. There did not however appear to be a comms device in Room 100.
"Lost something, ma'am?"
"I need to call Krantor."
"Och, just use the mirror."
"The mirror?" Servalan suppressed her puzzlement and sat down in front of it. It was, like much else here, overly ornate. Really, they could have done with some restraint in their décor. None of the garish colours in the room complemented either each other or, unfortunately, her scarlet dress. Servalan preferred simple, austere surroundings; they allowed one to dazzle more effectively. "Krantor," she said, hoping the thing was voice-activated. Her image stared imperiously back.
"Ye'll need to program it, Supreme Commander." said Jarriere. "Like I already did with the lights. Ye can use a word or a gesture." He demonstrated. "Set lights on--" he clapped. "Set lights off." He clicked his fingers.
Well, his knowledge of the unFederated worlds was one of the reasons she had hired the explosive expert. "A simple switch would seem easier." She frowned at the mirror. "Very well. Set call Krantor---" she flapped her right hand, languidly limp-wristed.
Jarriere cleared his throat apologetically, "Ye've programmed it, but now ye'll have to--"
"When I'm ready, Jarriere." Servalan said with dignity. She repeated the gesture and Krantor's face appeared, not in a flat, faded image as on a Federation screen, but in perfect 3D. It was only her many years of Space Fleet politics that kept her face impassive.
"Ah, Supreme Commander, how prompt you are," said Krantor. "Such an admirable military virtue. The matter of which we spoke earlier..."
"Get to the point, Krantor," said Servalan, and was gratified at his affronted look.
When Krantor waved his own hand and the mirror was once again what it seemed, Servalan sent Jarriere to await the delivery of Travis so that he wouldn't see her tentatively poke the surface. It felt just like a mirror and the reverse side showed nothing either. Obscurely disturbed, Servalan got up and paced. What did it matter if the Federation had neither the technology nor the innovative flair of a tawdry resort planet? The Federation was power.
She stood still and thought of Federation Day when section after section of troopers would march past the Presidential Palace, each leg in precise step, each helmeted head snapping in unison towards the President and high command as they passed. She remembered the huge plasma cannon at the end of the parade, dark, threatening, and so massive she would feel the rumbling through the floor of the balcony, and suppressed the unwelcome thought that the design had not changed in centuries; even Lindor could outgun them one-to-one. But what did that matter when the Federation had the numbers? She smiled and imagined the impressive massed might of a legion swooping down on this little planet. She could wipe them out just like that.
She clicked her fingers and the lights went out.