CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
“It took me by surprise, I must say,
when I found out yesterday…
“You could have told me yourself
that you love someone else…
“Instead, I heard it through the grapevine
not much longer would you be mine.
“Oh, I heard it through the grapevine…
and I'm just about to lose my mind...
“People say believe half of what you see,
son, and none of what you hear.
“But I can't help bein' confused;
if it's true, please tell me, dear.
“Do you plan to let me go
for the other guy you loved before?”
-
Whitfield and Strong
“Let me out of here.”
Artemisia Gallas, chief of security at Way Station 242, was startled by the
prisoner's demand, but had to admit, the man had gall—if not his freedom.
“I don't think so,” she
answered.
Gallas had the classic features of her
Greek ancestors: Flawless olive skin; dark eyes; black, lustrous hair; proud
nose—too damned proud for her taste.
And she possessed more than touch of
their fire, as well.
Her gaze flashed a bit of it as she
answered, “You have multiple counts
of assault and battery pending. Lieutenant Commander Det plans on pressing
charges, as he said, 'to the fullest extent of Federation and Mokharan law.'
“You may be in there for quite some time.”
The man's visage was dark and
unpleasant.
“And your… officer… will be replying to defamation, slander and conduct
unbecoming charges, unless you see fit to release me—right now.
“Make no mistake, Lieutenant Commander…
that wasn't a request.”
She almost laughed in his face,
incredulously responding with, “And just who are you to give me orders, my presumptuous friend?”
“Actually, I'm a Starfleet captain,” was
his remarkable answer. “My name is Luciano Mantovanni.”
Gallas' eyes widened in tolerant
amusement, and she smiled.
“Oh, really? You're the
Luciano Mantovanni? Nice to meet you, Captain…
“…I'm Catherine the Great.”
Ensign Leyton Marks, upon hearing the
prisoner's incredible announcement, ordered the computer to pull up a visual
from the Starfleet biographical database and compare it with that of the man in
the holding cell.
Unfortunately the computer didn't find the idea so incredible.
He then examined the photos himself…
and grimaced.
“Uh… Commander?…you may want to step over
here to my station and take a look.”
There was a reason Marks had quickly
become one of Gallas’ favored “lackeys,” as she semi-affectionately called
them. He took initiative, and spoke his mind as necessary.
Of course, that didn’t mean Artemisia
liked hearing everything he had to
say.
The chief recognized the warning tone
in his suggestion, and pursed her lips in grim realization that she may just
have insulted a superior officer—an extremely famous and influential one, at that.
Now the cell's occupant smiled; in this
context, it was even more a wintry and unpleasant expression than his glare had
been.
“Yes, why don't you go do that…
“…Cathy?”
***
After Horst von Schroeter had received
the summons to his office at what was 0447 on his personal schedule, and
And being called back to deal with an
indignant legend wasn't very cheering, either.
He found his Athenian gadfly, Gallas,
waiting for him—along with a dark, brooding presence that seemed paradoxically
drawn in on itself and primed to
explode.
His officer reluctantly threw him to
the wolves… or, in this case, the wolf.
“Commander Horst von Schroeter, in
charge of Way Station 242… this is
Captain Luciano Mantovanni.”
The image von Schroeter had of the
famed officer wasn't jiving with what stood before him. He'd heard the
acclaimed captain of
Well, he's your superior, and entitled to respect, so… start
shoveling it, mein Herr.
“Sir, it's an honor to meet you,” he
said, offering his hand.
Mantovanni didn't move; von Schroeter
couldn't even see him breathing. It was like he was cast in stone.
The German withdrew his limb, and
asked, “Er… what brings you to 242, Captain?”
The man's voice sounded like it was
emanating from a mausoleum.
“That's not your concern. What should be is making certain your
officers learn both respect for their fellows, and restraint when dealing with
situations they don't understand. Clearly they're lacking in both qualities…
and my patience is near its limits.”
Von Schroeter was taken aback, and
looked in confusion to Gallas, who provided a brief overview.
“Evidently Captain Mantovanni is here
to meet with someone who's also traveling incognito. When he arrived, she was
behind closed doors, in a… private
meeting… with our much-beloved coffee house proprietor… and Ashok’s guards
refused to disturb them.”
Oh, scheisser. Judging from his tone and expression, Mantovanni's had a “private
meeting” or two with this woman himself...
…and wasn't expecting to arrive and find her getting schtupped by Ashok.
Gallas continued, “When the Captain was
in the midst of making his inquiry, Lieutenant Commander Det, unaware that the
lady is a Starfleet officer, made a profoundly unfortunate, untoward
comment—to which our guest took exception.”
She then stressed, “Extreme exception.”
Horst heaved a rather heavy sigh.
“I take it blows were exchanged.”
A nod confirmed it.
“Det has a dislocated jaw, four broken
ribs, and a cracked vertebra—probably from when the captain threw him into the
tritanium bulkhead. The Nausicaans decided that this was license to remove him from the bar.
“They're in the infirmary, too, all
three of them—in worse shape than
Det.”
Vas is das…?
“I arrived on the scene a moment later…
and the captain had the good sense to surrender in the face of my phaser
trained on him.”
Mantovanni arched a contemptuous brow,
and lip.
“Don't flatter yourself, Lieutenant Commander. I just didn’t want to hurt… you.
If I had, I would've simply deprived you of the weapon and thrown you on the
pile with the rest of them.”
Gallas' mouth opened, closed, and
opened again. Horst briefly thought about a fighting fish deprived of water.
Before she could challenge Mantovanni's audacious assertion, Way Station's commander decided to
intervene.
“I’m certain the Nausicaans won't be pressing charges. They'll be
humiliated enough at having been thrashed by a single human. I'll speak to Det about dropping the ones
he's no doubt contemplating, too. His
mouth and libido get him into trouble far too often for me to be sorry he's
nursing a few easily healed injuries.”
And maybe, von Schroeter thought, just maybe the beating will do the pretentious little snot some good, since
nothing else seems to have worked. He's flipped up more skirts than a stiff
breeze—including Jane's, he thought with a flash of anger—and left all those women in fury or misery
within days of so doing… invariably because he was off to till yet another field.
You know, I'm acquainted with entirely too many men who simply
can't keep it in their pants.
The cynical part of him added, I obviously don't get out enough.
Mantovanni didn't look actually
pleased, but marginally mollified was better than intransigent.
That, however, was about as good as things
got.
“Insofar as I understand what I've
heard, however, you're not actually on duty, Captain… and certainly not
official business. Thus, if what you have planned does disturb 242 again, I
shall take whatever action is
necessary—as you would, were I somehow challenging your command of the
“Sir, with due respect... I sympathize
with your problems—whatever they may be.” Schroeter’s tone had warmed in
momentary compassion, but iced over again now as he drove his point home. “But
this is my station... and I shan't
have you disrupting it—no matter your personal justifications.
“Do I make myself clear?”
In reaction, Mantovanni's expression
became what he could only call baleful... and, much to his surprise, it daunted
von Schroeter somewhat more than he was willing to openly allow.
This was a man with whom it would most unwise to trifle.
Det and the Nausicaans had already learned that.
Von Schroeter, though, had a duty, and
he wasn't about to shirk it for a moment. He matched the glare with one of his
own.
It had about the effect he thought it
would.
“You do what you've got to do, tough guy,” Mantovanni
declared. “But if doing what I have
to do means shaking up your station... then I suggest you batten down the
hatches, because it's going to be a bumpy
ride.”
He rose, and turned.
Wisely, Gallas stepped aside.
“And I know I've made myself
clear, Commanders, but, just to recap…
stay out of my way.
“I won’t be nearly so pleasant next time.”
After Mantovanni had left the office,
Artemisia Gallas sighed.
“I'm sorry, sir… I had no idea who he was, and I'm afraid I
antagonized him—quite a bit—with my
cavalier attitude before we discovered his identity…”
She then amended ruefully, “…or,
rather, he revealed it.”
Horst von Schroeter continued staring
after his departed “guest,” but gestured dismissively while so doing.
“It's all right, Commander. We may be taught not to judge by appearances, but
even the best of us do it, on occasion: He's got a week's growth of beard, is
dressed far more like an indigent than an off-duty officer, and has a real attitude problem, to boot.”
With her Greek eye for tragedy in the
making, Gallas opined, “I have a feeling this is going to end badly.”
Von Schroeter nodded.
“The man's irrational, right now… but not irrational enough for us to hold
him—not until he does something else.
“Then, of course, it'll be too late…”
…and my career will be even more in the refuse dump than it is now.
Chapter Twelve Chapter Fourteen