Some time ago, a number of my readers had inquired—first politely,
then perplexedly—as to when a certain story would finally make its
appearance. I can't say I blamed them; they were simply taking me at my word…
and the word changed day-to-day.
I'd resolved, after that incident, to never again
chronically delay a story as long as I had "A Week in the Life of Sito Jaxa."
That resolution, as you know, soon went the way of the dodo. I was
eventually forced to concede that a strict, exacting schedule was something
more of an ideal than an actually attainable goal. New stories, real-world
events, a lack of inclination to write… all of these have, at one point or
another, interfered with site production. When the new
year began, for example, I'd anticipated having The Liberty
Incident finished and posted by 30 August—at the absolute latest.
It's 7 October as I write this…
…and Book One begins below.
I'm burning my schedule.
"Distant Rumors"
By Joseph Manno
Luciano Mantovanni examined the communiqué, and shook his head, bemused.
Nine whole days to prepare, eh? Thanks for the heads up, T'Kara, he noted sardonically.
Despite the suddenness of her request, Mantovanni gave it but a
moment's thought before composing an acceptance and sending it via subspace to
his former X-O's office in San Francisco.
The Sicilian found himself looking forward to those two weeks:
Even among the elite fraternity of starship captains, Christopher Ride was a
legend. He was a 45-year Starfleet veteran; fully 10% of the space mapped
during that time had been charted by him. It was an astonishing statistic.
Ride was the consummate explorer, in a league with men like Jean-Luc Picard and Mark Jameson.
Not only that, but he's a hell of a fighting man, too.
In a career spanning nearly five decades, Christopher Ride had
fought Tzenkethi, Cardassians, Jem'Hadar, Breen, Klingons, Talarians and countless
others.
He was still here.
Mantovanni couldn't help being a little envious: The
opportunity to undertake a truly long-range deep space exploration had been
denied him by circumstance throughout his career.
At least somebody's expanding
the horizons of knowledge, he thought dryly, while they send me
out to
gnaw on some more legs.
***
Mantovanni was deep into his conference
preparations—"completely immersed" might have been a better
description—when the door chime to his ready room sounded.
It had been precisely, almost magically the
wrong moment for an interruption; the train of logic he'd been carefully
conducting instantly derailed with a mental crash he would have sworn they
could hear on the bridge. Gingerly, he set aside the wreckage of his thoughts,
smoothed over his irritation, and answered, "Yeah?"
An attractive, petite brunette entered, and
planted herself determinedly before his desk. In seconds, he'd placed her:
Lieutenant Cassandra Rhodes, Security.
"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"
he offered.
Her response caught him off guard.
"You can give me my due."
The Sicilian arched a brow.
"Come again?"
A moment later,
"Well, Captain… I'm just wondering what the hell I have
to do to get ahead around here! I work hard. My subordinates seem to like being
in my section of the department; or, at least, they never complain to me. My
superiors have always given me favorable reviews, as far as I know. Yet I still have
the same job description, and rank, I had when I was assigned to
She hadn't quite said
it… but Mantovanni caught the none-too-subtle pun.
"Look, sir… I left
"Back to the
here and now. My
two superiors here, Sito and Aldus, leave within a
week of each other, and I think, 'Yes! My
time has finally come!'
The brief, theatrical smile she'd donned for
effect again gave way to frustration.
"And I'm still not
on the bridge as either the tactical officer or the chief of
security! Instead, some snot-nosed 20-year old Roman prince is doing what
should be my job. I want a promotion, or I want outta here!"
Before he could say a word, she continued,
"Do you actually read those performance reports? I'm great at my
job! Sito recommended me! She even said, 'Oh you're in. The captain will definitely go with my opinion... he and I understand each other.'
"And, yet, there I am, languishing down there in the armory, polishing phasers and watching
NCOs get breveted past me. Even former Ensign T'Vaar's a lieutenant now... and she spends more time on
the bridge in a week than I do in a year. As
they say in the IPSL, 'Play me or trade me, Coach.'"
Mantovanni regarded her for a long
moment—sufficient time to burn through her indignation and inspire just the
merest hint of fidgeting.
Gently, he said, "Permission to speak
candidly granted."
She colored, but didn't reply.
"So what you're trying to tell me,
Cassandra," he continued, "is that no one listens to you."
"Well, not precisely, sir..." she
began, then realized what he'd meant. "Oh, very
funny. Well, I may not have the prescience of my namesake, but I can predict
the end of my Starfleet career if I don't get some recognition… and soon."
Mantovanni's expression remained just the amused
side of neutral.
"Your… concerns… have
been noted, Lieutenant. Was there anything else?"
He watched as she made a concerted effort to
compose herself—with only momentary success.
"I'm not trying to be pushy, sir… really, I'm not... but I feel like I've paid my dues, and deserve my chance. Hell, I
wasn't even promoted during the war... if you can't get lieutenant commander
when the shooting's going on, then how can you expect it after things die
down?! I refuse to be a lieutenant forever! My pride won't
allow it.
"I hope you can understand that."
And with that, almost as if she'd exhausted her
nerve, she whirled and departed.
Silence reigned again.
Almost a full minute later—after Cassandra
Rhodes, of course, was long gone—Mantovanni uttered a single droll word.
"Dismissed."
***
Chris Ride stepped off the turbolift and noted a spring in his
step he hadn't felt for months.
Wow, you're really excited about this,
aren't you? he thought to himself,
chuckling aloud—and earning surprised glances from a pair of first-year
cadets passing him in the corridor.
He cleared his throat and kept going, even while the
young students averted their eyes as quickly as they could.
They started whispering just before he was out of audial range, however.
And thus begins another rumor about how eccentric Starfleet's
commanders are, no doubt.
The chance to meet and work with Luciano
Mantovanni was not to be missed. People bandied about phrases like
"tactical genius" and "one of the best ship-to-ship
combatants" far too readily, in his opinion; in Mantovanni's case, though,
they weren't exaggerating in the least.
This is the man who shattered an entire Romulan
task force with a clunky old Miranda-class cruiser...
the first commander to destroy a Jem'Hadar battleship
in combat... the task force leader who confounded a fifth of the
Cardassian/Dominion fleet for four months with only 15 starships under his
command.
He'd also trained some of the fleet's best officers: T'Kara, Bagheer, Sa'lanna and
Sera MacLeod, to name a few. That in itself told you a
lot.
Not only that, but he's a hell of an explorer, too.
Mantovanni was a man out of his time, deserving mention in the
same breath with commanders like James Kirk, Hikaru Sulu and Garth of Izar.
It's a terrible thing to say, but thank God he ended up in our
era. We'd have been a lot worse off against
the Dominion without him.
***
M'Raav Hatshepsut had never seen Cassandra
Rhodes this distraught.
As a matter of fact, she couldn't remember ever
having seen her at all—in a professional capacity, that is.
"Now I've done it," the agitated woman was
saying. "I've sandbagged my own career."
"Perhaps you're overreacting,"
ventured the Felisian.
It didn't seem to be having the calming effect
for which it was designed.
Even feng shui has
its limitations, the feline thought.
Her guest's next outburst brought her attention
back to the problem at hand.
"No, I'm not overreacting,"
The counselor suppressed an amused trill.
"Actually," the Felisian answered
candidly, "I believe the word he used was, 'Harangued.'"
Cassandra Rhodes looked ill.
***
For a long time, Jane McDonald had looked
forward with an almost desperate eagerness to the eventual reunion with her
daughter, Samantha.
Now, in the span of a few hours, enthusiasm had
become near dread.
She'd wanted this to be perfect. Her
daughter, after all, had gone through hell over the last two years: Her father,
Jane's husband, had been killed when the Breen had launched their vicious sneak
attack on Earth during the latter stages of the Dominion War. Jane had, at the
time, been hundreds of light-years away, aboard USS Argus—unable
to take leave while the Federation's very existence hung in the balance… unable
even to communicate with Sam in real time because of the strict comm
limitations imposed by the necessities of war.
Instead, her sister, Elisabeth, who had no
children of her own—and no inclination to have any, truth be told—had, out of
necessity, been "drafted" into sheltering Sam for over a year.
In hindsight, what had seemed the natural
solution had clearly been a mistake. Over the ensuing
months, Liz' communiqués to Jane about Samantha and her behavior had devolved
until their tone had been literally furious: She was obviously sick and tired
of dealing with the girl… and the feeling was clearly mutual. Jane,
incredulous, had heard the descriptions "bitchy, controlling tyrant"
from one, and "defiant little anarchist" from the other in the last
days of
…and those were the kindest
things the two had
said about each other.
After Jane's arrival, and a brief
conversation—more an embittered diatribe from Liz, actually, in
which the words "guilted" and
"coerced" had figured prominently—her sister had left the apartment
with the enthusiasm of a freed prisoner… and the emphatically, almost
satisfyingly, declared announcement, "You're back, now… you deal with her.
"I've
had it."
And now, Jane would have to do just that.
She waited at the kitchen table,
an untouched mug of tea cradled in her hands, and watched the chronometer.
School would have been out a few minutes ago. She should be…
The hiss of the apartment door confirmed her
hopes and fears.
"Hey, Lizzie! You here?"
The tone was intentionally snotty and
provocative; Jane recognized it as one her daughter had been refining since the
girl had begun talking almost 15 years ago.
It wasn't even directed at her, and it was still annoying.
As Samantha entered the kitchen, though, she
stopped short… and her mouth dropped open.
"No, she's not," Jane answered coolly.
"But I am."
***
Having heard Cassandra Rhodes' side of things—at
length—M'Raav Hatshepsut now had what she thought
might prove an unenviable task: Convincing her captain, even in the wake of the
lieutenant's outburst, that the woman's grievances had merit.
Four bowls of Ktarian heavy cream after this, M'Raav.
"I think her frustration is understandable,
considering the circumstances."
Luciano Mantovanni at first didn't answer, and
continued to execute the kata he'd been performing when Hatshepsut had entered
the gym to seek him out. It required only a fraction of his concentration;
having done it off and on since he was two years old left it essentially a
reflex… and a relaxing one at that.
After almost a minute, he replied, "I don’t
understand why she hadn't come forward with her concerns until now—either here
or aboard
M'Raav growled slightly.
"She never went to Captain Picard, because, as we both know, he isn't the kind of
commander with a genuine 'open-door' policy—not that he'd refuse to speak with
you, or that you wouldn't profit thereby… but you'd get a comment about…"
"…'utilizing the chain of command,'"
Mantovanni finished.
"Precisely."
Even though the small gymnasium was empty, the
Felisian lowered her voice before continuing.
"She also didn't like talking to
Riker."
Mantovanni put the finishing touches on the
exercise, reached the "complete" position, held it for a moment, and
then stood.
"Might I ask why? Will Riker is nothing if
not approachable and friendly."
Hatshepsut gestured with a paw.
"Cassandra told me precisely this,
and I quote: 'I felt like he undressed me with his eyes every time we spoke.
The guy is always on the make. He hits on everything. I can't stand that."
Whatever Mantovanni thought of Will Riker's
decorum or personal life, it didn't manifest itself in his expression.
Hatshepsut thought it interesting, though, that he didn't say a word either in
protest or defense.
Instead, he agreed, "A difficult position.
"That leaves Worf.
Starfleet's first Klingon officer has many fine qualities. Empathy, however, is
not among them."
His counselor trilled. "Quite."
"All right… putting aside the fact that she
went to you when she avoided Deanna Troi, why not the
chain of command here?"
"That is… more difficult to explain,"
Hatshepsut conceded. Nevertheless, she gamely attempted to champion
"Bagheer is not exactly approachable either, sir, and Commander Sheridan's stay was of short
duration."
"What about Erika?" Mantovanni asked,
taking a seat on the nearby bench. "She's personable, helpful… and isn't
shy about telling me when I've committed an administrative faux pas;
hell, she scolds me more than you do." His smile was infinitesimal, but
genuine.
Now the Felisian hesitated.
"Well… a few of the crew still do not
feel… comfortable… speaking with Commander Benteen—for
any reason. You know that as well as I. It's something that will probably
follow her the rest of her career.
"I will point out, though, that Lieutenant
Rhodes felt quite confident coming to you," offered Hatshepsut hopefully.
Mantovanni didn't look impressed.
"True… but after how many years, and how
much compiled frustration?"
"She's alternately controlled and
emotionally unbridled." The Felisian's irises
grew into saucers. "You, of all people, should be able to
empathize."
He took the gentle rebuke in stride.
"Noted." He considered the situation a moment more, as
Hatshepsut took the opportunity to perform a rigorously thorough stretch.
"I'll give both your statements, and hers, due
consideration."
"Thank you, sir," M'Raav purred. "I knew you would."
"Well… thank the Almighty for permissive,
asexual commanders, eh?" The Sicilian replied dryly.
The Felisian primly told him, "I'm going to
refrain from commenting at this time."
The Sicilian arched a brow... but decided to end
the exchange.
After all, M'Raav has too many weapons… he smiled inwardly.
…and too much reliable intelligence on
the "enemy."
Luciano Mantovanni finished his log entry and leaned
back. He would have liked to put a little more distance between himself and the
work on his desk, but a short respite was all he was destined to get… and he
well knew it.
What else can I do to put this off…? the harried Sicilian thought. He
glanced at the replicator, and then dismissed the idea. He wasn't hungry, and eating for something to do—no matter how much one
enjoyed food—wasn't a good habit to indulge.
Then he hit on another delaying tactic.
"Computer, display all my unread incoming
messages marked 'personal.'"
There were five of them, dating back to the week
before.
Excellent. At least I
can pretend I'm attending to important business, while actually putting it
off, for a few more moments.
Sevek, his master, had written a lengthy letter
addressing everything from the condition of the rose garden to the state of
Vulcan politics and more, indulging "your human need for small talk."
He'd even included a scholarly piece about Persian astrology and its
relationship to the birth of Christ.
As always, Mantovanni was touched by the
gesture.
Leave it to a father to find something illogical… and yet do it
simply because it pleases his son.
Bagheer, his former X-O, and captain of USS Hestia, had noted his celebration of Christmas with
the observation, "Putting aside the
religious implications… if a small elfin man borne in a sled pulled by 'eight
tiny reindeer' landed in my shuttle bay, I'd presume they were the
gift… and have venison for Christmas dinner."
Ever the Tzenkethi pragmatist, Bagheer.
Matt Forrest, USS Athene's skipper, had invited him and all of
Mantovanni, rolling his eyes, dashed off a quick
personal acceptance, as well as a promise to relay the invitation
appropriately, and forwarded it back.
Rear Admiral Sadok had
sent him a brief note, and his latest move in their
subspace 3-D chess match. Five games had produced four draws, and a win for
Mantovanni the then-perturbed flag officer had labeled "illogically
executed… but nevertheless effectual." Now, in game six, Sadok, with White, had pushed to a slight positional
advantage, and was stoically ignoring his friend's and subordinate's attempt
to, as he'd said in the communiqué, "emotionalize the exchanges."
Good for you, Sadok, Mantovanni smiled slightly to himself. We'll see if you can keep it up.
The oldest message was from Erika Donaldson,
captain of the USS Adventurous—and a woman with whom Mantovanni had an… interesting… relationship. He'd listened to it once before,
on Christmas Eve, but was feeling sentimental.
As the viewer's image coalesced,
“’Tis the season, so I thought I’d
send along a Christmas greeting. I hope
you’re having a merry one, at least."
Sure, Erika. As merry as yours,
I'll bet.
A moment later his impression proved prescient.
"Starfleet’s present to us was a set of new transwarp specifications that they want
tested. Our scheduled leave has been
indefinitely postponed, though we’ll get a whole day when we stop at Starbase
212 to pick up our visiting transwarp specialist."
He recognized, and empathized with, the irritation and irony
in her voice: Adventurous had
been scheduled to reach Earth on or about the 5th of January. No
doubt many of the friendships the two crews had struck up during the Dominion War
would have been renewed and built upon during their mutual leaves. Both ships'
complements had been very much looking forward to it.
So much for that,
Mantovanni thought.
“No doubt I’ll be spending
it keeping
The Sicilian grimaced slightly.
I'll have to pass that on
to Sera. Perhaps a short note reminding
Then, again, I’m not one to talk.
“I’d say God only knows when we’ll be done with this, but I’m not
sure Starfleet even sends Him the memos."
Mantovanni chuckled aloud.
“Anyway, it looks like we might be out of touch until well into next year, so I thought I’d drop a line while I
could. I’d best be getting back to our
little party before my incorrigible X-O spikes the eggnog with something
stronger than rum."
“Give my best to Benteen, Sera and the
others. May all be calm, all be bright, for you and yours.
“Merry Christmas,
Mantovanni considered a response for a moment…
then took a few minutes at the replicator acquiring the appropriate prop. Then,
with hourglass in place on the desk before him, he hit the Reply
button, and began a message of his own.
"Well, since I'm at least as fond
of symbolism as you are, I thought this appropriate. There was no chance, after
all, of getting me into a robe and scythe… or, worse, a diaper.
"I'm sorry about you and your crew getting screwed out of Christmas… the Scrooges, Grinches, demons and devils at Starfleet aren't
exactly sympathetic to the vagaries of religious celebration… or to certain Starfleet captains. Ah, well, look at
it this way… I bet you're with most of the people you really care about, aren't you?
"I believe you'll get this on
December 31st. If so, I recommend drinking something that leaves you
with a hangover, finding some handsome young lieuten–…
no, you wouldn't do that... very well, then, fantasizing about some handsome young lieutenant…" He grinned with an
intentional wolfishness he knew would catch her by surprise.
"…and remembering just how
wonderful your life is: Captain of a Federation starship; wildly popular with
your superiors…" He hesitated, added wryly, "…or at least your
peers…" and then winked.
"…and
stunningly beautiful.
"May the New Year bring you light
and love, Erika… you more than deserve them both." He tagged the whimsical
message and sent it on its way—before he could reconsider.
Luciano Mantovanni smiled at the memory of one
Erika…
…and then frowned, as he again thought
about the other.
***
Gabi was six… and that was pretty cool.
On her birthday, just a few months ago, she'd
come to the wondrous realization that she'd now need two hands to answer
people when they asked, "How old are you?"
Well, if she'd still used her
hands to count, anyway.
Her dad had told her then that that was
something "ladies" didn't do. "Ladies" politely answered,
"I'm six years old."
Gabi, though, wasn't sure she wanted to be a lady. After all,
Dad always said that Brenda, his girlfriend, was a "lady"… and, as
far as Gabi was concerned, Brenda was a jerkbird. She
pretended to like Gabi, when all she ever really did
was say, "Oh, aren't you sweet?" … and then, a second later, ask her Dad,
"Isn't it her bedtime?"
Her small mind had come to what was an
inescapable conclusion: Brenda didn't like Gabi. She couldn't
understand why, though. She never said anything bad to Brenda.
That didn't seem to matter.
I don't get it, she thought. I love Daddy; Daddy
loves me. Daddy loves Brenda; Brenda loves Daddy. Why can't Brenda love me, too? I'd
love her, if she'd just love me. It was very confusing, and made her sad.
She looked at her teddy bear, Ignatius Loyola…
but he had no comment.
Ignatius, though, despite being what Daddy
called "the strong, silent type," was a really good
hugger…
…and a hug made her feel a little better about
the whole thing.
Commander Jason Cleisters
shook his head—a slow, but emphatic gesture.
"I'm sorry… I just don't think it's a good
idea."
Despite the fact that she'd anticipated
precisely this when coming to the home they'd chosen together almost seven
years ago, Erika Benteen still gaped indignantly at
her husband's undiluted gall.
"I don't give a damn what you
think, Jason!" she replied angrily. "She's my daughter, and I want
to see her.
"Now!"
Even worse than if he'd been furious, his
expression remained almost impassive.
"Well, despite the fact that you once were
entitled to give me orders, dear—both by virtue of rank and relationship—that
time is long past. I have to consider what's best for Gabriella… and it's best that you don't try to insinuate yourself into her
life again at this stage."
With an effort, Erika reined in her temper.
"You don’t get to make that
call on your own, Jason. Not anymore."
Now his response was a bit sneering.
"Oh, don't I?
I've spoken to a number of child psychologists who say that your sudden
reappearance will do Gabi more harm than good. You've been gone for five years,
Erika. She doesn't remember you… at all."
"And whose fault is that, Jason?!"
Erika countered. "I sent her gifts and letters regularly, and they were returned
unopened… you intentionally blocked my every effort to contact her, and now you're going to say,
'She doesn't know you'?! Of course she doesn't, you bastard! You didn't want her
to know me, and prevented it from happening!"
He had at least the moderate grace to look
slightly chagrined… but managed to harden himself to her point.
"I did what was best for Gabi. Brenda and I
are getting married. She'll have a mother, now… one that will actually be
around. Gabi needs stability, regularly… and she's getting it with me."
"What was I supposed to do, Jason? I was in prison… and then I was hundreds of light years away."
"Yes," he acknowledged. Then he
clarified his own position.
"You were in prison… for having betrayed
everything for which the Federation stands. You disgraced yourself, you embarrassed the service… and you blasted a
nice-sized hole in my career, too. Guilt by association may not be listed in the index of the Starfleet
manual, but it shows up in the performance reviews. I've 'just missed' captain
twice, now. You think that would've happened if you were still Captain Benteen, and not a convicted felon?"
"I paid my debt," asserted Erika.
"No… from what I heard, Mantovanni broke you out, and then shamed
Starfleet into giving you a second chance you didn't deserve."
"Well, I guess I'm fortunate you didn't
make that decision," she replied stiffly. It was clear that whatever love
this man has once had for her had withered in the face of her adversity, and
his own.
"Yes, you are... or you'd still be in
prison.
"And, whether you like it or not, I do make
the decisions about Gabi… and I decided long ago that you forfeited your rights
as her mother sometime during your stay at Dalarian
Prime. I have her… I'm willing to litigate this well into the 25th
century… and I want
you out of here, and our lives, forever.
"Now get the hell off my property; your
welcome is rescinded. In 60 seconds, your presence here will be considered
trespassing… and believe me, I'll have you arrested if you force me to do it.
You're not seeing her again… that's a promise."
Erika Benteen stood.
Her face was ashen; she hadn't, on some level, really
believed that the man she'd once loved would stand by such a horribly unjust
decision. She turned to leave, but stopped at the door.
"All right," she gritted. "I can
see where you stand, Commander—right between me and my daughter.
"Make no mistake: To get her back, I'll go
around you, above you…
"…or, if
necessary, through you.
"And that's a
promise."
***
Slowly,
It had been quite some time since the great
vessel had reaped the benefits of a friendly port for any appreciable length of
time. Now, though, she would receive what the dockmaster
had told Sera MacLeod would be "the full treatment": Software emendations; hardware swap-outs; a
thorough exterior cleansing that would restore her to launch-day luster; even, he'd
enthused, a baryon sweep to purge her
"inside and out."
It was that last procedure which had Sera
concerned… and had brought her to her captain's ready room, despite being fully
aware that his schedule wasn't exactly rife with free time at the moment.
She formulated her strategy… and then rang the
chime.
Even her sensitive hearing couldn't detect
anything other than a clipped, "Come
in"… but such didn't
prevent an indulgence of imagination that retroactively presaged his response
with an irritated sigh.
He hadn't looked up as she entered… and even
now, alternated his gaze between a PADD on his desk and the built-in viewer
itself.
That should make this somewhat easier, she thought.
Finally, Mantovanni offered a distracted,
"Yes, Sera?"
"Concerning the impending inspection and
refit, sir… in light of Commander Benteen's absence, I have taken it upon
myself to approve and reject certain of the dockmaster's
desires as pertain to our stay at Utopia Planitia."
This garnered his momentary attention.
"Why," he inquired, "didn't you
just bring this to T'Laris? She is, after all, our
X-O." Only someone who'd served with Mantovanni as long as had Sera
MacLeod would have detected the subtle acidity of tone when he'd mentioned
their new Romulan officer.
Sera thought it best to ignore it… and pressed
forward with her own agenda.
"Sub-commander T'Laris,"
she explained, "left me the bridge, and is currently at the Romulan Embassy on Earth. Her presence there was requested
some hours ago, and she did not wish to disturb you."
The Sicilian's eyes narrowed. He was obviously
displeased that she'd simply departed without permission; then, again, the
Vulcan wondered if Mantovanni would have been just as upset if the woman had
disturbed him with so trivial a matter. Briefly, Sera pondered if their first
officer had any idea that the depths of her personal dislike for the assignment she'd been
given were easily matched, and probably surpassed, by their captain's.
At last, he reached for the PADD, scanned it
briefly, and then returned it to her.
"Very well. Carry on."
She inclined her head, offered a respectful,
"Sir," and tried not to move too quickly for the door.
It wouldn't have mattered anyway; he caught her
with the question even as she'd thought her escape was an accomplished fact.
"Why no baryon sweep?"
Carefully, she gave her reasons.
"It is superfluous at this time; we are not
in any danger of contamination," she told him. "Furthermore, since
the procedure will require securing the ship and evacuating all personnel, it
will prevent us from continuing preparations for the upcoming inspection apace.
I do not imagine you wish to provide Admiral Pierce with any ammunition in your ongoing… campaign."
She managed a smile.
He grunted in assent, and turned back to his
work.
When Sera MacLeod again took the center seat,
she sat it much more comfortably than she had five minutes before. In fact…
…it almost seemed to welcome her.
***
Jane McDonald didn't know it, of course—or, at least, wasn't ready to admit it—but she was looking into a
mirror…
…and wasn't at all enjoying
the reflection.
Samantha was bright and determined, all right…
bright enough to punch holes in some of her mother's arguments, and determined
enough to stubbornly ignore the others.
"Look, Mom… we won the war. The
Dominion's back where they belong, in the Delta Quadrant…"
"Gamma
Quadrant."
Sam rolled her eyes. "Delta, Gamma, whatever… don't do that! You know what
I mean."
Jane chided herself. Don't antagonize her, you idiot.
"You're right," she conceded.
"Sorry."
The girl didn't exactly look mollified, but she
continued.
"And you can't tell
me you were so vital to the war effort that you couldn't come home.
Dad is dead, Mom… he's not sunning himself on a beach
somewhere. And your sister, Lizzie Borden, is more interested in finding
husband number three, or lover number 5,000, than she is in anything I have to say."
Jane gaped in near astonishment: Where had
her daughter acquired this mouth? It didn't help that the girl's voice had
deepened since last they'd spoken, and now sounded like a literal echo of her
own—in both tone and, if she'd been able to admit it, content.
"Watch yourself, young lady. I don’t care if you like
Aunt Elisabeth or not. She's an elder and you'll treat her with respect."
Sam nearly burst out laughing.
"I respect people who respect me, Mom. Lizzie can
take a space walk without a starship for all I care.
"And so can you."
It was only in that moment that Jane McDonald
fully realized just how long and hard the road back with her daughter
was going to be.
***
Sera came to her captain with actual
time to spare—a full minute and 45 seconds, no less—and announced, "
Mantovanni, she noted, didn't bother
with questions as to the extent of the preparedness. After all, he knew there
was nothing he could do about it now.
And, besides, if he can't delegate to
Sera MacLeod with absolute certainty, well…
Stop that, Sera, she told
herself firmly. You haven't done anything wrong. Then she set
that caravan of thought aside as best she could.
Surreptitiously, the half-Vulcan
adjusted her collar; she was uncomfortable, but nonetheless as crisply prepared
as she might be, in her new dress whites.
As for Sub-commander T'Laris… she, too, was wearing a dress uniform when she
arrived seconds later…
…but it was a Romulan
dress uniform.
Oh, dear, thought Sera.
As she took her place beside
Mantovanni, he quietly, coldly noted, "I thought I told you I didn't want
to see you in Romulan military dress on my ship,
Sub-commander."
She didn't even spare him a glance.
"That is not correct. You
instructed me not to wear… allow me to recall the exact verbiage… ah, yes… 'That
uniform,' was the phrase you used. You made that… declaration… while
I was in my standard duty garb. I have, thus, adhered to your
instructions."
The Sicilian's tone hardened into
frigidity.
"Obviously no one ever taught you
the difference between the letter and the spirit of the law,
Sub-commander," he observed.
She gave as good
as she got, though.
"I cannot be held responsible for
your lack of specificity…
"…sir."
Oh, God, thought Sera. Not now, 50 seconds from an inspection.
Mantovanni, surprisingly enough, chose
not to continue the exchange much longer.
"We'll deal with this later."
"I am at your disposal," T'Laris responded easily.
Never in her decade-long association
with Luciano Mantovanni had Sera ever heard him
mumble—so she couldn't even be sure if he had, indeed, answered T'Laris with the "Don't tempt me" she'd
thought she'd heard.
This time it was the Romulan who prudently chose not to react.
Having been directed by instructions
from Starfleet Command to receive the inspection party in the main shuttle bay vis-à-vis
a transporter room had been surprising, but not completely irregular. Now, as
the shuttle touched gently down and its main door hissed open, Sera MacLeod's
suspicion of just why was confirmed: The first of the admirals to debark
was a stooped figure of a man, gray with incredible age, but surprisingly agile
for all that—as the aide who attempted to assist him was reminded, when the
elder man slapped his hands aside, saying, "I can walk… I'm old, not
paralyzed."
He's certainly… "Spry," I
believe, is the term, Sera thought, though if I used it
with him I'm certain I'd be sorry.
Luciano Mantovanni's expression, so stormy a moment ago, actually
lightened.
"Admiral McCoy, welcome aboard.
It's good to see you…"
"…alive?" the cantankerous old doctor finished.
"Considering the
alternative…"
McCoy chuckled, agreeing, "I'll go with
that"… then, abruptly, cocked an eye at him.
"Was that a twinkle I saw
in yer eye, boy? You're lightenin'
up in your old age… time was you made Spock seem like a barrel o'
monkeys."
With her peripheral vision, Sera could
see Ensign Brett King struggling not to burst into hysterical laughter at
McCoy's antics. Mantovanni, intentionally oblivious, continued with the
introductions.
"My exec, with us on the officer
exchange program recently begun with the Romulan Star
Empire. Sub-commander T'Laris, this is Vice Admiral
McCoy."
Sera marveled at the utter lack of
anger in Mantovanni's voice as he introduced the two.
He must be seething beneath that façade of pleasantness.
"Admiral." T'Laris inclined her head, offered her
hand… and, along with the rest, was quite startled when McCoy took it, and in
admirable Southern tradition, brought it to his lips.
"Well," he announced, "I do believe you're about the prettiest Romulan I've ever seen."
The rest of the room—even
Mantovanni—held its collective breath.
T'Laris, though, merely smiled, and then replied, "And you, sir, are
by far the most perceptive Starfleet officer."
The venerable physician gave a boyish
grin—it took 40 years off his face—turned to Mantovanni, and whispered loudly,
"I like this one, boy. You keep her around, y'here?"
"I'll take it under advisement,
sir,"
The other flag officers and
dignitaries—Vice Admiral Alexander Pierce, Vice Admiral T'Kara,
and a civilian Bolian male Sera didn't recognize—had
also disembarked, and now stood in a small knot as Liberty's available
senior staff paid their respects to the legendary Leonard McCoy. It wasn't
often such men and women faded into the background, even momentarily… but in
this case, each seemed to understand that it was simply the way things were
supposed to be.
"Permission
to come aboard, Captain?" Alexander Pierce
was the first of them to speak. His tone, not surprisingly, was that of
tolerant amusement: It was clear to all present that ceremony was not the
ground upon which they'd all stand during this inspection. McCoy's
entrance and initial comportment had seen to that.
"Granted, Admirals," came Mantovanni's ready response—even as, behind them, McCoy
was heard saying to Brett King, "Well, o' course I wanna see sickbay, boy! If we wait for those other three,
though, I may die before we get there. Let's get a move on!"
And with that, most of the tour,
including T'Laris, disappeared on its way to… well,
on its way to whatever struck Leonard McCoy's fancy.
Sera noted the silent but eloquent look
that passed between Mantovanni and Pierce at McCoy's comment; evidently there were
important matters to be discussed, after all. She wondered briefly about them,
and then stepped forward to address T'Kara.
"All is in readiness,
Admiral," she offered immediately, without even a greeting.
Oddly enough, the elder Vulcan woman
took no notice.
"If you will excuse us, gentlemen…
Commander MacLeod and I have important matters to discuss." Without
further comment, the two departed, already deep into a conversation one would
need doctorates in numerous disciplines to even fathom—let alone
actually follow.
Mantovanni arched a brow.
"I get the impression we've been
told 'not to worry our pretty little heads over it.'"
Pierce smiled.
"Well, no doubt when the report's
been rewritten in small words, we'll be briefed. Until then, Captain…" and
he gestured to his Bolian companion, "…this is Markan Vott. His term of office
as Bolius IX's
representative on the Federation Council begins in just over 48 hours.
Currently, though, he's on a fact-finding tour." The slight
emphasis on the adjectives didn't escape
It almost sounds like a warni–…
The official stepped forward, seized
Mantovanni's hand, and pumped it vigorously.
He then began speaking—even more
vigorously.
"Captain, an honor to meet
you," Vott effused rapidly. "I made a
specific request to come aboard your ship. I hope we'll have an opportunity to
discuss tactics; I'm an avid student of military history, you know… and believe
it might benefit us both to review some of the decisions you made at various
points in your career. Admiral Pierce, I know, has made a number of adjustments
in his own strategic perspective after our recent conversations. Haven't you,
Admiral?"
The half-Vulcan nodded expansively, and
enthused, rather sarcastically, "Oh, yes."
Pierce's tone was—of course—completely lost on Council Member Vott…
…and all too
clear to Mantovanni.
The Bolian
continued, "In fact, I wanted to specifically addr–…"
The admiral took a sudden step back, an
expression of extreme concern coming over his features.
"Gentlemen, I just remembered
an urgent piece of business I must complete. If you'll excuse
me, Captain, Council Member… I'll return in approximately an hour."
Without further explanation, Alexander
Pierce turned back and re-boarded the shuttle… but not before favoring
Mantovanni with a sly smile that let the Sicilian know
his "business" was much more strategic retreat than it was necessary
duty.
Misery loves company, eh, Admiral?
Thanks a lot.
"…think you should really have
considered the Tulupian Maneuver at Shannari IV, on further reflection, don't you? Captain?"
Luciano Mantovanni gave an inward sigh, and braced himself for a wonderful
afternoon.
***
Jane McDonald was nearing the periphery
of her patience…
…and it had taken a grand total of one
hour and 57 minutes.
It felt to her like she and Sam had
managed to compress nearly sixteen years' worth of bitterness, resentment,
indignation (both the righteous and cathartic types), and plain old
honest anger into the fight that looked well on its way to heading into
a third hour—with a full head of steam, no less.
"…few months leave, huh?" Sam
was saying, as Jane refocused on her words. "Oh, that's perfect—just
long enough for you to get some real satisfaction out of 'playing Mommy,' and
then it's off to Starfleet again. Right?!"
Direct hit.
Lord…
is that what it boils down to, "Doctor McDonald"? Did
you come here willing to do whatever it took… or were you just hoping
that a cursory turn at parenting would be enough to straighten her out?
Slowly, almost painfully, she stood and
took a few deep breaths.
"Sam… I'm going to go get some
air. While I'm gone, I want you to think about whether your attitude over the
past couple of hours has accomplished anything, and be ready to talk
like a reasonable person when I get back here."
Her daughter
replied, mockingly, "'Yes, Mommy Dearest.'"
Jane didn't catch the reference… but
the tone spoke clearly enough.
If this goes on much longer, she thought, as she left the apartment, rather than a
counselor…
…we're going to need a cut-man.
Sam McDonald experienced an array of
emotions as the door hissed closed behind her departing mother: Satisfaction at
having forced a retreat—even a temporary one; a vague sense of dismay at being
alone—again…
…and worst
of all, disappointment in the fact that her mother couldn't even finish a fight
without ducking out for a breather.
"I can't believe I'm related to her."
Aimlessly, Sam wandered around the
apartment. Once or twice, she was tempted to pick up something breakable and
hurl it into a wall, but knew that would simply result in her cleaning up
shards an hour or two from now.
She entered the guest room.
I live with my aunt, have my own room…
and my mother's the visitor.
What's wrong with this picture?
Sam looked at Jane's unpacked overnight
bag, and the duty uniform folded neatly beside it, comm badge and rank insignia
still in place.
At least she's not wearing that damned thing.
Gradually, as she continued to stare at
the bed, an urge began to form in the outskirts of her mind. To her credit, it
wasn't quite conscious…
…but its potency wasn't to be denied.
A neutral telepathic observer forced to
give the sensation words would have probably labeled the proto-thought very
clearly.
It would have sounded something like, "What
can I do to really piss her off?"
And, as she stared at Jane's
possessions, it suddenly became apparent.
For the first time in years, Samantha
McDonald knew exactly what she was going to do.
***
For the first time in years, Erika Benteen had no idea what she was going to do.
Despite Jason Cleisters'
warning, it had been a simple matter to reconfigure the tricorder she'd been
carrying to scan specifically for a certain DNA signature—one particularly
close to her own—and then simply start walking.
There were a number of public
facilities near the house they'd bought, and a few minutes' purposeful strides
had brought her to
It was a nice little place, full of
kids doing the things kids do: Saving the Federation; scoring a goal; arcing
too high on the swings.
A few seconds of careful study, and…
…Gabriella Berengaria
Benteen Cleisters sat, stuffed animal clutched to her, and examined the
flowers. She touched one or two of them; it was a gentle, almost reverential
caress. Like most little girls, she appreciated beauty.
Unlike many, she understood fragility,
too.
For almost ten minutes, Erika stood,
quietly watched her daughter… and desperately attempted not to cry.
Well, at least you gave her the bear,
Jason.
Her mind now considered, and rejected,
a number of options. Technically, she could have walked over, picked Gabi up,
and beamed away with her back to the
The power of that temptation nearly
overwhelmed her.
You can't just take her away from her
Dad, Erika… no matter what an unreasonable prick he is.
You can't just fight him in court,
either, another part of her countered. You've
been gone for five years, you're an ex-con… the court's sympathies may not be
so easy to engage.
The part of her that was Gabi's mother,
though, pushed her into motion.
She decided on a walk in the park.
Her stroll took a few carefully
nonchalant minutes, but she finally ended up standing next to, and looking at,
the bed of flowers a certain little girl was still examining.
Flowers, of course, were quite a bit
more compelling than grown-ups. Gabi didn't even spare her a glance.
Finally, Erika spoke.
"Hello."
A sweet, "Hi," was the
only response. She glanced back, saw the uniform… and returned immediately to
studying the chrysanthemums.
"Are you one of Daddy's Starfleet
people?" she asked. "From the Pr–… Pre–…"
"The
Presidio?" Erika finished gently.
"Yes. Pre-si-dee-oh,"
she sounded carefully, then added, "Thank you."
She was so sweet and polite; Erika
wiped a tear from her face as surreptitiously as she could.
"Well, kind of," Erika
answered. "I work on a starship."
If Gabi had been a boy, that might have
garnered more interest. As it was, she said, "Do you like flowers?"
"Very
much."
It was then that the girl dropped her
bombshell.
"My mom works on a starship. The
Erika's heart caught in her throat. She
couldn't breathe, and latched onto the first thing that presented itself to her
mind.
"Nice bear."
"My mom sent him to me. His name
is Ignatius Loyola III," Gabi told her.
Now she was confused. What was Jason
playing at? Why had he told Gabi about her, given her at least one of the
things she'd sent, yet angrily denied her permission to see the girl?
"Have you ever seen pictures of
your Mom, sweetie?"
"Uh
huh. Holovids and
stuff."
Erika knelt next to Gabi, and
whispered, "Look at me."
Now, at last, she did.
The moment of realization, of
recognition, was one her mother knew she'd carry in her heart 'til the day she
died.
Gabi had searched her face carefully.
Then her eyes had widened.
"Mommy?"
Erika had smiled through her tears, and
nodded.
"Mommy!"
Ignatius Loyola, crushed between the
two, had been momentarily forgotten.
Somehow, though, they'd both known he
didn't mind.
***
USS Antietam
was, to put it delicately, no longer a ship-of-the-line.
Some, lacking a sailor's regard for a
long-faithful vessel, might have gone so far as to label her old—or even
decrepit.
She'd been one in the very first series
of Miranda-class starships, commissioned only days after the ill-fated
USS Reliant over a century before. In that time, she'd served
diligently, if not spectacularly—at first performing the myriad duties a 23rd
century starship had completed in those days as a matter of course.
As the years had passed, her duties had
been reduced, gradually but inexorably; she'd spent much of the Dominion War as
a patrol ship for the Dalarian Prime Penal Facility,
and had only fired her weapons in anger twice during that period: The former
against the ship at whose side she now rested in dry-dock, the USS Liberty;
and the latter when Antietam and her companion
vessel, the Miranda-class USS Hastings, had successfully
challenged a trio of Jem'Hadar fighters which had
made a sortie from a distant Dominion battle-cruiser…
It was that last combat, over a year
ago, which had destroyed her.
She just hadn't known it yet.
The Jem'Hadar
fighters she'd helped eliminate had, before succumbing, struck a number of powerful
blows with their polaron beam projectors. While
Her damage control teams and
technicians, despite their proficiency, though, had missed something—something
so miniscule that they could hardly be blamed for their oversight… something
that, if it had occurred anywhere else on the vessel, would never have
mattered.
Unfortunately, as the cruel Fates would
have it, the location—and, now, the timing—was everything.
The cracks that had formed in the
chamber housing
Oblivious to their danger, Utopia Planitia's diagnosticians had begun a comprehensive
examination of the
It was a sentimental gesture, no two
ways about it.
Now, the two men stood in engineering,
exchanged smiles—one hope-filled, the other wistful—and, then, Smythe gave the order to begin an energy consumption
evaluation.
For the first time in months,
In that moment, Warren Carver was a
happy man…
…and when the resultant explosion
shattered the engine room, it happened so swiftly that, mercifully, he died
one, too.
***
It was over almost before they knew it
was happening.
In sickbay, the floor tilted crazily. T'Laris had but an instant to consider action, then threw herself forward, offering her form as a cushion
for the flailing Leonard McCoy. When they both struck the floor—the floor that,
until a second ago, had been the wall—she guessed only that such a
spindly old man couldn't possibly weigh enough to actually do any real
damage.
A moment later, as the darkness claimed
her, she realized she'd guessed wrong.
In main engineering, Lieutenant T'Lann was pitched off the catwalk, but managed to snag the
railing with an outstretched hand. There she hung for a full three seconds
while the inertial dampeners and artificial gravity struggled to compensate for
whatever had occurred.
It was a ridiculous position in which
to find oneself, but…
…considering the cries of pain
emanating from almost everywhere else in the room, she decided the indignity
was worth it.
In the main shuttle bay, Erika Benteen found her perfect three-point landing had just
become "wide right"… and that the Delaware was suddenly on a
collision course with the Susquehanna—whose pilot, Tertius
Galenius, looked as stunned as she did.
Her daughter, Gabi, squealed with
delight.
Erika's scream wasn't so happy.
And, on the bridge, Luciano
Mantovanni found himself fascinated by the images projected on the main viewscreen; even as he hurtled back towards, and over, the
tactical console, he couldn't tear his eyes away from it. First the flame and
fury of an explosion somewhere to port of his ship hurled debris and people;
then he saw a calm starscape.
In between, the viewer had displayed…
nothing. Not the emptiness of space, but that of non-existence.
For a moment, he remembered… and in the
horrifying fullness of that realization, Luciano
Mantovanni drew breath to scream.
Then, as if the memory was too much for
his, or any, mind to contain, it was gone…
…and he was on the floor of his bridge,
red alert klaxons blaring, and personnel scrambling to whatever duty station
was closest.
"Damage report!" he snapped. "Answers, people… quickly!"
Only Parihn, it seemed, had maintained
her post through whatever had occurred, and it was the young Orion who
responded first.
"Warp drive
offline… impulse engines also not responding… navigational sensor array is
re-synchronizing, and attempting to define our position…"
From her tone, it wasn't having much
success.
Cassandra Rhodes followed a bare moment
later.
"Screens at 17%… all but the
starboard shield generator are overloaded."
The next voice was familiar, but one he
hadn't heard in such a context for almost 80 years. Vice Admiral T'Kara, efficient as ever, had fallen into her old science
officer habits as if eight decades hadn't already passed.
"Sensors indicate substantial
debris from the explosion in the surrounding space. Slight reduction in mass
indicates… transport activity."
Finally, the voice of Sera MacLeod
added a final, terrifying pair of facts.
"Navigational subsystems are not
malfunctioning, Captain.
Her voice chilled them all.
"We are nowhere in recorded space."
From a supine position behind tactical,
Mantovanni tapped his comm badge.
"All decks… disaster protocols.
All sections report status when feasible. Captain out." The statement
itself was meaningless, he knew: His crew understood procedures as well as he
did. Hearing his voice, though, let them know he was fine—that he was in
command of the situation.
And, at a time like this, they needed
that illusion.
As the reality of their situation began
to pervade the room, a dismayed Cassandra Rhodes addressed her captain, even
while helping him to his feet.
“Sir... you know that promotion we
discussed?”
Distractedly, he nodded.
“I’m not sure I want it.”
Luciano Mantovanni looked to the view screen, and there, saw stars no
other man had ever seen. The Sicilian’s expression was a clear precursor to the
response she just knew was coming.
Grimly, he replied, “Too late.”