CHAPTER
NINETEEN
“Am I steppin' into the twilight zone?
Place is a madhouse… feels like being cloned.
“My beacon's been moved under moon and star.
Where am I to go… now that I've gone too far?”
- Koomans and Hay
If Parihn had set the sonic shower’s
intensity any higher, it would have begun to abrade, or even rend flesh from
bone. As it was, she endured the discomfort; her teeth rattled and her body
shook… but that wasn’t predominantly due to waves of sound, so much as those of
remorse.
It took a long time suffused in silent
noise, scrubbing, nearly tearing at herself, to remove most of Jerrell's
essence, the smell of him… and still
she remained under the relentless barrage, as if it could remove the real stink
of what she had done.
Feeling truly clean right now, she knew, was impossible… and the troubled
woman pondered if she ever would
again.
She stepped from the stall and into
clean clothes, then retrieved the ones she'd been wearing. For a moment, Parihn
seriously considered beaming them into space on maximum dispersal… but,
finally, with a shudder, simply tossed them into the molecular recombinator.
Desperate for serenity, or even
respite, she sat lotus-style on the bunk, and tried to utilize some of the
disciplines she'd learned from T'Vaar over the last few years; but her
meditation was unsettled. For the first time since the Vulcan adept had begun
teaching her the techniques for self-mastery, a vision intruded on her efforts;
and, instead of achieving balance, she tumbled into a state of consciousness
that was far more nightmare than dream.
She saw herself, in both her guises:
Parihn, in uniform, pale, poised… confronted Shomira, dark, dressed only in
lust… seductive, sinuous…
And they contested—as they always had.
“This was a necessary evil; your time
is done,” Parihn told her, with as
much determination as she could muster.
Shomira laughed. The tone was mocking…
and powerful.
“Just think, Parihn. When your little expedition has failed, and the
Orions have recaptured you, too,
you'll see Aedra again; no doubt the two of you will be brought together for
what they'll call a 'Starfleet Special.'
“You'll hate
it… and then I'll love it.”
“No,” Parihn whispered, then more
determinedly repeated, “No. Even if
I'm caught, there's still a way out—for Aedra…
“…and for me.”
She awoke feeling more out of control
than ever.
Her hands were shaking. The Orion
clenched down with both fists, realized that the flood of disturbing emotion
was due, in part, to the fact that she hadn't yet taken another dose of
suppressants.
And I'd better… before I decide to beam back over there and kill that son-of-a-bitch.
So intent was she on administering the
medication that she swept into the fighter's main compartment completely oblivious
to her surroundings. It was only after she'd prepared the hypo, then pressed it
to her neck and discharged the contents, that Parihn's senses began functioning
more reliably.
And the first thing they told her was
that she wasn't alone.
Parihn froze, then whirled, snatching a
Type-II phaser from the wall mount and aiming it…
…at the seated, composed form of
Lieutenant Commander M'Raav Hatshepsut.
“A good morning to you, Lieutenant,”
the Felisian purred, “though the outlook for my afternoon and evening would be better if you were to point that
weapon elsewhere.”
Dully, Parihn restored the firearm to
its holster, and proceeded to gape at her “guest.”
“Wh–what are you doing here?” she stammered.
Hatshepsut flicked her tail, and
pointed it at the younger woman.
“Looking to prevent you from doing
something stupid… or, rather,
something more stupid than what
you've already done: Theft of Federation property; absence without leave;
engaging in… covert activities…
without the sanction of Starfleet Intelligence...”
“But how did y–?” she stopped, and then exhaled in frustration and
exasperation. “T'Vaar… you pointy-eared
snitch.”
Her brow furrowed, and, as her thoughts
continued to sort themselves out, Parihn became gradually cognizant of the fact
that Hatshepsut would certainly not be alone.
“Who's with
you?” she whispered.
The counselor's reassuring purr cut off
suddenly, and the Orion's worst fears were confirmed.
Hatshepsut replied, “Take a good guess.”
In the face of this revelation, the
self-control Parihn had managed to regain was put sorely to the test.
“Why do you have to be here? I don't want you here—either of you! Hatshepsut… don't you know what I just did?”
The Felisian wasn't exactly gentle with
her response.
“Considering I could smell the sex on… your clothes… and the fact that you just
spent quite a bit of time first scrubbing yourself raw, and then sitting
quietly with your head hung in the next room, I've managed to piece recent
events together with a fair degree of reliability.”
Parihn could feel herself a hair's
breadth from a screaming, crying fit that might do more damage to the hull than
the sonic shower had done to her skin.
“I never wanted any of you to see me like this—especially not…!”
Hatshepsut growled… then leaped across
the room, to land within inches of the startled Orion, where she hissed, “Well,
I strongly emphasize your need to
begin dealing with reality as it is vis-à-vis what you wanted it to be. Compose yourself, Lieutenant… because he's about
half an hour behind me.”
Just then, they heard the distinctive
whine of a transporter, and both turned. Seconds before the pair of figures
coalesced, Hatshepsut regretfully added, “And that was about half an hour ago.”
It was, indeed, Luciano Mantovanni,
accompanied by the great Kaylar, Xorc. Ignoring the incongruity of such a
pairing, Parihn took a deep breath, and managed an expression approximating
neutrality as their eyes met.
Before that adamantine mask slid into
place, she saw it in his face, only for an instant… but it was an instant that
changed everything between them.
He
knew what she had done.
He knew.
“We'll talk about your little excursion
with Federation property later, Lieutenant. For now…
“…let's go find your friend.”
She made as if to speak, but he cut her
off with a curt, “Assume the helm. No
doubt we have a long trip ahead of us.” He took a seat at the pocket
workstation, activated the console, and began typing.
Parihn continued to stare at
him—disbelieving both his presence, and
his reaction.
And instant later, he grimly added, “I
understand that I'm no longer your commanding officer, Lieutenant… but am still of superior rank, and not at all inclined to repeat my orders.
“See to it.”
She closed her eyes briefly, struggling
for control, then wordlessly made for the cockpit. Her hands moved mechanically
over the controls in a preflight check. Parihn knew it was fortunate they could perform the procedure as a
result of sheer repetition, because if asked to handle it consciously, the
Orion would have been hard pressed to do so.
An instant later, another thought
occurred, but before she could act on it and seal the room shut, Hatshepsut had
already entered and slipped into the copilot’s seat.
Then, to Parihn’s surprise, the
Felisian closed the portal herself.
“I am
capable of guiding the
“No doubt,” was the soft response.
“I just thought you might, even now, be better company than a looming Kaylar.”
She prudently avoided mentioning the other passenger… or his state of mind.
“Don’t underestimate Xorc, Hatshepsut.
He has many fine qualities. He’s
strong, gentle… and faithful.
“Especially
faithful.”
“I’ll venture that you’re questioning
your own fidelity—none too subtly, I
might add?”
After a momentary pause, Parihn gave her answer.
“Whether or not you believe me, Hatshepsut, I don't particularly
care… but I did plan on telling
Her eyes strayed towards the passenger compartment.
“I especially couldn’t deceive him
and live with myself.”
Her next statement was disturbingly visceral, and delivered with a
hostility and self-loathing that gave even the serene counselor pause.
“But,” she gritted, “I’m sure you
understand that I didn’t anticipate having to face this particular conversation
so quickly…
“…and especially not still pumped
full of the other man’s semen.”
The Felisian cut off a dismayed yowl.
Parihn shut her eyes, and shuddered. In
spite of her best attempt to contain them, though, tears squirted from between
the clenched lids and dotted the LCARS display. Angrily, she brushed them away…
and, to the feline's surprise and disquiet, contained her anguish with an
impressive, but unhelpful, unhealthy effort of will.
Hatshepsut knew that, for the moment,
there was little she could say. But if Parihn had thought—perhaps even
hoped—that such a graphic illustration might discourage the Felisian, however,
the counselor’s next statement
disabused her of that notion.
“I think, later, we'll need to talk.”
Chapter Eighteen Chapter Twenty