It became clear in the Star
Trek: The Adventures of Argus tale "Unacceptable
Losses" that Captain Mantovanni has something of a history—and a
problem—with Dax. Considering how utterly inoffensive Ezri herself is, no doubt
the dispute goes back a long time. I dropped a few clues about the
nature of this bad blood while editing "Unacceptable Losses" for
Alex, but he left it for me to develop, as I requested. After giving some
thought to just what went on between the two, I realized that Argus' Lex
was intimately involved as well.
Of course, making peace with the good-natured Jonozia Lex and
doing the same with the unrelenting Luciano Mantovanni are two entirely
different things.
Good luck, Ezri.
***
Some of the occurrences in this story will be difficult to
comprehend if you haven't previously read both "Hidden Agenda" and
"Tin Soldier"… thus, I recommend trying them before you tackle this.
"Love/Hate Relationships"
By Joseph Manno
Edward Jellico announced, "I'm having Luciano Mantovanni
arrested and court-martialed for insubordination."
Now that certainly qualified as a conversation stopper:
Alexander Pierce exchanged a quick, significant glance with Marine Brigadier
General Wellington Veers, who was sitting across from him. They'd been in the
vice admiral's office at Starfleet Command in
"This is a surprise. Where are you?" the half-Vulcan had
asked, expecting to hear an interesting account of some recent pet project.
In a way, that's exactly what he'd gotten: Jellico's expression
had soured immediately.
"Aboard the USS Athene,
on my way to Deep Space Nine," he'd practically growled his response.
The first inkling of trouble had touched at the back of Pierce's
mind just then, but he'd kept his expression even.
"Oh… you have business there?" he'd asked carefully.
It was then that his counterpart had made the not-so-surprising
declaration.
Outside the viewer's pickup, Veers shook his head in amused
disapproval, and made as if to rise, offering his superiors privacy: Jellico,
after all, had no idea the general was sitting there.
After an infinitesimal moment of internal debate, Pierce flicked
his fingers downward slightly, and the marine resumed his seat, with an
expression that more than implied, "Good. I really wanted to hear
this anyway."
"Well, I expected something more than a blank stare." Jellico's temper would have to improve slightly to qualify as
"foul."
Pierce considered his friend's statement briefly. His first
thought was, I'm surprised it took this long, to be frank.
What he said instead was, "Tell me what happened."
Jellico obviously wasn't in a mood to relay the whole account. "He
called me a 'posturing, self-important jackass' is what happened. That's more
than simple insubordination. That's a court martial offense!"
Pierce sighed imperceptibly.
I warned them at Starfleet Command
that Mantovanni and Jellico were like fire and ice, and to make his reporting
official someone else while I was gone.
"'Oh, it's a brief administrative measure, until you get back
from leave, Admiral,'" the head of
personnel had assured him. "'They probably won't talk to each other
more than two or three times.'"
That had been, obviously, two or three times too often.
Pierce had hoped that the silence on the fear subject in the
intervening months since his return had meant the two men had gotten along
well.
Evidently not.
"I'm thinking about charges against his chief of operations,
Benteen, too. That little…" with
difficulty, he swallowed the next word, maintaining his military bearing even
though there was only Pierce (and, unknown to him, Veers) to hear him lose it
if he had,
"…shouldn't even be in a Starfleet uniform after what she did, and she has the unmitigated
gall to refuse one of my orders?"
When Edward Jellico was in "righteous indignation" mode,
he was very difficult to sway.
Pierce inquired, "And just which order was that?"
Jellico looked at the view screen as if his friend's IQ had
suddenly dropped.
"Why, the one to confine Mantovanni, of course."
Across the expansive desk, Veers rolled his eyes and shook his
head in disbelief.
Pierce maintained his surface equanimity, even while thinking, Come
on, Ed! Did you really think that she'd put the man who got her out of
jail into one?
I need to shake him up a bit.
With a surprising formality, he asked, "Permission to speak freely,
Admiral?"
That got Jellico's attention: After all,
his friend outranked him, and certainly didn't need his leave to say whatever
he wanted.
Still glowering, he answered, "Of course."
Pierce told him, as gently as he could, "I've got a little
secret for you: You are a posturing, self-important jackass." The
half-Vulcan left the statement hanging for a few seconds, but got no response
other than a fairly sullen glare. He then continued, "Now, that doesn't
make you any less one of the best officers with whom I've ever served. It also
doesn't mean I like you any less. After all, so am I." He smiled;
Veers was nodding his head in approval, agreement—or both.
For some reason, the admission seemed to punch through the other
man's rigid irritation. Jellico grumbled something like, "Well, at
least you admit it…"
"Besides, you'll never make the charges stick. He has too
many high-ranking friends at Starfleet: Admirals T'Kara and Sih'tarr, to name
two. Hell, Fleet Admiral Necheyev thinks he's charming—and an invaluable asset
to the Federation."
Jellico snorted.
Pierce smiled, and Veers smothered an outright laugh.
"Now, admittedly, I don't care much about her first assessment,
either, but number two is right on. You know it and I know it. You're just mad
because he has the nerve to nail you. Let me ask you this: Did he say it
privately or in public?"
"Alone in his ready room," Jellico conceded, still frowning.
"Well, there you go. We were alone when he called me 'an
overbearing bully.'"
That, at last, seemed to make a greater impression. Jellico
pondered Pierce's admission for a moment, then he finally grinned.
"I've got a little secret for you, Alex: You are an ove–…"
Pierce interrupted, mock severity laid over a broad smile. "Now
who's being insubordinate? Let it go, do some work, and stop obsessing over a
man who no doubt respects you."
"All right. I have some work I can get done from DS9, anyway," the other man admitted. "I can
always call it an inspection tour, after all.
"I am going to talk with him,
though."
Alexander Pierce knew two things immediately: One, Edward Jellico
hunting down Luciano Mantovanni for a face-to-face conversation was almost
certainly a disaster in the making; two, there was absolutely nothing he could
do to stop it.
"All right, then. Take care, Ed." He cut the channel.
"Son of a bitch," he said to
no one in particular; Veers, though, felt it necessary to respond.
"I've got five bars of gold-pressed latinum that says
Mantovanni ends up court-martialed anyway."
Pierce stood, and shook his head like an animated character trying
to shake off the effects of a punch.
Then, he looked down at Veers, and said, "No takers."
***
"Sign me up for another two years."
Luciano Mantovanni and Erika Benteen exchanged glances—his
expressionless, hers surprised—and then returned their attention to the burly
Tellarite, Mav.
"For months you've been talking about how 'short' you were,
Master Chief," Benteen pointed out. "This is a rather sudden
turnaround. May I inquire as to your reasons?"
"Hunh… you can inquire all you want; I don't plan on
saying anything else. Just sign me up."
Rather than sullen, the tone of Mav's statement was
matter-of-fact: He wanted another tour of duty, and had no intention of
chatting about it.
"Have you discussed reenlistment with your supervisor?"
Mantovanni's question seemed odd—or, at least, it did until the curt little NCO
replied to it.
"Discuss it? With Flipper? No… I don't need
to discuss it with him."
"Oh, so you two have an understanding?" the captain
pressed.
Mav grunted an affirmative.
Something, just then, clicked for Benteen.
"Master Chief? Could it be that you're…" and she cleared
her throat, "…actually fond of your supervisor? Come on…"
she whispered conspiratorially, "…we won't tell anyone."
Despite the fact that they stood, on the average, about a head
shorter than humans, a Tellarite's myopic glare could be quite
intimidating—especially if you'd just baited one.
"Look, jail bird, I didn't come here to make nice with
you, and since you don't have claws and fur, I don't have to talk to
you, either—unless you're giving me an order. So sign me up, or cut me
loose."
The captain raised a brow, but gave no other reaction.
Erika nodded, and made a note on her PADD.
"Consider yourself re-upped, unless you change your mind over
the next 24 hours, Master Chief. Dismissed."
After Mav had departed, Mantovanni observed drolly, "I see
you've managed to ingratiate yourself with the NCOs during your time aboard,
Erika."
"Oh, very amusing," she replied with a smirk. "As a
comedian, you make a great starship captain." Even as he smiled slightly
at the riposte, her expression grew more thoughtful. "He's never spent
more than one tour of duty on any ship but this one, you know. Half the
time he requests a transfer, and the other half his supervisors do it
for him."
"Well, Mav's got his gifts—over time, Sa'lanna, Bagheer,
Irriantia, Sera and you have all told me his mechanical flair and
diagnostic skills are nothing short of supernatural—but having him around can
be something of a chore if you're thin-skinned."
"I have to say, I prefer him in small, infrequent doses
myself," Benteen admitted. "But Irriantia? He hasn't a single
disparaging word to say about Mav." She indicated the PADD in front of
him. "Did you get a chance to listen to that evaluation?"
"I hit the highlights," Mantovanni answered. "I
especially enjoyed, 'Master Chief Petty Officer Mav's gruffly affectionate
familiarity with this officer has been most helpful in maintaining a strong
working relationship with
"Talk about a silk purse out of a sow's ear," she
chuckled.
The captain nodded. "The best part about it, is, of course,
that you're right: He really likes Irriantia a lot… I have to admit, though,
it's one of the strangest mutual admiration societies I've yet to
encounter."
"Don't fix if it ain't broken," Benteen advised.
The captain didn't immediately respond, other than to affix an
endorsement to the chief engineer's performance report on Mav and hand it back
to his acting X-O. When he did, it was with, "I'll remind you of that
sentiment the next time he says something about
Erika snorted in amusement, and told him, "Look, I'd rather
have someone call me a 'jail bird' than to actually be one."
She was reduced to helpless laughter as Mantovanni picked up the
next PADD.
"In other words," he noted dryly, "you'd rather be
an inmate at the asylum than the penitentiary."
"Bridge to Captain Mantovanni."
Still smiling slightly, he called, "Go ahead, Müeller."
"Sir, I've received a subspace message, text only, from
Admiral Jellico. He'll be arriving at Deep
Space Nine in 16 hours; you're to report to him aboard the USS Athene
at that time."
"Acknowledged."
"Admiral Ross also signaled; the meeting you scheduled with
him is set for 1700 hours tomorrow.
"In addition, Commander Hatshepsut has returned from leave;
she requests your presence on Deep Space
Nine, and says it's rather important—something involving the Chisaari women
who've been aboard for the last few weeks."
"Thank you, Ensign. Send Admiral Ross my compliments. Tell
the counselor I'm on my way, and will meet her at Quark's in ten
minutes."
"Aye, sir."
Mantovanni rose and straightened his uniform; Benteen grinned
teasingly at him.
"Quark's, eh? You don't strike me as the type for dabo."
She laughed again as he headed for the door, saying only, "I
chose it for the ambience."
***
"…USS Falcon, you are
cleared to land at runabout pad two. Welcome to DS9, Captain Lex."
"Thank you, Colonel Kira. Falcon out."
Well, that was rather curt, Kate
Sheridan thought, as she watched her captain complete the landing cycle with
none of the relish he usually had when performing any piloting maneuver: Lex
loved to fly, and generally did so with a boyish grin on his face that left him
looking like he was in his early thirties—going on eight.
Whatever brought him with me, it's obviously got him worried—or at
least distracted.
On such trips, the Trill was usually rather gregarious; this time,
though, he'd kept mostly to himself. Argus' brief stop to conduct what
Lieutenant Commander Simok insisted was necessary maintenance on the warp
engines had given them this window of opportunity: Rather than forcing the
great starship to limp rather unceremoniously to Deep Space Nine at low
warp, Lex had called for station keeping while their chief engineer satisfied
his meticulous nature. Then, after receiving a personal subspace message, the
captain had abruptly announced his intention to spend a few days at the nearby
Bajoran station… and had most specifically not asked anyone—not even his
X-O—if they'd like to come along.
Kate Sheridan wasn't so easily dissuaded, though. She'd first
requested, then prodded—and finally, she admitted, almost badgered—to let her
accompany him, since she had personal affairs of her own to attend.
Finally, looking none too pleased, but having no significant
reason to refuse, he'd agreed.
It pays to know your captain. A "No" from Jonozia
doesn't have nearly the finality it does with my mother… or Cicero.
Once or twice she'd tried to jolly Lex into a conversation, but
he'd said almost nothing of substance in the 28 hours since they'd left Argus.
"Sir? You seem pretty troubled. Is there anything I can do to
help?"
There was a gentle bump as Lex brought the runabout to a rest, and
quickly completed the post-flight check.
"No, Katherine… it's personal business."
Wrapping a veneer of concern around her curiosity, she essayed,
"Considering your tone, it sounds like some pretty heavy 'personal
business.'"
It was in that moment she remembered why it was a bad idea to take
Lex too lightly, despite his good nature.
The door to the runabout opened, and he stepped towards it. He
stopped in its threshold, though, turned, and told her pointedly,
"Actually, Commander, it's personal business that's none of your
business.
"I'll see you in 72 hours."
***
"Captain Mantovanni?"
The Sicilian glanced up at the pretty young officer who'd
addressed him, and nodded. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant…?"
"My name is Ezri, sir…" she said, somewhat hesitantly.
"I'm the station counselor here."
"Lieutenant, perhaps you should sit before you're run down by
local traffic."
Her eyes widened, as if she were astonished that he would an offer
her a seat; nonetheless, she took it.
"I realize you don't know me, sir… but I was hoping you could
give me some advice."
He arched a brow. "I'll do my best."
She took a deep breath, exhaled it slowly, and then began.
"Well, it's like this… a long time ago, I did a pretty
terrible thing to someone, and I'd like to make amends."
The captain nodded.
"Well, an attempt to atone is always laudable, Lieutenant.
Did you break this person's heart?"
It was a subtle compliment; the girl blushed rather delightfully,
and, after a moment, admitted, "In a way, I did. It was something of a
triangle."
"And I take it this man or woman wants nothing to do with you
now?" With his peripheral vision, Mantovanni spotted Hatshepsut; with her
was the Chisaari woman, Rhian. They'd definitely seen him—but, oddly enough,
had made no attempt to approach.
The Ferengi bartender, however, had no such hesitancy.
"Captain Mantovanni! Welcome to Quark's! Let me see if
I remember what you had the last time you came in here…"
"Other than the one I have in my hand, I've never had
a drink in here… so I daresay you're out of luck."
"Then let me surprise you… I have a few Earth vintages a good
Italian like you sh–…"
"He's not Italian, Quark," interjected the young
lieutenant; she'd been acting very oddly throughout the conversation, but even
more so since the Ferengi had approached. She'd been not-so-subtly motioning
for him to leave; and he'd been just as not-so-subtly ignoring her.
"He's Sicilian," she clarified.
"I'm sorry; there's a difference?" Quark
shrugged; he then glanced conspiratorially at Mantovanni and loudly whispered,
"Jadzia was the same way… I'm just a bartender… these distinctions in
Terran nationality are really meaningless… to… m–…" Quark's voice trailed
off as he watched his customer's expression change in the span of a few seconds
from mildly irritated, to startled… to coldly angry.
"You're Ezri… Dax?"
She spared the Ferengi a venomous glare. "Thank you,
Quark."
The sound of breaking crystal startled all three of them;
Mantovanni, without realizing it, had clenched down hard enough to shatter the
wineglass he held. Ezri gasped, and grimaced; his grip was unrelenting, though,
and droplets of blood began to join the wine on the table.
With a detachment in his tone that belied his most recent action,
Mantovanni told her, quietly, "Get up and walk away… now."
Quark had looked from one to the other and back again in
astonishment at the turn the encounter had taken. He was relieved when a
Felisian female and some other woman he didn't recognize—though the horns were
rather sexy—pushed past, placing themselves between him and a man whose
expression suddenly seemed almost murderous.
"Come, child." Firmly, the newcomer took hold of Ezri's
arm, and led her away, saying, "Rein in your temper, Captain," as she
went. Her other arm snaked out, and she yanked the hapless Ferengi along.
Clinically, Hatshepsut examined his hand even as she sat.
"Thanks," she purred,
"but I'm not thirsty."
Mantovanni opened his hand suddenly and with a harsh shake, left
much of the glass on the table between them.
"I'll have it looked at," he acknowledged—then noted,
voice rife with irony, "I'd never thought to receive lessons in civility
from a Chisaari."
"'Oh, how the mighty have fallen,'" the Felisian pertly
observed.
Upon later reflection, she realized it probably hadn't been the
most intelligent of conversational gambits.
The captain's reaction remained uncharacteristic—and not a little
frightening.
He snapped, "Are you trolling for an
insubordination charge, too?"
Taken completely aback, the Felisian's hair stood on end, and she
swallowed a surprised and wounded yowl.
"No, sir…! I–I'm sorry."
As quickly as the second flare of anger had occurred, it was suppressed
with that Vulcan-learned control; and, finally, something approximating
Mantovanni's usual expression and demeanor reasserted itself. When he addressed
her again, though, his words were even more surprising for their conciliatory
tone.
"I’m sorry, M'Raav. You know you have free rein to speak your
mind with me—always."
The Felisian wasn't only a counselor; she was—of course—a
predator, and both sets of instincts had been alerted to the fact that all was
most emphatically not well with her captain and friend. The prudent
action would have been withdrawal, analysis and initiation of a more probing
conversation at a later time.
Prudence and wisdom aren't precisely the same thing, though, she thought—and then presumed on their friendship even more.
"Then I shall speak my mind, here and now," she
purred. "You're more distraught, and, to be frank, emotionally unbalanced
than ever I've seen you; and I think, after being unjustifiably chastised like
that, I'm entitled to an explanation why."
She sensed a near breakthrough. He almost decided to
confide in her… then that adamantine shield reappeared. This time, his anger
was tightly controlled… but she could feel it radiating in shimmering waves
through his icy façade.
"And I'll be equally blunt," he replied. "As a
famous man once said, 'I don't give a damn what you think you are
entitled to.' Attend to your business, Counselor, and permit me the same
latitude, if you would." With that, he stood and left the bar.
No one got in his way… though he did take the towel Quark
offered him as he passed, and absently wrapped it around his hand.
Hatshepsut, at first, followed, and would have pressed the issue,
but for one thing: He'd chosen the same direction Ezri Dax had moments before
when she'd left… a path the counselor sensed he'd selected as a result of the
righteous indignation she'd stirred up with her admittedly inappropriate
commentary.
You're definitely off your game,
Unfortunately, the Felisian had no idea whether he was headed for
a resolution—or simply a collision.
***
“Computer, hail the USS Masada.”
Erika Benteen waited; despite the fact that she was alone in the ready
room, she found herself feigning a casualness she didn’t feel.
It had been a long time since they’d spoken.
“This is Ensign Larson aboard the
“I’d like to speak with Captain Cortes. Please patch me through.”
A long moment passed.
“Ensign?” she repeated.
“Ye–Yes, Commander,” came the
hesitant reply. Nervously, the girl brushed back a recalcitrant strand of blond
hair. “Is… this pertaining to something official, ma’am?”
Benteen, nonplused, said, “Come again?”
“I… need to know the reason for this communiqué, ma’am.” Larson sounded almost apologetic.
Now Erika started to get angry.
“Ensign, the ‘reason for this communiqué’ is none of your damned
business. Now put me through to Captain
Cortes.”
Larson's expression was pained, but her
tone was firm. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t do that. The captain’s left explicit instructions stating that she’s not accepting personal messages… um…”
the young woman’s voice trailed off.
“…from me?” Benteen finished.
Now the girl’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Yes, ma’am.”
For a few seconds, Erika stewed.
Then she mentioned, almost casually, “Then it’s a good thing this is official
ship’s business, Ensign. Put me through…
and don’t ask any more questions.”
There was a heavy sigh through the intercom.
“Yes, Commander. Stand by for Captain Cortes.”
It took the better part of 30 seconds; Benteen hoped Larson wasn’t
paying too high a price for her
cleverness.
“This is Captain Cortes. Go ahead,
Interesting… no visual link. Instead of
The voice sounded remarkably composed, but Erika wasn’t fooled;
she could hear the undercurrent of anger beneath that façade of calm.
“It wasn’t fair of you to put a nice young girl like that between
two such unreasonable bitches, Gari.”
When Berengaria Cortes—“Gari,” to her friends—spoke again, it was
with a Castilian simmer that Erika recognized all too well.
“I don’t recall giving you permission to speak freely,
Lieutenant Commander. Now unless you plan on discussing something of importance
to my ship or
yours, I have a desk full of work…”
In for a penny, in for a pound, Erika thought; then she interrupted with, “Come off it, Gari. You called me a bitch throughout our
time together at the Academy, even though
you were two years behind me. As I recall, you labeled me ‘the luckiest bitch I know’ when I put on commander
the day before you got lieutenant commander. You wanted to rank with me so
badly.” Despite the way things stood between them, the memory still brought a
smile to Erika’s face.
Not so, evidently, for the woman who was once her friend.
“All of that is in the past. Now, Lieutenant Commander Benteen, I
outrank you… and I’ll be happy to press
charges if you ever speak to me in
that fashion again. I made it clear at Admiral Leyton’s trial what I thought of
you both. That hasn't, and won't, change."
“Now leave me alone.” She cut the channel.
Erika Benteen put her head in her hands and massaged her temples.
Well, she thought, that went better than I thought it would.
***
He used his good hand to sound the chime.
"Come in."
The quarters were attractive, with more than a few girlish
touches, but Luciano Mantovanni wasn't put at ease.
Camouflage, he thought. She
only looks like a cute young lady. Remember that.
He heard what he now knew to be the voice of Dax from the next
room. She was, from the accompanying sounds, bustling about, perhaps primping
for an assignation.
"I'll be out in a minute, Julian.
"You were right… confronting Captain Mantovanni wasn't one of
my brighter ideas. Quark came along at just the wrong time and ruined everything.
"I just want to talk, but the man is so obdurate, so
unyielding, so…"
"…justified," Mantovanni offered grimly.
Needless to say, the bustling stopped.
Meekly, Ezri poked her head out into the main room.
"I'm sorry, sir… I didn't know it was you."
He ignored the apology.
"I assumed you had a point back there at Quark's,"
he grated. "I came here to forestall any further attempts at
rapprochement, however well-intentioned your current shell believes them
to be, Dax. I made it clear—first to Curzon, and then to Jadzia—that I have no
interest in your apologies, your justifications, or your protestations of
relative innocence. Time does not heal all wounds. As a matter of fact,
while you've had a century to forget, I had a decade to savor
mine."
The former Ezri Tigan had paled even more as she listened to his
angry diatribe. She looked at a loss, desperate to compose an answer that might
somehow allow her the smallest of opportunities.
There didn't seem to be one.
The door chimed.
"Enter," she squeaked.
The door slid open; Mantovanni didn't even glance back.
"You have company; I'll get out of your way… you just stay
out of mine."
A hauntingly familiar voice behind him remonstrated, "We'd
both prefer if you'd remain."
Almost against his will, Luciano Mantovanni turned…
…and gazed upon the kindly face of his friend—and former
love—Jonozia Lex.
***
Patrick Aiello was enjoying his first look at the famous
Promenade.
The statements he'd heard comparing Deep Space Nine's
merchantile center to a Old West "boom" town were apt: There was a
lot of bustling; a lot of negotiation… and a lot of noise.
It was great.
Intending to avail himself of the moment, and experience the
feeling of cultural immersion that was a primary reward of a Starfleet career,
he stepped forward…
…and found his path obstructed by a smiling, orange-robed Bajoran,
who nodded—and reached for his head.
Aiello, reacting instinctively, blocked the man's arm with a swipe
of his own, and took a step back. They stood there for a few seconds, both men
looking perplexed and a bit indignant.
"The Prophets smile upon you," his would-be assailant
said, with a self-assurance that was probably a bit less secure than it would
have been ten seconds before.
"Uhhhh, yeah, and on you, too," the doctor replied. He
didn't know much about Bajoran religion, but it was obvious that this fellow
was one of their holy men.
A… vedic, I think.
The man at whose vocation he'd just guessed nodded benignly at his
blessing—and reached for him again.
Again, Aiello interposed his arm. "Cut that out."
"There is no need for alarm, but I wish to touch…" his
voice trailed off, and he made a third attempt to complete whatever task he had
in mind.
For a third time, the doctor, who'd finally realized the man's
intended target, stopped him.
"Hey, I'm not six, and you're not my mother," Aiello
declared, "so don't go grabbing for my ear."
The vedic answered, in a tone he obviously thought was calming,
"I wish merely to examine your pagh."
By this point, a crowd was gathering: A mixture of Bajoran and
Starfleet personnel, along with an eclectic collection of observers, was
beginning to point and comment concerning the sudden stalemate.
Great… I believe I've just started an "incident," the doctor thought.
"I'll have to politely decline," he tried.
His counterpart was undeterred.
"It is harmless, I assure you. It is a spiritual evaluation…
nothing more. Please allow me to…"
With difficulty, Aiello retained control of his temper, but firmly
interrupted, "Look, Vedic, with all due respect, you don't look
like a Catholic priest, so your evaluation of my spiritual state means nothing
to me. Thanks… but no thanks."
There was a gasp of self-righteous affront from the crowd, and the
vedic's expression turned startlingly hostile for a man who just seconds ago
had meant "no harm."
"You offend the Prophets with your insolence," he snarled.
Aiello had just about reached his point of no return.
"You leap in front of me, reach for my head
without explaining yourself, spout some meaningless Bajoran metaphysical
babble, then attempt to assault me two more times, and I'm insolent? Get
out of my way."
For a moment, the doctor could see the vedic thinking about yet
another try: The crowd was mostly supportive of the holy man—not surprising,
considering they were standing on the Promenade of the most famous piece of
Bajoran real estate in the Alpha Quadrant—and, bolstered by their communal
attitude, he seemed prepared to continue the argument well past the point of
ugliness it had already achieved.
"Did you see that?" one of the onlookers whispered.
"He struck the vedic."
Added another, "Infidel!"
"Blasphemer!"
Geez, it was bad enough when Father Carmine called me a blasphemer, Aiello thought. At least I knew he'd forgive me.
He wasn't certain what to do, and had a feeling things were going
to get a lot worse before they got better.
Thus, when the Klingon and Romulan—hands around each other's
throats, of course—burst through the window of the shop behind him, spraying
broken glass everywhere and propelling themselves into the midst of the
assembled onlookers, he decided it was a good time to simply walk away.
Unfortunately, his strategy neglected to take into account the
dozen or so Klingons and Romulans that poured out behind the first two—and
proceeded to enthusiastically beat the hell out of each other and anyone else
within arms' reach.
Then, again, Aiello thought, as he
attempted to avoid engaging anyone—Klingon, Romulan, Bajoran or a
combination thereof—"free for all" is marginally better for me
than "lynch mob."
***
Briefly, Kate Sheridan debated the wisdom of what she was going to
do. It was a little presumptuous, to be sure. Almost, almost she
turned away.
Then she imagined the look on Mantovanni's face when he saw her,
and decided to go forward—both literally and figuratively.
"Computer, override the lock on the captain's quarters,
authorization
A second later, the door obligingly slid open.
After another glance about to make certain she hadn't been
spotted, Kate slipped into his quarters… and slipped out of her uniform.
Let's see,
Her lips curved upward into a smile that was both anticipatory and
naughty. I think Luciano Mantovanni's going to get the surprise of his life
in about five minutes. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and
added, I don't think he'll mind one bit.
Kate heard a noise from the bedroom, and momentarily froze.
A second later, she relaxed, thinking, Of course! It's his
sehlat.
Well, little guy, I hope you don't mind company on the bed. Feeling sexier and more delightfully wicked than she ever had in
her life,
Her first thought was, I guess it doesn't mind company
on the bed.
There, indeed, was Brian Bearu, the captain's sehlat cub.
There, also, was Vaerth Parihn—who glanced up from her book.
Whatever she'd been about to say, presumably to Mantovanni, died aborning as
she gazed upon
A noise came from Kate's mouth—not quite a whimper, but nothing
resembling a word, either.
Parihn, in a gesture intentionally evocative of the captain,
arched a brow.
"I take you're extremely grateful for that promotion
to commander," the Orion observed pointedly.
Just then, the door to the captain's quarters again slid open.
Leaping into the bedroom,
As graceful and sexy as she'd felt only a moment before, now Kate
had plummeted—in her own mind, at least—to idiotic and gawky, as she struggled
by sheer force of will to make a hand towel cover attributes that were entirely
too bountiful for such scanty protection. Her expression wavered between
furious and humiliated.
In the brief moment she had to consider her alternatives, Parihn
decided to act.
She answered, "I'll be out in a minute," then tapped her
comm badge.
"Computer, activate transporter two," the young Orion
whispered. "Lock onto the human female in the captain's quarters and beam
her directly to Commander Sheridan's stateroom, authorization Parihn gamma
omega two-fiver."
As she disappeared in a shower of sparkles, Katherine Sheridan
prayed that there'd be a phaser in her quarters.
It would be the quickest way, after all.
Seconds after she'd gone, Luciano Mantovanni walked into the
bedroom—carrying the uniform that, until two minutes ago, Kate Sheridan had
been wearing.
Oops, the Orion thought.
Drolly, he declared, gesturing with the clothes, "Well,
Parihn, I do believe you're putting on weight."
***
Erika Benteen arrived outside holodeck one on the USS Masada,
and debated over whether she should take the final step and enter.
Wonder what she's doing… as if I really have to guess.
"Computer, name of program in use."
"Jai Alai Alpha; Level:
Advanced."
Erika shook her head in amused disapproval: She could remember
watching her friend become ever more enthused by the sport after attending her
first match when she was only nine years old. For months, jai alai had
been all she could talk about: Gari had begged her father every
chance she had to let her attend the matches, and it took almost two years
before the determined young woman could convince her parents to allow her a
chance at actually playing.
In some ways, jai alai was an expression of Latin machismo—or,
in her case, machisma, Benteen thought—an outgrowth of a culture
that even today condoned both fighting, and running, with bulls, and soccer
matches that descended into mass brawls and riots.
"Still obsessed with that insane game, eh, Gari?" she
muttered.
"Please rephrase the question," the computer asked politely.
"Disregard," Erika said. "Is there a holographic
audience in place?"
"Affirmative; the match is being played at a simulation of
the Fronton Spectacal in
"Computer, I'd like to enter. Make certain my ingress is not
apparent to the participants; I don't want to distract anyone."
"Warning: Holodeck safeties are
currently disengaged."
Gee, what a surprise. "Are
the participants wearing helmets?"
"Negative. The match is being played utilizing traditional
accoutrements and rules."
Great; jai alai makes parrisis squares look like hopscotch, and
she's in there, sans helmet, with the safeties off.
I thought captains were supposed to have more sense than that.
"Program alterations complete; enter when ready."
She was immediately assailed by the roar of the crowd. Erika's
heart quickened, and she practically ran for her seat: The computer had, of
course, provided one with an excellent view of the action.
Erika shivered as she settled into the chair. She couldn't deny
that jai alai was incredibly thrilling to watch, and even more so to
play; but the idea of doing it bare-headed with the holodeck safeties
deactivated was a foolhardy one at best—and indicative of a real death wish at
worst. Jal alai balls, or pelotas, as they were properly called, could
reach speeds of 240+ kilometers per hour. Being struck by one could easily
shatter a person's skull.
Typical Castilian arrogance; as if they can do this better than we Basques, who invented the game.
Gari Cortes had been playing for almost three decades, and
usually, it showed: Against holographic representations of some of history's
greatest players—including the near invincible Chiquito de Eibar and the
one-handed legend Marco de Villabona—she'd managed to hold her own, and even
win her share of points, on many occasions Benteen had witnessed.
Today, something was wrong.
On the jai alai cancha, Gari Cortes was customarily
agile and swift, with a subtle power at need. Now, though, she looked
amateurish, stumbling and falling more than once. Twice, as Erika watched in
growing unease, she was nearly struck by a rocketing pelota.
Benteen inquired nervously, "Computer, how long has Captain
Cortes been in holodeck two?"
Promptly, it responded with, "Seven hours, eight
minutes."
My God; she's so angry with me she's been here since ten minutes after we talked.
Erika knew the consequences of her next statement could be
unfortunate, but didn't hesitate. "Computer, end program!"
Around them, in swift succession, the pelota, the other
players, the fans, and finally the cancha and fronton themselves
disappeared. This left a gasping Cortes, and Benteen—through the selective
vagaries of the holodeck's perceptual subroutines—standing directly behind her
on the grid, only ten feet away.
After a few seconds to recover her breath,
She didn't look particularly surprised.
"What are you doing here?" she asked coldly.
"Watching you play. I used to do that a lot," Erika
replied, smiling slightly. "I think you need a break."
Her old companion blocked the way.
"Por favor, hermana..."
Cortes was not so easily swayed.
"I am not your sister. Sisters," she
asserted stiffly, "do not stand aside when you are deprived of your
freedom and locked away at the whim of some megalomaniacal officer who's decided
he knows better than the Federation Council and President what's best for its
citizens."
So that was still at the heart of it all.
Five years ago, Erika had heeded the words of Admiral Thomas
Leyton, who'd believed the Changeling threat to be so strait that he organized
a coup against then-President Jaresh-Inyo. His goal, supposedly, was to
set certain safeguards in place and then return control to the proper civilian
authorities. Erika had trusted, even loved, the man; he'd been like a father to
her. When he'd insisted this was the only way, she'd put aside her
uncertainties and followed him, out of a sense of personal loyalty.
In turn, she'd gone to her friend, Lieutenant Commander Cortes,
and attempted to recruit her as well.
Gari, however, had flatly refused, going so far as to try and sway
Benteen away from Leyton and warning that it was her duty as a Starfleet
officer to expose them. Erika had begged her not to do that; and, for the sake
of their friendship, Cortes had agreed to sleep on it.
When Benteen had gone to see her the next day, she was gone. Erika
had assumed she'd fled to try and organize some kind of resistance to Leyton's
coup, and warned the admiral about her. He had assured her steps had already
been taken, and that Cortes was both unharmed and no longer a threat.
"She's fine," he'd waved a dismissal. "She hasn't
been imprisoned, I promise."
"But…" Benteen had protested.
Leyton had ended the conversation with, "You have duties,
Captain. Lakota is waiting. Dismissed."
To her eternal shame, she'd chosen to believe him, and gone off to
do battle with Defiant.
Erika hadn't seen Berengaria Cortes again until the trial… where
she'd testified against both Leyton and Benteen, displaying a simmering
outrage that had no doubt made the tribunal even less inclined to clemency.
Who can blame her? Erika
thought.
"He told me you were fine," she tried. "I didn't
know what he'd done. If I had…"
She hesitated.
"Sí, Erika," Cortes observed cuttingly. "If
you had, would you have challenged Leyton, for my sake? Or would you
have silently watched as they… as they sealed me in a stasis tube along
with some of the other officers who'd defied him? You can't imagine how it
feels to be locked away like that…!"
"Lo siento, mia amiga Beregaria, pero…" Realizing that the use of Spanish was only agitating her
friend more, she again switched back to Federation Standard. "…but I do
know what it's like to be locked away. I spent the better part of three years
in a cell, remember? The last few months, I was beaten on a daily basis by a
vengeful Andorian whose kinswoman had been killed aboard Defiant during
its fight with Lakota."
Cortes looked momentarily shocked. "I didn't know that."
Then, she steeled herself again. "But you can't expect prison to be
pleasant. Now get off my ship before I call security and have you removed."
Erika knew they were on the cusp of peril: Either she would
somehow get through to Cortes now, or they'd never be friends again.
Well, time to do things the Latin way.
She smiled insolently, and precisely calculated her next
statement.
"How typically elitist, you aristocratic snot.
Aren't you strong enough to remove me on your own?" Then, Benteen
deliberately turned her back.
"As I recall, this is how most of our fights started
when we were children—with you jumping me from behind… I just thought I'd make
you comfortable.
"Now at least you have a chance."
Erika wasn't stupid enough to remain immobile when she heard
Cortes coming for her, but was only halfway around when
“You… you…Basque…!" On the lips of an angry hidalga,
such was definitely an insult—synonymous with "traitor."
She rained blows on Erika's arms, occasionally slipping one past
her guard. She was fighting not in the manner of a martial artist, though, but
like one young girl angry with another—so agonized, she couldn't even form
fists to strike. She simply slapped and pummeled Benteen without purpose or goal,
except to make her hurt, too… to make her feel the shame Cortes had felt
when she'd been strong-armed into the chamber, when they'd closed it on her…
fighting as hard as she could… one even smiling as if her effort was pathetic…
And the pain in Cortes' face was almost too much to bear.
Her attacks grew weaker, though, as her anguish overwhelmed her
and she began to cry.
"You left me in that stasis chamber…! You said you were my
sister! You were supposed to watch out for me! Where were you?"
Finally Cortes stopped, took in a hiccoughing breath, and hung her
head. Sobs racked her body.
God forgive me, Benteen thought.
"I didn't know… Gari, I'd die for you. Please, believe
me."
"You weren't there,"
Cortes wept.
"I'm here now, hermanita," she whispered, even as
she drew her friend into the circle of her arms. "I'm here now."
***
Patrick Aiello had managed to avoid not only one fight, but many,
and found himself first trailing, then assisting, the medical teams that
followed on the heels of station security as they transported patients back to
the infirmary.
Despite the influx, its staff handled the workload with
efficiency; the young doctor at the center of the chaos brought order to it
with a speed that rivaled even
"There doesn't seem to be anything life-threatening,
here," he was saying, as Aiello entered earshot. "Segregate our
guests into Klingon, Romulan and other, please, Jadon, lest we have a encore
performance. May I help you, Lieutenant?"
The Italian grinned; DS9's chief medical officer hadn't
even seemed to glance up, yet was aware of not only Aiello's presence, but his
rank as well. "I was just about to say the same thing, actually, Doctor
Bashir. I'm Patrick Aiello, holistic medicine and general practice, off the USS
Liberty."
Bashir smiled, and nodded, gesturing to the overflow of patients
even as he completed his work with the protoplaser he now deactivated.
"Wherever you think you're needed, Doctor Aiello; anyone
who's served under Shiro Matsuoka must know his job… thanks for stopping
by."
It was a brief bit of work. Aiello offered one or two opinions,
but did little in the way of actual treatment; DS9's people had the
situation well in hand…
…that is, until a certain patient unexpectedly awoke.
Bashir had just decided on a treatment for the unconscious
warrior, and was reaching for a hypospray when the Klingon's eyes opened.
Confusion gave way in seconds to anger—no doubt the realization that a Romulan
had rendered him unconscious in battle didn't help his mood—and he roared his
fury.
Rolling to his feet, he brushed aside the nurse who determinedly
attempted to restrain him—stupid though the gesture probably seemed when she
later had time to think about just what it was she'd tried—sending her
careening into a shelf full of instruments, and thence to the floor, where she
lay unmoving.
"Take it easy," Bashir tried a conciliatory tone.
"You're in the Deep Space Nine infirmary... we're treating your
injuries."
"You will not touch me again, human! A warrior bears
even great pain with honor, not with the aid of... medicines." He then
spat on the floor, leaving no doubt of his opinion concerning Bashir's
techniques.
Just then, he grimaced; his face twitched in spasm. He was holding
himself at an odd angle in an attempt to compensate for what must have been a
horrid misalignment of his spine.
Having a Romulan body slam you will do that, Aiello thought.
Wordlessly, he slipped behind the Klingon. He knew that under
normal circumstances, he could never catch the warrior unawares; the obvious
pain, though, had dulled his senses, and gave
He leaped forward, and grabbed him just… so, immobilizing
him with a nerve pinch.
"Arrrgggh!" Before the
stricken Klingon could recover he slipped his hands into the appropriate
position, waited, probed… and then yanked on his victim's neck—hard.
The snap was audible.
For a moment, the Klingon's eyes rolled up into his head. Even as
Aiello backed away, he slumped towards the ground… just before he went to his
knees, though, he recovered and turned towards his assailant.
He growled, "You will die for your cowardly assault,
human," and moved towards the doctor with obvious intent.
Before the scene could turn tragic, though, the Klingon who'd just
entered the infirmary jumped between the two, and barked a single phrase to the
furious warrior.
"Dub'choh!"
Even Patrick Aiello recognized the newcomer: Worf, former
Starfleet officer, and now Federation Ambassador to the Klingon Empire.
This word, whatever it meant, gave the warrior—and his
fellows—pause.
Gingerly, the one Aiello had grabbed carefully straightened his
posture, gritting his teeth against the pain he'd expected to encounter. When
there was none, he sighed in relief and whisperingly echoed, "Dub'choh,"
at first only to himself. After a few seconds, though, he turned to his
fellows and repeated, with the kind of exultation only a Klingon can muster,
"Dub'choh!"
There was a brief silence… and then, as one, the gathered Klingons
"ahhhed" in what soon became apparent was wonder and respect.
"You grace us with your power of hand, mighty one,"
declared the oldest—a grizzled veteran who'd obviously taken a long time to
reach lieutenant, and would die one quite happily.
"We had no idea humans practiced such subtle and sacred
arts," added another.
The first stepped past Worf, and enthusiastically asked,
"Will you honor us by taking a meal with our humble platoon, Dub'choh
master?"
Liberty's doctor was nonplused at
his sudden change of fortune—from intended victim to revered elder in the span
of seconds was a difficult transition—but he managed, almost, to take it in
stride.
"Uh… sure," he answered, grinning uncertainly.
The Klingons burst into a joyful, uproarious cheer, surrounded
Aiello hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him from the room.
After they'd gone, Kira, turning to Worf, asked pointedly, "Dub'choh?"
Worf folded his arms.
"Literally, 'To alter the back.' It is a highly respected
profession on Qo'nos. Such men and women are considered powerful sorcerers and
healers; they are held in the highest regard, and done great honor when the
opportunity arises."
Kira shook her head in bemusement. "I guess so."
"The doctor will be feasted with haunch of targ and
bloodwine," Worf continued, "until such time as he is sufficiently
appeased for their lack of faith in his powers."
The Klingon nodded to them both, acknowledging, "Colonel…
Doctor," in turn, and also left the infirmary—albeit with slightly less
enthusiasm.
For a moment, Kira, Bashir and the medical staff stared after him
in silence; then they, too, burst into delighted laughter.
Julian shook his head, still smiling. "What do you know?
"Klingons like chiropractors."
***
"You won't sway me with sheer weight of numbers."
The five figures who'd gathered in Luciano Mantovanni's absence
gave varied reactions to this emphatic declaration:
Ezri Dax averted her gaze.
His friend, Jonozia Lex, smiled, and replied, "As if I'm fool
enough to attempt any kind of force—even that of a simple
majority—against you, Cicero."
Two of the remaining three reacted not at all. They were humanoid,
but… their expressions were bland, their small eyes almost vacant, and their
features even less evocative: Gray, smooth skin; noses and ears that looked
almost like some god's half-hearted afterthought for all their substance;
mouths the evidence for which nearly disappeared when they closed them.
The last of their little band was a third Trill; he sat serenely,
and regarded the new arrival with an admixture of compassion and understanding
that the Sicilian, nevertheless, found irritating.
"I came back solely because you imposed on our friendship,
Lex. You have," he stated with quiet emphasis, "one minute to
explain what you want from me."
Ezri Dax remained prudently silent; Lex, however, took up the
challenge.
This is Tilik Kev,
Kev stood, offered his hand and said, "An honor to meet you,
Captain."
Mantovanni ignored the gesture.
"You're about a century too late," he informed the other
man rather bitterly. "There's never a cop around when you need one."
Kev sighed—it seemed to the others kindly tolerant, and to
Mantovanni put upon and patronizing—withdrew the proffered limb, and reclaimed
his seat.
Lex continued.
"I know you well enough to see how you look at me when we're
together, Cicero; that unique alloy of genuine affection and anguished
resentment you keep carefully walled away is not so easily hidden from the
people who care about you—despite your decade-long attempt to avoid, or
suppress, the issue."
"While Curzon Dax might have counted himself lucky to
simply put this whole sordid occurrence behind him, Jadzia Dax didn't…
and Ezri Dax most certainly doesn't. They know… know… they
wronged us… wronged you… and they want to take a step towards allowing
you to move past it."
Mantovanni was unmoved.
"I have no time, and less inclination, to listen to this
sentimental tripe. If you want forgiveness, Dax, go ask God for it. You're not
getting it from me."
He turned for the door, and Lex adroitly interposed himself.
"Please,
"Get out of my way… or I'm going to hurt you." The
Sicilian's tone had lost almost all inflection.
No one there mistook that for a good thing.
Hurriedly, Lex tried, "We're offering you the chance to see
Curzon again… and, more importantly, Saren."
Kev, at that point interrupted with an authoritative, "I
can't countenance this if he's not a willing participant, Lex…"
"You let me worry about that," Argus' commander
replied. He hadn't given way, and could sense that his friend's self-control
had very nearly reached a breaking point. Everyone in the room—but especially
he and Dax—was in peril.
Kev began again, "I'm sorry, but…"
"Shut up." This came,
surprisingly, from Ezri Dax. She stood, and in a move that even in the most
optimistic appraisal would probably be labeled unwise, strode over determinedly
and set herself beside her cousin Jonozia. Now they both blocked Mantovanni's exit.
That wasn't her only temptation of fate, though.
"What about it, Captain?" she asked. "If the
opportunity to see Saren, to speak with her, touch her, again, doesn't move
you, then how about the chance to confront Curzon? To get your hands around his
throat again? I promise you, this time no one will stop you if you decide to
finish him."
"This is ridiculous," Mantovanni asserted.
"Are you planning some sort of journey through time? If so, I’m not
interested."
"Nothing so extravagant," Lex assured him. "You
know I've never lied to you before. I owe you my command, my ship, my crew and
my life. Your best interests are what matter to me right now. You said a year
ago, 'If you ever trusted me, Saren, trust me now.' Now I say the same.
"If you ever trusted me,
The room seemed filled with the roil of emotions flooding from the
man who so prided himself on his impeccable control.
For the first time since Jonozia Lex had known him, Luciano
Mantovanni looked truly lost.
Finally, though, he answered.
"I'm still here."
Ezri and Jonozia exchanged relieved looks, and Lex smiled.
"That's a start."
He gestured back into the room, and Mantovanni reluctantly
returned and took a seat.
Even as he did, Kev stood again, cleared his throat, and addressed
them all. It was obvious, though, that his words were mostly directed at
Mantovanni.
"We are, as beings, essentially, the sum total of our
memories; Trills experience this fact far more immediately than other species,
since symbionts are the repositories of thought and deed stretching back to the
time of their first joining. Between us, Dax, Lex and I have experienced over
20 lifetimes."
Mantovanni looked unimpressed, but remained silent.
"It has been our experience that Trill hosts more readily
accept the fact that they are part of a greater whole when they can gain
insight into the motivations of those who previously fulfilled that role for
the symbiont. Thus, we have devised a ceremony called the zhian'tara."
"I've heard of it—vaguely. The memories of the various hosts
are transferred into friends and colleagues of the Trill participating, and
they're able to meet themselves, so to speak."
His eyes narrowed; an idea was forming near the edge of his
consciousness, but it hadn't quite manifested. "What does this have to do
with me?"
Now Kev frowned uncomfortably.
"It's a little known fact that these transferals can be
accomplished, with great difficulty, at times other than the zhian'tara—with
the commission's approval and assistance, of course.
"With the help of participants able to alter their form, a
particularly… intense variation of the zhian'tara is not only
possible, but recommended in certain instances."
"At great expense, Ezri has managed to acquire the consent of
these two individuals to participate."
Again, Mantovanni glanced at the alien pair, who had remained
silent and unobtrusive throughout the entire meeting.
Kev clarified.
"They're Chameloids."
Everything snapped into place.
"You want to take Curzon's and Saren's personality remnants
and place them in these two?"
"They're not remnants,
"Then they'll assume the forms of Saren and Curzon… and we'll
give you some time alone with each," Ezri finished.
Mantovanni looked astonished—and aghast.
"I don't think this is a good idea," he muttered.
"Why?" challenged the young Trill. "Are you
afraid?"
He knew it was a simple attempt to manipulate, but
He answered as honestly as he could.
"Not precisely… but Curzon should be."
"He is… I am… willing to take that risk,
Captain," Ezri avowed. "Are you?"
For a long moment, Luciano Mantovanni considered his position, his
pain, and the opportunity he had looming before him.
"You're one of the bravest men I know, Cicero," Jonozia
told him quietly. "I know this is hard, but…"
"I'll do it."
The other five looked genuinely surprised.
"If nothing else," he concluded, "it should be one
hell of a show."
The three Trills and one of the Chameloids exchanged glances—and,
without further commentary, rose and filed out of Ezri's quarters.
Mantovanni, caught flat-footed by their departure, gazed at them
in silence as they left. Each was careful not to look back.
Jonozia was the last to go. He stopped in the doorway's threshold
and announced, "I'll be back in an hour or so… and we'll go from
there."
They'd effectively distracted him from the person left in the
room.
When an achingly familiar voice whispered, "Hello,
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he thought.
They knew I'd agree.
They'd done it already.
He refused to look at first, even though he knew what… who…
was there.
Instead, he whispered back.
"Hello, Saren."
***
"I'm sorry," Kate began, as the door slid open.
She imagined Parihn wasn't very surprised to see her. This
conversation had become inevitable—at least so far as
Silently, the younger woman withdrew back into her room, and
stretched out on the bed. With a gesture, she invited her guest to sit.
"There's no need to apologize, Commander," she replied
after a moment. "You didn't injure me in any way."
"I'm glad,"
"…misadventure?" Parihn provided easily.
"'…misadventure…'" Kate
repeated; she was at once grateful for the help, and resentful at the Orion
woman's easy manner during what should be an awkward situation for them both,
"…to cause problems between you and the captain."
Expressionlessly, Parihn replied, "It won't."
The dialogue wasn't going precisely the way
She obviously doesn't consider you
much of a threat, Katherine, some part of her sniped.
Gamely, she attempted to ignore it.
"I don't know what prompted me to do that," she added,
rather lamely.
Parihn smiled gently. "There's nothing shameful in being
attracted to someone—and a little spontaneous. It didn't work out this time,
but you shouldn't let that discourage you."
Kate's eyes narrowed; she saw nothing, though, but sincerity—with
perhaps a touch of sympathetic amusement—in the younger woman's
expression.
"I feel like such a fool. Were the two of you already
involved when I was serving aboard the
The Orion shook her head. "No."
"Well, then I suppose my humiliation isn't total,"
Parihn, knowing better than most that nothing she said in
response to that would be of any help, remained silent.
Her guest, though, wasn't quite finished.
"How long have the two of you been…?" Kate's
voice trailed off.
It was a leading question; Parihn, however, had no intention of
being led.
In a tone that was at once polite and firm, she answered, "My
present and future with Captain Mantovanni is as much your business as your
past with him is mine—that is to say, none at all. If you have a
problem with way he handles his relationships, or you want details, I suggest
you take it up with him."
"Perhaps I'll do that, Ensign,"
Parihn interjected, "It'll have to wait, Commander: He's
conducting personal business on the station. He won't be back for some
time."
Sheridan nodded slowly, expressionless, but seething inside: The
fact that Parihn knew where the intensely private Mantovanni was—and
specifics of what he was doing—galled her to no end.
"Now with all due respect, Commander, if there's nothing
else…?"
The invitation to leave couldn't have been more apparent.
Argus' X-O, once again feeling somewhat
humiliated, headed for the door.
"Katherine."
"No one's laughing at you," Parihn avowed.
"Please believe that."
For a long moment, they simply regarded each other in silence;
then she gave the Orion an infinitesimal nod, whispered, "Thanks for the
rescue," and left.
***
Jonozia Lex hesitated at the entrance to Ezri's quarters; his
companion, however, didn't, and reached for the chime.
It ended up being unnecessary: The door opened; the form of Saren
pushed past them, and fleeing up the hallway—and weeping almost hysterically.
Argus' captain couldn't help himself… after
all, she was a part of him.
"What happened?" he
whispered intently.
Mantovanni fixed him with a glare that was palpable, and snapped,
"Until the two of you are reunited, that's none of your damned business,
is it, Lex?"
The young Trill captain colored almost scarlet, and muttered,
"I'm sorry."
A third voice added, "As unyielding as I remember, Captain
Mantovanni."
The other member of the little party stepped into the room then,
and motioned for Lex to leave.
"Go find 'Saren'… talk to her, if she wishes it." Curzon
folded his arms.
"The captain and I have a few things to discuss."
Argus' commander hesitated.
"Now, Lex," Curzon ordered grimly.
His expression declaring that he thought it a tremendously bad
idea, Jonozia Lex slowly withdrew. His last expression was a pleading one,
directed at his friend Luciano Mantovanni. Then, the door slid shut.
For a good two minutes, the remaining men studied each other.
"If I recall correctly," the Trill finally observed,
"the last time you saw Saren, the conversation ended somewhat similarly,
didn't it?"
Mantovanni's tone was scornful. "You should know. You were
the catalyst for the whole thing." He hadn't moved since left alone with
the other man.
"Then why aren't you trying to choke the life out of me even
now?" Curzon inquired, somewhat heatedly.
That got the other man on his feet, and
across nearly the length of the room—only to stop a foot from his goal.
Despite himself, Curzon had taken a fearful step back: He'd almost
forgotten how incredibly fast Liberty's commander could be when
properly motivated; the Trill was an accomplished hand-to-hand combatant, but
when they'd briefly fought so many years ago, the enraged Sicilian, with a
frightening ease, had very nearly ended his life; and he hadn't failed from
lack of effort. It had taken fully three of Mantovanni's crew—Vulcans
all—to drag him off Dax.
In his mind's eye, Curzon could see Lieutenant T'Kara, both her
hands on her captain's one, barely managing to prevent Mantovanni from
delivering the tal'shaya maneuver to his beaten and barely conscious
foe. A man whose control until then had seemed almost as Vulcan as his crew's
had had to be carried away bodily, cursing and promising horrible vengeance,
swearing vendetta on Dax so long as he lived.
And if there was one thing Sicilians took seriously, Curzon knew,
it was vendetta. After all, they'd invented the word.
Yet Mantovanni didn't attack now: He drew himself up short, with
what seemed a tremendous effort of will. When he spoke again, his voice grated
like broken glass.
"Don't tempt fate any further than you have, Curzon."
He was an old man; he'd died and awoken in the body of the lovely
Jadzia a decade ago, narrowly avoiding another encounter with Mantovanni when
he and the Intrepid had reappeared in 2368.
The Chameloid had appreciated the subtlety of his
"companion's" plan. Slowly, during the course of the conversation, it
had been aging Curzon. Over the last few moments, his appearance had changed from
the youthful, willful man who, in an act of calculated callousness, had scarred
two lives irreparably—to the decrepid one who'd loved the young and beautiful
Jadzia, and known himself too weak and pathetic to be worthy of her.
"What I did was terrible, I know. If you had killed me in
that moment, there are many who would have called it just—and rightly so."
Curzon's face was desolate with age, but not devoid of emotion.
"But that was 75 years ago, Captain. I lived with what I had done
to you both… I aged into an old man… finally, I died.
"Along the way, however, I suffered my own tragedies.
I know you believe in a God who visits justice upon evildoers.
"Well, I swear to you, he found me—more than
once."
Luciano Mantovanni was the man that Jonozia Lex, that Saren
Lex had told Curzon he was; a man of conviction, of indomitable will… but also
one of unbounded compassion.
And, some part of what the older man had said, something in his
ravaged expression, had touched him. His face changed from that of a man restraining
a great fury, to one whose sadness was almost too much to bear.
Curzon almost wept himself to see it. "Knowing that I
suffered doesn’t make you nearly as happy as you thought it would, does
it?"
Mantovanni shook his head.
"No... though I wish it did."
The Trill knew, for better or worse, that the moment had come.
"Knowing that I don't deserve it—and, better than most, what
it will cost you to grant it—I ask for your forgiveness." He held out his
hand.
Curzon genuinely did not know what the next instants would bring.
Neither, he thought, did the man before him.
In what might have been the most difficult, and longest, moment of
his life, Mantovanni slowly, agonizingly, set aside the past he'd wanted—and
the woman he'd loved—for the promise of an uncertain future free of the fury
he'd nursed for so long.
He took Curzon's hand.
"'Let no new grief divide us,'" Mantovanni said.
Curzon could barely manage a smile in his mingled relief and
outright joy.
"I should know that quote, I'm certain," he offered.
The Sicilian couldn't quite bring himself to smile in return, but
he nodded.
"For now," he told the other man, "it's enough that
I know it."
***
"She is not unattractive, for a Romulan."
There were murmurs of agreement from the entire table.
She was alone at the bar, evidently by choice: The seat on either
side of her was vacant, and the glare she gave some hapless Benzite when he
attempted to sit down nearly emasculated the poor fellow. He slunk away like a
whipped cur—much to the delight of the Klingons.
Patrick Aiello found himself agreeing with their evaluation of her
looks. Certainly, she had the Romulan angularity, but it seemed softened by a
certain thoughtfulness he'd never seen in that people.
Then, again, he hadn't seen many Romulans, either.
"If you will forgive my unseemly presumption… I see the fire
in your eyes, Dub'choh master. Approach her! How could she possibly
resist you? After all… think of what you could do to her with the power of your
hands. She would be an instrument of passion at your command."
Wow, Aiello thought. I've gotta get to Qo'nos
sometime soon. These guys are great, but I'd much rather have a woman saying
worshipful things to me.
He downed his most recent glass of bloodwine—his fourth… or was it
fifth?—stood, and resolutely, if unsteadily, approached the Romulan woman,
intent on… well, intent on something, anyway.
Even the Klingons looked surprised.
"Excuse me, Subcommander. Is it an insult to tell a Romulan
woman she's beautiful?" He was fairly certain he wasn't slurring his
words.
She continued nursing her drink, and didn't even spare him a
glance.
"Not if it is true, Dr. Aiello. Such is for the beholder to
decide."
"Good," he grinned happily. "Because you're
beautif–…" His voice trailied off, and he asked, "Hey! How do you
know my name?"
She told him.
When he returned to the table, the Klingons looked even more
surprised… as he grabbed the half-filled bottle of bloodwine, and drained it to
its dregs.
***
"Permission to speak freely?"
Kate Sheridan's request, coupled as it was with a glare that would
have cut carbon neutronium, told Luciano Mantovanni that whatever dregs
remained of the relaxing evening he'd planned—and desperately needed—were about
to disappear at transwarp speed.
"By all means, Commander," he agreed, stepping back so
she could enter his quarters—for the second time in two days.
As soon as the door closed behind them, she whirled on him with
barely contained fury, and snarled, "You could have at least told
me."
Mantovanni arched a brow. "What precisely was I
supposed to tell you, Commander?"
Sheridan laughed briefly, harshly.
"You could have tried, 'Don't wait around for me; I'm
sleeping with my helmsman.'"
The captain's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"You're just this side of making a complete ass out of
yourself, Kate. If you'd like to go on, though, I certainly won't get in your
way."
Sheridan, heedless, ignored the clear warning therein. "If
you want Parihn, that's fine with me," she continued, as if he hadn't even
spoken. "Two-timing me isn't the way to go about it, though."
Welcome to my nightmare, Mantovanni
thought briefly.
"Frankly, I don't remember our 'one-timing it,' Kate,"
he told her coldly. "You kissed me—uninvited, as I recall—then
decided you'd return when it suited you."
"Are you trying to tell me it meant nothing to
you?" she accused.
The captain was brutally honest.
"Not at all… I'm only saying that it seems like it meant a
lot more to you." At her look of infuriated anguish, he continued,
somewhat more gently, "What the hell is wrong with you, Katherine?
I understand that there was something of a misunderstanding between us, but
you're practically raving, here. We had a kiss… not an affair. I
realize that you may have presumed something because of the way we left things,
and for that I am sorry; but you know I've never been the most
forthcoming fellow when the subject is emotional attachments."
Despite an effort, he couldn't keep a hint of irritation from
seeping into his tone. "It's one thing to lash out at me in your
frustration; I'm more than willing to overlook it. It's entirely another
when you start interrogating Parihn as to my involvement with her." Before
Sheridan could reply, Mantovanni added, "No, she didn't say a thing
to me; she's not that kind of woman—or person, for that matter. I just know how
you think, and that you must have started with her—looking for
ammunition, no doubt—before coming to me."
He could see her struggling with the dichotomy between how she had
seen things, and how things actually were.
For a moment, he thought she'd strike him. He decided to let her
do it, if she wished. It'll help make up for all the times I deserved it and
didn't get slapped.
When she turned on her heel and stormed out, instead, he realized
that the battle was going to take a while to fight… and that he was the last
person who could help her resolve it.
***
"Ah wish y'all would at least think on it, Commander."
Sera MacLeod smiled, and carefully considered her reply.
"With all due respect, Captain Forrest… while I am fond of the
Athene's officers and crew, your vessel's mission profile is not what
I would consider… germane to my aptitudes."
Maitland Forrest shook his head and chuckled. He'd known the attempt
had been doomed from the beginning, but one didn't allow an officer the caliber
of Sera MacLeod to slip through one's fingers without at least a half-hearted
attempt to recruit her.
"Now isn't a return to Liberty somethin' of step
backwards, my deah?"
He was still teasing her a bit, as was his way. They'd come to
know each other two years ago, when both had served in the mythical "13th
Fleet"; and Forrest was, if anything, even more of a rogue now than he'd
been then.
He'd gently insisted on her having dinner with Athene's
senior staff. Sera had agreed, assuming that the get together would be much
more for Vice Admiral Jellico, who was also traveling to DS9.
Jellico, though, was nowhere to be seen… and the gathering had
become much more light-hearted than would have been possible had the
straight-laced flag officer been present.
"I, for one, am glad she's not going to accept,"
announced Maria Petrova, in her sober Russian accent.
She then grinned.
"The rest of us need something to do."
There was scattered chuckles around the table, and Sera arched a
brow.
"Russian humor," she replied, impishly, "and not a
gallows in sight."
The laughter swelled even more.
Petrova dipped her head and covered it with her hands,
acknowledging the hit.
"Ah do believe a white flag is in order, Maria."
"We Russians never surrender," she countered
proudly. "We just fall back until winter."
Conversation turned to other matters, though all involved steered
clear of war remembrances; the time of conflict, of fallen comrades, was still
too fresh in everyone's mind.
"I am surprised at Admiral Jellico's absence," Sera
commented.
Forrest's expression soured slightly.
"He's been holed up in his VIP quarters for the entire
journey…"
"…and utilizing computer records a great deal," added
Christian Richter.
All of his superior officers fixed him with knowing looks.
"I was not prying," he protested. "It is,
after all, a security matter."
"Only by virtue of the actin' security chief havin' said
it was, Christian. Cease and desist; Jellico was the head of Starfleet
Intelligence for almost two years. You're not gonna find anything he doesn't
want you to find."
"Jawohl, mein Kapitan," Richter conceded, reluctantly.
They all speculated, though, what had the admiral so preoccupied.
Sera, of course, wondered whether it had something to do with the
commander she'd served with once before… and was soon to serve with again.
***
"All right, then, let's get down to business, Captain. Give
me one good reason why I shouldn't have you and your acting X-O Benteen
court-martialed for insubordination and refusing to obey a lawful order,
respectively, after your performances when last we spoke."
Edward Jellico was an impressive man when angry: The steely
expression; the hard tone; the sense of barely controlled outrage all
contributed to a formidable posture.
"Commander Benteen's personal loyalty to me should not be
interpreted as a lack of respect for your authority, sir. I tend to think
you're far more angry with me than you are her. I'd request that you overlook
her momentary lack of judgment."
"I'll take it under advisement," Jellico allowed, in a
tone that implied that he really wasn't inclined to grant Mantovanni's request;
his refusal to allow Benteen off the hook was almost certainly calculated to
anger and upset.
"Now," he continued, "I'd like to hear an
explanation for your behavior."
Damn the torpedoes, the captain
thought.
"I feel the need to ask for permission to speak freely,
sir," Mantovanni replied easily, "lest I compound both your sense of
indignation—and the list of charges against me."
Jellico's glare was unwavering. "Granted," he snapped.
"I explained my position when last we spoke… the disposition
of the Gom'tuu seemed like a matter for Starfleet Research, so I
contacted Admiral T'Kara. While you were, at that time, my reporting official,
there was no intention to circumvent your authority. I simply thought it easier
to talk directly with her. She was once my executive officer; we're friends.
Our relationship makes it easy for me to get my point across."
"It was still inappropriate," the older man insisted.
"According to the letter of the law, you're right; it
was," the Sicilian conceded. "That regulation, though, was written to
curtail abuses in the chain of command—not to prevent more efficient
resolutions to difficult situations."
"Oh, so now you're the arbiter of what the regs really
mean, as opposed to what they say." The admiral's tone
simmered.
The events of the last few days had left Mantovanni badly off
center, and it showed: Whatever patience he'd manifested was beginning to wear
thin.
"Of course I am… I'm a starship captain, remember? Who
the hell else is going to interpret them out there, if I don't?"
The response seemed to have surprised Jellico. For a moment he
seemed to reconsider his entire line of questioning.
"That's a good point."
Mantovanni's response was a droll, "Thanks. Score one for
me."
The admiral snapped, "Don't push your luck, captain. I'm
beginning to toy with the idea of letting you off the hook… but I suggest you
spare me at least most of the clever rejoinders."
"Understood, sir."
Jellico's expression was still somewhat doubtful. "So I have
your personal assurances that you had no intention to do an end
run around me?"
Mantovanni replied flatly, "If there were, I'd tell you… and
the consequences be damned."
For a long moment, Edward Jellico considered what had been said
before alongside what he'd just heard.
"All right," the older man said, finally. "We'll
change topics, for the moment." He shuffled through a few PADDs on his
desk, found the one for which he was looking, keyed a few instructions, then
glanced up again.
"Is there anything you can tell me about the incident of a
year ago when Liberty came to the aid of USS Argus? In
conversation with individuals who shall—for now—remain nameless, I've gotten
some disturbing indications of a conspiracy to hide certain events that took
place then. I was hoping you could clarify a few points for me."
Liberty's captain thought,
succinctly, Damn.
"Sir, I respectfully request permission to discuss the matter
directly with Admiral Pierce when Liberty reaches Earth in a few
weeks."
Jellico grinned triumphantly: He'd known there was
something going on… Mantovanni, surprisingly, had just admitted as much.
"Had it been your original intention to speak with Admiral
Pierce, Captain… or were you hoping it would never come up?"
"I'm not sure, sir," the Sicilian admitted, in another
surprising piece of candor. "It is my considered opinion, though, that
Admiral Pierce would prefer I speak directly to him, and involve as few
officers as possible. If you order me to do otherwise, though, I'll give you a
full briefing."
"Very slick, Captain," was Jellico's reply.
"You concede that there's been some sort of cover-up, while simultaneously
attempting to avoid revealing any information except to those superiors you've
selected for your—how should we say it—confession?"
"I would have used 'revelation,' sir."
"Very well, then—'revelation.' Any particular reason you'd
prefer to reveal this to Admiral Pierce, as opposed to me? Try not to
give the same reason you gave for going to Admiral T'Kara. You're supposed to
be inventive, after all."
You asked for it, Mantovanni
thought.
"Sir, you say you really want to know… but you'll be
sorry the minute you do, because you'll be forced to act on the knowledge...
and I don't think you're looking to destroy anyone's career. Wouldn't it be
better to get a full briefing from Admiral Pierce in a few weeks—if he
so chooses?"
Jellico frowned. His expression said that if Mantovanni was
bluffing, he was quite good at it.
"I'll make you a deal, Captain. I could order you to
reveal your information unconditionally, or simply try and get it out of Lex…
but I won't do either. Instead, I'll promise not to act on the knowledge
you're about to give me, until and unless Admiral Pierce either does… or
doesn't."
Mantovanni debated for all of a second, and said,
"Done." He knew it was the best arrangement he was going to get.
He then told the admiral everything he'd wanted to know.
***
M'Raav Hatshepsut was on a mission. She admitted to herself that
she was, in a perverse manner, looking forward to conducting it: Kate Sheridan
and she hadn't gotten along famously during the latter's time aboard Liberty;
an opportunity to perform her counseling functions—while snapping her back a
bit—frankly appealed.
You're not supposed to enjoy such things, kit, some upstanding part of her scolded sternly.
A louder, and—dare she admit it—cattier part replied, Why
not? The presumptuous little bitch got what she deserved.
The counselor in her stepped between the two sides, and settled
the dispute.
Just because someone of whom you're not overly fond got a
comeuppance doesn't mean they're hurting any less, or that they don't need help
in finding some balance… remember your duty, Hatshepsut, and search out your
compassion.
The other two facets of her personality went away—resentful and growling,
granted—but they went away.
When Sheridan answered the door chime, her face turned even
angrier than it had been.
"Great," she muttered. "Not only do I get to be
humiliated, he has to send his attack cat after me to finish the job."
And once you've found
your compassion, Hatshepsut, hang on for all you're worth.
"I'll just invite myself in," the Felisian announced,
and slipped past Sheridan into the guest quarters. Wandering over to the
replicator, she requested, "Ktarian heavy cream, hot, in a white ceramic
mug."
Sheridan was in rare form, even for Sheridan.
"I don't recall asking for one of your house calls,
Counselor. Don't you have some neurotic young ensigns you should be tending,
rather than pestering me unsolicited?"
Hatshepsut ignored the sarcasm.
"From what I've been told, I thought it possible you might
need to talk. If you're not comfortable, we could establish a subspace link
with Argus, and contact Counselor Cassaria… but he'll simply tell you to
rely on me. You and I both know that."
"I don't need to 'rely' on anyone. I'm fine," Sheridan
insisted. "I'm not the one with a problem."
"You're running around the ship performing actions that
hardly seem in keeping with either your personality or your dignity,"
Hatshepsut observed.
Sheridan gaped, and then exploded.
"I knew they couldn't keep their mouths shut! Which
one of them told you about my little nude scene in the captain's quarters? I'll
bet it was Parihn, that little tramp…"
Nude scene? Oh, my,
Hatshepsut thought. This is getting better by the moment.
"I haven't spoken to 'that little tramp,' as you so
charmingly put it… and all the captain told me was that of you and he had had a
misunderstanding that was mostly his fault, and that I might be able to
give you some perspective. I had no idea there'd been an… incident of
that sort—that is, until you told me about it yourself just now.
"Why don't you relate the rest of what happened, now that
you've already begun—albeit unknowingly."
Woodenly, Sheridan sat down. She'd outflanked herself by blurting
in anger what neither of the other principals had revealed. After a moment, she
gritted her teeth, and replied, almost defiantly, "All right, I will
tell you."
And she did.
The Felisian listened to the entire tale, from Sheridan's initial
ill-advised foray into the captain's quarters to her second furious departure
only an hour ago.
Hatshepsut knew that she had to restrain even the slightest
indication of amusement at what had happened in the first instance—even though,
whether her patient wished to admit it or not, it was hilariously funny.
Despite a determined attempt to remain impassive during the account, she
suppressed a trill of amusement only with extreme difficulty on more
than one occasion.
It's probably best to simply address the problem rather than
dwelling on the… circumstances.
"Why, precisely, are you angry?"
"Because we had an understanding," Sheridan declared.
"Did he have the same understanding you did?" Hatshepsut
inquired.
Kate stood and began pacing around the room.
"Evidently not. But I didn't think he'd go behind my
back and…"
Hatshepsut motioned with a paw. "And?"
"And sleep with someone else when he knew I was
interested."
Hatshepsut's tail flicked around and gently thumped off Sheridan's
thighs… the soft blow brought her up short.
"How do you know they're sleeping together? Did you
walk in on them? That wasn't part of your narrative."
Sheridan's expression was scornful. "I'm neither blind nor an
idiot, Counselor."
The Felisian purred rather sardonically. "No, I'd simply
label you presumptuous. Parihn and the captain have become closer in the
past few months; however, I certainly can't confirm that their friendship has
taken that direction." And wouldn't even if I could.
"But... but..." she stammered, "Parihn
was...!"
"What?" Hatshepsut countered. "Hugging Brian Bearu?
Reading a book? Listening to music?"
"What was I supposed to think?" Sheridan asked
plaintively. "She was in his quarters!"
"Evidently, from your account, with more clothing on than you
had, Commander," she reminded. "Let's be plain; you went there to
have sex, and were annoyed that someone might have beaten you to it."
Kate clenched her fists, furious. Hatshepsut growled warningly.
"Don't get into a catfight with me, Katherine. I don't lose
them. What you actually saw was nothing but a woman reading a book, in
the quarters of a man you wanted." And probably, despite yourself, still
want. "You assumed facts not in evidence, and reacted to them.
We've all done that. Many of us have wanted a man, and had it not
work out for us."
A brief vision of Bagheer stole across Hatshepsut's consciousness.
She put it aside, but suddenly found a lot more sympathy for Kate while so
doing.
That's what you get for finding this funny, M'Raav, she told herself.
"Katherine, you're not exactly a wild woman. What prompted
this sudden attempt at seduction, if I may ask?"
"You may not," Sheridan answered determinedly.
Hatshepsut was unrelenting. "Because you don't know the
answer, or because you know the answer all too well? I've spoken to Bimitri
Cassaria on more than one occasion about you. He told me that you have a
tendency to look outside yourself for certain kinds of validation—precisely the
type of validation that has to come from within. I wholeheartedly concur
with his assessment."
"I didn't realize I was the topic of conversation,"
Sheridan observed stiffly.
The Felisian gestured reassuringly with a paw. "You shouldn't
be either flattered or concerned; he and I are both professionals. Certain
elements of your personality tend to make you high-strung, defensive—and,
frankly, a bit sullen. He'd predicted something like this would eventually
occur."
"Really?" she
snapped, affronted. "Cassaria thought I'd strip down for action in
someone's quarters?"
Don't laugh, M'Raav, she ordered herself firmly.
"No, Kate; I think he was referring to an uncharacteristic
outburst that would manifest itself as an… 'uninhibited act,' I believe he
called it. He never went into… specifics." Not that I would have
believed this if he had.
Sheridan was finally winding down. The entire affair—or, in her
case, lack thereof—had been one extended primer in misinterpretation and
mortification. At last she seemed ready to let the worst of it go.
"We just seem perfect for each other," she whispered.
Hatshepsut knew it was a bit petty, but… she didn't particularly like
Kate Sheridan, and thought Parihn would be a much better choice as a lover for
her captain. Thus, she was only too happy to give her professional opinion... especially
since it coincided with her personal one.
"You're too much alike in all the bad ways: Both dominant
personalities; both focused on your work in Starfleet—and cut from a similar
mold. He casts a long shadow, Katherine, and to truly blossom you have to be
away from him. Lex is a much better commanding officer for you, now that things
aboard the Argus are a little more to everyone's liking.
"Can this get any more humiliating?" Sheridan wailed.
"Well, there's the matter of apologizing to the
Captain," Hatshepsut mentioned. "That should be quite a
show."
The realization of that little step's necessity was enough to turn
Sheridan first white with dread, then red in embarrassment.
Hatshepsut noted, amusedly, What lovely, expressive skin you
have, Katherine. I suppose the captain could do worse than spending some
time making you turn all sorts of colors—once or twice, at any rate.
Both you and Parihn as
lovers—even simultaneously—might do him some good, too.
What she said was, "You'll manage it, I'm sure."
"Will you do me a favor?" Kate asked.
"If I can."
She then whispered, "Disembowel me now."
Hatshepsut trilled. "Tempting, but… I'll leave that to him."
***
Edward Jellico sat for a full two minutes after Mantovanni's
narrative, his expression darkening by the moment.
"You will proceed to Earth with all reasonable speed, and
meet to discuss this subject with Admiral Pierce the moment you arrive.
Is that abundantly clear?"
"It is, sir."
He observed, pointedly, "I note there's been no apology for
the 'posturing, self-important jackass' comment, Captain."
Mantovanni arched a brow, and replied, "Your point
being…?"
The admiral gritted his teeth. "You're an insolent
son-of-a-bitch, aren't you?"
The younger officer looked him squarely in the eye. "Now
you understand, sir; it's just a cross I have to bear."
The two men exchanged glares. After a moment, though, Jellico,
amazingly, chuckled, and reflected, "What a pair of hard-asses."
"An accurate assessment, sir," Liberty's captain
agreed.
Jellico shook his head in amused disbelief, sighed explosively,
and then announced, "Well, I have business to attend to at Archer IV,
Captain, so…"
Mantovanni smiled slightly.
"Please tell me you didn't come all the way out here just
for the satisfaction of clapping me in irons, Admiral."
Considering the way the older man colored, and worked his jaw, the
captain knew that was precisely what had occurred. And now he'd leave
without having done so… with no recompense whatsoever, in fact.
Mantovanni reconsidered his position.
"Sir," he offered soberly, "I apologize for my
inappropriate commentary of a few months ago. I had no intention of
impugning your skills or your service to Starfleet. I have the utmost
respect for your contributions. You're an extraordinary officer, and I'm
pleased to know you."
To say Jellico looked flabbergasted would have been no
exaggeration.
"Thank you, Captain… you actually sounded like you
meant that." The two men shook hands.
"As you well know, Admiral… I don't say things I don't
mean."
Jellico nodded. "Dismissed."
As Mantovanni was about to leave, though, something made the older
man ask, "But you still think I'm a 'posturing, self-important
jackass,' don't you?"
Liberty's captain stopped in
mid-step; for a moment, his expression was almost devilish.
"Do you still think I'm an insubordinate, 'insolent
son-of-a-bitch'?"
Despite his best effort, Jellico smiled, ever so slightly.
"Fair enough, Captain."
***
"Bring them in," Sandra Rhodes said.
At her order, Mav activated the transporter, and the quintet of
Klingons materialized on Liberty's main pad.
Four of them held, in the surprisingly gentle cradle of their
arms, the snoring form of Patrick Aiello.
"He is a mighty drinker, but at last the bloodwine overcame
him.
"Where is the dub'choh master's quarters?"
inquired their squad leader, a steel-gray haired bulldog of a Klingon.
Rhodes and Mav exchanged wary, startled glances. Neither knew
offhand.
"Speak! We must not disturb his slumber!"
"You might think about not yelling, then," Rhodes
countered saucily.
It became immediately apparent that the Klingons were far more
inclined to be restrained with their charge than they were any other Starfleet
personnel; the squad leader took a threatening step forward, and growled,
"Be quick, p't'hk. He begins to stir."
Insulting a Liberty officer in front of the Tellarite was a
phenomenally bad idea: As far as he was concerned, they were his
personal whipping boys and girls… anyone else tore into them at their extreme
peril.
"Well, we'll find out…'til then, keep your targ-hole
shut, turtle-head," snorted Mav.
The Klingon sneered.
The Tellarite huffed.
The Klingon gestured.
The Tellarite complied.
As he was coming around the console, and Cassandra Rhodes began to
consider her options—running, drawing her phaser and stunning everyone,
starting a betting pool with the Klingons, or calling for additional
security—Patrick Aiello did a passable imitation of Mav: He snorted, grunted,
shifted in the arms of his protectors and smiled.
They labored to make him comfortable.
The squad leader immediately shushed them all.
Mav was so surprised at the blurry sight of a Klingon actually shushing
people like a schoolmarm that he hesitated. Rhodes took her opportunity.
"Deck five, section seven-alpha," she whispered.
The Klingon bowed slightly. "My thanks."
He then glared briefly at Mav. "Some other time,
Tellarite," he muttered.
The two Starfleet members stood gaping as they gingerly left the
transporter room, their lieutenant leading the way.
"I need a drink," Rhodes announced; the stocky little
NCO seemed to agree.
He grunted, "Huh. Yeah.
"Anything but bloodwine."
***
This time, when Luciano Mantovanni opened the door to his
quarters, Kate Sheridan appeared composed.
Either that, or she's putting on an impressive front, he thought.
"Are you involved with Parihn?" The question was
stated quietly—but firmly.
"Come in," he offered by way of response, gesturing for
her to enter.
She took her customary chair, across the desk from him—what had
become, for a brief, pleasant time, her side of the chessboard.
He arched a brow slightly. That's encouraging.
Without asking if he wanted to play, she moved pawn to king four,
and looked expectantly at him.
"I'm waiting for a response." The double entendre
hovered between them, until the captain sat and matched her move with his own,
pawn to king four.
"Parihn and I have the beginnings of an… understanding,"
he told her, as the game progressed. "One that I’m not certain either of
us actually understands."
Sheridan nodded. From the insular Luciano Mantovanni, such a
statement, vague though it seemed, was practically a prophetic revelation.
"I'm not surprised that your relationship with her would be… complicated.
Ours—whatever it might turn out to be—isn't exactly conventional."
Her smile broadened.
She tried a variation she hadn't used against him before, and he
frowned slightly at her choice.
"Interesting," he observed.
"I'm glad you think so… it's good to have options, after all.
Wouldn't you say?" She grinned wickedly.
Liberty's captain wasn't one to
be outdone.
"I'll reserve judgment," Mantovanni replied dryly,
"until I see how it comes out."
He thought, Let the games begin.
***
"We wish to thank you again, Kev, for agreeing to help us."
The Trill official nodded, though his expression wasn't one of a
person fully satisfied with his handiwork.
Again he tried, "Are you sure I can't help with…?"
Argus' captain had interrupted, firmly,
"No, Kev… it's between Captain Mantovanni and me. We'll resolve it,
eventually." He made a game attempt at a smile that fooled no one.
"One crisis at a time, OK?"
Kev didn't look convinced, but relented.
Lex had been reunited with the personality of Saren some hours
after her conversation with Mantovanni; he now knew what had passed between the
two of them.
It was something probably best never mentioned.
Jonozia Lex had adamantly refused to speak of it with Kev, or even
to his cousin Ezri Dax—despite her intimate involvement in the whole affair—and
himself didn't know what it boded for his friendship with the Sicilian.
He found that, for now, he couldn't bear to face Liberty's
commander again.
Kate Sheridan entered runabout pad two even as Tilik Kev left it.
She waited some distance from the Falcon, affording Jonozia a few final
moments with Ezri.
"I told you it would work," he reminded her.
She cocked an eye at him, and countered, "But you were almost
as worried as I was. Come on… admit it."
Instead, he hugged her.
"I've got to go."
He gestured to Kate, and boarded the runabout.
Even as Ezri Dax retreated into the innards of Deep Space Nine,
Sheridan followed him aboard, and settled into the pilot's seat.
"So," she asked, while beginning her preflight check,
"are you planning on being as uncommunicative on our way back as you were
coming here?"
"Huh," he grunted.
Dismayed, she turned. Then she saw his sly smile, and realized
that whatever had occurred, things were—at least in the ways Lex thought
counted—better for him than they'd been.
She turned again to the controls, grinning herself, and thinking, That
goes double for me.
***
My second meeting with an admiral in as many days.
Luciano Mantovanni's thoughts strayed briefly to the opening line
of Psalm 22; then he grinned inwardly.
My, you are feeling sorry for yourself,
aren't you?
When the door slid open, though, he immediately began wondering if
the emotion wasn't justified.
What he'd thought was a private briefing was evidently a
conference of some sort. Two of the assembled officers he recognized: Seated to
the left of Vice Admiral William Ross were both Colonel Kira and Athene's
skipper, Maitland Forrest; to his right were a young lieutenant whose resemblance
to the admiral was strong enough to raise a speculative brow, and…
…and a Romulan.
She possessed that imperious hauteur so common to her people; and
it was on full display, as she examined Mantovanni with a gaze that indicated
she was far more interested in condemnation than evaluation.
He didn't imagine his own expression would have been any more
pleasant, had he allowed it to slip past his inscrutable façade.
The admiral was evidently familiar enough with either Forrest, Mantovanni
or both to dispense with any formal introduction whatsoever.
"Of course you know Colonel Kira," Ross gestured.
She and the Sicilian exchanged cool nods; neither was particularly
fond of the other, but their mutual professional respect far outweighed any
personal dislike.
"Colonel," he offered politely. "Congratulations on
your promotion. It's well deserved."
"Thank you, Captain," she responded with the same
distant regard. "I'm pleased to see Liberty came through the war so
well."
Ross cleared his throat slightly.
"I believe there are two introductions in order." He
didn't manage to entirely restrain the touch of paternal pride that flavored
his next statement. "My son, Lieutenant John William Ross; he's with the
Starfleet Judge Advocate General's Office."
Uh oh, thought Mantovanni.
The younger Ross at least looked genuinely pleased to meet
him. He stood and moved far enough around the table to shake his hand.
"Call me Jack, please; I've always been an admirer of your
exploits, Captain," he announced, a little too avidly for Mantovanni's
taste; there was nothing he could do, though, but accept the man's hand—and his
compliment—in what he hoped was gracious silence.
"Lastly," interjected the elder Ross, "this is
Subcommander T'Laris, of the Imperial Romulan Fleet."
Her appearance was atypical for a Romulan. While she wore the
traditional garb of a Rihannsu naval officer, her black hair was most
definitely not cut and arranged into that unflattering and prevalent
style certain Starfleet officers had cruelly nicknamed "the
hawk-head."
There were a few awkward moments, as each waited for the other to
give greetings first.
The seconds became almost a half-minute before Forrest mentioned,
"I understand you have some interesting observations concerning the Roman
home world and Empire, Captain Mantovanni."
The distraction was just enough to break the stalemate.
Liberty's captain took his seat,
and, without preamble, gave the briefing he'd known was necessary from the
initial moment he'd encountered General Aerus.
When he'd finished, Kira was the first to respond.
"So you think the Romans are some sort of threat to
the Federation, Captain?" she inquired, rather skeptically. "They
only control a handful of systems…"
"But they have designs on the Talarian Confederacy,"
Mantovanni reiterated. He'd noted that of the assembled officers, only Forrest
had seemed receptive to the idea of Roman power being on the rise.
"Perhaps that's good for the Federation, from a purely
strategic point of view," offered the younger Ross. "If they duke it
out for a few years, neither will be any kind of threat for some time to
come."
"That's assuming the Romans don't defeat the Talarians with
contemptuous ease—as I'm certain they will."
Admiral Ross frowned.
"While I have nothing but respect for your tactical acumen,
Captain Mantovanni, that does seem a little presumptuous; the Romans'
industrial base, their infrastructure and economic forecasts all indicate
they'd be biting off a bit more than they can chew if they attack the
Talarians."
"As I mentioned, sir, they won't attack. They'll lure the
Talarians into attacking them."
"Either way," Kira pointed out, "they'll be locked
in a conflict with a force that greatly outnumbers them. The Talarians,
I'm told, have over 2,000 of those attack sloops they love so much."
"The Romans have far more ships than they've admitted to
us," Mantovanni asserted. "That's the only explanation that makes any
sense: They're trying to goad the Talarians into an attack, so they can respond
in force. With both a significant technological edge, and a fleet that’s not
nearly so outnumbered as either we or the Talarians think, they plan on winning
quickly—and somehow absorbing the Talarian Confederacy into the Empire. In my
opinion, General Aerus' statements were calculated to bring me to some of these
conclusions."
"But why?" Kira asked. "He's warning us of
his plans for conquest?"
"It's a courtesy to his Starfleet allies. He's cautioning us
to keep Federation traffic out of the area for the next few months. Roman honor
demands that they at least obliquely make us, their long-time benefactors,
aware of their intentions."
"This is rather Machiavellian, Captain," the elder Ross
said doubtfully.
"Machiavelli was an Italian, Admiral… Rome, as you know, is
in Italy… both on Earth and on Terra Roma."
"But they're human, just like u–…" the younger Ross
began.
Mantovanni interrupted, "But they're not human,
Lieutenant." He then emphasized, "They're Roman."
Admiral Ross frowned. "Just what is that supposed to
mean, Captain? And I'll warn you, it sounds a little like racial stereotyping
and bigotry to me."
Liberty's captain sighed.
"It means that while it's ridiculous to assume hostility in an unknown
species, sir, it's just as absurd to assume benevolence in a known one.
After a moment, the admiral nodded. "I understand; but
according to our intelligence reports, the Romans would like to retain their
friendship with the Federation. Attacking the Talarians—or, excuse me, being
attacked by them because they manipulated it…"
"…is something the Federation would most likely
forgive rather easily. Think about it, Admiral; we're not overly fond of the
Talarians, anyway; they were allied with the Cardassians in the first war.
They're well known for brutalizing any female Starfleet officer or enlisted
person they get their hands on… they're intractable and extremely vicious. As
far as the Romans are concerned, they're simply Androcles."
"Come again?" asked Kira.
Forrest grinned. "Captain Mantovanni's using a colorful
metaphor from Earth mythology, Colonel: They're just removin' a thorn from the
lion's paw," he clarified.
Admiral Ross had absorbed much of the hour-long briefing in
silence, adding only a comment or two near its end.
"Well, Captain Forrest, I understand that Admiral Jellico and Athene
are waiting; we shouldn't delay you any longer. Colonel Kira, I know you're
quite busy, as well."
He'd politely—but firmly—dismissed them both.
After they'd gone, Ross turned back to Mantovanni.
"You've obviously given this a lot of thought, Captain. I
can't say I share your concerns, but you're more than welcome to take them up
with Starfleet Command when you return to Earth, if you wish."
Liberty's captain had been hoping
for more than that: He could read fairly easily that William Ross had given the
matter "its due attention"—a polite euphemism for dismissing it out
of hand.
Myopic pedant, Mantovanni thought. No
wonder—and thank God that—Sisko led you around by the nose for the entire war…
or we'd all be speaking Cardassian now.
"On to other topics," the
admiral said firmly, switching gears with abrupt finality. "I wanted to
personally introduce you to Subcommander T'Laris, Captain, because she's here
from Romulus on the Officer Exchange Program… and has been assigned to a
Starfleet ship."
Mantovanni watched his mind from a distance, as a horrible thought
sprang into existence there.
Before he could say anything, Ross continued.
"Meet your new executive officer, Captain."
***
The last of Liberty's personnel strolled aboard moments
before the great ship's departure. Cassandra Rhodes hustled through the docking
pylon's periphery, and back onto the vessel that was home. Sandra's last-minute
shopping was complete, and her arms were full of packages.
"Why didn't you simply have the stuff transported to your
room?" asked one of the guards, stifling a grin at the sight of his small
supervisor—a stack of gifts with legs.
She staggered past him, giggling.
"Part of the fun of buying stuff is getting it home on your
own, Ensign King; it's one of the unwritten rules of shopping. Don't you know anything?"
King shook his head. "It must be a girl thing… sir."
She wriggled her eyebrows at him.
"Now you're thinking, Brett."
He chuckled as she disappeared with the curve of the corridor…
…then nearly burst into laughter when he saw her boarding for a second
time, not five minutes later.
"What'd you forget, Santa?" he inquired, then grinned
rather impudently. "I thought shopping was supposed to be a
non-transporter sport?"
She looked at him, shrugged, said, "I'm in a hurry, Ensign.
Excuse me," and strode past him without another word.
King frowned, then leaned back against the corridor wall.
My mother always told me not to get in the way of a determined
shopper.
I guess I know what she means, now.
***
"You don't believe I've broken my word in contacting
you?"
Edward Jellico examined his friend's expression carefully, and was
relieved when he shook his head.
"No," Alexander
Pierce said reassuringly. "You're adhering to the spirit of the
agreement you made. This is a secure channel, and I'm going to hear about it in
three weeks, anyway."
The next question was an obvious one.
"What are you planning to do?"
Pierce folded his arms, and stroked his beard.
"I'm not certain. I want to hear how Mantovanni tells it.
He'll be putting me in a difficult position. Don't worry, I'll keep you
apprised."
Jellico grunted, "You're damned right you will."
"Oh, by the way… what made you decide not to prosecute?"
"To be honest, Alex, once I heard all this, I figured the
man's got enough problems without me adding to them."
Pierce didn't look surprised at the answer.
"At least," he told his
friend, "you have a sense of proportion."
"Yeah, thanks. Jellico out."
He sat in his quarters on Athene, in the dark, for a
long time after that.
I really hope you do the right thing, here, Alex, because if you
don't, you'll have handed me a loaded gun, pointed it at the careers of about
ten officers—including your own—and dared me to pull the trigger.
Don't make the mistake of thinking I won't.