A number of conversations that resulted from readers reacting to
"The Cotillion" got me off on this tangent.
“A long time ago I had a lady to
love…
She made me think of things I never thought of…
”Now she's gone and I'm on my own…”
- Graeham Goble
She said, "Tell me about the other women you've
loved."
Oh, Lord.
Now there's a
request that would give any man
pause… and I'm no exception.
In my experience, such conversations are fraught with pitfalls. I've found you
have to be extremely selective in
what you choose to reveal. Otherwise, you'll find yourself sleeping alone that
night… and, depending on the woman, probably for some time afterward.
I looked again at the one who'd asked the question,
though, and was immediately reassured. There was a tenderness in the expression
she wore; it told me her interest was a means to better knowing me—rather
than an expedition for ammunition to be used in later disputes.
Still, I proceeded cautiously… since, to be frank, I
wasn’t entirely certain whether knowing me better was conducive to our
continued relationship.
"There… haven't been as many as some might
think," I replied.
This observation, I was
dismayed to note, provoked a fit of giggles that was simultaneously delightful
and a little embarrassing. Her smile as she fell to her side on the bed was
teasing… but so beautiful and loving, I forgot my chagrin almost immediately.
"I
know that,
I pondered that for a moment… and decided it didn't
require a response.
That left the other question between us still.
"What would you like to know?" I finally
offered.
Her expression grew sober, as she gave that prudent
consideration. Finally, she declared, grinning, "I'd say, 'Everything,'
but I think that would make you even warier than you are now."
It's disconcerting for a man like me to have someone know my
moods and tendencies so well… and, clearly, she reveled in that advantage.
"Whatever makes you
comfortable—for now."
Unfortunately, I knew exactly
what she meant.
"Where do I begin?"
The question had been, in part, rhetorical… but my
companion's fondness for rhetoric was somewhat less than mine.
"Surprise me."
And so, I did.
"I'll tell you about the first woman I ever
loved."
She nodded sagely.
"Demora."
I arched a brow, pleased that I'd managed to accomplish
what she'd asked.
"No… before Demora."
We lay back on the bed, and she drew closer, snuggling to
my side with an enthusiasm that told me the woman I loved was looking forward
to an eloquent, extensive account.
"I'm trying to picture a logical young man setting
that aside and embracing passion…" and she smirked, "…but I’m not
having much luck."
In response to that, I pinched a particularly round
portion of her anatomy and she squealed in delighted protest. After a moment in
which I reminded her that ticklishness was a decided disadvantage in
close quarters, we settled down again.
"You cheat,"
she scolded.
"All starship captains do," I answered,
startling even myself. For a moment, we lay together silently.
Then, I began to speak.
"Her name was Angela… Angela Martine."
My companion frowned; the name had clearly touched
something in her memory.
"Wasn't she one of the first women to command a
starship?"
I nodded.
"USS Falcon… and the name suited the ship: She
was swift, pretty, and clever, just like her captain.
"It had been Angela who'd commissioned me via
subspace radio during Guenevere's encounter
with the Romulans—playing a hunch, she later told me. She'd been my mentor, my
friend, my commander."
"But…?"
I'd guessed that Parihn would quickly collate the facts,
and ask the proper question. She didn't disappoint me.
"…you were how old?"
"Eighteen, when I met her."
She searched my face.
"And when you became lovers?"
"Twenty-one."
Her eyes widened; I think she considered teasing me… but
then saw my face, and relented.
Softly, she asked, "And how much older was
Angela?"
"Forty-three years old when we had our first—and
only—night."
My eyes must have already been a bit distant; I don't know
how long we lay together like that before the woman I loved gently inquired, "What
happened?"
I told her a bit about the circumstances that had brought
us together… and, for me, it was like I had to live it
again.
She listened to my brief account.
"There'd been an… incident…
on Demeter III. Eight people had taken a shuttle down; we'd been the only two
who’d survived past the first moments, and had both been fairly certain we
wouldn't be leaving there alive.
"Let's just say we… expressed ourselves in
extremis. I… we…" My voice trailed off.
Parihn murmured, "Go on."
"Needless to say, we'd managed to escape… and then,
she'd had to deal with what we'd done—what she'd done. It wasn't 72
hours before she called me to her quarters.
"She was behind her desk. I thought that odd. While
it wasn't as if I spent a tremendous amount of time there, it was
uncharacteristic of her. Angela was a 'people' captain: She didn't stand on
ceremony, and I'd thought our friendship had deepened rather than lessened as a
result of our… indiscretion."
I watched my current lover's reaction carefully.
She followed along easily, absorbing what wasn't
said as easily as what was.
"That was the problem. You were in love with her… but
she'd decided an affair was a bad idea."
I nodded.
"She'd said, 'Sit down, Lieutenant.'
"We'd been close long before we'd been intimate, and
it had been quite some time since she'd called me by rank in private. I can't
say I liked the sound of it.
"'Angela?' I had always loved the sound of her name, but didn't much like
my tone as I said it now; my voice possessed a hint of emotion it never had
before.
"After the fact, I recognized it as desperation.
"'I've received orders for you, Lieutenant.
"'You'll report to the Academy for the upcoming term.
Starfleet's never much liked the idea of crewmen and NCO’s
receiving field commissions, and they're insisting that you get the training
every officer should have, if you're to retain your rank.'
"While I was attempting to fathom that, she
hit me with another spread.
"'The courier Iris will be here to ferry you
back…
"'…in seven hours.'
"I admit that I didn't react with the restraint and
equanimity I'd been taught.
"'I'm not going,' I
declared.
"She smiled at me; having lived now about as
long as she had then, I know it was a bittersweet one. In that moment,
though, I mistook it for pitying… or even condescending.
"'You have to go,' she told me. 'This isn't a request—from either side.'
"'But I… I thought… we'd be together…'
I found it interesting that the woman I loved now
was wearing almost the same expression as Angela had then… and, in that
instant of understanding, I loved them both even more than I had.
"I realize now that one of the reasons she was
sitting behind the desk was to avoid touching me—not because she didn't want
to, but because she did.
"I should have gone around it."
Parihn whispered, "Don't blame yourself.
You were young, and distraught. Ultimately, it wouldn't have made a
difference."
"It would have to me."
That truth was a powerful
one.
"Did you leave it like that?" she asked after a
moment.
"No," I admitted.
"It got worse."
"I pressed her. 'Why
are you letting this happen?'
"I can still see her face. She was trying not to cry…
and not having very much success. That poker face they talk about starship
commanders possessing had deserted her."
"'It's best for both of us,' she finally answered.
"For some reason, that made me angry.
"'How could you do this to me? You used me. I was just a warm body to you!'
"I thought she couldn't look at me; I know now it's
that she wouldn't.
"She murmured into her hands. 'You're
relieved of further responsibilities aboard Falcon. Go pack.
"'Dismissed.'"
***
I was very sorry I'd asked.
I'd taken our wonderful moment, his playful,
loving mood, and marred it with my incessant and, to be honest, unnecessary
curiosity. While the face he now wore—melancholy brooder—was part and parcel of
this man, I'd once seen entirely too much of it on a regular basis... and had
brought it back to the fore by forcing him to recount an unpleasant memory.
Yet something was nagging at me… and
instead of changing the subject, I pressed further.
"Did you ever see her
again?"
I knew immediately that had been a
silly question.
In his mind's eye, he was seeing her now.
"No," he replied. "I
went on to the Academy… and by the time I came up for breath, she'd left
Starfleet, married and was working on her second child."
"What about now?"
I'd definitely thrown him with that.
"I beg your pardon?"
"What about seeing her now?
Is she still alive? Does she live on Earth?"
"Parihn, I…" He faltered for a moment, then found his voice again.
"I'd never even considered it
until this moment."
What next came out of my mouth was
something I would have recalled given a moment's thought or consideration.
Of course, I've never been one to
think before speaking. It cramps my style, or lack thereof.
And so, I inquired, "Too busy
savoring your pain?"
He stiffened, recoiled… and nearly
withdrew.
I wouldn't have blamed him.
Then, as he had so often in the time
I'd known him,
"No doubt you're right."
He caressed my face, thumb brushing my
cheekbone, fingertips tracing along the line of my jaw. I closed my eyes and
turned into it, craving his touch as I always had.
I had him thinking, though.
"She'd be in her 14th decade,
Parihn. I doubt she…"
"Look at Dr. McCoy. And females
usually outlive males among you humans, Cicero.
"Isn't it worth an inquiry or
two?"
"Two" ended up being one
more than he needed.
"Computer… access Starfleet
Personnel database… current status and location of Martine, Angela, Fleet
Captain, serial number M-3455393."
In the moment the mainframe
percolated, I teased, "I'll wager you don’t have my serial number
memorized."
Without an instant's hesitation, he
replied, "V-7333432."
"Oh."
I nestled closer, and smiled.
Strange the things that make you feel
loved…
"Martine, Angela… retired. Current residence:
…and the
ones that scare the hell out of you.
"I'd like to come along and meet
her when you go, if that's OK; I'll know when to leave you alone." I
didn't bother with asking whether he was planning a visit; I knew it
wasn't even a matter of "if," now.
A moment later, he announced,
"We'll go today."
I was already in motion, halfway off
the bed and thinking about what I'd wear, Starfleet uniform or Orion garb (and
yes, we animal women actually do wear clothes on occasion), when I felt a strong
hand on my arm… and a thrilling, disorienting instant later, found myself back
on the bed—in a very compromising position.
"I said 'today,'" he
murmured.
"I didn't say 'now.'"
I'll add only two things about that:
One, we set out much later; and two, there were many positions…
…and no
compromising.
***
Rather than transporting down, I
suggested we use the
I wasn’t complaining, though. I love
to fly any chance I get.
In the shuttle bay, we found Sera
tinkering with the ship’s onboard computer system. When I indicated we needed
“As I recall, the last time you took her, Lieutenant Sticky Fingers,
I didn’t see either her or the stealth
technology you filched for weeks.”
I blushed and glanced back at
The next instant, I was shocked into a
lengthier silence.
“Don’t worry, Commander,” he told my
tormentor. “I’m going to take us
down.”
Sera had known Luciano
Mantovanni far longer than I had, but from her expression, this was a new one
on her, too.
Without another word, she turned back
to the open panel, offering, “Well, in that case, let me reinforce the
structural integrity field w–…”
“Commander.”
I suppressed a giggle as Sera flashed
him an over-the-shoulder grin.
“Sir?”
“Get out.”
She did, but not before regarding me
with a querulous expression that contained elements of both sincere amusement…
…and
genuine concern.
I entirely understood her feelings.
“I’ll handle it.”
I pondered this unprecedented behavior
for ten minutes, as he prepped the
It wasn’t exactly a smooth takeoff,
but I’d sat through worse, and as I watched him sweat and struggle to
accomplish what most first-year cadets do as a matter of course, it suddenly
came to me why I was watching instead of working.
He wants to be distracted. It lets him avoid thought
about what’s coming for a while longer... and flying down takes a lot longer than beaming down does.
Our speed, though within flight
parameters, seemed to me little better than a caravan crawl. At this rate, it
would take us an hour to reach
Abruptly, he said, “Now it’s your turn.”
Considering how slowly we were
traveling, he couldn’t leave me behind… but he’d certainly lost me with that demand.
“’My turn’
for what?”
I soon found out.
“Tell me something about your past—someone from your past.”
I was taken aback.
“I… well… that is…”
He chuckled. “Well, this is certainly spellbinding stuff, so
far, little bird.”
For a moment I was irritated, and
almost sniped at him. Then I recalled something my friend T’Vaar had told me a
few years ago, when I’d been inquiring into her
history with a little more enthusiasm than left her comfortable.
“Little sister,” she’d gently chastised. “Do not ask a question unless you would be willing to answer the same one.”
I’d forgotten that rule… or, rather,
ignored it.
It was time I paid the price for that.
I gave it some deep thought… took a
deep breath…
…and plunged into the deep end.
***
I was pleased when Parihn decided to
speak, for two reasons: One, I wanted to hear about her life—for her sake—even if what she relayed probably
wouldn’t make for very pleasant listening; two, it gave me an excuse to engage
the autopilot.
She was a little stiff, at first—as if
narrating another person’s life instead of her own.
“It was a few years into my time as a
slave,” Parihn began. “Through a… variety
of means…”
Her brief hesitation let me know there
was probably another story in there… but not one she was yet willing to tell.
“…I’d managed to make something of a
name for myself, which allowed me the gradual transition from ‘worthless whore’
to ‘valued courtesan.’ It might not seem like much of a difference to some, but
I preferred spending most of my time on my feet as opposed to on my back.
“Sometimes things even seemed to be
going my way, for a while.
“My master told me he’d been approached
by the family of a young noble whose marriage was only a month away. The boy’s
father had labored to achieve this union: The wedding would secure their
fortune for generations to come.
“‘You,’ Gorshim
had said, ‘will teach this boy what he needs to know about pleasing a woman,
hmm?’”
“I understood, of course. Orion
marriages are slightly different than human ones. If either partner is unsatisfied after the consummation, the marriage
is considered null and void.”
“Oh, dear.”
Her response was a sober, “We take our
sex very seriously.”
I smiled. “Is that a subtle word to
the wise?”
That didn’t go over in the manner I’d
planned.
Parihn afforded me a rather irritated
glare and replied, “I’m an animal woman, Cicero… but I’m my own woman. If you hadn’t gotten things very right, you’d definitely
have known it.”
The woman I loved clearly wasn’t in
the mood to stroke my ego…or anything else, for that matter.
She continued with her story.
“Usually women don’t dare invoke the shavan tath, but in
this case, it was a real possibility:
The girl’s family was much more
powerful, and my people sometimes enjoy holding out salvation and then
snatching it away in a particularly humiliating fashion. They needed a
guarantee that the boy could perform to expectations, and I’d guessed that the
ravings of serving wenches weren’t enough of one. I knew just how important
this was to all concerned—and just how much latinum
had changed hands—when Gorshim said, ‘You’ll be
brought to his apartments this afternoon, and you’ll spend a fortnight there.
Have him ready by then… or, Shomira or no Shomira, you’ll spend an afternoon rediscovering the joys
of an agonizer, hmm?’
“Despite my immense value and the
latitude I received because of it, I knew it was no idle threat.
“I prepared myself for the task,
steeling for some brutish princeling whose idea of
adequate foreplay was, ‘
My expression must have changed, for
Parihn colored slightly, and said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m sure it’s
difficult for you. Tell the story the way you
think it needs to be told. Don’t worry about my sensibilities.”
Her smile had such subtle gradations I
frowned in response. People say I’m
difficult to read, and perhaps I am. In that moment, though, for the first
time, I truly had non-sexual evidence Parihn had been a courtesan of legendary
stature—that her expression would say anything
she wanted it to, and that even the most discerning of men and women would
believe it… readily… happily.
“Well,” she continued, “they
transported me directly to his chambers—which in and of itself was a rarity:
Usually, I was permitted to, as you humans say, ‘Make an entrance.’
“I materialized directly before him.”
I heard her sigh… and I don’t think it
was calculated.
“I take it he was attractive,” I
speculated dryly.
“‘Attractive’ isn’t the right word.
Neither is ‘handsome.’” She tried to explain. “You’re extremely handsome,
I folded my arms and cocked my head.
“Thanks a lot.”
Parihn rolled her eyes. “I don’t’ mean
that you, yourself, are cruel. You know that.” Her expression, and tone,
softened. “But you can make a woman’s knees weak with your voice, your touch.
And that’s why your gentleness with me moves me so much. It’s not
uncharacteristic… but it’s not what
one expects from looking at you. You have a core of kindness that wells up all
the time… but it has to well up before people truly understand you.
“This boy, though…” She sighed again.
“…this boy was beautiful: Slender, lithe-limbed… what’s the term I’ve heard used
about me?... ‘doe-eyed’?”
“That’s it.”
“And I could tell he was a virgin, or
as near to one as made no difference.”
“It sounds to me as if you were in
love at first sight.”
Parihn smiled softly and corrected me
with, “Not quite… but I was looking forward to my time with him—especially when
I found he was gazing at me with wonder and desire. Then he looked away.
“For the first few hours, we just
talked. He was an artist, and he had an artist’s hands—an artist’s keen eye. He
looked at me with reverence. Any
dullard could tell I was beautiful; this boy had the vision to appreciate me, perhaps more fully than
ever I had been. And we had a great deal in common, both children of noble
houses thrust into situations we’d not wanted and for which we’d not been
adequately prepared.”
Her face was shining. Whoever this boy
had been, clearly she’d had strong feelings for him.
“Parihn, it’s no shame to say you
loved him.”
I’d called her back from that long-ago,
faraway place.
“I didn’t,
“And for two weeks, while I made him a
lover his wife would savor, I allowed myself the small illusion that I was his,
and would continue to be.”
I didn’t know precisely how this story
would end; I just knew it would end badly.
From the single tear Parihn now wore
on her cheek, I knew: Very badly.
***
I’d dredged this incident from the
recesses of my memory for the sake of fairness, but it had taken on a life and
power of its own. I couldn’t stop… nor could I restrain myself from telling it
in a way that let
“In the days after we parted, I
thought about that boy often—selflessly hoping he would be happy… and selfishly
hoping that he would, once in a while, think fondly of me.
“Almost two weeks later, I was
summoned into my Lord Gorshim’s presence for a
private audience. It was rare he would send for me unless he…” I stopped,
realizing I’d been about to describe my former owner’s particular style of
perversion. Fortunately, I was able to judiciously edit my comment in time. “…wished to partake of me.
“That wasn’t’ the case, this time. He
waited until we were alone, motioned for me to kneel before him…
“…and then struck a backhand blow that
left me on the floor, with a ringing skull and a bruised cheek.”
“‘You
stupid whore!’ Gorshim had roared at me. ‘What did you do to that boy!?’
“I picked myself up off the latinum-gilt floor, and stammered, ‘I–I don’t understand. I
did as you commanded. Wha–…?’”
“‘He loves you! He’s told his father that he won’t marry the other
girl—that he wants to purchase you, free you and make you
his wife!”
“For a moment, hope flared within me…
but this was Gorshim… the Gorshim
who’d had his entire bodyguard rape my mother to death while my father was
forced to watch… the Gorshim who’d left me in the kavdan fleshpots
for days on end, while anyone who happened by could have at me… the Gorshim who’d remind me I was still his chattel whenever my
fame reached his ears by denying me my cultured clientele and returning me to
the… service of the household.
“He’d seen my expression, though, and
it had clearly stoked his anger to a level I’d rarely before seen. Yet he
mastered it, and spoke to me as if the matter was little more than a trifle—to
my surprise, even rambling a bit.
“‘I suppose I cannot truly blame you
for enticing the lad, “Shomira”… or for hoping freedom might be yours. It’s
impossible, of course; his family could beggar itself and not raise
one-fiftieth my asking price. Perhaps you should have exercised more care,
though, hmm?
“‘Ah, well… what’s done is done.’
“‘At any rate, you have a client
awaiting you in your chambers. Make certain you provide the same level of
service for which you are known, hmm? Do not dwell upon the freedom you think
has eluded you. I’ll spare you the agonizer this time, since my lack of
foresight is as much to blame as your delectable little body is. Now go… and be
prepared to please me once you’re done with this other fellow.’”
“Why do I have a feeling…?”
I predicted his thought.
“…that the
boy was awaiting me? I’d wondered the same with a mixture of hope and dread as I returned to
my chamber.
“It wasn’t him, though. It was one of
my ‘regulars’—fortunately, not one I despised or even disliked. He’d never hurt
or abused me, and so I did what I’d been commanded to do.
“A few hours later, he left.”
I remembered what had happened next.
A gently murmured, “Parihn… you’ve been staring into space for
over two minutes, now” was my first realization I’d even stopped speaking.
I started, almost guiltily, met his
eyes and continued with, “He left…
“…and a moment later, the boy
entered.”
I could feel my eyes welling up with
tears, and angrily brushed them away.
The man I loved wasn’t stupid. He
didn’t need it spelled out for him.
“They’d made him watch you, hadn’t
they?”
I nodded. I couldn’t quite bring
myself to say it.
“He looked at me, and his eyes weren’t
even wounded. He’d probably passed that point hours before. Now, they were just
dead… or, rather, they’d been emptied, and refilled with something else.
“Then he reached for me.
“I knew what was coming, and I didn’t
fight it.” I hugged myself, and whispered, “Let’s just say that he’d become a
true Orion nobleman, and leave it at that.”
Evidently that was more than enough to
convey my point.
“By all accounts, the marriage was a
profitable one. Gorshim… Gorshim
had been pleased with me.”
It had been much more than I’d wanted
to say, far more than he’d wanted to hear… and, in response,
I came into his open arms and cried
for a good long time.
Now neither of us felt much like
flying.
And we sure as hell didn’t feel much
like a visit.
***
The autopilot beeped at us as we
received a transmission from Starfleet Atmospheric Flight Control (SAFECO).
“USS Griffin, we’re turning you over to local tracking
at this time. Please acknowledge.”
I adjusted the snuffling bundle on my
lap, and responded—audio only, of course, considering—with, “
An instant later, another signal
followed.
“This is
I wasn’t feeling talkative. “
“You’re cleared through to your destination,
Parihn abruptly slipped from my arms
and into the other chair; there, she responded to
Mildly, I protested, “You know, I can do that.”
“It’s not the actual landing I’m worried about,” she told me
archly. “It’s the time we’ll spend in a local infirmary recovering from our
injuries.”
It’s reassuring to know your officers
respect your abilities.
I settled in to enjoy the scenery;
Parihn made certain her approach gave me a good view.
The ranch had a small but
impressive-looking hangar, and a private landing pad easily able to accommodate
anything approximately of a size with a Danube-class
runabout or smaller.
“You know,” Parihn observed, “I think
your friend’s family takes the concept of private property pretty seriously.
According to these readings, the main building has a shield grid capable of
extending over the entire stretch of land… and the two observation towers each
have a Type-V phaser array.”
I arched a brow, and dryly inquired, “Are they locking weapons?”
“No.”
“Then don’t worry about it, nosy.”
“Hmph” was her only answer.
The landing was softer than baby’s
breath. I stood, headed for the hatch and motioned for Parihn to follow.
She looked at me as if I’d grown
horns.
“Are you insane? Look at me! I’ve been crying.
I have to go fix my face first.”
In a thoughtless brilliancy I’ve been
reminded of more than once since then, I replied, “What’s wrong with your
face?”
An exasperated expulsion of breath was
my only response as Parihn disappeared into the passenger compartment, to
return five minutes later—looking, to me, much the same as she had before her
little cosmetic excursion. She set herself rather determinedly before me,
presenting her features for inspection, it seemed at first.
That wasn’t quite it, actually.
“Now, consider your answer to this
next question very carefully, oh love
of my life.” She paused, and enunciated, slowly and clearly, “I look much better now, don’t I?”
I grinned, and answered dutifully, “Much better.”
Sevek didn’t raise any dummies.
***
What’s filtered through a cockpit
window doesn’t prepare you for the full brilliance of the
A set of carved stone steps led away
from the landing pad and circled down the hill towards a ranch house, stable,
workshops, storage facilities and what appeared, at the moment, to be the
center of activity—the corral.
As we approached, my fingers fussed
with the outfit I wore, smoothing the wrinkles acquired during the flight. For
some reason, making a good impression was important to me. I’d chosen a rather
conservative sundress with a floral print that, while not precisely
accentuating my womanhood, didn’t exactly downplay it, either. When your very
existence is considered blatant sexuality by some, it’s hard to strike a proper
balance between restraint and attractiveness.
Then, again, he cuts a very attractive
figure in one.
The cluster of people in and around
the corral was engrossed in the happenings there: A tall, darkly attractive
woman, perhaps my age, was mounted on one of the most beautiful stallions I’d
ever seen.
Well, had been mounted, that is. Abruptly, he’d reared—an effortless
display of power and disdain—and the rider had found herself flat on her back.
Now, the stallion strolled away, supremely confident in his superiority, and I
stole a glance at the man beside me.
“Now who does that remind me of?” I whispered, mostly to myself.
“I heard that,” came the subtly spoken reply, and I put a hand to my mouth
in a not entirely successful attempt to suppress the laughter bubbling up.
The exchange between the two women
then demanded our attention.
“He’s the most obstinate…” the younger one gritted… then stopped to stare as we drew near.
The other had her back to us—a slight,
small frame dressed in riding leathers and leaning on what looked to be a
fairly sophisticated anti-grav cane—but her laughter
rang out loud and wonderfully.
“Toronado may not be a man, Jessamine, but he’s male, and
they’re all much the same at their heart. This is one you can’t intimidate or
overpower.
“You’ll have to seduce him.”
Her words had been wasted, though.
Jessamine was scrutinizing us minutely… and from her expression, she didn’t at
all like what she saw. The ranch hands had also stopped their work and were
milling about, muttering. I was beginning to feel incredibly self-conscious,
and considering my previous line of employ, that’s no small feat.
The older woman had finally realized
there was someone behind her, and turned slowly, laboriously, to face us.
The hair was silver now, and the face
lined with extreme age, but there was still a beauty there—a beauty that
recalled antique books and weather-burnished brass. And her eyes… her eyes were
still clear, and black like a starlit night.
I only hope I carry myself a tenth so well as Angela Martine when I’m even half her age.
“Ciao bella, Dona Angelina.”
I think she was waiting for him to
actually speak, not fully trusting those aged, ageless
eyes.
And then, she knew him. Oh, how she
knew him.
She took a single step, and when
Angela reached out to touch his face,
and then whispered, in a voice so desolate I almost cried.
“You’re still so beautiful.”
Everyone was loath to break the
spell—everyone but Jessamine, that is. She vaulted the corral’s fence with an
easy grace, and strolled over to the pair who until that moment had had eyes
only for each other.
Both of them came back from a century
ago, and regarded her—one with pride, the other a bit warily.
I inched forward, even as the workers
made a prudent, discrete withdrawal.
Angela was beaming, now. Clearly this
introduction was something she’d always hoped for, but never expected.
Gesturing to both in turn, she formally announced, “Captain Luciano
Cicero Mantovanni, this is Ensign Jessamina Elizabeta Teresa Martine—“Jet” for short, to everyone, it
seems, but her decrepit old grandmother.”
Jessamine wasn’t at all jollied by the
attempted humor. She looked at
Angela beat me to the punch.
“Jessamine,” she
scolded, after recovering from the shock of the younger woman’s behavior. “
“Yes, Grandmother,” she conceded, in word if not tone. Then, she turned an impressive glare
on us, and growled, “Permission to speak
freely, sir?”
Oh, gods.
I’d never known
“Granted,
Ensign.”
She waited all of a half a second to
demand, “Where the hell have you been?”
Then, without waiting for an answer,
Jessamine clipped, “Excuse me,” and
strode off towards the house.
Both his women—for in that moment, we
were both, again, his women—stole a glance at
He was smiling, almost… wistfully.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I was just thinking that if things
had been different, that mouthy young lady would have been my granddaughter.”
The glare… the attitude… Angela’s
suddenly anguished expression….
It all
suddenly made sense.
Angela Martine took his hands in her own, and said, gently as she could, “I have news for
you, my beautiful boy…
“…she is your granddaughter.”
***
My heart was racing.
My mind was reeling.
If I hadn’t been kneeling already, I
think I would have fallen over.
From behind, I felt Parihn’s steadying hand on my shoulder, and Angela’s
holding mine… but for a moment, I was barely aware of either.
I wasn’t doing the young lady—Jessamine—justice, but my thoughts
immediately turned elsewhere.
“If I have a granddaughter, then I must have a daughter…” and I couldn’t keep a man’s hopefulness out of my voice,
“…or a son.”
Something flashed across Angela’s
face, so fleeting I almost missed it even though I’d been searching for every
nuance. A gasp told me that Parihn had seen it, too.
Oh, God in Heaven, please don’t do this to me….
“
I couldn’t breathe.
Finally, I managed, “A son?”
She nodded, looking older and sadder
by the moment.
“Where is he?” My vision
was beginning to blur.
Angela knew me well enough not to
embellish or delay.
“His grave is in the foothills.”
For a moment, I almost gave in to
tears. There would have been no shame in that, I think; even Sevek would have understood, and even, perhaps, empathized.
Instead, I drew upon all the self-control and will I could muster, and set my
grief aside—for the moment.
I had no illusions that later I
wouldn’t pay the price.
For now, though, I let the dead sleep,
and returned my attention to the living. Taking immense care to keep both blame
and accusation out of my tone, I guessed, “Jessamine, I take it, is angry that
I’ve never been a part of her life?”
Angela frowned.
“No… that can’t be it. She… doesn’t
know who you are,
Parihn finished the thread of thought.
“…and is furious that you’ve not visited her grandmother until now.”
Angela smiled. “She’s very
protective.”
I murmured, “You’re well worth
protecting.”
Someone once said, “Strategy is what you
do when you have time to plan, while tactics is what you do when you don’t.” Well, people have been calling
me a brilliant tactician for years… and sure enough, tactics were what were called
for now: The entire scenario had just changed complexion in about 30 seconds.
Even so, I’ve never been one to run
from a fight.
And, knowing Angela as I did, I had no
doubt that Jessamine was worth fighting for.
There would be time for explanations and
recriminations later. Now…
“If you’ll
excuse me, ladies. I’ve lost
a lot of time… and I don’t plan on wasting another minute.
I left the two most important women in
my life behind…
…and sought out the third.
***
It had left me alone with Angela
Martine.
In the absence of any other
distraction, it seemed that she and I would have a chance to… chat. And even though I’d offered to
come on this little jaunt, suddenly I wasn’t certain it had been one of my
brighter ideas.
I felt a presence over my shoulder,
turned, and was face-to-face with Jessamine’s
recalcitrant steed.
I had ridden for most of my time at
The affair had evidently not yet
ended. Toronado nosed at my ear, nickering, and I briefly rested my cheek
against his forehead.
“Seems you’ve tamed the tempest,”
Angela noted, both surprised and entertained. I felt her press something into
the hand still at my side, and smiled. Toronado and I both appreciated the
gesture, and he lipped the sugar cubes from my fingers with all the care and
restraint you’d expect from a creature who liked you…
and liked them, too.
“Quieted, perhaps,” I answered, “but
‘tamed’? No such thing, is there, Toronado?”
They both seemed impressed with my
perceptiveness.
Of course I cannot prove it, but I know he understood me. Those black eyes
shone with an amused, calculating intelligence it would have done any
horseperson good to heed—inviting me to climb aboard, as if I could easily do
what Jessamine, a far abler equestrian, had failed to accomplish. “I shall play the unicorn to your sweet
virgin,” they seemed to say.
Nothing doing, I
thought. I had little intention of adding black and blue to green.
“Nice try, you crafty shiras,”
I murmured, “but you’re no unicorn.”
As to the rest, well… why belabor the
obvious?
Breaking this stallion to rider and
saddle while leaving his spirit intact, I sensed, would necessitate a trainer
of enormous skill. From what I’d seen of Jessamine, I wondered if she possessed
either that—or the patience—to do it. Of course, such a premature judgment was
foolish, but my nerves were on edge. I kept waiting for raised voices from the
house, and must have conveyed my restiveness to Toronado, because he nudged me
almost reprovingly.
Angela clicked her tongue twice; the
horse immediately perked up his ears and regarded her. She repeated the call;
he strolled over, there to claim a few more sugar cubes.
“How long,” my hostess asked, “have
you two been together?”
My mouth opened.... but I didn’t hear
anything.
She drew the right conclusion from my
hesitance, and ventured, “I take it there’s no easy answer to that one?”
“No.” After a moment’s consideration,
I added, “It depends on who, and when, you ask the
question.”
Whether in competition or
conversation, I could dance with the best of them… but Angela was neither
distracted nor impressed. She gave what sounded to me like a healthy, dismissive
snort.
Frail? I don’t
think so.
“I’m asking you… now.”
She was direct; I could appreciate
that—at least in theory. I had the feeling that if I’d asked, Angela would have
said something about being too old to waste time with small talk.
“Sometimes I’m not entirely certain we are.”
I don’t know from whence that had
come, or what had made me say it; it was like another person had spoken with my
voice. I’m certain, though, that I was more surprised by it than was Angela.
If I’d doubted for even a moment that
she possessed all the wisdom of her years, she dispersed that with her next
observation.
“There’s a bit of a difference between
hearing he loved… loves… someone
else, and actually seeing it, isn’t
there?”
“I…”
It was as if she’d uncovered something
ugly I’d been trying to hide without even knowing it was there. A myriad of
emotions welled up in me: Embarrassment at having been read so easily by a
complete stranger; shame at even feeling jealousy when it was clear there could
never be anything between them again; anger at not having been the first person
Cicero had ever cared for like that; and, most of all, fear—fear that the love
he bore me wasn’t as unique and special as, until only a few minutes ago, I’d
believed it was.
I had wondered why I’d been afraid to
come here…
…and, now, had the terrible feeling I
knew.
***
I know, I know: I should have given a
thought to Parihn and how she would feel, having been left to her own devices
in territory that was, at best, unfamiliar… and, at worst, downright hostile.
In my own defense, though, I was a little distracted—with good
reason.
Though it was my first visit, I felt
an unmistakable sense of familiarity as I strode through the villa. The house’s
decorative influences were numerous—western Mediterranean basin, mostly, with
slight touches of local Native American—but well-integrated into an aesthetic
whole. I stopped to examine a wall-mounted rug, hand woven by Arab artisans
with near mathematical precision. Aside from marveling at one or two
technological wonders, I don’t imagine a medieval Spanish, or even Moorish,
noble would have felt out of place here.
Finding Jessamine was fairly easy. I
simply followed the detectable sounds—a series of muffled thuds that were,
nevertheless, not difficult to identify.
Angela had spared no expense in either
furnishing or equipping her home. Her granddaughter—our granddaughter—was employing the latest technology, a foldable “holomat” that could be thrown down anywhere to transform a
room into an entertainment center… or, more specifically in this case, a
sparring ring.
I don’t imagine her “victims,” were
they sentient, though, would have labeled it “sparring.” “Thrashing”? Perhaps. “Maiming”? Even more likely.
But not “sparring.” This was not kata; it was catharsis.
I watched her for a time—long enough
to take her measure as a hand-to-hand combatant—and, while doing so, remembered
something I’d heard over eight decades ago, in my Basic Martial Arts class at
Starfleet Academy (and yes, I’d had to take the course… it was “mandatory—no exceptions”).
The assistant instructor, an Andorian
named Thalven, had employed what I later learned was
a fairly standard warning to those students just beginning to show real
progress.
“Congratulations,” he’d told us. “You
now know just enough to go out, challenge someone… and get thrashed within an
inch of your lives.” Most everyone laughed.
The smart ones, though, took the
warning seriously.
Why I’d recalled that just now, I
wasn’t certain.
Angela had mentioned Jessamine’s nickname. She was a “jet,” alright: swift;
agile; and bristling with… offensive potential… but not exactly thorough in
defending herself. While that wouldn’t cost her here, against generic programs,
it wasn’t exactly what I’d wanted to see.
Perhaps my reaction qualifies as paternal
pride and/or concern rearing its head. At least that’ll sound like a good
excuse in hindsight.
Before my internal editor could
silence me, I observed, “Good against holograms is one thing. Good against the
living…?”
She’d just finished putting the coup de grace on her final opponent;
and, even as he toppled and vanished, Jessamine whirled to face me—still
wearing the look she’d had while dealing with her assailants.
I imagine some of my enemies had seen
that selfsame expression.
“You get your kicks as a voyeur,
Captain?” She took a towel off the nearby end table and patted her face. “No… I
imagine your little green friend handles that aspect of your life for you—now.”
Not bad. She’d managed to insult me,
Parihn and, though I wasn’t sure,
maybe her grandmother, too, in one fell swoop.
“You’ll note I’m neither leering at a
window nor ogling through a strategically placed hole in the wall. And the
‘little green friend,’ as you so colorfully describe her, is a lieutenant in
Starfleet… so watch your mouth.”
That last hadn’t exactly been
delivered in a grandfatherly tone, but if it had impressed her, Jessamine
didn’t let on.
“What do you and the ‘lieutenant’ want
here, sir?”
She had a real knack for skirting the
periphery of insubordination—another quality with which I was familiar—and her
little attitude wasn’t bringing out the best in me.
“Well, considering what I’ve seen, I
could certainly find work here as a self-defense tutor. You’re sloppy when in a
snit, aren’t you?”
Jessamine had clearly been hoping I’d
challenge her in some way, because she offered up the first genuine smile I’d
seen from her.
“Why don’t you come and teach me a
lesson, then, Captain?”
I’d already stepped into the ring
figuratively some time ago. Now I did so literally.
“Funny. I was just about to say the
same thing… Jet.”
Over the next few minutes, I learned a
few things about Jessamine Elizabeta Thomasina Martin: One, though I’d seen through the
deception while observing her against the holograms, she must have known I was
watching and decided to keep her true ability hidden… because now she came
after me with far more purpose and potential than she had her practice
adversaries. This, I realized, wasn’t “practice” for her… and if her assault
wasn’t quite in deadly earnest, it
was far closer to that than playful.
Two, I’d made an error in judgment by
provoking her—not due to her skill, per
se, but my own reaction to the attack.
I found that, while I could counter
and defend, I didn’t have it in me to strike back… and that left me at a
decided disadvantage.
It’s my carefully—rather, painfully—considered opinion that
whoever said, “You hit like a girl”…
…never said it to the wrong one.
***
We were poised to take the plunge into
genuine intimacy or serious mutual dislike; I still wasn’t certain which it
would be.
Again, I spoke without thinking. It’s
a talent of mine.
“I’m not sure I like being in love.”
Angela Martine laughed at that, long
and heartily. She seemed so old and frail I kept waiting for it to dissolve into
helpless, wracking coughs, but it never happened. Instead, she picked up a
napkin, dried her tears, and regarded me once more with those expressive eyes.
“‘Like,’” she said, “has nothing to do
with it.”
We had taken shelter from the sun and sat
down for what promised to be an excruciating little chat. Still, she was my
hostess; I couldn’t refuse.
Her steward—castellan might have been more accurate, considering the size of
the place—had laid out a genuine tea party: Along with the hot and iced
varieties, the choices included a myriad of wonderful-looking little pastries
someone had put a lot of effort into
baking. To top it all off, there was a tall pitcher of what had to be julep; I
could smell the mingled aroma of both mint and alcohol… and I don’t mean that Ferengi swill, either. Like
I could affect restraint and
sophistication with the best of them: I took no food, and poured myself a tall
glass of the safest offering.
Angela examined me as I did.
“You’re very… careful, aren’t you?” she noted.
“You would be, too, if…” I shut my mouth—not that such did me any good, as it turned out.
“…if the little green monster was lurking
behind my pretty face?”
I choked on the drink and, despite a
heroic effort, sprayed Angela with a lemony mist… as a result of which she
laughed even harder.
Despite what Aedra had done, we Orions
have no custom of ritual suicide: Death—well, your own, anyway—isn’t profitable.
Just then, I had the definite urge to buck tradition.
Again, though, Angela understood what
I was feeling, at least in part… and now seemed to emanate both kindness and
sympathy.
“Parihn,” she said, even while dabbing
her face, “I know you didn’t have any idea what to expect from me—doddering,
harmless lady or calculating, bitter old crone—but I promise, I’m no threat to you.”
I was so flustered by her reference to
my nature the reassurance barely registered.
“How did you…?”
“…know you’re a green? Well, I have a few friends left in the Admiralty; I’m
not above calling in favors—throwing my weight around, so to speak.”
The conversation took another turn I
hadn’t foreseen; now, I was simply along for the ride.
“I’ve loved two men in my life,
Parihn. I lost Bobby to the Romulans when we were little more than children…
and then, 20 years later, stupidly let myself fall for someone half my age.”
“But… what about…? You were married all those years, weren’t you?” I blurted, subtle as ever.
Angela didn’t react with anger or
upset; instead, she gave me a smile that bespoke choices made… and consequences
endured.
“Yes.
“Esteban had wanted me since we were
cadets. I’m sure, to him, it seemed as if fate had given us another chance: I’d
chosen Bobby over him, you see.
“This time, when he asked to marry me,
I said ‘Yes.’ I was only six or seven weeks pregnant at that point, but getting
quite desperate… whether Starfleet wanted to admit it or not, there were stigmas against unwed mothers, even
in the ‘enlightened’ 23rd century. I would never
have been promoted to captain, let alone fleet captain, if anyone in upper
echelons had even suspected my son’s
paternity.
“Things had worked out for everyone.
Esteban was a good, solid… safe
choice.” She paused for a long moment, then continued with renewed strength, or
at least resolve. “I know he loved me—was in
love with me. If I couldn’t quite
return that in kind, I pray to the Blessed Madonna that he never knew it. He
was my best friend… and I was the only woman in the universe, to him.
“I tried
to love him more, in the way that he deserved, but… I just couldn’t give my
heart that way a third time.”
Wow.
Now I needed a drink.
Angela had courageously volunteered a
great deal about herself that I would never have known. I suppose it was, in
part, an effort to reassure me that her knowledge—were I Cicero, I’d probably
have sarcastically labeled it “carnal knowledge”—of my past was meant neither
to judge nor threaten. I wouldn’t have been impressed on either score, but
still appreciated the gesture.
I hoped, however, that part of it was
that she liked me… because, for better or worse, I already liked and admired
her.
Across the table, I took her hand, and
she held it with all the strength 14 decades of enduring provides.
Over the next few moments, as Angela
devoted far more attention to her mint julep than her meal, I stole a few
glances at the villa, again wondering just what was occurring between
“Shall we?”
I frowned.
“We should probably give them their
privacy.”
“Yes,” she conceded. “I suppose we
should.”
A moment later, she grinned.
“Shall we anyway?”
I thought it a bad idea. Still, she
was my hostess; I couldn’t refuse.
For a moment, we probably looked like
a pair of mischievous schoolgirls. As we approached the house, though, our
smiles faded and our pace increased. I could tell Angela was straining to move
faster, and unthinkingly lent her my shoulder. In a way, I think it was worse
for her. After all, I was deeply concerned for someone I loved. She was doubly
concerned.
And we both knew there was real cause.
***
I can say without pretension, and with
a fair degree of understatement, that I’m not exactly a pushover in
hand-to-hand combat. I’ve fought successfully against everything from
malevolent, cadaverous megalomaniacs to space-time traveling super-agents, and
many types that lie between those two absurd extremes. Yet, as Jessamine threw
everything she had at me, I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so overmatched or
helpless in my adult life.
She clearly smelled blood in the
water; and since I hadn’t so much as waved “Hello,” let alone thrown a punch or
kick, there was little doubt whose
blood it was.
Jett was quite good, I’m proud to say… but definitely had an inflated
idea of just how good. Any number of
officers or enlisted on my staff—T’Vaar, Mav, Telaris, Parihn, even little
Cassie Rhodes, among others—would have given her swift, and no doubt painful,
proof of that. A part of me catalogued her errors and missteps during our…
session—calling it a fight would have implied that I’d actually put up one—yet, though I saw every one
of them clearly, and had a variety of effectual countermoves available for
each, I executed exactly none of them. Instead, I covered and slipped, dodged
and blocked… and, a few times, failed to do any of these.
For all that I couldn’t fight I couldn’t
step back, either. Whether out of simple (or not-so-simple) pride, stupidity or
some perverse desire to let the woman literally work out her issues on me, I
remained an inviting target… and it was an invitation she accepted again and
again.
As the one-sided bout continued,
another point occurred to me, and I silently cursed myself for a lack of both
foresight and perceptiveness. I hadn’t intended, once the sparring began, to be
disrespectful or in any way dismissive of Jessamine’s
abilities, but abruptly realized that was precisely how she was interpreting my
reluctance to counterpunch—as silent contempt.
She seemed determined to make me pay
for that.
It felt like a martial arts
exhibition, though I probably would have complained about the seating if given
a chance. I was getting an all-too-intimate look at quite a few forms; among
others, I spotted elements of Klingon mok’bara, Andorian sethkal, Crane-style kung
fu and even a bit of Orion val vatha, though I don’t think Parihn would
have been impressed.
Then,
again…
I recognized Jessamine’s
attempt to execute an extremely lovely, particularly vicious combination the
Orions called na val tan ta chardis (“dance that ends
in death”) and found myself far more concerned with seeing her complete it
properly than in defending against it.
She got it right, for the most part.
I got out of the way…
…for the
most part.
***
We entered just in time to see
Jessamine catch
Angela reacted before me; I think my
mind was still locked on, That’s impossible, as I watched.
“Step back… now!”
For all that she had probably not
stood on the bridge of a starship as its captain for at least 85 years, Angela Martine still had her command voice. I almost
followed the order myself. Both of the combatants actually did, which was what mattered.
Jessamine was winded and sweating, not
to mention attempting to hide what looked to be complete shock at what she’d
managed to do. If she felt any satisfaction, I must say, I couldn’t detect it.
Instead, she wore the face of someone who’d gone too far… and had no idea how
to get back.
I don’t know how he did it, but
He arched a brow… and then,
inconceivably, held up both hands and gestured for Jessamine to come at him
again.
Our hostess drew breath with intent,
but his chopping motion silenced her before she could speak even a word.
When the younger Martine remained
immobile, almost petrified (in both
senses of the word, I’d say), he finally relented—his expression, amazingly
enough, evolving into one of empathy and compassion.
“Why don’t you hit the showers,
Ensign…?”
It was then that Angela decided to
intervene.
“…instead of your grandfather?”
I honestly don’t know whether the
comment was truly a revelation, or if the very confirmation of something she’d
long suspected was enough to temporarily batter down whatever defiance and
anger had been hitherto driving her. Jessamine backed away, and if she didn’t
exactly turn and flee in abject terror, it wasn’t exactly what I’d call an
orderly, gracious withdrawal, either.
She wasn’t too happy with him, either.
“And I would have preferred if you
hadn’t let Jessamine indulge her temper.”
I almost added a heartfelt “tantrum,”
but decided it would have been pushing my luck—with both of them.
He wasn’t angry at what had occurred,
though… or if he had been, he’d
already dispelled it some time ago. If anything, I read “amused” now. The man
never failed to astonish me at the oddest times.
“It’s a grandfather’s prerogative to
indulge his little girl. After all, Angela, it’s not as if I can give her candy
or take her to the carnival… and I have no doubt that Esteban was a better nonno than I
could ever have been.”
I’m not so sure about that, I thought, remembering his wonderful way with Gabi Benteen…
but for the second time in a minute, held my tongue.
Angela, though, seemed to read
something in his comment I’d missed.
“Esteban never asked about you,
Cicero, though his command of basic arithmetic probably caused a few extremely
painful speculations about the identity of my first child’s father.
“But he loved your son and your son’s daughter after him like they were his
own.” She smiled. “He never quite understood the Mantovanni stubborn streak,
but he did well teaching them both despite it.”
Now, suddenly, she looked tired.
“He was a wonderful man... and I miss him.”
Before it could worsen, I broke the
mood by dragging
He cocked an eye at me as I worked,
and said, “Why don’t you just use a dermal regenerator?”
“Quiet, you,” Angela
ordered him. “How can she cluck and fuss if it’s already repaired?
“And would
you act human, and wince once or twice? It’ll make your lady happy.”
So he did. I brushed his other cheek
with my lips… then my concern and indignation flared again.
I scolded, “
He was now in a charmingly reckless,
almost perilous, mood; and it was frightening how well we knew each other. His
expression grew rakish, and I averted the intimate, embarrassing comment that
was impending only by covering his mouth with my hand.
Still, I blushed. He’s the only man
who can consistently do that to me… perhaps because it’s not shame he’s making
me feel.
Angela smiled, and rolled her eyes.
Evidently, she, too, could predict him well enough to fill in the mercifully
missing dialogue.
Desperate to change the subject, I
ventured, “Well… now what?”
I then realized both were already well
ahead of me on that score.
Fleet Captain Martine immediately
declared, “You’ll both stay for dinner… and the night, of course.”
“Of course,” he
affirmed, and caught my eyes with his own.
“The evening is young.”
Thinking I should offer support for
the plan, I agreed, “We can’t leave yet.”
After all, I thought, the damned house is still standing.
***
Angela had retained her sense of
humor, and people, through the years… and moreover, honed both relentlessly, if
her next series of actions and comments were any indication.
She’d hobbled ahead of us towards what
I’d rightly assumed were the villa’s guest quarters, stopping at one doorway
and gesturing me into a bedchamber.
Though the décor conformed to that of
the house, it had more modern conveniences—or, rather, concessions—than I’d
thus far seen: A replicator adorned one wall, and the climate control
maintained a much cooler ambient temperature.
I turned to inform her that it would
do... only to find that both she and Parihn were elsewhere. Curious, though
suddenly suspecting her intent, I sought out my hostess… and found her settling
my companion into her own room. Whatever protest I might have considered died aborning when I saw each woman’s expression: Parihn’s slightly embarrassed; and Angela’s at first
cautionary, and then smiling again when turning back to Parihn.
I should have realized.
“Ladies… I feel the need for some
air.”
Angela, of course, knew exactly where
I wished my walk to lead.
“Take the northern trail a half mile
into the foothills.
“You can’t miss it.”
My thoughts as I set out weren’t
exactly self-affirming.
Why not?
I’ve missed everything else.
I watched as he left the house and started up a path that, until
today, only members of my family had ever used.
An urge welled up in me; I had to reach that sacred place first,
before he did—whether to welcome him there, or bar his way, I truly didn’t
know.
I found myself running outside to the corral, where I vaulted
the fence and skidded to a stop before my recalcitrant stallion, who at first
regarded me with his usual imperious condescension. Then, I did something I
never had. I approached him head-on… and, gently as I could, lay my cheek
against his head.
“I need your help, Toronado. Please.”
He nickered, as if bemused by my change in attitude.
I had been stubbornly refusing to work with him, according to my grandmother—instead trying to establish
dominance. She’d said something about seducing him… and while I wouldn’t go that far, I did want to be friends.
So, evidently, did he… for he allowed
me to mount up with only a minimal shuffle and a half-hearted buck, almost as
if to remind me he wasn’t to be taken for granted, as opposed to genuinely
protesting. If he’d truly wanted to be rid of me, I’d have hit the dirt.
There was a roundabout way to my destination, and it was a
familiar path for us both: I’d ridden it aboard other horses, and Toronado
often had the run of our land, returning when his craving for apples and sugar
overcame him.
I have been a horsewoman for much of my life; aboard this steed, though, one is not pilot,
but rather passenger. I was definitely just along for the ride.
Many say, “It’s not the destination, but rather the journey.” I
suppose that depends on where you’re going…
…and what you do once you get there.
***
Angela’s sitting room commanded a stunning view of her northern
properties—until they reached the foothills, that is. We watched in silence as
My stomach suddenly felt queasy; and, evidently, my expression
must have conveyed some of that, for our hostess took my hand and said, “Parihn… are you all right?”
“Just a little nervous,” I assured her.
She smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry. They can both handle themselves.”
While I agreed, I wondered if they could handle each other… and
felt a sudden, irresistible need to follow—to help somehow, absurd though it
was.
When I stood, though, the room reeled; and despite my best
effort, I found myself seated again. Angrily, determinedly, I once more
struggled to my feet…
…and don’t remember a thing until opening my eyes. They
immediately focused on Angela—who was pressing a cool cloth to my head.
There seemed to be a lot of that going around.
Her tone was gently amused. “You don’t strike me as the type to
get the vapors, young lady.”
“H–huh?”
“Never mind that. Please don’t try to
get up. Laying you down was difficult enough. I don’t think I could lift you
off the ground.”
As per her wishes, I didn’t try to rise.
Fortunately—or unfortunately—that didn’t stop me from lolling my
head past the couch’s edge… and throwing up all over the floor.
Again, I lost track of time… and again, Angela was the first
person I saw upon awakening. This time, I was in a bed; I wondered vaguely if
she’d called for the servants, or simply slapped an anti-grav
unit on me. She continued to examine the readings from a medical tricorder, but
didn’t look particularly worried. I remembered, over the years, one or two of
my human friends using the phrase, “You’ll worry yourself sick.” Maybe that was
precisely what I’d done.
“That inconsiderate son-of-a-bitch,”
muttered Angela.
Once again, I managed a, “H–huh?”
“Why didn’t the two of you just beam down? You shouldn’t be walking long distances considering the
strain on your body… and he damned well ought to know that.”
“Angela,” I tried. “I’m not
sick… really. I’m an Orion animal
woman. Our immune systems are pretty much invulnerable. I’ve never been ill a
day in my life.”
For a moment, her brow furrowed… and then her expression
softened.
“
Now she was scaring me.
“Know what?”
Angela Martine said nothing. Instead, she reached out…
…and with the utmost care and
restraint, laid her hand on my belly.
Now I knew.
***
I heard hoof beats long before I saw horse and rider, but had
little doubt as to who was approaching. At first I’d wondered why Jessamine
hadn’t simply followed me up the path. It suddenly made perfect sense, though,
when I rounded a rise… there to see what looked to be a fairly steep, and deep,
ravine spanned by a picturesque little wooden bridge.
Admittedly, however, I would have liked the picture more had
Jessamine and Toronado not been standing on it.
She’d hastened to bar my way… and I wasn’t at all in the mood.
Briefly, I considered contacting
I stopped just before setting foot on it… and wondered how steep
the toll would be.
“I suppose this is where I ask that you yield the way, Lady
Knight.”
Her mount took that moment to toss his head; and despite the
situation, I smiled and thought, No
offense meant, Toronado. You don’t strike me as the yielding type.
Parihn had compared us a few hours ago. There was, I conceded,
something to it.
Jessamine wasn’t feeling cooperative. She sneered, “Beg all you like.”
Obviously, other
comparisons were apt, as well.
I withdrew perhaps ten yards, and judged the distance across. I
wagered Toronado, even mounted, could clear it with minimal effort… and
probably had on more than one occasion.
Despite Parihn’s assessment, though,
analogies extend only so far… and I’m no Toronado.
Jessamine, at once, realized my intent… and said something that,
as blood of my blood, she should have known would decide matters.
“Are you insane? You
can’t make that.”
“Then move aside.”
She called my bluff.
“No.”
And, if it had been a
bluff, she would’ve won.
Instead, I sprinted straight for what I’d deemed the narrowest
spot, planted well, and hurled myself into space.
After all, you can only say, “I hurled myself across”…
…if you actually make it.
I managed a fairly good grip on the edge, at least. I am here
defining “fairly good” as “good enough to prevent an immediate fatal plunge.”
“An eventual fatal
plunge,” though, was another matter.
Amazing the clarity with which you recall the scene in such
moments. Jessamine had been shocked I’d tried, and her jaw had dropped open—a
little further with each instant of my passage. Toronado’s
head had swiveled to follow my progress across the ravine… and dipped when I
didn’t quite make it.
“
From the precarious perch of my own making, I noted, “St.
Christopher’s the patron of travelers, actually—however brief the trip.” The
vicious part of me added, Or how abrupt its end.
Jessamine backed Toronado off the bridge onto solid ground… and
demonstrated her measure of the Mantovanni wit, or lack thereof.
“St. Jude may be more appropriate, considering.”
She was definitely my
descendant.
I slipped a bit. While I could maintain the grip indefinitely,
the ground beneath my fingers wasn’t motivated by enlightened self interest.
Despite my situation, though, I couldn’t resist another ill-considered comment.
“You could just leave
me here,” I replied. “No one would know you’d let me fall… and I wouldn’t blame
you.” I glanced down, and amended, “Well… not for long, anyway.”
She considered it—only for an instant, but she did consider it.
For some reason, I found that amusing—more amusing than she did,
I’d wager, since she immediately dismounted, led Toronado to the lip, anchored
a rope to him and offered me the other end. I took it, and my hoofed savior
hauled me up with no visible effort.
Show off.
Even during the rescue, Jessamine had taken pains to avoid
touching me. Thus far, our only physical contact had been her punches and
kicks… and, considering her expression, she preferred the relationship at the
level we’d already established.
I tried anyway.
“Thank you for helping.”
No dice.
“Damn you for making me need
to help.”
And people say I’m
inflexible.
Further words would be useless, I knew… so, instead, I turned to
continue up the path.
Again, she blocked my way.
“By what right are you even here?”
She’d finally pushed the wrong button—or, perhaps, pushed the
same one too often—and in that moment, my patience frayed to nearly nothing.
“How does Browning say it?” I asked. “‘Let me count the ways.’
“By right of leave:
Your grandmother is the lady of this household, and the Mistress of this House.
She gave me permission. That’s more than good enough for me, and should be even
better for you, if you claim to respect her.
“By right of blood:
Both the blood of mine you drew, and
the stuff flowing in your veins that makes you the insufferable, inflexible
brat you’ve proven to be.
“And, last, by right of might and desire: I want to… you can’t
stop me…
“…so get the Hell out of
my way.”
Those black eyes flashed… but I was quite familiar with the
concept of fighting fire with fire.
I wondered if we’d come to blows again. I hoped not… because,
this time, I’d somehow find it in me to fight back… and, whether she realized
it or not, neither of us wanted that.
Fortunately, it didn’t go that way. Instead, this tall, hard and
lovely woman gave ground, and stepped aside. Then, she shadowed me towards the
cemetery. Toronado, too, was still with us. I’m fairly certain he found us
entertaining.
I would have.
“That,” she observed, “was an idiotic stunt. You could easily have been killed.”
Out of her earshot, I muttered, “Better luck next time.”
“Yet…”
And there was something in that single word that gave me pause. I turned to regard her.
“Yet…?” I prompted.
She frowned, and admitted, “…to make his point… that’s something
my Papi
would have done.”
The concession, especially at this juncture, was a little
startling; I answered with what came to mind.
“‘The sins of the fathers are the sins of the sons.’”
As I again headed for my destination, she followed, muttering in
Spanish. I didn’t hear any curses, though. That, at least, was encouraging.
At this point, I’d take anything I could get.
***
I sat straight up in bed, no longer feeling nauseated.
Disoriented, though, still applied.
“That’s not possible,” I
asserted.
Angela wore a “Poor dear, she’s in shock and denial” expression
that at once irritated and endeared her to me. Wordlessly, she handed over the
tricorder that I might see for myself.
I took but ignored it. The readings, I knew, were immaterial.
The damned thing simply needed recalibration.
“You don’t understand. I can’t
be pregnant.”
Though she obviously thought me momentarily addled, my hostess
suppressed most of her smile… and so, in turn, I suppressed most of my anger at
her condescension.
“Have you been using protection—the standard Starfleet
subcutaneous contraceptive?” she asked.
She sounded like my mother, or her stand-in… and, in typically
daughter-like fashion, I rolled my eyes. “I don’t need them. I meant it’s physically impossible. I’m a green.”
Angela folded her arms. “You say that as if it should mean
something to me.”
Once again, the conversation had abruptly entered choppy waters.
Turning back, though, wasn’t a viable option.
“There are two theories about us—about Orion animal women.”
She nodded. “I know the prevailing one. Until five seconds ago,
I thought it was the only one. There’s
a standard briefing about ‘greens’ at
It was as politic a summary as I’d ever heard. Angela had
avoided the negative connotations quite adroitly—that almost all of us were
uncontrollably promiscuous, coupling with anyone or anything as opportunity
afforded… that “animal woman” wasn’t just a nickname, and that we were infamous
for killing our partners in a homicidal erotic frenzy…
…and that no man, whether sinner or saint, could resist us.
She then inquired, “ And what’s theory
number two?”
I met her eyes, and said, “That we’re not an anomaly… that we were created—genetically
engineered as a recurrent in the population—to serve precisely as we do, for
the sexual enjoyment of any and all who desire it.”
Though I think Angela had already heard enough, I was warming to
the subject.
“Did you know that, according to Orion law, a newborn green doesn’t belong to her parents, but is
the property of the state… or, rather, the Warlord in whose territory she’s
born? Attempting to hide one is a capital crime, by the way.”
I glanced up at Angela, and saw she was quite empathetic
herself—angry and on the verge of tears at what I’d revealed.
A return to the subject at hand seemed in order.
“And that’s why I
can’t be pregnant: We’re mules.
Carrying and raising a child would interfere with our abilities to perform on demand
sexually. Thus, it was bred out of us.
“I’m female, yes… but I’m not quite the woman you are.”
Angela snatched back the tricorder, and began to play with its
settings—recalibrating, I assumed.
“The idea that a woman is only worthwhile if she can bear
children is as antiquated and bigoted a one as I’ve ever heard.”
“I didn’t mean it that w–”
She interrupted with, “Bullshit. Tell that to some man you’ve beguiled. Most are drunk on you or just
plain stupid enough to believe it. Some part of you did, and does, feel that way… or you never would
have said that.”
The woman was indignant… and yet I sensed it was not directed at
me, but rather on my behalf.
“And don’t think the man out
there would ever believe that, either. He loves you… and I don’t mean the kind of tepid excuse for ‘love’
that would have him sighing sadly, and eventually moving on with his life, were
you to leave him. You wouldn’t break his heart; you’d shatter it irreparably.
And while you two might be thunderous in bed together, let me tell you truly:
Wonderful though it feels, it’s just a perquisite…
because that kind of love has nothing
to do with sex.”
And there it was.
Until that very instant, I’d never quite believed that.
Angela grinned knowingly. “Of course, from the way you look at
him, and the way you look right now, you’ve
got it even worse.”
I mirrored her smile.
She pressed a control on the tricorder, and the room was filled
with the sound of muted drums.
“Let’s do this the old-fashioned way.
“I’ve tapped into the compound’s audio system. What you’re
hearing is the heartbeat of everyone in this room. I’m now eliminating mine…
and yours.”
That second stretched out nearly forever.
Then…
…thump… thump… thump…
My eyes filled.
My heart filled.
Through a flood of joy, I heard Angela Martine say the truest
thing I’d ever heard.
“‘With Love, all things are possible.’”
***
I was prepared for anything from an elaborate gravestone to a
palatial mausoleum.
I was not prepared for
either a nearly unmarked grave…
…or for what was
carved on the tombstone:
Fortunato Esteban Rodriguez
(2290-2357)
And below that, a single phrase:
In every way, his
father’s son
Fortunato.
I shook my head and smiled. Angela had indulged both her quirky,
subtle sense of humor and the desire to somehow acknowledge me in our child’s
name. It was oblique, but definitely intentional: There were few famous Lucianos, after all. One was the notorious 20th-century
Sicilian-American gangster, first name Charles.
His nickname, though, was “Lucky.”
The instant of good humor faded quickly as it had appeared. I’d
unconsciously employed that realization as respite from this moment… but now,
it fell upon me with its full weight.
Here lay my son—my dead son.
Having been raised on and by a Vulcan, I’m not one for tears.
Generally, they serve no purpose. One can usually feel grief without being
unnecessarily demonstrative—melodramatic. In addition, I pride myself on
impeccable emotional control.
I found, this time, that my pride meant very little in the face
of my sorrow.
Anger and misery exploded out of me, a torrent of bitterness and
tears that left me on my knees, hurling my anger at the God who had given me a
child… and then taken him away before we could even meet.
I wanted my little boy.
I had thought he’d stand before my father’s grave, impenetrable,
untouchable, as he had so far been… maybe make some eloquently respectful
comment and then walk away. It would have confirmed everything I’d so
desperately wanted to believe about him—that he was the cold, uncaring huntsman
so many called him.
Instead, he swayed, fell to his knees, cursed… and cried.
Cried like…
…like he
had lost a son.
Santa Regina, have mercy, this truly was my father’s father—my blood.
I had been a fool…
…but no more.
I felt a presence beside me, and found myself leaning on it for
support.
An instant later, I realized that Jessamine, too, was
crying—that we were, in that moment, sustaining each other.
She whispered, “Nonno.”
I held her tighter, and answered with, “Mina.”
For a time, we wept together for lost fathers and absent sons…
and when we finally started back for the house, it was arm in arm, as kin.
To His own purpose, “the Lord giveth
and the Lord taketh away”… and, perhaps, this had been God’s purpose.
I didn’t have my child
to love…
…but I did have his.
***
Friends have told me that the knowledge you’re with child is
indescribable—that you feel vulnerable, and wonderful, and blessed and
frightened all at once.
In my opinion, they understated it. I’ll just stick with
“overwhelmed.” If not for the reassuring presence of Angela, a woman whose
physical frailty belied a soul of silver and steel, I would probably have
curled onto that bed in much the same manner as the little life within me.
Instead, we sat together out on the veranda, and waited for
news… and waiting to deliver a bit of our own.
When
As if on cue, Angela said, “It looks to me like they’ve worked
it out.”
I stole a glance at my hostess. Her mostly-suppressed, indulgent
smile told me that she, unlike me, had never had a doubt. Angela Martine was
the type who believed good things would happen… and this time—these times—she’d
been right. Maybe there is something
to be said for optimism.
I guess I’ll work on it.
When at last they reached us, I scrutinized their faces for
nuance of expression. They both seemed weary, as if there’d been another
emotional tempest before they’d settled matters. Jessamine, in fact, had been
crying, and had done nothing to disguise that fact. Astonishingly,
so had
With a single phrase, though, he let us both know how well
things had gone.
“I’d like you two to meet my granddaughter.”
I didn’t have to look: I could feel Angela Martine beaming.
I took Jess’ hand, and then reached for his. As Angela had done
with me only an hour ago, I drew them both to rest over my womb.
“And I’d like you both
to meet our son.”