Now I feel guilty.

Despite the fact that I had permission, and have her blessing for this version, I now wonder if I’ve done Christina (and Matt… and Jaeih… and Michael) something of an injustice: They sent me stories, and rather than being content with said submissions, I had to take my out my red pen and bleed all over them. I’m not sure it was justified.

What do you think?

Christina’s original version is available here.

“Concerning Advancement”

by Christina Moore

and Joseph Manno

A rare sigh escaped her.

Pinching the bridge of her nose between forefinger and thumb, Sera MacLeod set her PADD down on the desk and leaned back.

It isn’t as if the man’s ignorant, she thought.

In fact, Luciano Mantovanni had one of the sharpest minds she’d ever encountered; no doubt this was due in some part to his Vulcan upbringing—of itself a rare thing for a human. Not to mention one had to be a particular sort to even pass the Starfleet Academy entrance exam, let alone graduate, as he had.

That was a long time ago—especially for him.

Time spent caught in a temporal vortex had seemed mere moments to Mantovanni and the crew of the Constitution-class Intrepid. For the rest of the galaxy, though, it had been more than 70 years—years in which technology had made advances which would have been considered science fiction by late 23rd century standards.

Despite the overwhelming differences between the time he’d left and the one in which he now lived, Mantovanni had decided to attempt what most of his modern peers had deemed impossible, at least for him: Re-qualify for a starship command. His reasons for doing so were threefold: Desire; stubbornness; and more than a little pride.

Today’s starship commander, though, had to be not only explorer and military leader, but scientist, as well… and that third qualification was proving to be his Achilles’ Heel.

As a faculty member in good standing, Sera could access transcripts, and had availed herself of that right almost immediately—in part out of curiosity, but mostly to see into precisely what kind of mess she’d gotten herself.

If anything, reviewing his records—both old and new—had only confused her more.

Military tactics and personal combat were, of course, his forte: Mantovanni had both served as a guest speaker in Advanced Tactical Training last month, and been asked (by the very people who expected him to fail at regaining a ship of his own) if he’d teach Advanced Martial Arts for the upcoming semester. He had proven quite good at social and cultural studies, as well. The man was actually doing very well at nearly every subject to which he applied himself, even making marked progress at understanding the advanced technology of his new era.

The harder sciences, on the other hand—and temporal mechanics in particular—were a very different story.

“That’s what a science officer is for,” he’d muttered one evening.

She’d replied rather bluntly.

“‘Science officer’ is an outmoded title in this day and age, sir. A captain who has no genuine understanding is of no use to his ship.” That hit him where she knew it would hurt the most: The very reason he was currently unfit to hold the center seat.

He’d redoubled his efforts.

Yet…

Sera had been tutoring him for almost three weeks, at the request of her friend Serutian Hale. Though she’d enjoyed what seemed at first an interesting diversion from her own work at Starfleet Research, the Vulcan was beginning to wonder if Seru’s overwhelming recommendation had been a bit presumptuous. Nothing in her experience had prepared her for the challenge Mantovanni presented. Just what it was about the material that kept stonewalling him she was at a loss to understand.

The PADD she’d just finished reading contained yet another failed quiz… and his comprehension of the subject matter seemed no greater than it had before they’d begun.

Then, again, neither was hers.

“Professor?”

Patrick Demorest looked up from his work. Pressing the pause key on his PADD and removing a pair of antique spectacles, he offered her a smile.

“Dr. Sera MacLeod, how good to see you. It’s been a while.”

She nodded. “Too long, sir. You are well?”

“Oh, certainly. And yourself?”

“Yes.”

Demorest’s smile broadened. “Ah. There’s that Vulcan flair for succinctness I’ve missed so much. Tell me—‘Lieutenant,’ now, I see—what brings you here this evening?”

If Starfleet Academy was known for anything other than the legion of brilliant officers educated there each year, it was these gardens. The myriad topiary and floral arrangements, nestled here and there among the immaculately-manicured lawns, had been known to distract even the stodgiest military personnel. And they weren’t the only ones: Many a civilian who worked at or had visited Starfleet Headquarters, as well as the residents of San Francisco, were seen walking the grounds and allowing the still and quiet to refresh, or clear, their minds.

They were relatively empty at this hour, but it would seem she and Demorest had had the same idea. Still, Sera couldn’t resist a bit of dissembling. “Perhaps I am simply going for a walk.”

Demorest shook his head. “I know that look, Sera. You know… the one you get when something’s got you stumped—rare though that is.” He patted the bench, scooting over as he did so. “Come tell ol’ Pat all about it.”

For a moment she considered saying no, but decided it couldn’t hurt to hear another teacher’s opinion. Without revealing any personal information about Mantovanni, she explained her situation.

“He’s not stupid, Patrick, and I don’t think he’s being purposefully stubborn. There’s too much at stake for him to be that careless. I just don’t understand what it is about temporal mechanics that he can’t, or simply won’t, comprehend.”

Her companion thought for a moment. “If I may, perhaps you’re going about this the wrong way,” he said.

Sera’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Demorest looked down at his glasses, then back at her. “Perhaps the student is no longer the problem.”

She straightened. “Are you implying I’m the reason he’s not making progress?” she asked.

Turning to face her more fully, Demorest tried to smile. “Understand, I mean you no offense or disrespect. You’re a remarkable educator, Sera, but how long has it been since you really taught—especially one on one? Whatever Starfleet R&D has you doing over in the science labs has kept you out of the loop for some time now. I’m obviously not saying you can’t teach, and since both your I.Q. and credentials are essentially off the scale, we know you’re more than qualified. It’s your application, your technique, that’s… flawed.

“The way I see it, you’re not looking at this situation from the pupil’s point of view. First of all, he’s frustrated. I don’t think he gets why he doesn’t understand the material either, and that’s got to hurt his sense of self—maybe even his pride, a little.”

Oh, I’d wager a lot, Sera thought.

“It’s like you said, he’s not stupid, so why isn’t he learning what he needs to know? Second, I’d guess he’s a little intimidated—both by the material, and you.”

She couldn’t help a show of surprise. “Me? Why?”

A chuckle was his immediate answer… but Demorest managed to stop short of a full-blown laugh. “It’s public knowledge, my old friend, that you are literally one of the five smartest people in the known universe. Hasn’t that ever been an issue in your relationships before?”

Sera could think of one fiery redhead in particular who had once… taken issue… with her intelligence. Now the two women were the best of friends.

“Perhaps there have been a few,” she admitted, the barest hint of a smile gracing her lips.

“Well there you go,” said Demorest. “Personally, I was more wowed and awed than daunted, but then we’re in the same field… and, besides, I’m not geared to worry about whether I’m ‘the best,’ like so many Starfleet officers are. If this student of yours had been curious enough to look you up, history might very well be repeating itself. I’m not saying he’s an egomaniac; I’m not qualified to make that judgment about someone I’ve never met. I am saying that perhaps discovering just how smart his teacher really is was a little distressing. He might be feeling that you expect him to understand simply because you do.”

Sera thought about his words, let them sink in for a moment, before responding. “Do you think I should stop tutoring him?” she asked.

“That’s a decision only you can make,” Demorest replied. “Do you know him well at all?”

“We’ve only just met.”

“Perhaps learning more about him might help you figure out how to go.”

“He is a very… private individual.”

Demorest shrugged. “Get him to talk. Or talk to someone else who knows him well. Maybe understanding him is the key to understanding how to teach him.”

“Might I ask when you retrained in psychotherapy, Dr. Demorest?” Sera asked, smiling openly now.

One of the things Demorest had always liked about Sera MacLeod was that she was a Vulcan who wasn’t afraid to show a little—or, on occasion, a lot—of emotion. It probably helped that she was only half, the other being human.

In secret, he’d always thought her smile made her quite beautiful.

Tossing that particular thought aside, Patrick flashed yet another of his own. “Your waspy wit is something else I’ve missed about you. I should have kept in better contact.”

“Since we are equally guilty on that score, let us both make certain it doesn’t happen again.” Sera glanced down at his PADD. “What has brought you to the gardens tonight?”

“Oh, this?” He lifted it, his grin sheepish. “What’s the one thing I swore I’d never do?”

“Teach at Starfleet Academy.”

“And where are we?” he asked, looking purposefully at their surroundings.

Sera’s eyebrow rose.

Demorest’s laugh was rueful. “Exactly. ‘Course, it helps that the commandant offered me a big, fat ‘paycheck’—to use the archaic term—and only slightly restricted access to the labs in the science department. So you’ll be seeing more of me in the future. Only downside is I just got here today… and I start Monday. So much for anything resembling a weekend. This here’s the first glimmerings of a lesson plan. At least I’ve got the syllabus already prepared….”

It pleased her that he had finally given in and accepted a position with Starfleet, something the Academy had been after him for years to do. Seeing more of him would also be welcome; he was a good friend and sounding board.

The current conversation had already reaffirmed that.

“What will you be teaching?” she asked.

“Advanced Temporal Theory,” Demorest replied. “Always one of my favorites, since it usually stirs up paradox debates.”

Sera nearly laughed, as that was the very thing that had brought her and Serutian together four years ago. Perhaps she ought to introduce the two of them.

“At least it will get your students thinking,” she told him.

“Indeed,” he replied. Noticing twilight had given way to nightfall, Demorest rose. “I really should be going. It’s getting late, and I’ve got an early meeting with the commandant tomorrow. It was good to see you again, Sera.”

She stood. “And you, as well. You’ve given me a great deal to consider.”

“I certainly hope so. Good night.”

Sera watched Patrick walk away, then turned and headed home, turning his advice over in her mind. How would she get to know Captain Mantovanni better—persuade him to open up? Serutian had spent only three hours alone with the man, yet probably knew more about him than Sera had learned in three weeks.

Then, again, considering the initial reason for the younger woman’s visit that night, Sera understood why her Trill friend was keeping some distance for now. Once the shock and shame wore off—as it was sure to any time—Seru would be back, bright as she ever was, and turning Mantovanni’s life as inside out as he would let her.

If getting to know Mantovanni better was the key, and she wasn’t sure precisely how to broach the subject with him personally, then whose counsel could she seek? As she entered her building, a phrase she’d said to Seru concerning Mantovanni came to her.

Sa kaht haadin—Kin through house alliance.

Suddenly, she knew precisely who to talk to.

***

“And a good morning to you too, Lieutenant MacLeod,” Luciano Mantovanni said dryly, even as, without comment, she breezed by into his apartment.

Sera turned, prepared herself mentally for what she was about to do—what she had to do—and handed him a PADD. “You need to familiarize yourself with this and acquire the appropriate texts. You start next week.”

Mantovanni arched an eyebrow before turning his attention to the device in his hand. He hadn’t gone far when it dawned on him what it was. “A course syllabus?”

“Yes… for Advanced Temporal Theory, with Professor Patrick Demorest. I shall continue to tutor you, of course, if that is your wish, Captain—”

Mantovanni cut her off. “I believe I explained to you that I would not–”

It was Sera’s turn to interrupt. “–sit in a classroom like a common cadet. Yes, Captain, I remember. However, I’m sure you’re aware that the ‘common cadet’ knows more about temporal mechanics than you do.”

The eyebrow came into play again. In the weeks she’d known him, she’d begun to think he employed it far more than most Vulcans were wont to do. Sera was sure it usually had the desired effect, since most people were unlikely to note its frequency, or attribute the mannerism as a side effect of being raised by one.

She, for obvious reasons, was relatively immune.

It wasn’t, however, the only weapon in his arsenal: The edge his voice now acquired nearly made her wince.

“Then explain to me, if you would, precisely how I’m supposed to successfully complete a course in Advanced Theory when I’ve yet to master Intermediate Principles? Considering that the common cadet knows more about it than I do, that is.”

Be firm. Be his superior. In this case, that is entirely accurate.

Reaffirming that advice in her mind, Sera squared her shoulders. “I am confident that Advanced Theory will help you achieve insight you currently lack.”

“The teacher is a civilian.”

“I happen to know Professor Demorest quite well, and I assure you he is more than qualified as an instructor for academy-level students,” Sera countered.

“You’re supposed to be better qualified… or was Lieutenant Hale overstating your gifts?”

If she hadn’t had the talk with Patrick, she might have taken offense at his last comment. As it was, Sera realized its motivation, and thus chose to ignore it.

“I can see you are… hesitant, which is understandable… but I’m afraid the matter is, for all intents and purposes, settled.”

This time Mantovanni’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

Keeping her rigid stance, matching his glare with one of her own, Sera replied, “I’ve already enrolled you in the class, Captain. You have only two choices: You can take the class, pass it, and prove to your detractors the error in their lack of confidence; or you can refuse…

“…and thus forfeit any chance you have at ever commanding a starship again.”

Mantovanni glared at Sera for several long moments before emitting a non-committal noise—one a tactless person might have called a growl—from the back of his throat. The whole scenario was eerily familiar; it was, perhaps, precisely where MacLeod had gotten the idea.

At last, he told her, “I wasn’t aware extortion was one of your talents, Lieutenant… but it seems to work for you. You’ll have to give Serutian my best when next you see her.”

“Actually, sir, it was Sevek who gave me the idea.”

He felt his jaw drop. “You spoke to Sevek?”

She ignored him and continued.

“He said, ‘Give him no choice. Make it an order. If what you say is true, it would appear my son could use a lesson in humility.’”

The captain was still having trouble processing her revelation.

“You… spoke to Sevek.”

Sera nodded. “Last night. I got the impression you haven’t been completely forthcoming about your difficulties.” She tilted her head to regard him anew. “He’s concerned about you.

“You should talk to him.”

“Should I, now?”

If contacting his “father” had been presumptuous, then daring to issue advice on their relationship was positively dangerous.

She’d just gone too far. Until this moment, he’d been in succession irritated, indignant and stunned.

Now he was angry.

“Well, Lieutenant, I have a syllabus to read… and since those wiser than I have decided on what I must do, and then implemented that course—no pun intended—without consulting me, I’d better get started, hadn’t I?”

No… “angry” didn’t begin to describe it.

He was furious… and not bothering to shield it. Waves of emotion crashed over her, far more effective than any other kind of reprimand or remonstration could have been.

She blinked and stepped back. It was as if he’d shoved or slapped her.

“Dismissed.”

With the sickening awareness that anything she said now would only worsen the situation, Sera withdrew, backing through the door as if afraid to turn away—probably because she was.

When the door had closed before her, she allowed herself a few moments to let the shakes run their course… and, for an instant, sensed something else from the mind of Luciano Mantovanni—just before he shuttered himself against the world.

Oh, God… he’s really scared.

What have I done?

***

They stared at him from the moment he entered the room. Part of it might have had to do with what he was wearing: black loafers, charcoal gray slacks, a cream-colored turtleneck sweater, an old-fashioned tan sport coat… and glasses. Almost no one in the 24^th century wore glasses: Medical technology had advanced to the point where most optical deficiencies could be corrected with a simple procedure. Patrick Demorest wore his mostly because they made him look distinguished. At least, that’s what he’d been told.

Besides, they were more for reading than anything else.

“Good morning,” he greeted his students, most of whom were third- and fourth-year cadets, although there were more than a few officers as well. “As you already know, I am Professor Patrick Demorest, and you are going to learn from me the finer points of Advanced Temporal Theory. You will have noted, I’m sure, that I am not Starfleet. Well, as of this moment, and for the next three hours…

“…neither are any of you.”

There were murmurs from among the students, and not just the younger cadets.

“In this classroom,” Demorest went on, “you are all equals. I am the only superior here. I will address you as Mister, Miss, or Missus, for any of you ladies who are married and would prefer that title. You’ll call me Professor.”

“Excuse me, Professor,” spoke up a commander in the fifth row. “Those of us who are officers have worked long and hard to achieve our positions, and I should think that even a civilian would understand that any individual of rank is due a certain level of respect—from everyone.”

Demorest braced himself against his desk with one hip. “And you think that my little rule is an affront to that?”

“I think it’s offensive, yes. Officers earn their ranks. I know I certainly earned mine. And this isn’t just any university, Professor.” The emphasis he’d twice given Demorest’s title was anything but respectful. “It’s Starfleet Academy, where such things should matter.”

A number of the officers could be seen nodding their heads, or were heard murmuring words of agreement. The commander indulged in a smile bolstered by the support he sensed around him.

In the next moments, though, both smile and support withered away.

“I have little doubt,” Demorest said, “that each and every officer in this room merits his or her rank, and achieved it through a combination of blood, sweat and tears.

“Here, however, I am the instructor and you are the student. This is my classroom and I make the rules—rules, I might add, that the Academy Commandant wholeheartedly approved. If anyone here strongly objects to being addressed in said manner, you are more than welcome to leave and request transfer to another class... or, if you prefer, take it up with Admiral Brand.”

Neither was a viable option: the admiral, after all, was unlikely to receive such a complaint sympathetically if she herself had approved the protocol.

And, as everyone in the room well knew, there was no other class.

The commander flushed a deep crimson. Already embarrassed enough by the turn the confrontation had taken, he wasn’t about to refocus attention on himself by leaving—especially now. It would serve no purpose but providing fuel for gossip—plenty to which he was sure he’d contributed already. His only response was to stare Demorest down and cross his arms, as if to say, “I dare you to teach me.”

Demorest ignored it; instead, he addressed the entire class. “I assume that everyone here has read the first two chapters in Gateways to the Unknown?”

A series of hesitant nods and murmured affirmations were his answer.

“Good.” He smiled very specifically and reassuringly at the man who’d challenged him. “Let’s see if, together, we can make ‘the unknown’ a little less so.”

What a difference three hours can make.

While “the unknown” hadn’t yet been revealed, it seemed to Patrick Demorest a good start had been made: They’d covered the material in the first two chapters, then, he’d assigned two more and an essay on all four. Some of the students, after a bit of his strategically-placed encouragement, had discussed what they knew about temporal mechanics and what confused them.

He’d already identified various eager beavers, nervous nellies and students who simply didn’t care either way—to whom this course was something to be endured rather than enjoyed. Demorest had been especially pleased, and a bit surprised, to see that the commander who’d confronted him before class nodded respectfully as he left, his protests seemingly forgotten and his grudge dead… or at least buried.

He was gathering his materials when the last student still present—the sole captain enrolled—approached: He’d sat in the back of the room, isolated from even his fellow officers, and kept whatever opinions he had to himself.

Considering he was the highest-ranking officer in his class, though, Demorest was sure he was now about to hear them.

“Pardon me, Professor, but do you really think it wise to be antagonizing the officers in your class from the outset?”

There was something familiar about him. He was tall, his features dark and slightly angular. If Patrick were to guess, he’d wager this man was of European descent, either Italian or Spanish. His name would tell.

“Well, you are one of them. Is my rule offensive to you, too, Mister…?”

“…Luciano Mantovanni, Professor. ‘Offensive’? No. But I haven’t yet decided whether or not to be bothered by it.”

Definitely Italian… and definitely famous. Demorest steeled himself not to react at the name, and inquired, “Then why do you ask?”

“Call me curious. What purpose does your stance serve?”

Despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that it wasn’t a particularly difficult question to answer, Demorest took notice of the intense scrutiny directed at him. He felt the weight of this man’s personality.

“It levels the playing field,” he replied. “When informed I would be teaching both officers and cadets, I knew that the latter would feel intimidated by their superiors’ presence. That makes the environment more stressful than it already is, and thus even more difficult for any student to learn.”

“Stress and intimidation are factors of Starfleet life,” Mantovanni pointed out.

“For most of my class, though, this is not Starfleet life: It’s preparation for Starfleet life. These kids are still in the transition from cadet to officer.” Demorest again leaned against the desk. “They’re already faced with needing this course to advance with their respective classes, or graduate. Officers in the classroom, whether working to advance their careers or simply expand their knowledge of the subject matter, constitute a minority here... and the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. As a matter of fact, Mister Mantovanni, the fact that you’re even in my class is over my protests. I thought there should be a second group consisting entirely of officers. On that point, though, Admiral Brand overruled me.”

Mantovanni arched a brow… and, in a flash of insight, Demorest realized that the man before him was Sera MacLeod’s recalcitrant pupil.

“I’m certain the admiral has her reasons.”

Demorest grinned. “And how certain are you about me and my reasons?”

His student, though, didn’t mirror the expression, and his response was a far more sobering one than expected.

“I left my certainty behind in 2301, Professor. Now I’m forced to rely on faith—in you… in my tutor…” His voice trailed off.

The professor added, “And what about in yourself?”

Now came a smile… but it wasn’t exactly a cheery sight.

“Thank you for your time, Professor.”

Demorest watched Mantovanni leave, the optimism he’d felt dampened by an ambient resignation he sincerely hoped wasn’t justified.

Good luck… Captain.

You have more people pulling for you than you know.

***

The next class wasn’t for two days—two days during which Mantovanni read and re-read the chapters they’d been assigned. He’d hoped to have enough material absorbed to write an essay that was at least semi coherent, but once again was having trouble.

And so far as the math was concerned…

“Who writes this stuff, anyway?” he grumbled. “I’ve read German philosophy that was easier to follow.”

“If it was a military treatise, would it be any easier to understand?”

Startled, Mantovanni glanced up to find Serutian Hale standing just inside his apartment door, hands behind her back and an incongruously timid smile on her face.

“In any other instance, an affronted ‘How did you get in here?’ would be apropos. With you, I don’t have to ask.”

“Actually, I rang your chime three times, but you didn't answer… so I just used my ‘key.’”

Mantovanni knew he was pretty well immersed in disgust and despair if he hadn’t even heard the doorbell ring.

One consolation, he thought. At least it isn’t MacLeod.

“Step into the reliquary, Lieutenant.” He gestured her to a seat.

Her smile grew slightly, evolving into a sympathetic half grimace. “I would have come by sooner, but–”

“–you figured you’d done enough damage already?”

She blushed, and answered, “Something like that.

“Besides… there was no need. I’d already unleashed my faithful minion on you.”

It seemed Hale was developing a resistance to his distinctive charm.

“If the goal of that,” he told her, “was to complete my destruction, you may just have accomplished your aim: She coerced me into taking a class for which I’m not remotely qualified.”

Hale did her best to suppress a laugh, though Mantovanni’s arched brow told her she hadn’t tried hard enough.

“Please,” he invited. “Enlighten me as to what’s so amusing… since evidently sympathy is at a premium, today.”

She flinched: In his frustration, he’d unjustifiably stung her.

Serutian, however, handled her battles a little differently than did Sera.

“Do I have your permission to speak freely while offering my opinion on your ‘plight,’ sir?”

Though the phrase “Permission to speak freely?” was generally a portent of aggravation, he’d never been one to mince words, and so didn’t impose it on others.

“Indulge yourself.”

That had been all she needed. Rather than a kind response, he got instead a response in kind.

“It seems to me that if you can’t manage to pass a few science courses, no matter how difficult they are, then Starfleet as an organization is better off having you on the bench than on a bridge, fumbling for answers in a life-or-death situation.”

“I shouldn’t need a damned degree to get back what should by rights have never been taken from me in the first place,” Mantovanni countered. “The qualifications are ridiculously stringent.”

Hale wasn’t buying it. She had already smeared the line between “cutting loose” and “cutting into him,” but since certain she’d already ended their until-that-moment burgeoning friendship, saw no reason to stop.

“Stop bitching about the unfairness of a system that, despite your much-trumpeted difficulties—trumpeted by you, that is—produces excellent officers. If you put the effort into studying that you did complaining about its necessity, I bet this conversation would never have occurred.”

He turned his back on her, and, voice redolent with sarcasm, declared, “Keep going… this side’s a little undercooked.”

For some reason, Serutian found that, at once, hilarious and infuriating.

“For a minute there, Cicero, I was trying to figure out for the life of me why I’d ever wanted you... and still want you… even though we both know it’s never going to happen.”

She marched around until they were again face to face, then put her hands on his arms and shook him gently.

“Actually, I do know why. The man who makes me weak in the knees can’t be the same one who’s letting the life he wants slip away.”

He made as if to reply but Hale snapped, “I’m not done yet.”

As she’d spoken, Serutian had felt his arms tighten into cabled steel beneath her grasp, an indication of his tightly-leashed anger. Yet he held himself in check, allowing Hale her say.

She wanted to feel those arms around her again, but forced that desire aside and instead softened her tone, holding his gaze with her own.

“I don’t know what you need to do… but I believe in you.

“So does Sera.

“So does Sevek.

“You’ll find a way. Even if you’re not sure… we are.”

For a moment, they held that pose; slowly, she felt him relax, but those flinty eyes now flashed a very different kind of fire… and she realized both their perils.

“Don’t kiss me,” she whispered. “Or you’ll be way too busy to study.”

The moment passed…

…and now his eyes were filled with gratitude, amusement… and the self assurance that belonged there.

“I did pretty well in Advanced Theory myself, Captain,” Hale offered, pulling away before things got out of control for either of them. “Which book is your professor using as the main course text?”

Mantovanni cast a sideways glance at the offending PADD. “Gateways to the Unknown. My God, it’s stultifying. The author must have…”

He stopped when Hale began to laugh.

Soon, she was half-doubled over, holding both her stomach and the back of his couch for support.

“What?” he asked suspiciously.

“Do you… r–remember what I said… in m–my letter?” the Trill stammered, trying vainly to regain control.

He thought back… and abruptly, it came to him: In the same note where she’d praised MacLeod’s intellect, Hale had made what he’d then thought an offhand comment about Sera not only having read the proverbial book on temporal mechanics, but probably having written it as well.

Mantovanni closed his eyes and sighed.

“Let me guess: Dr. B.I. Scott is really Sera MacLeod?”

Her continued laughter was answer enough.

***

Two weeks into the class, Professor Demorest gave them their first test. Even having continued his tutoring sessions with the ever-patient Sera MacLeod—who’d returned the day after their fight, quarrel seemingly forgotten, and continued to help him—Mantovanni had been dreading it. He’d failed every quiz MacLeod had given him, though the scores had grown incrementally more encouraging.

When the time came, though, and the exam was before him, it was a welcome surprise to find that he knew some of the answers right away. He actually remembered—and more to the point, thought he understood—much of what they’d covered. It would seem that MacLeod had been correct in assuming the advanced class would somehow give him greater insight.

It also helped that her quizzes had been graded with a much more stringent idea of just what constituted a correct answer. She’d been impossibly hard on him so that the actual test would seem that much easier.

For the first time in more than a month, Mantovanni thought he had a real chance. Another starship command might just not be a flight of fancy after all. God willing, Admiral Montrose and everyone who believed as he did would have to eat their words.

At least Demorest wasn’t one of those instructors who expected you to wait weeks or months for scores. He’d told them to expect their results next time they met, and had been true to his word: A stack of PADDs were piled on his desk. The slightly charged level-one containment field surrounding them indicated that he planned to distribute them himself. One of his fellows learned that after reaching eagerly towards the pile, getting zapped and drawing back his hand with an indignant yelp—to the accompanying laughter of his classmates. Sheepishly, he grinned and sat down.

Except in early childhood, Mantovanni had never believed himself a slow learner. Only his peers and the adults on Vulcan—with the exception of Sevek—had thought so. Because he was human, they assumed he couldn’t possibly learn as they did: The differences in biology were telling… or, at least, so they’d told him.

Just to spite them, he’d worked hard to prove not only that was he smarter than they believed him to be, but could process information in the same fashion.

Then, and to a limited extent, it had worked.

And when he’d applied those same techniques for comprehension and memorization to his current learning difficulties, they’d worked just as they had before. He was no Vulcan, but his unique combination of human and Vulcan educational stratagems had made a real game of it.

Now, many in the class were staring at the stack of PADDs on Professor Demorest’s desk, anxiously awaiting his arrival.

Mantovanni found he was one of them.

When Demorest appeared, he began by handing them out rather unceremoniously, saying nothing until each student had his or her test in hand. Then he stood in front of the class.

“Some of you didn’t do quite as well as I’d expected, and others did better than I’d hoped,” he said. “If you didn’t pass the exam, however, don’t panic. It’s only the first, and we have two-and-a-half more months together. I’m available at certain hours for assistance if you need it—some of you, you’ll notice, I recommended it to. See me privately to schedule a time.

“Now let’s discuss the exam. Who would like to go first?”

What the hell are you waiting for? Turn on the PADD.

After a deep breath, and a shuddering exhalation, he did.

He stopped again to speak to Professor Demorest when class was over.

“Why didn’t you suggest I seek assistance?” he asked.

Demorest shook his head. “I don’t know why you’re asking, Mister Mantovanni; you already have a wonderful tutor. I’m not so certain she’d welcome my interference.”

The last was said with only the slightest of smiles, and before Mantovanni could formulate a comment, Demorest motioned and the two fell into step.

“You’re an interesting fellow, actually.”

Mantovanni arched a brow. “How so?”

“Well, there are only a handful of cadets who are here to truly learn. The rest will cram, regurgitate… and finally purge. Five years from now, if I gave them the same test, most of them would flunk. You, I believe, would score within a few percentage points of what you did when I first administered it.”

“I have 27 attendees, Mister Mantovanni. From what I’ve been able to determine, I have eight students.

“You are one of them.”

He knew Sevek might not approve, but he couldn't help, in that instant, being inordinately pleased with himself.

“Thank you. One thing, though,” he said, just as Demorest would have turned away.

“Yes?”

“This isn’t your classroom. Out here,” and he smiled, “it’s Captain.”

Demorest chuckled.

“Fair enough… Captain.”

The two women met at his door, and Hale asked, “Why do you think he invited us both?”

“I cannot be certain, but I know he received the results of his first exam today,” Sera replied. “It in all likelihood has something to do with that—though two other possibilities spring to mind.”

Hale, curious, gestured for her to continue.

“One: He has decided to take you up on your sexual invitation, and wished to include me for the sake of… conviviality.”

Serutian blinked… blushed… then finally laughed when Sera could no longer restrain her impish grin.

The Trill poked her in the side. “You’re more twisted than a DNA strand.”

“Two: He wishes to have both victims within close proximity.”

Serutian blinked… paled… then finally shrugged resignedly and rang the door chime.

“Yeah.”

They exchanged glances and entered.

“In here.”

“The kitchen,” murmured Hale, and they peeked in.

Mantovanni nodded at each and gestured them around to their seats at the counter, where a very traditional little setup awaited. The replicator, Sera noted, was dark… but the small kitchen all higher-ranking officers quarters possessed was warm with cooking and rife with aroma.

“Tonight our menu consists of ensalada Caesare e lasagna cu marinara, along with a fairly robust burgundy imported from Tuscania in Magna Roma, bottled in 2275. In addition, if you’re both good girls and eat your dinner, there’ll be tiramisu to follow. In deference to your Vulcan heritage, Lieutenant, we’re vegetarian tonight.”

“Actually, I eat meat,” Sera blurted.

Again, Hale poked her in the ribs. “That was tactful.”

Mantovanni arched a brow. “I’ll know next time. For now... Assete, signorine.”

They sat down to dinner right away, and it wasn’t until each had eaten several mouthfuls that anyone spoke.

“So… how’d you do?” Hale asked, between mouthfuls of Romaine.

Mantovanni shook his head. “Don’t beat around the bush much, do you, Serutian? As a matter of fact, the exam was the catalyst for this invitation. I have a second one to tender, too... but I’m getting ahead of myself.”

Both women looked at him expectantly, though it seemed obvious by now the news would be good.

He cleared his throat.

Typical Sicilian—melodramatic, Sera thought. Still, she was eager to hear it.

“I received a ‘B minus’ on my test.”

Both women cheered; Sera clapped delightedly, while Serutian impulsively jumped to her feet and rewarded him with a hug and rather a more restrained kiss than the last one they’d shared.

“Not the greatest grade,” he continued, “but a lot better than my quiz average, Sera, as you well know. And if you, Serutian, hadn’t been poking your nose into my business that first night you came to see me, I don’t think I’d have gotten either a tutor, or this far. I wanted to prove I could re-qualify on my own… but you both reminded me that there’s no shame in needing help.”

Sera uttered a muffled, “Our pleasure,” past her first bite of lasagna.

The captain shook his head in only partly feigned disapproval. “Why is it that so many telepaths talk with their mouth full?”

Her companions watched in interest as Sera clearly considered an obscene gesture with the Italian bread, and then thought better of it.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“At any rate… about my other invitation…”

Once more he had their undivided attention.

“I’m going to get through this, thanks in no small part to you both… and when I do—when they give me my ship—I’d like you both with me.” He regarded each in turn. “You, Serutian, will make a fairly good assistant chief of security—at least until you’ve got the practical experience to take the CoS spot permanently. And I have a feeling that you, Lieutenant MacLeod, will serve as a fine science officer… and, before you gear up to tell me that’s no longer a starship post… I assure you, the title’s about to make a comeback. And you’ll be there to make certain the captain knows precisely what he’s talking about.”

Both women smiled.

“I would like to propose a toast,” Sera said, lifting her glass. “Concerning advancement… may our captain soon receive a new command.

“He’s earned it.”