I'd hoped that by putting my co-author, Julie Raybon,
on the clock, we'd actually see her part of this story before Heimdall sounded the Gjallerhorn.
[She evidently claims the title, "Empress of the Multitasked
Procrastinators"; you'd see what I mean if you took a look at her site.]
However, when Ms. Raybon gets going, you
learn that it's well worth the wait.
My strategy, by the way, worked to perfection. As a matter of
fact, I had a creative spurt and finished my portion of this tale very
quickly... and it's a cooperative effort of which I'm very proud.
"Introductory Offer"
by
Joseph Manno
and Julie Raybon
Molly Ainsworth had turned thirty-five the day before, amidst no
company other than a vintage copy of Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility—given
to her by an unusually perceptive colleague.
"You remind me of
Eleanor," Litiliri had scribed inside the
cover, "and even she learned the limits of stoicism."
The gentle admonishment, written in her friend's elegant hand,
brought a wistful smile to Ainsworth's usually impassive face. Now, Liri—and a significant part of her life—lay 640
light years behind her, relatively speaking. Next to her years at the Academy,
Molly's time on Lancifer Station and the Geohmanie survey crew had been
the most exhilarating, and
uncomfortable, three years she'd yet experienced.
Long-range cultural survey was characterized by lengthy stretches
of tedium interspersed with moments of significant uncertainty, tension and
fear. Her natural quietude gave her an advantage at dealing with the former,
and her tightly controlled sense of adventure thrived on the latter. She would
have been perfectly content to stay in that assignment through the rest of her
career, but Starfleet had other ideas.
Her final assignment aboard Geohmanie, the Dhalgheeri contact, had been a standout success. The
initial translation matrices were as complete as she could make them for now,
and the negotiations she'd begun were continuing with no sign of mishap. She had
planned to stay on and continue the translator calibrations, but her transfer
orders had arrived with the official Federation mediation team.
Squelching the pang of proprietorship she still felt about the Dhalgheeri contact, Ainsworth reminded herself that others
eminently more qualified were continuing the work she'd started. Dhalgheer had been
a significant turning point in her life, but it was now, for the most part,
behind her.
And ahead of her...
She still couldn't get over how large some starships were. The Sovereign-class
to which her shuttle was en route
rested against the star-scattered black, an immense yet elegant testament to
technological ingenuity.
"A village among the stars," Molly had once heard such
ships described, "filled with all the same drama, pain and joy you'd find
in any earthen-bound society."
Some more than others,
no doubt, she mused as the great vessel filled
her view.
"We're on final approach, Lieutenant Ainsworth," the
chipper young ensign at the helm called back to her. "About another three
minutes. I'm just waiting for final approval from the chief of operations
aboard the
That had been a stunner; she'd been completely surprised at having been assigned to a Sovereign-class—especially this one—and was still half-waiting for
the paperwork that rescinded the orders and sent her to some hind end of the
quadrant.
A famous starship… a
legendary captain… this has got to be a mistake, she thought, even as the shuttle began a wide, slow turn
aft. There, the illuminated maw of the bay stood open, awaiting them.
Closing her eyes as the little craft began its descent, Ainsworth
breathed deeply and slowly, willing her stomach, with uncertain success, to
stop its gymnastics. She was not one prone to nerves by any stretch, but her
previous experiences on starships hadn't been the best. And Luciano
Mantovanni was in an entirely different league than that blustering idiot
Dugan. It had been six years since the… unfortunate occurrence… and her
record from that point onward had been exemplary; but those sorts of
incidents tended to give most commanders certain preconceptions.
She hoped Mantovanni wouldn't be such a one.
A slight tremor as the shuttle set down on
The soft whine of the hydraulics stopped as the shuttle's doors
settled open. Still, Ainsworth found herself pausing.
Kaiidth! she chided herself in the language of
her second home. There is no place to go
but forward. Her features settling into their normal inscrutable visage,
she stepped into her future...
…and came to an abrupt halt when she found her way blocked by a
very irritated looking individual.
It didn't immediately cause her any concern, for irritation was a
hallmark of her challenger's kind: The Tellarite
glared up at her with myopic intensity. She returned the gaze with equal
measure—and somewhat better vision.
Only after this glaring contest had gone on for a full minute
without comment did she begin to wonder if something might be amiss.
"Yes, Chief?" Ainsworth prodded, breaking the tense silence.
The Tellarite gave an admirable grunt of
derision, an effect well suited to his porcine nature. "So you think you
can just waltz aboard, eh?"
"My ballroom dancing is a bit rusty, so I had intended to
simply walk," she replied
smoothly. "Unless there's some new regulation I've missed..."
"Hunh…
I think you have enough trouble with the current selection."
That comment perplexed her; though, outwardly, the only sign of that
was a slightly raised brow.
"Excuse me?"
Now the NCO gave an exasperated snort. "Do you normally just barge into someone's house
without asking?"
"No. What do you...?" she began.
He didn't seem interested in her response.
"Then why do you think you can come aboard my ship without asking?"
Ainsworth, accustomed to the more relaxed atmosphere of LRS, where
Starfleet etiquette was only dusted off when someone who might actually care
was about to show up, had a sudden sinking feeling she'd missed something
vitally important here.
Not that she was about to let him
know that.
She plastered an expression of mock regret on her face, and replied
sarcastically, "My apologies, Captain,
for the oversight."
He let out a grunt that sounded simultaneously amused and indignant. "I'm not an officer,
monkey-girl... I actually have a
job."
"Let's hope it's not as the official welcoming
committee." Ainsworth began to make her way around him.
She was almost past when he observed, "You still haven't asked."
Molly was certain he caught the grin that flashed across her face,
just before her back was to him.
"Wow... a job and
ears!" she tossed back. "You're multi-faceted, Chief."
Continuing on her way across the shuttle bay, she forced herself
to maintain an even pace—even when she heard him page security.
***
Ainsworth had gotten as far as the end of the corridor outside the
bay when her comm badge cheeped. She activated it after a second's hesitation;
wondering both if the grumpy NCO had indeed reported her, and why her caller
wasn't identifying him or herself.
"Ainsworth."
"Where are you,
Lieutenant?" The feminine voice sounded particularly displeased.
"The corridor outside of the
shuttle bay."
"And where are you supposed to be?"
"Errrr…with
you?" Ainsworth hazarded, hoping the reply
would give her some clue as to her
interrogator’s identity.
No such luck.
"Very good."
She hated to ask the next question, but had a feeling there
wouldn't be a way out of this that didn't have her looking like an idiot.
"And where would you
be?"
There was a strangled pause.
"Lieutenant, if you're
not in Sickbay in the next two
minutes..."
The transmission cut, leaving the unspoken threat quite
effectively to the imagination.
This facility had more than a few perks others she'd been in had
lacked—not a surprise, considering that the Sovereign-class
was essentially the most advanced in Starfleet. Molly noted that Geohmanie's
entire medical suite would have fit quite neatly into just half the main area
of
Her nostalgic moment was abruptly interrupted.
"You!"
She didn't even get a chance to react before someone grabbed her
arm and began to hustle her through the main examining area and into one of the
smaller isolation rooms.
"Level Eight contamination protocols," Ainsworth's
abductor snapped. "Though why I'm bothering at this point is beyond me." The woman then rounded on Molly;
who, recognizing the angry voice, knew she'd just reached strike two.
Auburn hair, blue smock…
…three pips.
"Now, who do you
think you are, ignoring quarantine strictures?"
There was absolutely no good way to answer that question, and the
doctor didn't leave space enough to reply, anyway.
"God only knows what
you're incubating. You… there," she continued, stabbing a
finger at the examining table.
That sinking feeling again twisting her stomach, Ainsworth lay on
the biobed as the doctor—still muttering about epidemics, contagion rates, and
irresponsible junior officers—began a series of comprehensive scans.
Molly sighed inwardly. She'd been examined both by the Dhalgeeri and the
Geohmanie's
medical staff before being allowed out of the system; not to mention her
two-day quarantine stay on Lancifer Station.
For one small moment, Molly considered informing the doctor of
these facts, and that
state-of-the-art Dhalgeeri medical technology was
relatively equivalent to, if not slightly ahead of, Federation standards; at
least in some areas.
Then she considered how well that
would go over—especially now—and decided there was a
certain prudence, at times, in simply keeping one's mouth shut.
After an interminable period of poking, prodding, humming and hmmming, the doctor finally conceded, "Nothing noticeably amiss... your standard
vaccinations are up-to-date, though I doubt they'd have any effect on whatever
you might have picked up out there.
"You're certified physically fit… provisionally. Report to sickbay in seven days
for a thorough follow-up.
"Now. Explain to me why you chose to disregard my orders..."
Aha.
"Doctor." Ainsworth's calm, even voice cut off the impending tirade.
"Oh, you can
speak." Her examiner raised her eyebrows in mock astonishment.
"When the other person finally takes a breath, yes." Seeing that she now had the other woman's full attention, Ainsworth swung her legs around and sat up.
"There may have been some breakdown in communication, Commander. I never received those orders."
The doctor's expression was that of a pediatrician who'd heard it
all. "Well, be that as it may, I'll have to report this to the
captain..."
"You do that. Why
did I even bother attempting to
explain?" Molly interrupted sarcastically, earning a rather impressive
glare for her trouble.
It only spurred her on.
"Perhaps you'd like a pound of flesh, too? You could add it
to your evidently growing
collection."
Ainsworth was sorry she'd said it the instant after it had gone
forth. Her target's mouth made a perfectly comical little "O" of
surprise—but her target said nothing in response, at first.
Direct hit, some part of her said. Move
in for the kill.
She brutally suppressed it.
Great. Aboard
twenty minutes, and already on report. This must be some kind of a
record.
"You're dismissed, Portia,"
the doctor finally replied.
Ainsworth left without a backward glance.
What a charmer, she thought. I'm surprised
she didn't order a high colonic.
***
After escaping from sickbay, Molly made sure the corridors were
clear of any other possible hazards before ducking into the nearest turbolift.
As the doors closed, her shoulders slumped in relief. The duffle slid to the
floor with a thud, though she set the other case at its side with much greater
care.
She hadn't had a day like this since her first cadet cruise. And
given how that had ended...
"Destination?" the computer queried in its ever-pleasant voice, saving her—momentarily—from
her train of thought.
"Anywhere but here."
"Unable
to comply. Please restate destination."
I assume you wouldn't
like, 'There's no place like home' any better, she
thought sourly. "Computer, have quarters been assigned for Lieutenant
Molly Ainsworth?"
"Deck
10, room 107b."
"Then proceed to Deck 10."
As the lift smoothly accelerated, Ainsworth noticed a catch on the
duffle was coming loose. She'd knelt, and was fighting with it when the lift
came to a stop and the doors slid open.
"May I offer assistance?" It was a male voice, genteel
and courteous.
"Thanks, but I've almost got it," she replied absently.
The little lock had taken the opportunity to develop a
proto-consciousness, it seemed; and the first manifestation of its personality
seemed to be stubbornness—the device wasn't moving. She continued to struggle
for another long moment, pushed a little too hard…
…and instead of locking into place, it jammed.
"Please, allow
me." The voice behind her had grown slightly irritated, but still managed
a brittle politeness despite that.
"I'm accustomed to doing things myself, thank you," she replied, perhaps a tad more curtly
than she'd meant. Whoever this person was, though, he obviously didn't
understand the concept of 'no'—and it was rather annoying.
Another round of yanking, tugging and mental cajoling was as
effective as the first two had been. Still the catch defied her.
"Then display the competence usually associated with those
who like 'doing things' themselves, woman, or permit me to aid you." The
previous courtesy was replaced by a tightly controlled exasperation.
Her hands stilled. Ever so slowly, Ainsworth glanced up. The
traditional Roman gladius
immediately caught her attention, as did the handsome young face and sharp
hazel eyes; which looked down an aquiline nose at her with something akin to
disapproval.
Magna Roman, the academic corner of her mind prompted. A centurion, by the uniform.
"Excuse me?" With some difficulty, she managed to suppress most of her own
disdain.
He sternly commanded, "Stand aside, woman... obviously you
cannot force the catch."
Ainsworth made no move to comply; and, instead, simply regarded
him with a chill expression. "Centurion," she asked,
conversationally, "does my particular combination of chromosomes have some
bearing on this situation?"
"No..."
"Then why do you feel the need to dwell on the point?"
A corner of his mouth twitched; the young Roman frowned ever so
slightly, as if he'd been caught out at something.
"It would be easier
if you let me–" he started to insist again.
A hint of anger entered her voice.
"I think I'll just let you apologize, Centurion." Arrogant
little...
There was a long pause, during which he eyed first the catch, then
her.
"I apologize, Lieutenant,"
he allowed finally, stiff with wounded pride. "I shall leave you to your
small exercise in... logistics."
Turning smartly on his heel, the young centurion strode off.
"Just who the hell
does he think he is..." Ainsworth gave the strap
a last sharp tug, and the catch sprang shut...
...right on her finger.
She bit back a yelp of pain, but not quite quickly enough.
The Roman, though, continued on, either unaware of or purposefully
ignoring the sound.
Molly stood as he disappeared around a corner. She knew she
shouldn't have let the soldier's attitude spark her temper, but she had,
especially today, a low threshold for arrogant posturing.
It might have been worse, she reminded herself as she picked up her bags and made her way
out of the lift. He could have been
someone important...
***
Deck Ten was a small labyrinth of corridors, and she finally
resorted to pulling up a map to find her way. Molly was unsurprised to discover
she was at the opposite end of the deck from her destination.
It just wouldn't do if something
went right...
The computer's directions were surprisingly simple to follow, and
within minutes she approached a "T" junction; her room, if she'd read
the graphics correctly, would be to the left. She stepped into the
intersection, idly glancing down the hall in both directions.
Not ten feet away, on her right, a woman was crouched; she was
intent on the wiring behind a panel. Sensibly cropped dark hair did not hide
the graceful upswept ears. A Vulcan, one would immediately assume.
Except one who had grown up among that
people, and knew their kinesthics as well as those of
her own kind.
Ainsworth retreated to the adjoining corridor, shaken.
There was a Romulan aboard the ship.
Molly subdued her immediate reaction, which was to call security.
At this range, the intruder's well-developed hearing was too likely to pick up
the communication. At the same time, she didn't think leaving the woman to her
task, whatever it was, would be particularly prudent.
So, apprehend her, and then call for help.
Heart pounding, Ainsworth unclipped the small hand-phaser from her
belt; suddenly glad for what she had previously considered a ridiculous
regulation. Then, taking a deep breath, she stepped back around the corner, the
small but formidable little weapon held before her.
"Step away from the panel and keep your hands where I can see
them."
The woman stood with casual grace, chuckling and shaking her head
with what looked suspiciously like contemptuous amusement.
Not expecting quite that reaction,
Molly hesitated, reaching for her comm badge to summon security... and making
the fundamental mistake of glancing for it while so doing.
That small distraction was all the Romulan woman needed. She covered the few feet between them
almost instantly. It was over in seconds; and Molly found herself sitting on
the floor, her wrist smarting. The phaser lay well out of reach down the
corridor.
Stunned, she tried to absorb what had just transpired.
Arms crossed, the Romulan looked down at
her and sighed loudly. "Is this how Federation personnel treat superior
officers?"
"Superior officer?"
She didn't seem to be acting like a saboteur… if she were,
Molly realized, she'd have already been quietly rendered unconscious—or, more
likely, killed—and dumped in an inconspicuous spot until the Romulan's task was complete.
As a matter of fact, the woman was acting like she belo-…
Ainsworth stared up at her in horrified disbelief.
Oh, no. Please tell me I
did not just...
She took a long look at the rank displayed on the woman's collar.
Though it was a Starfleet uniform—the
red of command, as a matter of fact—the customary pips were nowhere in
evidence. Instead, the collar was adorned with a Romulan
insignia.
Erei-riov, she remembered from one of her Academy lectures. Usually translated as
'sub-commander'.
The Rihan equivalent of Starfleet's full commander.
Shaking her head, the Romulan pulled
Molly up from the floor. "Thlai lwuil," she muttered in her native tongue. Stupid child.
"You should have shot me," the woman asserted. "Ri'hannsu have twice normal human strength, and we're faster than all
but the most athletic of you—which, evidently, you are not."
She then cocked her head, her expression one of critical
appraisal. "Considering what I have seen thus far, I would have to add
'significantly more intelligent' to that estimation, as well.
"You are reduced two steps in rank for incompetence. Carry
on.
Ainsworth locked eyes with the sub-commander for a long moment
before taking a step back, pivoting in a crisp about-face…
…and beating a hasty
retreat.
***
Molly was very grateful to find she had her own room. At that
moment, she wasn't sure she could've faced another confrontation, friendly or
otherwise.
"Lights."
The room illuminated slowly. It was small by most standards;
though to her, it seemed positively expansive.
Bed, desk, computer terminal.
Blinking message light.
Pride, and backside, still smarting from her encounter with the Romulan, she slowly approached the console. "Computer, who is the message from?"
"Captain
Mantovanni."
Well, he's efficient... "Play
message."
So preoccupied with trying to predict just how severely she was
going to be reprimanded, she almost missed the time stamp in the upper corner
of the screen.
0930.
Two hours before she'd even arrived.
Molly sank down into the desk chair, her knees weak with relief;
the missive was merely an invitation to the captain's ready room once she was
settled in.
Of course, no doubt the meeting will be a little more than a simple
friendly chat, now.
"Settled in… as in the noose about
my neck, maybe."
Unfortunately, it took very little time to unpack.
Ainsworth had always traveled light, a habit picked up from her diplomat
father. Within five minutes, her sparse collection of non-uniform garments were
neatly stored in a drawer, a small stack of books sat near the bed, and a few
knickknacks of alien origin, along with two holo-stills,
were arranged on the desk. Next to those sat a large box of data-solids.
Her other case held only one article, though she spent as much
time unpacking it as she had with all her other belongings combined. Molly
removed the contents—a painting—with great care. Vulcan's
She had hoped to return there before her assignment to
"After this, I might have all the time I need,"
she said to herself, tone wry. "Well, no use in putting off the
inevitable."
She straightened her uniform, tucked her ash-blond hair back into
place, and made her way out the door, steeling herself for the worst.
***
As she exited the car, Molly found herself immediately
wondering which deity in particular found tormenting her so very
amusing.
Each of the individuals with whom she’d had an… encounter… was somewhere on the bridge.
Mav, at least, she was able to avoid on this occasion. The
stout little Tellarite was ensconced within the
bowels of
T’Laris was in the center seat, her visage none too inviting.
Romulans, Ainsworth had noted privately, seemed to possess
three stock expressions they used more liberally than any others: An arrogant
sneer, a threatening glower and an aggravated frown. Currently the
sub-commander was wearing number three—and very well.
Acting CMO McDonald was just emerging from the ready room,
even as Molly approached it. Their eyes met briefly; the doctor seemed to
falter, and then regain some obscure resolve.
“Lieutenant,” she
noted.
“Comman–”
Without breaking her stride, the redhead passed
Ainsworth—almost breezily—and entered
the turbolift car; the door closed behind her with a gentle hiss.
“–der,” Molly finished.
She exhaled slowly, thinking, Well, let’s hope my run of good health continues… since the doctor’s snit
evidently has.
Her would be rescuer, Tertius, was
also present. He was engaged in an animated discussion with an Orion; and
seemed just then to have scored a point not particularly to her liking,
considering the woman's subsequent sigh of exasperation. He noted Ainsworth's
somewhat hesitant approach towards the ready room; even as she reached for the
buzzer, he brought his fist up in the traditional Roman salute, and bowed
slightly.
On an impulse, Molly returned it, and mouthed a phrase in
Latin, before turning to sound the chime.
"Te morituri salutamus," she'd declared silently. We who are
about to die salute you.
That she managed to coerce a smile from the Roman was, thus
far, her only victory this day.
"Come in."
And the only one that seemed likely.
"Lieutenant Molly Ainsworth reporting as directed,
Captain."
Mantovanni regarded her for a long moment, making no gesture
either for her to relax or be seated.
Her erect posture left her staring at the trio of blades
that adorned the rear wall of the ready room.
She recognized each in turn: A katana from the
Tokugawa Shogunate; a broadsword crafted of what looked
to be Damascene steel; and…
My God.
A Sha'rien.
There were less than twelve of them. Forged in the
generation just before the Great Awakening of Surak,
they were widely considered the finest weapons in the known galaxy… perfectly
balanced, immaculate in form—lethal in function.
Surak himself, though he shunned almost all weapons, had
considered them transcendent art. One of his pupils, the legendary S'task, had said, "They are honed to an edge finer
than pure logic itself."
He noted the tinge of awe in her face, and answered the
unspoken question.
"It was decided some years ago to keep three of the
blades off planet, in the event of some catastrophic disaster which might claim
them all. The House of T'Pau possesses four of the
eleven known to exist. She's one of them; Ka'liira
is her name."
Abruptly, his expression became an inscrutable mask, and he
told her drolly, "Well... we've been a busy girl, haven't we?"
"I dislike sloth, Captain." The wry edge to her
tone spoke volumes. Molly knew she risked yet another charge of insubordination
with the comment... but found herself unable to resist.
Mantovanni, for his part, seemed perfectly willing to reply
in kind.
"Well, rein in your industriousness for a
moment, Lieutenant Smart Ass, and sit down." He glanced down at a PADD
he'd been reading, then at her again.
"I've been reviewing your record… not the permanent
one, mind you—just the one which you've managed to accumulate in the past
87 minutes."
She'd always thought her wit was dry... Vulcan's Forge
seemed positively hospitable compared to the aridity of this man's voice.
"Let's review for a moment, shall we?
"Chief Mav reports that you boarded
Ainsworth grimaced. So that was what the volatile
little Tellarite had been so upset about!
Mantovanni continued. "What's your opinion of that,
Lieutenant?"
She decided to be candid. "Upon reflection, I'd have to
agree with the Master Chief, sir."
"Concerning the paperwork," the captain asked
pointedly, "or his position on shooting you?"
"Both."
Molly waited for the litany of errors to continue. At this
point, she was almost curious to hear what was going to come next.
"Dr. McDonald tells me that she can't guarantee
that—and I quote again: "...she hasn't already spread contagion on
five decks of the ship."
With that, Mantovanni coughed... whether he was merely
clearing his throat or reacting to his CMO's
statement, she couldn't tell. Desperately, she suppressed a wild urge to burst
into laughter. This guy was pretty damned funny.
Of course, that was assuming he wasn't in deadly earnest.
"I'd say more like seven decks, sir," Molly
confirmed. If you're going to go down, she thought, you might as well
go down in flames.
"Then there's Centurion Tertius,
our VIP, who says that, 'While her skill at rhetoric is admirable, I hardly
think her expressions of militant and defensive feminism are necessary when one
offers to be of assistance.'"
At that, the corner of her mouth quirked the slightest bit.
"It was not my best effort, sir." She'd remember
to really give the young Roman something to complain about next time...
…if there was a next time.
His eyes were appraising, but he never lost that unreadable
visage.
"Finally, we come to Sub-commander T'Laris.
She tells me your combat training is 'pathetically ineffectual'…"
Evidently he hadn't gotten that far, yet, for he raised a brow while reading
the next statement. "…and adds she demoted you for
incompetence."
Now Molly grew a bit agitated.
"Admittedly, I didn't handle the situation very well,
sir, but you have to admit she's being ridiculous if she thinks she can demote
me out of hand…" her voice trailed off, as Ainsworth realized that she was
finally getting some feedback from his expression.
It wasn't sympathy.
"While you might think she acted out of turn,
it's not your place to decide she's 'being ridiculous'... so take off that
lieutenant's pip you're still wearing, since it means you're out of uniform.
"Now." His voice suddenly had the crack of command, and Molly
realized that she might have gone one step too far.
"Sir, you can't be-" serious... she
didn't finish the exclamation of surprise, because right then she realized he
damn well could be… and was. Her mouth snapped shut and she reached for
her collar. With a sharp twist, she removed the offending pip and placed it on
his desk.
"In addition to your exploits here, Ensign,
you're evidently a popular gal with your former superiors, as well. I received
a communiqué from a Commander Evan Dugan two days ago; rather than just hitting
the highlights, I thought you might appreciate a copy… a little light reading
before you report to your supervisor tomorrow."
He tossed another PADD across the desk at her.
"Dismissed."
***
Molly was extremely proud of her restraint… she managed to
keep from peeking at the letter until she'd again sequestered herself in her
quarters.
It was a good thing she had. The text was brief and—as she'd
expected—damning.
When she'd finished, Ainsworth didn't know whether to laugh, cry
or do both. So she just sat there. Yes… sitting there seemed good for the
moment.
The "moment" became five minutes, then ten… an hour,
then two.
Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, betraying the fury she had
been containing until that point.
Evan Dugan had finally destroyed her career.
***
A fretful afternoon and sleepless night later, Molly listened in
silence as the computer's gentle alarm sounded, and a carefully modulated
female voice attempted to coax her out of bed.
"The time is 0600 hours."
Blearily, Ainsworth muttered, "Yeah, great."
The
"Today's appointment schedule follows:
"0700 hours: Initial orientation with Counselor Hatshepsut
"0900 hours: Breakfast meeting with Commander MacLeod, head
of sciences
"1030 hours…"
"Computer, halt. Locate Commander MacLeod."
After a moment's hesitation, the computer replied, "Commander
MacLeod is in Hydro-Environmental Sciences."
Huh?
"Where's that?" Molly blurted.
"Deck nine, section 4A."
Suddenly, she was a whirlwind of motion: A sonic shower, a fresh
uniform and a quick glass of orange juice took all of about six minutes.
When she strode from her quarters, it was with a renewed sense of
purpose and determination.
"Well, Commander MacLeod," she mentioned to no one in
particular, "you're about to have your first meeting today a little earlier
than you thought."
***
It's a pond, she thought. Salt
water, by the scent.
Molly entered Hydro-Environmental Sciences slowly, more than a
little surprised at the layout. She'd been expecting an antiseptic research
lab; instead, the setting was only a little less than idyllic. Artificial
lighting, instead of a good old-fashioned sun, was the sole drawback.
While most starships had at least one or two arboretums, it was
rare for a vessel to possess numerous natural environments aboard ship. The
ecosystems of such areas were usually sensitive, and difficult to maintain;
thus, they weren't very energy efficient.
A sudden, high-pitched squeal caused her to whirl towards the
water's edge…
…just in time to be hit by a sheet of water that left her soaked
to the skin and chilled to the bone.
"Oh, dear," observed the smiling mammal whose head was
now where his tail had been seconds before. "You're not Sera."
Just then, the door at the opposite end of the room opened. A
petite Vulcan female, wearing a rather conservative looking bathing suit,
entered.
"I apologize, Irriantia; I was
called away momentarily…" as she took in the scene, her voice trailed off,
and she raised a brow in curious amusement.
"Victimizing another junior officer, my friend?"
"It's not my fault! I thought it was you! I…" with an
anguished squeal, the dolphin submerged and was lost to sight.
Molly hadn't moved since she'd been surprised by the dousing. Now,
though, her shoulders shook; initially, the Vulcan was uncertain whether she
was laughing or weeping.
For the first few seconds, Molly wasn't sure, either.
Acceptance and acknowledgement of life's myriad absurdities won
out over despair, though—and she began to laugh like she hadn't in years.
When the dolphin, Irriantia, peeked his head out at the sound, she laughed even harder at
his adorable hesitancy. Realizing he wasn't in trouble, he emerged even more
and propelled himself to the water's edge.
Suddenly, with a tremendous exercise of will, Molly stopped
laughing, and drew herself to attention.
"Ensign Molly Ainsworth to see Commander MacLeod…"
"…despite the water in her eyes," the dolphin added
mischievously.
That was simply too much.
This time, when Molly started laughing, it took them fifteen
minutes to get her to stop.
***
At last something had gone her way. They'd splashed about for
close to an hour, and then sat on the water's edge and talked for almost two
more. Hatshepsut had called looking for her, but Commander MacLeod had grinned,
winked, and told her that they were in a meeting.
The counselor had purred, "My hearing is rather acute,
too, Sera… send her along when you're through splashing each other."
The trio had, after only a few moments of conversation, identified
each other as kindred intellects. It wasn't often Molly felt a little humbled
in the presence of another researcher, but these two were near legends in the
scientific community… especially Sera MacLeod.
The brilliant Vulcan/human hybrid had assured her of two things:
One, She was far more concerned with Molly's credentials as a scientist than of
anyone's opinion of her military bearing, including the
captain's; Two, Molly should be unconcerned with her first day's disaster.
"Mav calls me 'fish-head' constantly, and insists I don't
have the sense, as he says, that 'God gave a guppy'," Irriantia
told her; this had brought on another round of giggles. "And Dr. McDonald
is worried about her daughter. She's been short with everyone—even the captain,
which would usually be most unwise—for almost a month. We all
acknowledge it as understandable."
"As for T'Laris; she is Romulan, after all. That should explain her attitude
sufficiently," Sera observed wryly.
If these two are senior officers, Molly decided, perhaps Captain Mantovanni doesn't run as
insanely tight a ship as I'd feared.
Tertius, a newcomer, was an unknown element to them both, but Molly had
few fears on that quarter—he seemed to have already put their little
exchange past him, if his salute and smile had been any indication.
"As for the captain," Sera told her, "I can say
with certainty that he has not judged you based on the recommendation of
a past commander. Such is not in his nature." Irriantia
bobbed his head in emphatic agreement.
"You and I shall speak about your duties in a more formal
atmosphere tomorrow. For now, I've a meeting with Captain Mantovanni concerning
the impending upgrades we'll be receiving at Utopia Planitia.
If you will excuse me, Commander, Ensign.
"And Molly…
"…relax. You have at least two friends here now."
When she arrived back at her quarters, she barely had time to
change yet again before the door chime sounded.
It was T'Laris.
"I have discussed your transgressions with the head of
sciences, Commander MacLeod, as well as Captain Mantovanni. It has been decided
that you may retain your previous rank if you can demonstrate proficiency in a
martial art within a certain prescribed period.
"Report to the gymnasium tomorrow
at 0330 hours. Be prepared to suffer extreme
discomfort. If I am to teach you, you will learn swiftly—or I shall
know the reason why."
"Good afternoon, Lieutenant." With that, she turned on
her heel and left.
"Errr… good afternoon,
Commander," Molly echoed, and let the door slide shut.
'Shell-shocked' didn't begin to describe how she was
feeling now.
"Incoming subspace message for Lieutenant Molly
Ainsworth," the computer announced.
Goddess, what now? she asked herself.
At this point, Molly Ainsworth was reeling. This coldly eloquent
fellow who'd defended her so ably was the same man she'd spoken to
earlier.
Wow. Talk about unpredictable.
It seemed as if she could get on with her life, after all.
There was just one other thing she had to do.
***
"Come."
Molly entered the captain's ready room for the second time in a
day. This time, though, she felt as if the floor might actually remain steady
under her.
"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?" he asked. It was
the middle of gamma shift, and there were no emergencies of which she was
aware; yet here was her captain, in his ready room, looking as crisp and alert
as any commanding officer she'd ever seen. Anneke had
had a similar ability.
How do they do that? she wondered briefly.
"Sir, I just wanted to tell you that I fully
appreciate the opportunity I have here aboard the
His expression didn't change much. However, Molly had an immense
advantage over others who observed this man… she, too, was a human who'd been
raised largely on Vulcan.
He was amused.
She felt like the keeper of a wonderful secret.
"Didn't take Captain Dubjorn long
to relay my letter, did it?”
Most people's jaws would have dropped open; Molly merely arched a
brow.
"How did you know that?" she inquired, astonished.
Instead of answering, he merely raised one in response.
"Dismissed, Lieutenant."
Just before the door opened, he mentioned, "Lucky for you I
happen to like a smart ass."
Finally feeling free to be herself, Ainsworth
replied easily.
"Well, then, you're in for a treat…
"…sir."
Mantovanni chuckled to himself after she'd left.
That woman gives as good as she gets… and
that's a desirable quality for an incoming officer to have.
And "Incoming!" he noted, was as good a word as any
to describe Molly Ainsworth.