INTERLUDE
FOUR
As most of us know from often bitter experience, there is a
great deal of difference between comprehending something intellectually, and
actually knowing it—dwelling on its meaning, dreading its connotations…
…allowing it to resonate.
While my nature is not precisely classified, most of my
shipmates know nothing about it; I do not advertise the fact that I am a green,
am not particularly loquacious in discussing my past (for reasons you may
understand), and haven't taken any lovers—with one delightfully notable
exception—since joining Liberty's crew four years ago.
Cicero knows, obviously; he's known for years. T'Vaar I
told before we began my studies; I didn't wish for her to be offended by what
she might “discover” in the course of my psionic education. Matsuoka, McCoy,
McDonald, and the other doctors who've had occasion to see my true colors, as
it were, manifest themselves are also all too aware. Hatshepsut has always
remained skeptical of whether I've truly “addressed the relevant issues,” but
has shown a restraint I've appreciated.
All of these people have been kind to me; they have never
dwelt on my past, or pestered me with either incisive or idiotic questions. And
I have been content to live the life I've chosen, unbothered and unhindered by
the one I'd left behind.
On occasion, though, I am rudely reminded by circumstance
that I am different.
Liberty
had, during the war, been assigned to negotiate with the Vaniri, a cruel
humanoid race whose planet, while small and unremarkable either in aesthetic
value or cultural/technological advancement, possessed the virtue of being
ideally located for a base during the middle stages of the conflict—before the
Romulan intervention, when the Federation had been growing desperate.
Their code of conduct is unrefined, to put it politely.
They have no respect for other peoples, believing not only that they
are the chosen of the gods, but that all others are created to serve them.
While this is not a unique perspective by any means, it manifests itself with
particular brutality on Vanir. They see nothing wrong in victimizing those who
visit their world…
…and by “victimizing” I mean precisely what I've implied.
They had not been feeling overly generous when we'd
arrived, either. Their leader, a savage, truculent fellow named Graash—oh,
excuse me… Lord Graash—had informed Captain Mantovanni that only one
individual would be permitted to beam down… and that he or she would do so
subject to the whims of his or her “hosts.”
Such is not an invitation geared to inspire enthusiasm…
but, again, the Federation had been, at that point, desperate: We could not
allow the Dominion to secure the planet as a base of operations. An assault
group launched from there would have threatened nine sectors, and forced a redeployment
of naval forces Starfleet could ill afford.
As you may have guessed, the briefing Captain Mantovanni
gave the senior staff was short.
“I'll transport down,” he'd announced, “and attempt to
convince the Vaniri that a Starfleet presence in their system is to our mutual
benefit.”
Of course, everyone had protested. While we'd known it was possible
he might be able to go down there and return unscathed… it had seemed unlikely,
and none of us had been willing to watch him beam into such obvious peril.
Bagheer had been especially vocal.
“They are animals,
He'd then actually purred in anticipation of doing so.
Dry to the point of aridity, our leader had answered with,
“If the purpose were to decimate and offend them, you'd be my first choice,
Commander. But our goals are slightly different.”
“Sir, I don’t understand why Starfleet is even negotiating
with the Vaniri. They’re evil.” Sito Jaxa, who rarely spoke so emphatically, even about
Cardassians, had set off a storm of discussion and debate with her declaration.
To my surprise, I'd heard Hatshepsut herself, usually the voice of reason and
moderation, adding her own denunciation.
The only two people, it had seemed, who weren’t
talking were the captain and myself.
I had been, then, by far the most junior member of the
senior staff, but I'd rarely lacked for an opinion.
This occasion had been no exception.
During a momentary lull, I'd quietly murmured, “I volunteer
to undertake the assignment.”
No one had expected that… but the captain had reacted with
his usual decisiveness.
“I didn’t ask for volunteers,” he’d reminded us, one and all.
“No,” I’d replied. “But you’ve got one anyway.”
I’d managed to shock everyone; even Sera MacLeod’s Vulcan
restraint had given way to a stunned gape.
“Everyone else, clear the room,” he'd ordered, in his “The
discussion is over” tone.
When at last alone with me, my commanding officer had
quietly asked, “What could possibly be your motivation for wanting to go down
there, Ensign? You've heard what these… people… are like.”
I'd taken a deep breath, and replied with as much composure
as I could marshal.
“Yes, I have… and that's why I should go.”
He, at first, hadn't known what to say, and so I'd made
another point.
“I'd be able to negotiate afterwards with less resentment
and rancor.”
To this day, I believe he had, on some level, known exactly
what I'd meant, but steadfastly had not wished to acknowledge it—an example of
what I mentioned above.
“You know something about my life, sir. You may not want to
believe it, but… I'm far more capable of weathering a sexual assault, or even a
series of them, than anyone else on this ship—even you.”
What I hadn't said, but had considered, was, “Especially
you.”
I did not think less of him for this; such men are not
easily broken, but the type of vindictive violence he might encounter on the
surface was one of the surer methods to do so with many. I'd been determined
that he'd not risk experiencing it—though it meant perhaps again doing so
myself.
I’d known if they raped me that I would endure.
I always had.
My captain… my friend… hadn't seen it that way.
“Your… willingness to undertake the mission is noted.
“Dismissed.”
I'd lost my temper.
“Don't be a chivalrous fool,” I'd snapped. “You don't want
to do this.”
Despite my insubordination, his response had been brief,
restrained… and time on target.
“So you do?”
I'd refused to lie.
“No. I don't…
“…but I will.”
To this day, I regret that I hadn't argued with him
further.
I’d stayed.
He’d gone.
None of us—not even Bagheer, I wager, who is afraid of
nothing—have ever dared asked him what happened down there. Matsuoka and
Hatshepsut know something of it, I'm certain; not surprisingly, they've never
chosen to speak. But we’d subsequently received permission for the base, and
the Vaniri didn't bother our personnel, by all accounts—which astonishes me
still.
In my heart, though, I often wonder just how much my
captain can now empathize with the life I led.
I still dare to hope not at all.
Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four