This is one of those pieces that will probably have casual readers wondering throughout, "What does that mean… and who are all these people?"

I can tell you all now: Nothing bad happens herein… so if you're looking for dramatic tension, go elsewhere.

The narrative, by the way, is set further along the timeline than any other thus far posted. Is it canonical? Indeed. Is it definitive and final? We’ll see, won’t we?

[Note: Erika Donaldson, Shana Arland and Taylor Maxwell of Star Trek: USS Adventurous appear courtesy of Julie Raybon-Winningham, as does the “unsinkable” Molly Ainsworth. Maxine Vasser and Josephine Schmidt of Star Trek: Banshee Squadron appear courtesy of The Inimitably Superfluous Richard Merk. Arkin Jora of Star Trek: The Adventures of Argus appears courtesy of Alex Thompson. Thanks, youse guys, for letting me borrow your babes.]

"Pretty Maids All in a Row"

By Joseph Manno

Vaerth Parihn frowned, and considered the communiqué's text yet again.

What?

It had her so perplexed she only vaguely registered the door to quarters opening.

For another full minute, Parihn weighed the possibilities—veiled threat, sexual innuendo, even obscure literary reference—and rejected them all.

I must be missing something obvious.

"Cicero?"

"Hmm?"

She glanced back, and smiled: As was typical of him, Luciano Mantovanni was already at his desk, brow furrowed, examining a chess problem with boyish single-mindedness. This one, sent him by Rear Admiral Sadok two days ago, had stymied him since then … and she could tell he was beginning to lose patience with his inability to puzzle through it.

He didn't look like he wished to be disturbed.

Well … too bad. This is more important.

Parihn asked, "Do human wedding rituals include total immersion?"

The question swam upstream against his distraction, and finally drew his attention.

"Err… no. Not my traditions, anyway—either Sicilian or Vulcan. Why?"

"Um…" She hesitated, before gingerly continuing. "…Captain Donaldson wants to … bathe me."

"What?"

Mantovanni moved to stand behind her—noting the USS Adventurous logo at the top of the comm screen, and scanning the letter quickly.

Then, he explained, or at least tried.

"No, Parihn … she wants to throw you a shower."

She gave him what she knew was an uncomprehending look, but took her best guess.

"Is that some ritual a man's previous lover engages in with the new paramour so as to ga–?"

He cut her off with a chuckled, "Relax, little bird. It's nothing like that—at least not officially. 'Shower' is, in this context, a synonym for 'party.' She's going to hold a celebration in your honor, some time before our wedding; if she's handling it in the traditional manner, it'll be rowdy, risqué … and ladies only."

Risqué?

"Oh. I don't have to … do anything, do I?"

At first, he smiled at her obvious continued unease… then blanched when he realized just what she meant.

"Parihn, no… nothing like that.

"These are people who care about you, and want to see you happy. You get to be there and have fun—harmless but bawdy fun, if I know Erika … and I do."

The Orion pondered that.

Interesting. You wouldn't think I'd have performance anxiety now—especially not over a simple party.

Hmm. A room full of women with their attention primarily focused on me.

Well, won't that be a novelty?

But before she could begin to fret in earnest, Parihn felt Cicero's hands, which had been resting easily on her shoulders, slip to her waist…

…and then he lifted her into his arms and swept off towards what she thought would be the bedroom.

She murmured a surprised, "Hey! What are you doing?" Her momentary struggle was a token one at best, though, and not at all sincere; she knew the expression he was wearing by heart… and, when he did, it invariably turned out very well for her.

This time, Parihn was certain, would be no different.

He smiled roguishly, kissed her with delicious thoroughness, and then whispered his intent.

"Captain Mantovanni wants to bathe you."

***

Luciano Mantovanni feared very few things…

…but when he entered his quarters' bedroom and saw his fiancé and former lover laughing hysterically, gesticulating broadly, and drinking copiously—only to fall into a poking, smirking silence when he made his presence known—he silently admitted to a bit of discomfort.

"Uh… Hi!" Erika Donaldson offered, gesturing with her drink… but quite careful not to spill a drop.

Parihn, to his surprise, found the greeting funny, snorting into her hand and, in turn, triggering another fit of giggles from Erika.

He knew the significant inroads they'd made into the bottle of 212-year-old Syracusan anisette—my 212-year-old Syracusan anisette, he noted with a hint of irritated resignation—probably had something to do with their incongruous giddiness.

Mantovanni sighed.

"I don't want to know, do I?"

His bride-to-be promptly piped up, "Nope!"

He nodded, and considered various evasive maneuvers—only to choose the easiest option.

"If you'll excuse me, ladies… I'll just be a minute."

Parihn leaned over and, obviously unaware that her voice carried a little further than she thought when drinking, stage whispered into Donaldson's ear, "Like he ever in his life took only a minute."

They both looked him up… down…

…and then collapsed into each other's arms, shrieking with delight.

Well, at least that's a compliment, he thought. A disconcerting one, but a compliment, nonetheless.

Of course, the sobering realization hit him just after: If Parihn and Erika were already close enough to make comments like that when he was in the room, he didn't dare to consider what might be said when he wasn't.

"Er… how long is this scheduled to continue?" he asked. "I'd like my quarters back, eventually."

With a little difficulty, Erika stood, swayed, and then recovered enough of her balance to regain at least a measure of dignity—for the moment.

"Well, these are just the preliminaries, Captain Crabby—you know, to set a proper mood. The girls are all gathering here in about an hour." She rattled out names while happily checking them off on her hands one by one. "Shana, Sera, T'Vaar, T'Laris, Hatshepsut, Gallas, B'Elanna, T'Lann, Cassandra, Jaxa…"

At that point, Donaldson ran out of digits. She pouted prettily, and glanced down. Mantovanni knew, though he wasn't certain precisely how, that she'd just seriously considered employing her toes to continue the count—before abandoning the idea with what looked like real regret.

She began reusing fingers instead.

"…Taylor, Max, Molly, Jora, Jo and Erika… oh, I'm Erika… no, I mean the other Erika…" she frowned, then brightened, "…Benteen! E.B.!"

"I gotcha," he acknowledged dryly.

Mantovanni had to admit she was a charming drunk.

"…and maybe a few special guests," Donaldson continued, attempting to suggestively wriggle her eyebrows, and instead managing to look like she'd acquired a painful sinus headache. "About the only thing I can guarantee is that there'll be no dancing girls—well, at least no hired ones."

Here we go again.

And he was right. The women exchanged looks… then collapsed into near delirious, gut-wrenching mirth once more. Liberty's captain decided that enough was too much, retrieved the PADD for which he'd been searching, and headed for the door.

"Well, if you'll excuse me, ladies, I have a date with a shadowy corner—the better to curl up and whimper."

Their next round of laughter wasn't very reassuring.

"And don't come back!" Erika yelled. "You're not allowed to see her again until the wedding."

Suddenly it was Parihn who actually looked upset.

"Hey, wait a minute!" she protested. "What about tonight? I want to sl–"

"You'll be with us tonight. Time enough for that tomorrow, you little nymph. Tonight's the night you talk about all this stuff. It's traditional," she emphasized, as if that explained everything.

Parihn looked completely unconvinced.

"How could it be as great as se–?"

"Trust me. You'll have fun."

Shaking his head, the Sicilian withdrew.

The last thing he heard before the portal slid shut behind him was Erika's slurred, "Well… anisette is OK, I guess… but I wonder if he has anything really good to drink around here…"

Luciano Mantovanni thought about the cache of liquor in his quarters—the one he'd spent the better part of a century accumulating, hoarding, sampling, and doling out only with great restraint.

He cringed.

"Wow… look at all this stuff," Erika Donaldson marveled, upon opening the oaken cabinet and briefly examining its contents through the brass mesh. "Aldebaran sweet whiskey… Cardassian kanar… Andorian honey and royal jelly… that jar is worth a year's salary!

"…Romulan ale…?"

"T'Laris must have given him that for his birthday this year, or maybe last Christmas," Parihn supplied. "Time was he wouldn't have been caught dead with anything Ri'hannsu in origin."

"I know … be quiet and give me a minute," Erika scolded. "I'm cataloguing our potential resources, here."

And they were quite impressive.

"Goodness … just … just look at all this stuff!"

"You said that already."

This time, Erika ignored her.

"Klingon blood wine … wow, 2277 … Saurian brandy … Ktarian mocha cream … Athenian ouzo … that's like anisette, only stronger and thicker; and then later it feels like some hoplite hit you on the head with his shield."

Wonderingly, she observed, "He must really love you, Parihn … this stash was probably locked up when I was with him those times. Goodness knows I never saw it before." The older woman's affront was almost comical.

"He never even offered me a drink."

Parihn suppressed most of a knowing smile.

"What chance did he have? You probably never let him out of bed."

Erika colored, embarrassed at being caught out, and cleverly countered with a bleated, "Shut up."

Then the booze distracted her yet again…

…and she brought a hand to her mouth in genuine shock.

"Ooh… naughty stuff, too!" she exclaimed. "Dionysian aperitifs … Salacian nectar … Epicurean hypnotic mist … hmmm, I've heard about this…

"…Deltan passion spirits?! … oh, it's so illegal to take this off their home world! … I hear you can either drink it or rub it into your skin."

"I know."

Something in Parihn's tone drew her attention. For a moment, Adventurous' commander was worried she was flashing back on her previous life … but, to Erika’s relief, and unsettlement, the lovely Orion was wearing an expression of relish that almost made Donaldson sorry she didn't go both ways.

"What's that supposed to mean, Ms. Innuendo?"

"It means we've used it before." When her companion's eyes widened, Parihn winked, and flicked her gaze downward.

At that intimation, Erika gaped. Delightfully scandalized, she challenged, "You didn't!"

Parihn grinned wickedly.

"I did. He liked it—a lot."

She then wriggled her own brows—much more effectively than had Erika.

"So did I."

***

They arrived not at once but, instead, in small groups: T'Vaar and T'Lann seemingly impassive, but each with a flicker of curiosity in their eyes; Molly Ainsworth, Cassandra Rhodes and Artemisia Gallas arguing passionately in Greek (using that language, was there any other way to argue?); M'Raav Hatshepsut, Erika Benteen, Shana Arland and Sito Jaxa guiding, and clearly feeling the need to coax, the youngest of their number, Argus' Arkin Jora, past the initial uncertainty of making merry with some of Starfleet's more famous and infamous officers; B'Elanna Torres alone, for all her Klingon ferocity seemingly full of trepidation—as if being surrounded by engineers or enemies was one thing, and the company of her fellow women something else indeed; Maxine Vasser, wearing a scowl, bearing a beautifully wrapped and extremely ‘girly’ gift box … and daring anyone to smile at the sight; T'Laris looming in the doorway, folding her arms almost forbiddingly as the last three on scene, Sera MacLeod, Josephine Schmidt and Taylor Maxwell, entered—escorting an anti-grav unit betwixt and between them.

On it, perched atop what looked to be a heating unit powered by—well, powered by something, at any rate—burbled a viscous azure concoction that had Donaldson, despite herself, thinking briefly of Macbeth.

"What the hell is that?" she asked.

Rhodes added a question of her own.

"And should I be erecting a level-ten containment field around these quarters?"

Taylor, pooh-poohing, told her, "It's not dangerous, Cassie—at least not to the ship." She smirked, almost maliciously.

"Well?" Hatshepsut purred eagerly. "We're waiting."

"I built it," Taylor announced proudly. "It was Sera's theory…"

"Isn't it always?" Sito opined, flashing a subtle little smile.

MacLeod made a face, and stuck her tongue out in the Bajoran's general direction.

"…but Jo and I made it work," Maxwell added, glaring at them both for detracting from her moment.

Schmidt then finished with, "We're calling it 'transwarp toddy.' It's hooch … 230 proof."

"That," T’Lann avowed, "is physically impossible."

Adventurous' engineer looked at her as if she had swallowed a fistful of stupid pills just before arriving, and they were only starting to take effect now.

As if lecturing a moronic child, Taylor slowly reiterated, "I said, 'It was Sera’s theory… ‘but Jo and I made it work.'"

Before the other Vulcan could argue, T'Vaar interjected with, "We shall, provisionally, concede the point." T'Lann arched a skeptical brow, but nodded.

Good choice, Erika thought. They'd only have looked foolish when Sera, Taylor and Jo produced the specs and proved it.

Hey… I'm actually thinking.

That means I need another drink.

Things went pretty well.

As Erika Donaldson had hoped and planned, uncertainty became fast friendship between those gathered, and they gladly devoted themselves to making their much-loved comrade happy on the eve of an even happier day to come.

Of course, the bubbling brew didn’t hurt a bit.

The gifts were more conservative than was the wont for such a celebration; both Erikas had reminded those coming that Parihn might be sensitive to certain suggestive materials, and had recommended instead literature for a woman known as a voracious reader of everything from the galaxy's epic classics to children’s books.

There were a few exceptions, of course.

Arkin Jora gave her old roommate a genuine mahogany frame, antique and delicate. It contained an official certificate attesting to the Orion's now-famous run through the Academy's dread holo-flight simulator—still, to this day, the only perfect negotiation of the course in Starfleet history.

It was a gracious gesture from one friendly rival to another.

"But I'm still better, Verde," Jora teased, even as Parihn held it over her head like she'd just won Wimbledon. She, Parihn, and Max Vasser all belonged to an extremely select group of pilots for which one could make a case asserting “she’s the best in Starfleet”; this type seldom missed a chance to re-stake such a claim—literally when possible, metaphorically on any other occasion.

T’Vaar’s present was a crystal, larger than a clenched fist, which pulsed with a rhythmic jade luminescence.

As one, the girls “ahhh’d” over it.

“It is a livral,” she explained. “It aids in meditation, and can serve as a focus for various psionic disciplines.”

T’Lann looked very impressed.

“A crystal of such size and luster is a true rarity,” she observed. “There are perhaps a thousand as large on all Vulcan, and I have never before seen one which glowed with such intensity. Its potency, and value, must be … incalculable.”

T’Vaar didn’t reply.

Parihn, though, was aghast.

“This is the one that's been in your quarters as long as I've known you, T’Vaar. It’s from the T’Pelline Monastery, isn’t it?

"You can’t give me this!”

The Vulcan arched a brow.

“The fact of my gift is, as humans say, a ‘fait accompli.’

“The livral is yours.

“It is no sacrifice to give something I value to a friend who will cherish it as well. Moreover, I shall teach you how to utilize it for a variety of effects…” And then she surprised everyone. “…some of which you will be able to use in … impressing … your husband.”

To hear such a statement from a Vulcan was shocking … and wondrous. As one, nearly all the gathered women gaped at her.

She seemed amused at the reaction.

"Contrary to what has been implied by those who are more … conservative in perspective … the arts of love are not completely unknown on Vulcan. There are those females who are unwilling to accept a seven-year drought between sexual encounters—women for whom body and mind are not in dichotomy, but in dialogue."

The reaction from the other three Vulcanoids present was varied: Sera was quietly amused, T’Laris openly approving … but T'Lann seemed, for a moment, almost angry—though she restored her impassivity, or at least a semblance of same, within a few seconds.

Whoa, Donaldson thought. I guess not everyone took part in T'Vaar's little sexual revolution. T'Lann looked ready to spit acid there, for a moment. It's funny how Vulcans tout “Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations”—until they don't particularly like the “combination” of certain diversities.

Parihn took the crystal with reverence, and a whispered, "Thank you." She then admitted, with a sweet smile, and an even sweeter blush, "I'm always looking for things I haven't done before—especially in that arena."

"Yeah … I bet,” Taylor said… then, a second later, realized just how it sounded when almost every pair of eyes in the room turned to glare at her. Max snarled, B’Elanna growled, and only T’Vaar’s gently unbreakable seizure of each woman’s arm prevented an immediate brawl.

"I … uh … oh, shit."

Damn it…! Nice goin', Taylor. Time for damage control.

But before Donaldson could assist, her prospective repair work was rendered unnecessary—in the face of the bride's own.

I knew this was going to happen, Parihn thought. Too many of them are concerned about offending me—hurting my feelings.

"Don't worry about it, Taylor,” she insisted, hastening to deflect the brace of baleful looks. "We all know you didn't mean it that way." This last seemed directed mostly at Max Vasser, who until that moment had still been subtly attempting to extricate from the handhold of a woman whose physical strength surpassed hers by at least a factor of three. Only now did she fully subside.

"Now you see why we rarely let Taylor out of the engine room," Shana Arland dryly observed.

"Indeed… it's a well-established fact she has neither a sense of restraint, nor much class," Sera MacLeod noted, grinning.

Maxwell countered with an old standard.

"Both of you … bite me."

There was a round of laughter, and the uneasy moment passed.

"But it brings up a good point," Hatshepsut trilled. "No male, however understanding, wants to hear that you've done it all before. He wants to be the first with at least a few of the really good things."

And Parihn, with a chuckle she knew contained entirely too much self-deprecation, added, "Let's just say that in my case, I've had to search far and wide."

She ignored Hatshepsut's probing look.

"Hey, that's not your fault," Max declared, almost angrily. She then addressed the assembly with an indignant, "Why is it that they almost all seem to want us to be virgins, yet be able to … to…"

“‘…dazzle them?’" offered Jo.

"I think she means 'suck the ablative coating off a nacelle.'"

That garnered Cassandra Rhodes a series of upswept brows and dropped jaws.

“Now there’s a mental image I didn’t need, you little pervert,” chided Molly Ainsworth. She poked Cass in the ribs, then added, “Or is that the beginning of an anecdote, rather than a simple analysis?”

Rhodes’ lips curved into a devilishly suggestive smile.

“Why? What have you heard?”

“That’s it, Cassie … go for plausible deniability,” urged Sito Jaxa. “I promise not to tell them about you and Will Riker.

“Uh … whoops.”

A chorus of squeals and wolf whistles accompanied Rhodes’ embarrassed, laughing lunge for Sito, and their playful struggle, hands around each other’s necks. After a fumbling, silly moment, they sat down together, arm in arm … and both reached for another drink.

“Well, well … Will Riker,” leered Artemisia Gallas. “Very tasty. He’s put more pairs of female heels in the air than a well-placed banana peel, from what I’ve heard.”

“Does it help or hurt your flagging self-esteem to know that I haven’t slept with him, Cassandra?” Parihn asked.

With an exaggerated roll of her eyes, Rhodes cast her gaze skyward.

“Kyrie eleison! I was drunk, all right? You know, on real alcohol, just like this stuff—not that synthehol crap.

“How long do I have to pay for a single evening’s bad judgment?”

“And was it bad judgment?” inquired Shana pointedly.

“Leave it to the good doctor,” Donaldson chuckled. “She always cuts to the quick… or the chase, as the case may be.”

Rhodes’ expression abruptly grew a little more serious.

“That depends on whether you’re talking about sex or career choice. Let’s just say I’ve wondered whether my lack of interest in a repeat performance affected my later performance reviews. I mean, I only made lieutenant commander a while ago, and I’m not exactly a sweet young thing, anymore. I always wondered what was in the confidential, Commanding Officers and Current Supervisors Only section of my personnel file … and whether it had really hurt me.”

It wasn't precisely an accusation, but it momentarily sobered the lot of them.

“Hmm. I knew Will at the Academy… and not in the Biblical sense,” warned Benteen, when she saw Gallas gearing up. “Seriously, Cassandra … he’s not like that. He loves women, don’t get me wrong … but he’s not vengeful when things work out badly.”

After a moment’s reflection, though, she frowned, and added, “Deanna Troi, on the other hand … more than a few of us know her, too.” She made a face like her toddy had just become a whiskey sour. “Trust me … she could be vindictive if it comes to perceiving another woman as a true, long-term romantic rival for Will’s affection—though you’d never think it from her ‘I feel for you’ infallible Betazoid counselor façade. If she sensed Riker’s attraction to you was strong, and not just limited to the physical … well, you were permanently posted to Enterprise-D, and there was at least a chance you might turn out to be more than just one of Will's passing fancies.

"Maybe she couldn't tolerate that. After all, she’s got a lot to do with crew evaluations, and it’s clear if you’ve ever seen them together that Deanna can manipulate Will pretty easily. I think she’s too professional to consciously sandbag you … but who knows what went on deeper in that devious little mind of hers?”

“Damned princess hypocrite bitch of the universe,” muttered Donaldson.

Wow, Parihn thought. As Cicero says, "In vino, veritas.”

“You really should see someone about those repressed opinions, Captain,” purred Hatshepsut. “They can only lead to undue stress.”

The subsequent laughter inspired an entirely new shade of red from Adventurous’ CO, and she grinned sheepishly.

Hatshepsut then, for a moment, once again became an officer, a lady … and a counselor.

“I, too, know Deanna Troi, rather better than any of you… and while she has her faults, she’s far more likely to have arranged a convenient transfer and promotion for you—thus ridding herself of you and simultaneously assuaging her conscience over it. She’d never try to hurt your career.”

The present Alphabet Girls and Rhodes, as one, grumbled their acknowledgment of the Felisian’s take on things. Clearly the quartet didn’t want to like the woman, but knew that calling someone’s character into question was a little different than outright assassination.

Schmidt blurted, "How was he in bed?"

That earned her a few significant looks, and she defensively added a whiny, "Well … it's what everybody's thinking—isn’t it?"

Parihn hid a smile.

Good for you, Jo.

Cassandra considered that for a moment … then gave a grin and an answer.

"Well, I have to admit, Will's pretty darned good … but not quite as good as you might think, and definitely not nearly as good as he thinks. I don’t know … maybe it comes in part from spending too much time in a relationship with an empath. He's one of those guys who's decided before he even touches you what you like, or rather what you should like—you know … an expert." Again, she rolled her eyes.

"I hate the arrogance of that.”

The murmurs of indignant agreement were almost universal.

"Human males are pes—e … spe … cially like that." This matter-of-fact enunciation emerged from B'Elanna Torres—loudly. It garnered her a rapt, amused audience, and she took full advantage of it.

"And the more they talk before they get you into bed, well… the less they actually d–do once they've got you there. Lots of words usually mean the … e–engineering isn't quite up to specs—if you know what I mean."

The laughter indicated that everyone present did.

Gallas poked both her neighbors to warn them of impending trouble, and then observed, "I hear your husband's quite the smooth operator—plenty of fast talk."

Only about half of those present were still sober enough to catch the viciously mischievous undertone in her comment.

Torres, however, wasn’t one of them. She sighed, "Yeah…" and then frowned when there was another round of giggles. Her eyes narrowed, but a quick scan of her recent sensory data failed to reveal the problem.

A moment later, she reached for her drink, suspicions already forgotten.

There could be no better evidence than B'Elanna's startling candor that the witches' brew had loosened just about every … tongue … present: A man foolish enough to crash this party would either have been buried beneath a heap of scorn…

…or, in the very pleasant sense, eaten alive.

“Of course,” Parihn reminded them with a knowing grin, while thinking of one person in particular, “there are the men who do know what you like just by looking at you…”

Now the murmurs were approving…

“…and then provide it...”

…building to a crescendo…

“…again and again and again.”

…and finally exploded into delighted squeals.

"I have a question, Counselor." This came from the until-now-silent Arkin Jora.

"Well, speak up, child," Hatshepsut invited.

"Umm … well…" and she hesitated, "…I was curious about Felisian and Tzenkethi males. Are they like other felines?"

"I'm not following you," M'Raav purred, in a tone that let every other woman in the room know that, indeed, she was… but wasn't about to help Jora a bit.

You're terrible, Hashepsut, Parihn thought. That's why I like you.

"Well, most cats have a barb at the end of their…" her voice trailed off, and she blushed furiously as a few of the other women—namely Rhodes, Gallas and Arland—"oohed" and made various off-color comments.

Jora reddened, but, for the moment, held firm to her purpose.

"Well, do they?"

"Why … are you thinking of becoming a pet owner?" the Felisian asked.

"No, I … no!"

As the room exploded into raucous, raunchy laughter, Jora shriveled into her chair.

"Forget I even asked," she muttered.

When the noise died away, Hatshepsut, it seemed, took pity, and replied, "I'm sorry, Jora. You were just too tempting a target.

"Before I respond, let me ask you a question in return. Why do you want to know? Are you simply looking to refine your fantasy life?"

When the Bajoran gave no answer, she continued, "Hmm… well, Bagheer is with Captain Mantovanni even as we speak. Perhaps we could prevail upon him." The Felisian's voice had a peculiar lilt, as her paw moved to her comm badge, and she said, "Hatshepsut to Bagheer. Could you join us in Captain Mantovanni's quarters for a few moments? One of our young officers has a question only you can answer definitively."

During the counselor's little request, Jora's face had paled to an ivory hue, and her expression became first pleading ... and then panicked.

"Uh … uh … no … I don't really need to see…!"

A moment later, the muffled snorts and giggles from the other women made it clear to the youngster that Hatshepsut had never activated the little device.

"That's not funny!" she wailed … but then gave them all a sheepish little grin.

Finally, her tormentor provided an answer.

"In response to your question…" Her purr became deeper—almost voluptuous.

"…yes, they do."

Slowly, the evening progressed … the glasses emptied … and the women began to fall, literally, by the wayside.

Two of the first to go were Sito and Arkin, almost simultaneously. Bajorans as a race didn’t handle alcohol very readily at all, and both women were passed out within two hours of their first drink—this despite their earlier protests that they’d “be fine … really!”

“Nighty night, girls,” Erika Benteen chuckled … and salvaged the rest of Jaxa’s drink before it could go to waste, downing it with a flourish.

Only a few moments later, T'Laris began to look deeply concerned.

"I am," she announced, with the deliberate care of a reluctant drunk, "having difficulty maintaining my e–equilibrium."

Benteen winked at the bride-to-be, and told the X-O, "Here… drink this. It'll help."

Parihn, Donaldson and the others looked gleefully appalled.

The Romulan seemed momentarily doubtful… but a celebratory glass or three of toddy had crippled her higher thinking functions as effectively as a low-level disruptor burst.

"V-very well."

T'Laris took the proffered glass, tossed back the contents…

…and, a moment later, slumped over onto T'Vaar's shoulder, peacefully asleep. She even seemed to be smiling slightly.

Liberty's multitask officer was the last of the three full Vulcanoids on her feet—figuratively speaking, that is; they'd lost T'Lann almost an hour before, after only a single draught of the "blue plasma" had laid her out like a well-placed right cross. The engineer was curled on the couch, where one of the girls had mischievously positioned her so that she was contentedly hugging Parihn's teddy bear.

"It is clear your goal has been to render all the full Vulcans and Romulans unconscious," T'Vaar pointedly noted.

Benteen failed to entirely swallow a laugh.

"Gee … ya think?"

The rest of the room reacted with delight, while T'Vaar simply arched a brow.

Max Vasser, though, was suspicious.

"Wait a m–minute, T'Vaar. You don't even seem drunk … and I know you've had more…” She pointed to Jaxa and Jora. “…than Snow White and Sleeping Beauty here put together. What g–gives?"

"I am employing certain disciplines to maintain my … l–lucidity." She frowned. "As you may note, I have not been entirely successful."

"Buzzed, but not bombed," Artemisia Gallas said. "What fun is that?"

T'Vaar explained.

"I, along with Monsignor Scarlati, am performing the ceremony tomorrow. It would be irresponsible of me to lose consciousness or control, and imperil that happenstance."

She then regarded them all, especially Erika Benteen, with a slight smile.

"Besides, as an Adept of T'Pel, it was not difficult to read the commander's intent. With all due respect … she is not exactly a mistress of deception."

"Rats," Benteen grumped.

Then she brightened.

"But two out of three ain't bad!"

There was scattered applause from around the room; Benteen made as if to stand and bow—only to find she couldn't get her legs to work.

"Whoa… that's some good stuff, Taylor.

"Hit me again."

Maxwell, who'd manned and maintained the techno-still for the entire night, laughed, and filled another cup.

It was a vicarious pleasure at best for her; she and Sera couldn't even sample their own work: the half-Vulcan's lupus might flare, and no one on Taylor's type of medication could afford to risk even a single drink. The possible consequences were too dire to consider.

And Jo, their remaining partner-in-crime, having borne witness to the creation of said diabolical concoction, wouldn’t even breathe near the stuff, let alone actually drink any of it. Of course, her grimacing rejection had been practically an endorsement for Max and the others, who’d produced a glass of warm milk and placed it in front of her, hoping to goad their friend into imbibing.

No dice. Frau Schmidt, after all, hadn’t raised any dummkopfs. Jo instead, throughout the evening and much to everyone else’s amazement and/or amusement, carefully sampled small portions of just about everything in Mantovanni’s liquor cabinet … and eventually ended up as contentedly drunk as most of the rest.

Taylor and Sera sipped their synthehol, and giggled at the havoc they'd wrought.

This is fun.

This is fun… I suppose. But…

Parihn sighed inwardly. If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was pretend to enjoy something. She could continue to dissemble slightly and act the role of giddy young bride … it just seemed too similar to times when she'd done much the same thing in far different circumstances.

She stood, mumbled something about not feeling so well—which wasn't precisely a lie—and stepped into the restroom. The last thing she heard before the door closed made her smile.

"Well, she looked a little green…"

"You nimrod. Five of us look 'a little green!'"

Then, alone in silence, she immediately tapped her comm badge.

"Parihn to Mantovanni."

"Go ahead."

She hesitated… then asked in swift succession, "Where are you? Are you alone?"

There was a chuckle. He replied, "Your old room, and yes.

"The boys have already left."

Thank the gods.

"Lady Liberty, could you give me a site-to-site transport, destination my former quarters?"

The sentient mainframe promptly replied, and complied.

"Of course, Parihn."

He'd stood to greet her, and almost ended up on his back, as she stepped forward and initiated a very forceful embrace. Eventually, though, Mantovanni gingerly disengaged himself and regarded her, curious.

"While I'm always happy to see you, cara mia … aren't you having a good time?" he asked.

She answered, "I'm very grateful for what they're doing."

He tilted her chin gently up, until their eyes met.

"It's not like you to be evasive, little bird. What's the matter?"

Parihn sighed.

"I don't feel like 'one of the girls,' Cicero. My past makes me different; they're afraid of hurting me."

He frowned.

"We all have a past, Parihn. We've all done things of which we're not proud. As many of my friends can tell you, and you already know, deep down, I'm a son-of-a-bitch from way back. In a sense, you're more virtuous than the rest of us; at least you have the amelioration of having been forced … and don't tell me that at times you were happy and somewhat enjoyed that life. So what? You were a kid … and when you had the chance to leave, you took it. That bespeaks of your character, and who you are.

"Look at it this way: Would you make casually vicious jokes about Erika Benteen having spent time in jail … or T'Vaar basically being a defrocked priestess … or Max’s occasional bouts of depression … or Erika Donaldson's abominable luck with men—including me?"

"No!"

"Well, why not?"

"Because they’re my friends! I wouldn't want to hur–”

He arched a brow, and smiled.

"Oh."

"You know all about the dangers of letting your past decide your future, mi amor. Don't let it dictate your present, either.

"Now you should probably go back to the party."

Instead of immediately complying, though, Parihn lifted a hand to caress his cheek.

"Do you have the vaguest idea how much I love you?" she whispered.

Mantovanni considered that.

"Well… I’m a logician: Born Sicilian; raised Vulcan; and a frequent visitor to Missouri," he answered. "Do you have any irrefutable evidence to that effect?"

She smiled.

"Let's see."

It was then that Parihn, to her delight, learned she was wrong about something she'd recently said.

If properly motivated, Cicero could take but a minute…

…and so, moreover, could she.

***

When Parihn emerged from the restroom, it was with a new perspective.

Though she'd only been gone for less than ten minutes, there were but eight women left aware enough to hail her return: Sera and Taylor, of course; T'Vaar; Hatshepsut; Benteen; Torres; Max; and, to her continued amazement, Erika Donaldson—who'd been drinking as long as she had, and didn't have the near-absolute resistance to toxins Parihn did.

"Feeling better?" asked Hatshepsut solicitously.

"Yes, thank you."

Much to her chagrin, Donaldson's next statement struck her amidships.

"So … h–how's the captain?"

There was no denying it. Six of them were grinning lasciviously from ear to ear, while Hatshepsut's eyes twinkled merrily. Even T'Vaar's lips quirked upwards, though she didn't then dissolve into laughter the way her comrades did.

Ah, well. No denying it.

"He's wonderful," she sighed happily.

Remembering what her husband-to-be had said, Parihn threw caution to the wind.

"All right, girls, since you've managed to stick it out … it’s question-and-answer time. Ask me anything, and I'll tell you.

"You each get one."

Erika Benteen looked on the verge of a truly profound inquiry … then smiled, and slumped over, her head pillowed perfectly in Donaldson's lap.

"Oh, man. She's gonna kick herself tomorrow," snorted her fellow Alphabet girl.

Once again, it was Taylor Maxwell who leaped into the breach.

"Cool!

“All right… what's the biggest one you've ever seen?!"

Parihn stood, sidled over to the engineer, and murmured a lengthy answer into her ear. Even the two Vulcanoids were unable to overhear—though Taylor's exclamations were a tantalizing commentary.

"No!

"You're joking!

"Oh, my God!

"Did you…?"

"Sorry," Parihn chuckled. "You’ve had your question."

"But … no fair!" Taylor wailed. She turned to Sera, and demanded, "Ask her if she got it all insi–!"

The half-Vulcan cut her off.

"Sorry. I have my own question."

A quick search of faces revealed no accomplices, and Taylor briefly pouted.

"What a gyp!"

Then she grinned.

Max blurted one that in all likelihood revealed more about her frame of mind than Parihn’s.

“Are you really ready to be with the same man every day, day in and day out, for the rest of your natural life!?”

This time, even Vasser’s formidable scowl couldn’t suppress the ensuing giggles. Her cheeks blossomed two points of red; but, as always, she stuck to her guns.

Parihn smiled.

“I’m not sure there’s anything ‘natural’ about my life…

“…but I am sure about this.”

Considering her expression, the answer had not truly satisfied Max, but it did serve to mollify her. She gave Parihn a curt, grudging nod, turned … and scooped the last dregs of toddy into her glass.

Torres was next. She stood, and put on her best ‘disinterested clinician’ face—not that it fooled even the unconscious.

“All right, Parihn. I know you’d never lie, so this is my chance to debunk something Tom told me once—that Orion animal women could actually…”

With the exception of T’Vaar, each woman’s jaw dropped open as B’Elanna described, in exacting, excruciating detail, what she clearly considered an impossible-to-surmount problem in sexual mechanics.

“…but that’s got to be targ shit!

“So … can you?”

Parihn met her questioner’s eye and smiled a smile that spoke of not of engineering, but witchery.

“Can,” she said, “and have.”

Torres slumped, deflated, and flopped into a chair, there to begin a lengthy dissertation in Klingon—most of which the translators prudently failed to render.

They did provide one interesting tidbit, though.

“Why couldn’t I have been half-Orion?”

Parihn turned to T'Vaar and motioned for her to continue.

"I found Captain Donaldson's account of your fiancé's liquor cabinet—and Lieutenant Schmidt’s subsequent plunder of it—interesting …. but would not have labeled the captain a sensualist, and continue to have my doubts.

"Is he?”

Parihn examined the roomful of speculative looks, and laughed aloud. She then cocked an eye at her Vulcan friend.

“Though I meant questions about me, in this case I don’t see the harm in responding.

“He is marrying me.”

T’Vaar processed that, and arched a brow.

“I stand corrected.”

Donaldson's question was a little more serious.

"How long have you loved him?"

Parihn hadn't been expecting something of that sort, but stuck to her declaration.

"From the instant we met … and maybe before."

Something passed between the two women; Erika leaned over, and gave the Orion a heartfelt hug.

"I’m so happy for you both," Erika murmured; and it was obvious she meant it.

"Is it better when you're in love?" Sera MacLeod asked. Most of the others hid a smile: The matchless intellect was a hopeless romantic.

"Oh, yes," Parihn breathed. "Much better."

Hatshepsut's question was, of course, direct … and discerning.

"Is Shomira still in there?"

Parihn found, however, that this time she was more than ready to respond.

"No," she answered … and in that moment, stepped fully forward, into the life that awaited her.

"There's just Parihn."