CHAPTER NINE
“What's your name?
Who's your daddy?
“Is he rich like me?
“Has he taken any time
to show you
what you need to live?
“Tell it to me slowly …
I really want to know ...
It's the time of the
season for loving…”
– Rod
Argent
On some
level, Vaerth Parihn had known she was out of form.
An impartial
observer could probably have made a decent case for out of her mind, as well.
Her talent
was undiminished, and her old skills largely intact; but other than their brief,
spontaneous exposition on the Roman home world some months past, they had
essentially lain fallow for the best part of a decade.
Parihn still
danced, of course—for her own enjoyment, and on rare occasion, that of
friends—but such impromptu 'performances' hardly served to hone one's
abilities. And after a few hours of testing her current limits, she had at last
been forced to admit that the exacting, intricate maneuvers which had once been
an almost matter-of-fact portion of her repertoire weren’t quite so easy
when one hadn’t practiced them in seven years.
Most people
(even those who fancied themselves connoisseurs) wouldn’t have noticed, let
alone cared about, the lessened degree of difficulty in her routines. She, however, would have known; and to
appear publicly at anything less than her best was something Parihn’s pride and
professionalism couldn’t abide.
So, knowing
full well what it entailed, she had set about attempting to shoehorn six months
of practice into seven days, relying on an animal woman’s metabolism to endure
what, if not self-inflicted, would have been considered abuse or even
torture—pushing herself to exertions that left her chronically near exhaustion
... and a few times, on the brink of frustrated tears. On three or four
occasions during that weeklong hell of her own creation, the Orion had nearly
acknowledged defeat; once, she’d even thought about approaching Quark with the
announcement of her withdrawal.
It’s a diva’s prerogative to change her mind, a disgusted,
sweat-soaked Parihn had thought, even as she’d slumped against the holosuite
wall in an attempt to regain her wind. All
I’d have to do is pick a fight over some inconsequential detail and walk off in
a snit.
For a few
moments, she’d savored that scenario, and even embellished on it a bit. The
temptation had proven almost irresistible.
But Parihn
had made a promise; and while she might yet fail to keep it, lack of effort
would not be the cause: She had worked too hard making her word worth something to squander it so
readily.
Thus, she
had pressed on … and now, scarcely ten hours before her scheduled performance,
could finally feel her body responding as it had long ago. It wasn’t just
wishful thinking, either: The reaction of her holo-audience, which Parihn had
programmed to react with derision for anything less than steady improvement,
had evolved over the last few days from catcalls and hoots, through sullen
silence and intermittent, grudging applause … to, at last, the cheers and leers
she’d sought to inspire.
And, just
then, in the midst of her all-too-brief, hard-earned reward, the program
terminated—leaving a startled Parihn for a moment frozen in the current
number’s final pose.
“Wha–? Hey!”
The computer
ignored her indignant squawk, instead announcing, “An individual requests entry to the holosuite, and maintenance of
separate atmospheres while present.”
Her brow
furrowed, and she frowned.
Quark would have deflected any well-wishers or obsessive fans. So what in the–?
Curiosity
overcame irritation—narrowly.
"Computer,”
Parihn said, “please erect a semi-permeable force field establishing requested
parameters; allow the other section to fill with air from the adjoining passage.”
She assumed
it had complied, as, seconds later, the door slid open to reveal her
petitioner—a young man recognizable to anyone who’d spent a few days wandering Deep Space Nine … or a few moments
reading war correspondence from the Federation News Service.
“Uhh … sorry
to disturb you.”
Jake Sisko
had grown from the beautiful boy she’d seen at a distance once or twice, into a
tall, slim, striking young man. He
wore the latest in Earth fashion—a tailored business suit she recognized as
custom Suvek-Armani—and bore two PADDs, one in each of those slender,
well-manicured hands.
His eyes
betrayed mild disappointment with the interior; no doubt he’d been hoping to
catch at least a glimpse of her program. As for a glimpse of her, well … he seemed a little less
eager: That inquisitive gaze scrutinized just about everything else—not that
there was much to see in a deactivated holosuite.
“So ... do
you prefer Parihn or Shomira?”
The question
annoyed, in part because he had yet to look at her.
“Well,
Shomira's a stage name, actually … but for now, why don't you just stick with Lieutenant, Mister Sisko?”
That earned her both his full attention and a lopsided, incredulous
smirk.
“Heh. OK … but then you’d have to
call me …” For an instant, his voice
deepened. “…‘Commander.’’“
My, aren’t we full of ourselves? she thought. Admittedly, you’re cute, kid ... but not that cute.
Evidently he
didn’t know that.
“Oh, and, by
the way, Parihn … I’m Jake. 'Mister Sisko' is my grandfather.”
Getting on
her bad side was one thing; this guy was dancing on the only nerve she had
left.
“I’m not
joking … Mister Sisko. Please address
me by my rank.”
In response,
he chuckled.
“Whatever you say, Lieutenant.” He gave her the once-over. “Got
on with the … Special Services Division, eh?”
Why, you obnoxious little—!
“Yeah,” she replied, with a biting lilt.
“They’ll let anybody in … Orions … Ferengi … I hear finalizing the uniform
design for the tribbles is proving a real
bitch.”
Over the
next few seconds, her glare seared Jake’s grin away.
All at once,
realization hit him; and it wasn’t exactly a glancing blow. His jaw labored,
but for a moment the associated vocal cords were on strike. If it were
possible, he would have paled.
Eventually,
his mouth reengaged.
“You mean you're really Star–? Nog never told me tha– Oh, my God …
I’m so
sorry … I thought you were—”
Parihn
nearly grinned then, but smothered it; she wanted to see him squirm a bit more.
“Go on.”
Suddenly,
though, the usually eloquent young author had nothing much left to say.
“Forget
it,” he muttered. His shoulders sagged. “Just turn the holodeck safeties
off...
“...so I can kill myself before Nog gets to me.”
This time,
her smile broke through before she could check it. Parihn decided to take pity
on him.
“Maybe we
should just … reinitialize this
conversation, Mister Sisko … Jake.”
While her
erstwhile sparring partner considered how to best go about that, she started a series of warm-down stretches—nothing too
strenuous, for her own sake … or too provocative—for his.
Eventually,
Jake must have decided on the direct approach; he consulted the PADD in his
left hand, cleared his throat rather thoroughly, and began to read—slowly at
first, stumbling over the pronunciation of unfamiliar words, but gaining rhythm
and confidence by the second. Not only was he a born writer, but a good
speaker, as well.
After just a
few sentences, Parihn stopped mid-stretch, straightened and gave him her
undivided attention—reaching for the other PADD, flicking her fingers to hurry
its passage.
The
recitation briefly slowed as he handed it over; but even as Parihn consulted
the little device, his voice regained strength and he continued. While most of
his attention remained on the PADD he still held, Jake kept her in his
peripheral vision … and when she shook her head, tongue poking at the inside of
her cheek, he took it as a clue, and a cue, to stop reading.
“What?”
For a
moment, she regarded him in silence, wondering at his calm. Then, another piece
clicked into place.
“You don’t
have any idea what you’re saying, do
you?”
“Heck, no." He gave her a
hands-assisted, theatrical shrug. "You think I speak Ferengi? Nog had the computer render a phonetic translation
for me.” His brow furrowed as he searched her face. “Why?” Then his eyes
narrowed. “Don’t tell me this is all
some sort of setup.”
She glanced
back at the PADD, thence to him.
“Looks like
it.”
An
exasperated Jake threw up his arms and tossed the PADD away. They both watched
as it bounced twice on its edge, twirled a few times, dervish-like … and
finally settled face down in the nearest corner.
For an
instant, Parihn almost laughed aloud.
Damned thing has better moves than I do.
Then she
refocused on the matters at hand, as Jake, still not quite caught up with what
was actually happening here, tried to explain himself.
“I swear, he
told me this was some sort of financial thing—that you and he had ‘personal
business to conduct,’ and that I had to act as his ‘advocate,’ according to
some Ferengi point of order.”
Parihn
nodded.
“All true.”
For a moment
she’d lost him.
Jake asked,
“Then wha–?”
And
abruptly, somehow, he knew.
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.
“Sounds to
me like Nog’s a real traditionalist … and a bit of a romantic, too. Back in
ancient Ferengi society—I mean way
back, before the males started cloistering the females—a man proved his worth
to a woman of substance by providing a complete financial disclosure … proving
that he could provide for her in the manner she deserved. Nog probably figured
an Orion shavana would especially
appreciate something like that.” Again, she couldn’t help but smile. When you
got down to it, the gesture really was very sweet.
That unfortunately made things all the
worse.
Just so
there’d be no further misunderstandings, Parihn laid out what both of them
already knew.
“Your friend Nog just asked me to marry him.”