I considered a lengthy explanation, or even a brief synopsis, that would serve to justify/clarify the abrupt beginning of this story. On reflection, though, I realized such might not be necessary; long-time readers know I don't write in chronological order, but rather whatever strikes my fancy. Suffice it to say that "Star Crossed" begins only minutes after our heroes return from the inter-dimensional jaunt currently being chronicled in The Liberty Incident.

I'm curious as to how long it takes everyone to get on board with what's happening… and whether it's an intriguing jump, or merely a disconcerting one. Let me know.

I’ve decided not to restore the “book cover” for this one: I’ve never really liked it. If one of you photomanipulation geniuses (Michael… Andreas… Richard…) has a hankering, I’d love to see you produce one. Hint hint, nudge nudge….

Insofar as credit goes, while Jules would be the first person to downplay her contributions to this novelette, it's impossible—and perhaps even sacrilegious—to write Erika Donaldson without the input of the woman who originally breathed life into her. And "Julie Raygun," as I call her, makes a great partner-in-crime. Whenever I suggest something geared to bring misery into the life of our main characters, she rubs her hands gleefully, cackles maniacally… and then gurgles, "Do it."

And so…

“Star Crossed”

By Joseph Manno

(with Julie Raybon)

March Patterson drew the small Type-I phaser in a fluid motion, even as he tapped the desk's comm badge.

"Security to the captain's quarters,” he ordered. “There's a shape-shifter down here that's taken the form of the late Luciano Mantovanni."

“Security, Tethyan... acknowledged. En route.”

He then returned his complete attention to the intruder.

"Put her down, gently... now!"

Whatever it was, it didn't seem impressed by the phaser… and knew enough about them to mock Patterson.

"Are you planning on shooting me while I'm still holding her, Captain? I find it difficult to believe you flunked Basic Principals of Energy Weapons at the Academy." Nevertheless, it set Erika down on the nearby couch, even as she began to stir.

"And," it added, "your 'Wild West' pose doesn't alter the fact that I am Captain Mantovanni."

Patterson ignored the ridiculous assertion.

"Back away," he commanded.

The creature's reply was redolent with contempt.

"My, aren't we fierce…? With a phaser in our hand, that is."

Something essentially male in March demanded he put the weapon down, and face his foe in the time-honored way. His Starfleet training and common sense overrode that.

You don't know what this thing can do. Wait for security…

…and protect Edie.

The entity refused, though, to give ground—instead remaining poised near the woman March loved and claimed as his.

"Back away," Patterson insisted again, "or I will shoot you."

Still, the thing ignored his commands—instead turning on him a piercing, almost condemnatory glare.

“I’m all a tremble.”

Angrily, March's finger tensed over the trigger.

The object of their concern gave a low moan.

As Erika Donaldson awakened, the first thing she heard swimming through the dizziness was the acerbic bite of her old lover's voice.

My God... it's him. Somehow, it is him.

March Patterson obviously didn't know that… and didn't want to hear any more.

"Keep your mouth shut, imposter. Despite your abilities, you've made the mistake of impersonating a dead man."

Erika opened her eyes, and tried to speak, but was still too groggy. She saw Mantovanni's expression soften infinitesimally, and he half-turned to assist her.

"Another inch and you've had it," came the low growl from Patterson.

"Go ahead and shoot me, tough guy," came the curt response.

Endeavor's captain gladly complied.

Security arrived, and the door opened to that distinctive sound of a phaser being fired.

Damn! thought Brennig Tethyan.

The Vor'shan entered, brandishing a pulse compression rifle; he was flanked by a pair of guards wielding their own. Doug Roese brought up the rear; he was armed with a "mere" Type-II.

March Patterson was crouched near the couch upon which their captain lay. He was attempting to simultaneously soothe her and retain a grip on the phaser he'd obviously just discharged. She looked to be in the process of recovering her wits… and was obviously attempting to do the same with the weapon.

"It's all right," he was telling her. "I won't let him near you again."

His target, Brennig noted with clinical interest and surprise, wasn't unconscious. He'd staggered back and fallen to one knee, but was already beginning to regain his feet.

"Let's all take a moment," he announced with as much constabulary authority as he could muster.

And hope things don't get worse, he added to himself.

During that brief interlude of uncertainty, both Erika Donaldson and the being that wore the form of Luciano Mantovanni recovered themselves.

Slowly, Adventurous' captain realized her relative state of undress: Beneath the silk robe that had, of course, conveniently fallen open, she was wearing nothing other than an extremely short and translucent negligee that was most emphatically not designed for cover and concealment.

She refastened the gown, and tightened the sash like she wished it a chastity belt. Roese, who could see the humor in most any situation, didn't even crack a smile. Instead, his expression held nothing but sympathy.

That, strangely enough, made her feel worse.

Brennig cleared his throat with an almost elitist precision.

"Captain Patterson,” he continued, in that oh-so-incongruously charming Oxford intonation, “I was, a short time past, informed that USS Liberty reappeared in Earth's orbit only six minutes ago. Evidently there was a dimensional displacement, rather than a destructive implosion, as once was thought." He hissed gingerly, and added, "This is, indeed, the real Captain Mantovanni."

Please, someone... shoot me now, thought Erika.

Patterson seemed reluctant to believe what he was hearing. For a long moment, his phaser remained trained on what, until seconds ago, he'd been certain was a doppelganger. Gradually, though, he must have realized that his stance was becoming a little comical, and he holstered the weapon.

"Everybody out," Erika demanded, trembling. "Now!"

Roese and the security guards immediately withdrew. Both the X-O and Brennig, who yet remained, could see this had already gone on long enough for their captain's coloring to darken into the red of total mortification... and they knew that anger was almost certain to follow.

Mantovanni, at first, didn't move… and neither did Patterson.

"I believe the lady asked you to leave," March told him pointedly.

Liberty’s commander arched a brow, and smiled in a way that Erika knew meant someone was about to get hurt.

"I'd find it ever so amusing if you were to try and move me," he replied.

March took both the challenge, and a step forward.

“Gentlemen, please,” Tethyan interjected. “I will shoot you both to prevent the court martial that would follow you savaging each other.”

Softly, Erika settled the dispute.

"I meant everybody." She picked up a cushion off the couch, and held it before her in a white-knuckled grip.

“Come to think of it, I don’t imagine I’m precisely welcome, anyway.” There was something cold in Mantovanni’s voice she'd seldom heard before.

He nodded, expression brimming with bitter amusement... then addressed them, “Captains, Commander… if you’ll excuse me…” turned on his heel, and left.

Erika found it suddenly hard to breathe.

“All right.” Patterson gestured to the Vor'shan. “I think we have things under control here, Brennig... you're also dismissed.”

Tethyan ignored him, and instead sinuously shifted his head until he was oriented again on his own captain.

"March,” Erika told him, “I meant you, too."

There was a moment of agonizingly awkward silence.

"I–I beg your pardon?" he declared indignantly. “You can’t possibly mean that…”

"Please…" she interrupted, almost desperately, "don't make me have to ask again."

March studied her face for a moment, and then acknowledged in a voice tinged with irritation and hurt, "All right… I'm going."

His outraged and somewhat betrayed expression only added to her anguish.

Erika noted, to her relief, that Brennig had positioned himself so that the departing captain was forced to veer left; Mantovanni had gone right.

The saurian held the door for a moment. "You will not be disturbed further."

She nodded, and he stepped back to let it slide shut.

Well, those may just have been the most humiliating moments of my life: Reunited with a friend and lover—while wearing a "just had good sex" expression I'd gotten from another man.

Erika Donaldson walked into her bathroom...

…and threw up.

As he stalked away, March Patterson was brought up short by the all too proper voice of Brennig Tethyan.

"Sir... I'd recommend against the course of action you're now considering."

Patterson worked his jaw. "And what would I be ‘considering,’ Lieutenant Commander?"

Unwaveringly, the security chief replied, "An attempt to search out and confront Captain Mantovanni.

"I respectfully submit that Captain Donaldson would not appreciate you taking this any further at the moment…if concern for your own well-being does not deter you, that is."

That brought Patterson up short. He chuckled harshly, dismissively.

"Are you implying that he could take me, Brennig?"

For a moment, the Vor'shan's aplomb failed him. He met Patterson's eyes with his own near hypnotic gaze, and answered, "No. You inferred it. Frankly, I don't care about your mammalian threat displays and mating ritual combats, sir… and in addition, I think you might regret such action later—no matter the result."

What he left unsaid was, And though I do know precisely what that quick and ugly result would be, there's no purpose to angering you further.

After a moment, he added, "But all that is secondary to Captain Donaldson's wishes. Do not make this any more difficult for her."

Patterson nodded.

"You're right, of course." He then stalked away.

Brennig watched the retreating man in silence.

There are times, he thought, when I wish my people had taken the evolutionary step towards that kind of emotional capability.

Then I recover my senses.

***

Eighty-seven minutes later, Erika Donaldson had been standing in front of Mantovanni's quarters for almost three of those. Her stalwart resolve to deal with what she knew was an inevitable confrontation had carried her this far. As she again reached for the door chime, though, her mind recalled—with unwelcome clarity—the perilous edge to his voice when he'd left her quarters... and again her determination fled.

Here I am terrified to the point of paralytic dread over seeing a man I…

She reached forward and hit the chime.

The voice within rumbled like oncoming thunder.

"This had better be of galaxy-shattering import."

She realized her hand was shaking.

"Shattering" is entirely appropriate.

"Cicero... it's me."

There was a long delay—sufficient for her to consider either speaking again, or slipping away. Then, he answered.

"Come in."

Clenching her hands together behind her back to hide the tremors, she did.

Mantovanni was, as usual, in uniform, but the clothing—or perhaps the person wearing it—didn't seem to have its usual crispness. He looked almost... rumpled.

Not surprisingly, he was involved in a chess match with the computer. Erika glanced at the board; while she wasn't nearly in his class as a player, Donaldson knew the pastime fairly well.

His pieces were haphazardly placed, as if he'd launched an offensive and then reconsidered the plan mid-assault; and his opponent had capitalized on that indecision to assume an overwhelming position.

She'd never seen even a starship mainframe trounce him so badly.

So that’s where the phrase “off your game” originated.

Donaldson suddenly realized she had no idea where to even begin.

"I... oh, God."

She wanted to go to him, but couldn't seem to move any further into the room.

He obviously had no intention of assisting her in any way. Mantovanni's expression was as carefully inscrutable as Erika had ever seen it, and he’d barely moved since she’d entered.

"You had something you wanted to say?" His voice seemed dead.

"Cicero, please. I don't even know what to think, let alone what to do or say."

Almost flippantly, Liberty's captain observed, "I'd be willing to bet that's a problem you didn't have eight hours ago."

It would have hurt less had he physically slapped her, and that showed on her face.

Her old lover didn’t even have the miserable expression of someone who'd scored a major hit, and was simultaneously sorry he had. His face was cast in something hard and unyielding.

What had promised to be difficult was fast becoming a disaster.

Erika essayed an uncertain, "Maybe I should just go."

"Maybe you should," he agreed woodenly.

The entrance chime sounded again.

Mantovanni announced, with rigid exactitude, "Whoever you are, you are trying my patience."

There was a brief hesitation, then a quiet but firm voice replied, "Cicero... it's Sera. I know you left orders not to be disturbed by anyone less than God Almighty, but I've been debating this for almost an hour-and-a-half. Since you don't want to talk, just listen."

Her voice took on a peculiar intensity.

"We've been away, according to Starfleet chronometers, for almost seven months."

She saw his face change; Erika Donaldson could never in her life remember having observed Luciano Mantovanni looking befuddled. Something else was clearly...

He whispered, “We’ve only been gone two weeks.”

Erika almost laughed, in that way the nearly hysterical often do.

Suddenly, everything that had occurred possessed an unwelcome clarity.

Then, Mantovanni actually managed to smile—it wasn't only self-deprecating, it was self-flagellating—and looked directly at her only now.

"Well... I’m beginning to feel like the principal in a 21^st century French comedy,” he declared, with a tithing of his usual arid humor, then followed with, "Please accept my sincere apologies, for daring to be angry at the fact that you were engaged in living your life. I'll also track down Captain Patterson and tell him I'm sorry."

His tone hardened to adamantine inflexibility with the final comment.

"I hope you'll pardon me, though, if I can't say it was good to see you."

The chime rang for a third time; something in Mantovanni bowed to the absurdity of it all. With a lilt to his voice that would have been absolutely hilarious at any other moment, he sang, "Who is it?"

"Matt Forrest. Could I have a word with you… Commodore?"

Erika looked aghast; Liberty's commander simply shook his head.

"This just keeps getting better and better,” he muttered.

Somewhat more loudly, he told Forrest, "I'll be out in a moment.”

He turned back to her. "Though I shudder to say it, go into the bedroom—so he doesn't spot you. I don't think either of us wants to do much more talking today... and I know you're not in the mood for Matt's particular brand of humor."

Wordlessly, she complied.

Though listening should have been easy, Erika found she couldn't hear their subsequent dialogue over the blood pounding in her ears.

In a way, she was glad for that.

Suddenly, her knees gave out, and she found herself sitting on the floor.

The conversation didn't take long—less than five minutes, actually. Mantovanni entered… and saw her there.

"He was… concerned for me." There was a touch of irony to his subsequent explanation. "Evidently scuttlebutt has it that you're involved with March Patterson, and he wanted me to be aware of it… so we wouldn't, as he put it, '…be reunited in an unseemly fashion.'" As he'd done so often, Mantovanni captured Stuart's drawl perfectly.

A flood of unwelcome imagery invaded her thoughts: Lovemaking, and other time, spent with both the man standing above her, and the one…

…the one that has me now.

"I didn't mention we'd already had our reunion."

It had not been said unkindly, but even he couldn't completely disguise the upset in his tone; and hearing it was more than she could take. Erika Donaldson buried her face in her hands, and began to weep.

"I'll... give you some space."

I don't want "space." I want…

Seconds later, she heard door to his quarters whisper open, and noted that, this time, he didn’t come back.

***

March Patterson had been meaning to delete the message flashing on his quarters' terminal for the last hour, but hadn't quite been able to actually do it.

The note itself was innocuous enough—a simple, "I'll be in touch soon"—but something about it annoyed him, nevertheless.

Perhaps it was because he knew there was nothing simple about Erika Donaldson.

The 24 hours since the fateful encounter in her quarters had been aggravating, to say the least. Adventurous' ubiquitous security chief had rebuffed each of the three attempts he'd made to contact her. While he couldn't precisely fault the Vor'shan's devotion to his captain, Brennig Tethyan's determined refusal to put him through—despite even once having been ordered by Patterson to do so—had become a real irritant.

He's loyal, I'll give him that, but a little too defiant for his own good. I may have to talk to Edie about him.

March had been thankful Endeavor was currently in dry-dock alongside Adventurous: Command decisions weren't exactly something with which he wanted to deal right now.

He finally shut off the terminal's monitor, avoiding the issue altogether—temporarily, at least.

It was then the door chime sounded.

"What?!" he snapped with uncharacteristic sharpness—uncharacteristic, and thus, of course, serendipitously inappropriate.

“Captain Patterson... it’s Luciano Mantovanni.”

Why is it always the last person you have any interest in seeing...?

Absently straightening his uniform jacket, Patterson managed an almost civil, "Come in."

The man had a commanding presence, Endeavor’s captain had to give him that—almost as commanding as his own.

Now that March was aware Mantovanni wasn’t some sort of imposter, he evaluated the man somewhat more critically. His features were handsome, but somewhat severe. The beard was black, its cut sharp; and the dark eyes beneath the hair tinged silver at his temples were like chips of flint.

An odd observation sprang unsought into his mind.

I bet, Patterson thought, that’s what Satan would look like.

"Captain." He left it at that curt greeting, in part because he didn't trust himself to say anything more.

The tone didn't escape his guest's notice. Mantovanni arched a brow.

“What… no phaser?”

Endeavor's captain wasn't certain whether the observation was an ill-considered jibe…

…or a carefully considered one.

Either way, he wasn't amused.

"Very humorous," Patterson returned coolly. "Do I need one?"

The Sicilian’s grin became more pronounced… and, for a moment, more predatory.

What he said, though, was, “No. I’ve come here to apologize."

That surprised March... enough so that a startled, "Really?" was all he could immediately muster.

“Yes." For a moment, Mantovanni actually looked regretful. "I was caught somewhat off guard by the situation, Captain Patterson... I had no idea we’d been gone nearly seven months. As far as those aboard Liberty are concerned, this was a journey of a fortnight’s duration.

“Thus, I was startled at the state of affairs… no pun intended,” he added drolly.

That, at least, explains some of it. Under the circumstances, perhaps I should consider granting the man some slack.

However, that was far easier said than done.

Then again, I'm sure having walked in on a woman who was once his, and is now mine… clearly mine, he amended, remembering with a barely suppressed smile what he'd been doing to her moments before Mantovanni's entrance, can't have been an easy thing to accept.

Well, as they say, the better man wins, Captain—eventually. Justice deferred…

…is a dish best served cold.

"Apology accepted," March allowed, with an attempt at magnanimousness. "The timing was… unfortunate... but certainly not your fault."

They regarded each other for a moment. Patterson briefly considered expressing his regret at having shot the man… but then decided that lying probably wouldn't help the situation. He'd actually rather enjoyed it, in a cathartic way—though Mantovanni's ability to withstand a phaser stun, even at level one, had been startling, to say the least.

The silence lengthened uncomfortably.

Finally, Mantovanni announced, “I have no doubt you’re a busy man, Captain. And, since I've now discharged my declared intent to apologize, I’ll depart. Best of luck to you.”

The seemingly straightforward phrases were fraught with subtle connotations... or, at least, Endeavor’s captain imagined they were.

He found himself examining the phrases "declared intent” and "best of luck to you" carefully.

The man had obviously spoken to Edie more recently than he had.

Patterson, despite himself, found that infuriating; it showed in the set of his jaw, and the stiffening of his shoulders—not to mention the disdainful response that followed.

"You're so kind."

March knew it was a misstep the moment he'd taken it.

Luciano Mantovanni’s expression darkened. It became apparent that, until then, the man had been holding something in careful check—something he now gave freer rein.

He gritted, “I'd venture to guess that the scope of my benevolence is somewhat beyond your current understanding, Captain.

"I attempted to apologize, and you decided to insult me. So be it. The fact that Erika bears you affection—whatever her reasons—is the one thing that prevents me from giving my genuine sentiments on the subject eloquent expression.

Mantovanni then affixed him with a dangerous glare.

"Do have any other observations you'd like to express before I depart?"

They were standing on the precipice of a catastrophe. Patterson prided himself on being able to easily read people; it was the mark of a great starship captain. What he saw in Luciano Mantovanni's face warned him that his next statement, if provocative, could have tragic consequences for them both.

He decided to be careful, but candid.

"I don't think continuing the conversation will be beneficial to either of us, Captain."

And, suddenly, the urbane gentleman returned. It was as if Mantovanni had taken off a mask.

Or, Patterson realized with a start, put one on.

“You’re correct, Captain," Mantovanni agreed, almost companionably. "Wrangling over such an unfortunate happenstance is without purpose.

“I’ll take my leave of you, now.”

Patterson nodded.

“Of course.”

In the deepest stronghold of his awareness, March Patterson recognized the sensation that flooded him in the wake of the other man's departure: Relief that the situation hadn't escalated. Tethyan had been right in that, at least.

It wouldn't have done either of them any good.

Besides… when you're winning, why change the game?

***

Berengaria Cortes, captain of the USS Masada, raised a delicate crystal wine glass.

"To the Alphabet Girls."

With varying degrees of enthusiasm, her three companions followed suit.

"'The Alphabet Girls,'" they echoed.

They had attended Starfleet Academy together, these four—Shana Arland, Erika Benteen, Cortes herself, Erika Donaldson—and had earned that nickname from the commandant after one of their more infamous misadventures: Turning the Red Squad dormitory, through their manipulation of fabric, holograms, and shadow, into a virtual duplicate of a Nazi barracks.

The fact that the woman's surname was Edgerton had prompted Cortes to ask, when standing supposedly repentant in front of her desk, whether she'd like to be made an honorary member.

That had been an anxious moment for them all, as the other three saw their future careers slipping past the event horizon, and into oblivion.

Rear Admiral Michelle Edgerton had never even acknowledged Gari's forward little invitation… but she'd been unable to entirely conceal a grin.

It helped when your disciplinarian had been a jokester in her time, too…

…and it helped even more when no one could, ultimately, prove what you'd done.

Now, the quartet gathered as they hadn't in years, all four together, and celebrated.

Or, rather, they tried.

Cortes had been the catalyst for the evening, but of the others, only Arland had been avid to participate. Both Benteen and Donaldson had other things on their mind.

The conversation had been pleasant, but uninspired. During the dinner, the two Erikas had traded looks that had devolved from appraising glances during the Paella Valenciana, to outright glares by the time they were all toying with their Torta Berengaria, a dessert pastry redolent with nuts, honey, cinnamon, nutmeg, and anything else their hostess could mingle in her effort to improve the recipe.

Cortes unwittingly ignited the fuse.

"How's Captain Mantovanni, Erika? I haven't seen him since the night he danced with me at the Christmas mixer. Very… forceful… arrogant."

The rest knew she'd left unsaid, And damned sexy.

"Not good, Gari. It's been a difficult couple of days. He doesn't seem to be handling it well."

Unlooked for, and somewhat sullenly, Donaldson interrupted with, “How the hell would you know?”

Benteen laughed, harshly.

“How do I know, Edie? I'm his chief of operations… his 'girl Friday,' as it were. I'm supposed to know everything that goes on aboard Liberty.

"And besides, I worked out with him yesterday. Every once in a while I ask him to supervise my hand-to-hand training—when I’m up for it, that is. Unlike the rest of you girls, I'm not as young as I used to be.

"I’ve watched him use exercise/combat programs that would make a squad of Klingon marines run like a troop of terrified Girl Scouts.

“Let’s just say yesterday wasn’t one of his better days.”

Suddenly concerned, Adventurous’ captain asked, “He wasn’t seriously hurt?”

“No,” Benteen assured her, with a tinge of asperity. “He simply didn’t have that flow, that center, that’s so important to his defensive posture for aikijutsu. He’s pretty damned formidable, even using brute force... but it’s not exactly pretty. And it’s not him, either.

“I guess I’m just not used to seeing him practically snarling when he hits someone. Usually he just gets out of the way, and lets them hurt themselves. I know it’s just a holodeck, but it was strewn with dead Jem’Hadar, Romulans, Cardassians, Klingons, Chisaari and just about any other hostile alien you can visualize... all in about seven minutes. It was right about then that I excused myself.

“I was feeling a little queasy.”

“Well... I can’t be held responsible for Cicero’s temperament, now can I?”

“You’re right,” Benteen seemed to agree... but then added, in a tone of exaggerated assent, “After all, how could you possibly be culpable, even in part?”

Shana Arland knew them both too well. Things were building to a fateful confrontation, and she moved to prevent it—with all speed.

“Now ladies, we’re here for a reunion of the Alphabet Girls, not to discuss boys.”

Cortes, at that point, made an unfortunately incisive comment.

“Weren't they a main topic of discussion in bygone days?”

That particular recollection wasn’t what they’d needed at the moment. Shana shot Gari a wide-eyed, leading grimace that said, “Shut up, will ya?”

Masada’s commander promptly did, simultaneously both apologetic and interested in seeing what had the potential to become a really good catfight.

It looked like she might get her wish.

"I seem to remember that you all had opinions on my love life back then, too," Donaldson commented; then, she somewhat resentfully appended, “whether solicited or not.”

"And you didn’t have the sense to listen then, either," Benteen countered. "What a list: March Patterson, possibly the most perfectly arrogant man ever to graduate Starfleet Academy; Garrett Davies, who would’ve disintegrated into his component atoms if ever he’d stepped more than ten feet away from a mirror; Aaron Westlake, who, even back then, gave jackals a bad name..."

Her voice trailed off then, for two reasons: She had nothing bad to say about Jonah Breslan; and she'd realized that mentioning Aaron Westlake had been a tactical error.

“Uh oh,” mumbled Gari.

"Well," Donaldson observed archly, "I wasn't alone in that mistake, now was I? You slept with Aaron, too. As a matter of fact, if I remember correctly—and I’m sure I do—I’d already been seeing him for seven months when you did."

Benteen, though, was a full impulse bitch once she got going—or, as Gari Cortes had often said, "when she decides to remind everyone that she's a Basque peasant wench"—and this was one of those times.

"I had the excuse of being drunk... as opposed to just willful." Her sneer was devastating. "As a matter of fact, if I remember correctly—and I’m sure I do—I wasn't stupid enough to marry the guy after he’d banged one of my friends behind my back."

Of course, Erika Donaldson was no slouch herself.

"Oh, and in your book, inebriation somehow endows you with the moral high ground? It justifies your actions?" She was known for her occasionally fiery temper, but it was the dangerously calm tone that told the others this had gone well beyond simple anger.

“There’s a difference,” Benteen shot back, “between explanation and justification, Edie. For example: The only justification we ever got when you essentially abandoned us for Aaron Westlake a few weeks into your relationship with him was that he was more important than we were. So don’t dare talk to me about ‘moral high ground.'”

“‘Abandoned’ you?" Donaldson laughed—a sharp, brittle sound. "Is that what you call the ultimatum you three gave me?"

"’Ultimatum,’ is it now? My, aren't we the adept little revisionist historian," Benteen mocked. "Saying, 'Don't forget your friends while bedding the latest pretty boy' is hardly an ultimatum.'"

"I’m not the one remembering things to her advantage, here," Donaldson returned with equal scorn. “Besides, at least I don't have to steal my pretty boys.”

Each salvo had been progressively more vehement… and vicious… but neither was willing to step back.

“Yeah, but your problem is that you have so many damned choices,” Benteen growled, “and you continue to squander them. You’ve had your pick your whole life, and you still find a way to turn yourself into a long-suffering martyr. ‘Oh, whomever shall ah choose? Ah hurt someone no mattah what ah do!’ Sweet Jesu, Edie... we’ve known you for 25 years, and we’re still waiting for you to make a romantic choice that doesn’t have us all going, ‘Huh?! What the hell is she doing now?!’”

"Well, with one exception," Gari added quietly.

That gave Benteen pause again. "Yeah. With one exception." Again everyone’s thoughts rested briefly on the late Jonah Breslan.

Shana had grown curiously silent. Perhaps she'd sensed that all of this had needed to be said... for a long time.

"Well,” Adventurous’ commander commented, almost airily, “it's good to know you don't think I'm completely incompetent."

The small joke seemed to have momentarily lightened the mood; Arland and Cortes thought, even hoped, that the duel might be over.

Benteen was even angrier than they’d realized, though... and she next added a series of statements that struck to Donaldson’s very core.

“Yeah... but there was always something about Jonah that never quite satisfied you, wasn’t there? He was intelligent and brave, but it was always your genius and daring that got the accolades. He was attractive, but not quite as attractive as you. He was determined, but you seemed to win all the arguments.”

Gari uttered a pained, pleading, “Erika, no.”

Benteen wasn't done, though.

“And you reveled in that, didn’t you, Edie? You had the upper hand in the relationship, because he wanted you more than you wanted him... and that gave you control.

“You were the great love of his life, but you're still looking for yours. You were everything he ever wanted…

"…but he was never enough for you.”

Donaldson paled…

…and whispered, "You bitch."

“See, that’s where I think you are with Cicero. You don’t want to love someone as much as—or, tragedy of tragedies, more—than they love you, because you’re not in the pilot’s seat, then, are you, Edie? Or is it that you recognize his strength of will surpasses yours, and you can't imagine being on the bottom—either literally or figuratively?”

Erika Donaldson shook her head emphatically as she struggled to deny the accusation. Almost unwillingly, she glanced at her conscience, Shana Arland... and saw on her friend’s face that there might just be a great deal more validity to what Benteen had said than Shana would ever have told her...

...or that she herself would ever want to admit.

In that moment, the words seeped through her walls of repudiation.

"All right,” Donaldson conceded softly. “Point taken."

The long silence that followed wasn’t at all pleasant.

Finally, Adventurous’ captain stood.

"If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I don't think I'm going to be very good company tonight."

When it looked like Benteen would speak again, Berengaria Cortes intervened.

“Silencio,” the aristocrat commanded. "You've said quite enough.”

To everyone’s surprise—perhaps even her own—she did.

Donaldson pushed her chair back under the table with exacting precision. "It's okay, Gari.

"At least part of what she says is right."

Cortes wasn’t willing to see their evening end like this, though.

"I can't prevail upon you to stay?" she inquired. "We see each other so seldom. I know it's selfish, but... I miss you all."

Donaldson looked at Benteen, not Cortes.

E.B. returned a steady, if somewhat abashed, gaze.

“I’d like you to stay, too,” she said, and meant it. "I can keep my vicious yap shut for the rest of the evening."

Slowly, Donaldson returned to her seat.

"For a little while."

There was an unusually fragile timbre to her voice. They all noticed it... but pretended by silent accord not to hear.

They did the fun, silly things they’d done when little more than kids: Threw pillows, toasted s’mores in the replicator, made up each other’s faces, and played parlor games.

After a time, Erika Donaldson forgot she was angry and hurt.

When "a little while" had become five hours, and Shana and Gari were engaged in one of their weird philosophical debates on "secular humanism" vs. "the divine right of kings granted by God," Erika Benteen whispered to her.

“And the most important thing is that I love you... and I want you to be happy.”

Donaldson leaned her head against her friend's shoulder.

"I know, B." She managed a wan smile. "And maybe one of these days I'll stop making it so difficult for myself."

Benteen hugged her back, and her voice grew husky.

“Oh yeah... like you’re the only one who does that. At least you’ve avoided prison—so far.” They both dissolved into helpless giggles.

“B," Donaldson said suddenly, hugging her knees to her chest. "Does Cicero... does he even want anything to do with me anymore?"

Benteen frowned.

“I don’t know, Edie; I gave up trying to guess what the man was thinking long ago.

"He’s taking some leave on his estate in Sicilia. All his friends have a standing invitation, and I know that a few people are out there now, but...

"…I’ve been fighting with Jason over visitation rights for Gabriella ever since we got back, and haven’t had a chance to go. I’m only here,” and she cocked an eye at Arland, raising her voice, “because Shana threatened to anonymously provide the current Academy commandant with 'irrefutable evidence' that I was the one responsible our sophomore year for reprogramming every sonic shower on the grounds to play Benedictine monks chanting 'Vis-a-vis russus, melior mortuus.' I mean, just because I grew up near a monastery…"

Benteen's lips curved upward slightly.

Despite a thorough… some might say obsessive… investigation by the Academy's security staff, and a vow by the members of Red Squad—at whom the joke had clearly been directed—to track down the culprit and bring him, her or it to justice, no formal charges had ever been leveled.

The Alphabet Girls, though, had been the target of speculation, and even accusation.

Gari Cortes had disdainfully denied any involvement, citing the crudity of the translation and pun, and that she'd been using better Latin as a toddler.

"They're Red Squad…" Donaldson began.

"…and they can do anything," finished Benteen.

They grinned with real relish at the memory of the pretentious little elitists stomping impotently, and fuming for the rest of the year, as "Better dead than Red" had immediately become, and yet remained, a rallying cry for all the "little people" at the Academy.

Donaldson knew that she’d come for other reasons, though, and smiled at her friend’s loyalty—to both her and Mantovanni—in the face of what must be an enormously difficult time for her.

"Don't worry," Adventurous’ commander assured her. "If she does, I'll testify as to your character at the hearing."

Benteen shook her head in mock condemnation. "My friends. One will throw me to the lions, while the other tenderizes me for them.

“And they wonder why I ended up an ex-con."

***

Maitland Forrest took a deep breath.

He held it for a melodramatically long moment, and then exhaled. His face wrenched itself almost into a caricature of Rodin's Thinker—for that was exactly what he was doing. Finally, with an air of finality that indicated he considered the point definitively settled with his words, he spoke.

"While I do prefer the perfume of magnolia and honeysuckle, I must concede that the scent of the Mediterranean is also…" He paused, then finished with, "…pleasantly invigoratin'."

One of his companions responded with an amused chirrup.

"I'm sure sailors and fishermen throughout Sicilia were poised to abandon their ancestral calling and move to North Carolina if you'd disapproved." M'Raav Hatshepsut adjusted herself minutely along the rock outcropping she'd claimed as hers, and commenced a languid stretch. The powerful Syracusan sun, along with the home-brewed wine the locals had delivered and insisted they sample extensively, had gone a bit to her head—not so much, though, that she couldn't banter with her charming comrade.

Forrest chuckled, and once more admired her sleek form; while the Felisian was, of course, fur covered, she'd dispensed with her garments immediately upon arrival—the better to worship Apollo here, near what was once the central city of Magna Graecia.

He found, to his surprise, that her relative exposure was far more enticing, and erotic, than he would have imagined.

And don’t think she doesn't know it, he thought, with an inward smile.

The expansive stone-carved balcony overlooking the Mediterranean held a handful of revelers—men and women who'd either come here to Luciano Mantovanni's familial holdings to celebrate the return of their friend from the dead, or had survived along with him.

There was an almost-Epimethean sense of "We should have known" from some of those present. After all, he'd done it once before, reappearing in 2368 out of silent legend along with his old command, USS Intrepid.

Depending on what you thought of him, it was a inspiring habit…

…or an infuriating one.

"Bagheer, why don't you leave that poor little creature alone?"

Sera MacLeod had taken a post beneath an umbrella-sheltered bench, with her iced peach tea, and was watching in mingled disapproval and diversion as the huge Tzenkethi stalked alongside the low limestone wall, near-prehensile tail tapping along its top.

"He challenged me, Sera. I must respond."

The "challenger" Bagheer had mentioned, a tiny black kitten no doubt truant from his mother's care, continued to determinedly attempt to recapture the tip of the tail he'd caught once, and into which he'd bitten happily—thus gaining his "foe's" attention initially.

A hop, a skip… and the little creature seized it again.

Bagheer had no real sentimentality, except when it came to the young—young of all species, it seemed.

As the others watched, fascinated, the great cat brought his head around until it was only inches away from the miniscule beast, still engrossed in battling that wiggling tuft of fur.

Their eyes met…

…and, rather than run, or freeze in terror, Bagheer's small foe arched his back, bared teeth, and emitted a challenging, near-inaudible hiss.

"Mine!" it seemed to say.

The massive feline's purr was ominously agreeable, no less thunderous than the nearby surf, and the other guests smiled. Then, to the mild astonishment of the rest, he withdrew, leaving his small opposition in command of the field…

…and still in possession of his tail—which the determined kitten hadn't quite figured out was attached to the same face he'd just defied.

Forrest thought, That's perhaps the only fight I'll ever see Bagheer lose.

But he knew better than to voice it.

With that conflict settled, though, another suddenly loomed as, in a sparkle of coalescing molecules, the next guest arrived.

Without a backward glance, Erika Donaldson proceeded into the main house, seemingly oblivious to everything but her goal.

Of course, thought Erika.

On both counts.

She found him in the expansive drawing room/study that dominated the east wing of the villa. He was playing chess…

…against what looked to be the combined team of Vaerth Parihn, Brett King and Tertius Galenius; the first two were animatedly discussing strategy, while the young Roman absorbed it, and attempted to maintain an equanimity to rival that of his captain—who, Erika noted, seemed vastly entertained at the rash challenge presented by the "youth brigade."

"–don't want to play his game," the Orion was saying. "We have to do something that will make him uncomfortable…"

King, by then, had noticed Donaldson, and with his usual edgy humor, observed, "Like that?"

Parihn and Tertius glanced up… and without a second thought they both stood and made a hasty withdrawal. King's departure was more reluctant, but he followed behind them only instants later.

This time, it didn't take Donaldson long to work up her nerve.

“Look...

"…under the circumstances, I understand your reaction to March and me. But damn it, Cicero, I hurt, I grieved… and I got on with my life. And I didn't do it to wound your damnable pride." The anger she'd started feeling during her quarrel with Benteen began once more to manifest. "If you can't do me the favor of understanding that, then....

"Do you have any idea what it was like for me to suddenly see you there, like some reproving ghost?"

He smiled icily.

"I can't say I do... I’d hope you’d understand if empathy is, for me, at a premium just now.

"What precisely do you require of me, Erika? Do I comprehend, intellectually at least, what occurred? Of course I do. Am I pleased by it? You’re obviously intelligent enough to have divined that answer for yourself.”

He took an almost ragged breath, and added, "I'd think you could have allowed me some dignity. I haven't been pestering you with petitions of affection, have I? I withdrew, and granted you whatever space you needed. So, naturally, you chase me down to berate me with the fact that I was ungracious... that I wasn’t understanding enough.” Now the facade of calm, careful eloquence cracked a bit. “I have no intention, woman, of happily screwing a smile on my face and saying, ‘Ah, woe is me... but blessings on you two and your life together.’ I've already apologized.

"I shan't do it twice."

"You are a right bastard, Luciano Mantovanni," she all but spat at him. "And you know the worst part?" Erika smiled bitterly.

"Oh, it gets worse, eh?" he responded with prompt acidity. “And I thought I was a cynic.”

She tried to ignore his sarcasm, and continue... but some part of her was touched, and further angered, by it.

"I can't stop feeling like I betrayed you...!” almost, almost she added what had first come to her, but instead ended with, “...even though I didn’t do anything wrong!” And with that she turned to leave.

He wasn't about to let her have the last word. It was cruel, but he'd obviously gone beyond caring about that.

"You do ‘righteously indignant’ far better than ‘emotionally distraught,’ by the way. This just seems to ring truer.”

She stopped still in the doorway, her back still to him. "Thank you… a vicious thrust like that makes it much easier to walk away." Her voice was uncharacteristically devoid of any emotion.

As she rounded the corner back onto the terrace, she saw a collection of five people—five people who, no doubt, had been caught flat-footed when the exchange had suddenly gotten loudly acrimonious, and not known how to extricate themselves.

Hatshepsut looked stricken, and Forrest simply uncomfortable. Sera MacLeod seemed quite dismayed. Bagheer shook his head in silent condemnation—knowing him as she did, Erika knew his disapproval was almost certainly aimed at both of them.

Parihn, though, was obviously angry.

Adventurous’ captain did the only thing she could: Apologized for interrupting their day and made the most dignified escape possible.

The last thing Donaldson heard as she proceeded down the stone-cut steps was the pretty Orion yelling at her captain, "What is the matter with you?!"

***

Erika had known she should have just beamed up, but, somehow, walking dejectedly down a dirt road suited her far more at the moment.

She realized, after a time, that she wasn’t alone.

M’Raav Hatshepsut had demonstrated the subtle stealth that was her Felisian birthright, and slipped so easily into stride next to Erika that the other woman hadn’t even noticed her for a while.

She’d always disdained her unwelcome companion... but was too weary and heartsick to even dismiss her at first.

"All men are monsters,” the feline announced conversationally. “And the ones for whom you care, the worst."

That may be the smartest thing you’ve ever said, kitty, Erika thought.

"Why did you come here?"

Donaldson’s anger flared. “Why the hell do you think I came here?”

Hatshepsut’s tail whipped around, and she grabbed the tuft, subjecting it to an exacting examination.

“I ask you to humor me. Why did you come?”

She began, “I wanted to...” then hesitated.

Finally, she finished, “I wanted to make things right, somehow, I guess.”

“What would be ‘right’ for you?” the Felisian inquired.

“I don’t know!” the angry woman snapped. “Just... not like this.”

“It seems to me that you want something from him. Did you come here for an apology?”

“No!” Her denial was emphatic. “I don’t… really think he owes me an apology... not even now.”

“Hmmm... I see. Did you come to offer one, then?”

“In a way, I guess,” Donaldson admitted.

They continued to walk along the road for a time.

“You didn’t, you know,” Hatshepsut informed her.

Erika was momentarily confused.

“I didn’t what?”

“Apologize. My hearing is quite acute, and I have a near eidetic memory. You told him that his anger was understandable... but you never said you were sorry.

“Instead, you defended a position that really doesn’t need defending—like you said, rightly, you didn't do anything wrong—and went over what must be ground the two of you have already covered…

"…though not quite so publicly, until now.”

Erika bristled, but remained silent.

“It’s clear you want something else,” the Felisian concluded.

“I’m not in the mood for your verbal innuendoes or your oblique, unsolicited analysis, Hatshepsut. Make your point, or make tracks.”

M’Raav nodded.

“Fair enough.

“Perhaps you came here hoping that he’d say, ‘I still want you... tell March you're sorry, and come back to me.’ But you well know he can't bring himself to do that, even if that is how he feels; and I'm not the one to guess whether he does. He's too proud... especially in a situation where he must, on some level, feel himself the injured party. And in addition, he thinks it’s not his place.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Erika asserted angrily. “You make me sound like a spoiled princess.”

“Not at all,” Hatshepsut replied. “There’s nothing ‘spoiled’ about it. It’s simultaneously hopeful and hopelessly naive.

“Don’t you understand, Erika? He’s paralyzed. If he declares his continued affection for you, when you’ve become involved with another man, he’s underhanded, according to that odd code of propriety he has. No doubt he was irritated, in that boyishly male way, to find that March Patterson was not 'evil incarnate,' and doesn’t twirl his moustache and cackle maniacally before tying you up and carrying you off to his bed.

“In addition, he can’t challenge March in any way… though I’ve heard Bagheer suggest it—more than once. After all, it’s not a situation in which he’s rescuing you from something—so far as he knows. If March Patterson is who and what you want, who is he to dispute that?

“So he did what he does best: He distanced himself.

“Then, you came here, and pushed a few more buttons."

Erika had slowed to a stop—and come to a realization—in the middle of the road. Her head hung, and her shoulders slumped.

“You’re going to have to decide what’s most important to you: March Patterson, Luciano Mantovanni… or your own, as you say, ‘damnable pride.’

“And now, if you’ll pardon me, I shall ‘make tracks.’”

Before she could, however, Erika caught her arm…

…and embraced her.

“You know,” she whispered, now ashamed by the fact, “I never liked you.”

Hatshepsut purred, and hugged her back, maintaining that infuriating calm.

“As a matter of fact, I did know," the Felisian announced, before drawing back.

“Fortunately,” and her eyes twinkled, “I always liked you.”

***

"What is the matter with you?"

Luciano Mantovanni stood at the window; it was a perfect vantage point from which to overlook the only path that intersected the villa. No doubt he could see Erika Donaldson as she made understandable haste to depart.

"I own a lot of land, Lieutenant,” he finally responded. “Why not go take an extended look at some of it?" His delivery wasn't rude, but left little doubt he was not at all interested in hearing her opinion.

That had never stopped Vaerth Parihn. The Orion stood her ground, even as, with her enhanced hearing, she noted the rest of the assembled group heeding his advice, and silently escaping the vicinity.

Cowards, she thought. Thanks for all the help.

"Sorry,” she told him firmly. “You're not getting off the hook that easily."

Now his tone grew a little less carefully modulated. "What part of my implied, 'Get out' didn't you understand?"

“No!" she yelled, sounding intentionally like a snotty child told to be quiet… or, perhaps, go to her room. "What are you going to do if I don't? Kick my ass?"

She watched as his fingers rubbed at the corresponding temples, and he sighed.

Trying to forestall this headache, though, is almost certainly a lost cause.

"I think I'll forego the ass-kicking, as you so viscerally put it." When he said nothing further, she took that as tacit permission to remain, planted herself next to him, and continued the attack.

"Did that little performance make you feel better?"

She was one of the few people who could bear up under his glare without flinching—though not without effort.

"Parihn, you're well aware that I'm not exactly the most expressive fellow you'll ever meet, but ask yourself this: 'Does it look to me like he's feeling better?'"

"Then why didn't you just let her walk away?"

Before he could respond, she continued, “I’ll tell you why... you’re so spiteful sometimes that you’ll strive for the last word no matter how much it costs you... or hurts someone else. You’re so wrapped up in winning every pass, on being the master of all you survey, that you become an abrasive, callous, insufferable...!” She hesitated.

“... jerk?” he supplied.

“Yes, thank you… 'jerk!'”

"Well..." he replied drolly, "...since you've obviously given this a lot of thought, perhaps you'd like to continue cataloguing my faults for me."

Parihn was most emphatically not the person to challenge in that way.

“All right, Captain Know-it-all, I will."

And she proceeded to do just that.

“You’re prideful... insular... scathing... embittered... rigid... brooding...” She stopped for a moment. “Did I mention prideful?”

Despite his apparent irritation at her incisive candor, the Orion could see that Mantovanni had to steel himself against a smile. He could appreciate a good shot—even when he was the target.

“Twice now, actually.”

“Good,” Parihn snapped. “It deserves special emphasis, since it gets you in so much trouble. Given that list it's a wonder she ever liked you in the first place.”

She wasn’t finished. “What I find most interesting, though, is that, despite the fact you obviously care for her on some level, you're far more interested in retaining your supposed dignity than keeping her."

He shook his head; she wasn't sure at whom his disapproval was aimed.

“I don’t want to interfere in her... relationship with March Patterson.”

Now the Orion chuckled.

“That’s absurd.

“No woman comes looking for the one who’s second in her heart, Cicero... no matter what she actually says. You told me once that you’d destroyed your chances with Saren Lex because you were too proud to concede that things weren’t going to be precisely the way you’d wanted them to be... and that if you had a second chance at real love, you’d handle things differently—that your pride wouldn’t get in the way of truly caring for someone.

“Well, here’s a chance to show that you meant what you said.”

“This is a different situation, Parihn... and you know she’s not my only concern.”

Her eyes narrowed, but the glare was wasted; he wasn't looking at her.

Erika is right, Cicero. You are a right bastard.

She knew precisely what he meant by the latter statement… and chose, as he had for months, to ignore it. Now was not the time—especially when he'd, consciously or not, just used it as a shield against the discussion at hand. Parihn controlled her own frustration, and concentrated on the first comment he'd made.

“It’s always a different situation. Do you love Erika in the same way you loved Saren? Did you love her in the same way you loved Demora Sulu?”

Mantovanni arched a brow.

“I don’t believe I ever said I loved Erika—to her or you.”

“Not in so many words,” Parihn conceded. She turned to leave, but stopped at the door.

“But that brings up another point: Have you ever told a woman you loved her, without having to hear her say it first?

“If you haven’t, then you’re a coward... and you’ll be one until you do. Love isn’t safe, and it’s not about who comes out on top. Unless you learn that, you’ll be only a shadow of the man you could be.

“I’ll leave you and your pride alone, now, to think about that.

“I’ll be intrigued to see what wins.”

***

Adventurous proved less of a refuge than Erika had hoped.

She approached her quarters… and nearly strode past them: Shana Arland was waiting there for her.

"Not you, too?" Her tone was more than put upon.

It was trod upon.

Arland, in reply, gave a hitchhiker's gesture, indicating they required privacy, and followed Donaldson into the captain's suite of rooms—where Shana took a seat, and Erika proceeded to begin pacing. For a few minutes, silence was the rule, but her guest silently wagered that wouldn't last.

She was right.

"It's all his fault, you know." Donaldson stopped, and nervously straightened an already precisely placed photograph on the wall. "I was settling nicely into this new roma–…" She hesitated. "…involvement, when who turns up on my doorstep?"

Then she corrected herself with an embittered, "Excuse me… in my quarters."

Shana, despite herself, laughed.

“You can’t blame him for that. You’re the one who told him last year, ‘Surprise me sometime! Do something spontaneous! Sneak into my quarters and leave me flowers… or better yet, sneak into my quarters and wait for me.’ You gave him the override… remember?”

Hotly, Erika countered, “Yeah… but that was before… damn it, having a dead man you’ve only just gotten over show up in your room a few minutes after you were having sex with another… shit.”

In complete frustration, she yelled, "Why is this my life, Shana?”

"And you fainted at the sight of him, I remind you." The CMO chuckled. "The old cliché about truth and fiction applies here, let me tell you: We couldn't sell this script as a cheap romance holovid."

Donaldson winced.

"Trust me… I haven't forgotten. March thought he'd attacked me… I think."

Arland shifted gears, suddenly.

"And then there's March Patterson." When Erika glared warningly at her, she appended, "Don't get me wrong. Unlike E.B., I'm not judging the man anymore. I know you liked him, and lusted after him, when we were cadets."

"And he seems determined to be with me."

Arland nodded, as if she'd just confirmed a fact of which she hadn't been quite certain.

"I'm not blaming you for taking him to bed. He's very attractive, and a bit of tension-relieving sex is often just what the doctor ordered—especially considering how seldom you let yourself… indulge."

Erika blushed, but didn't respond.

“But it’s clear from what you’ve said that losing March could never hurt you in the way that losing Cicero could… and did. I watched you after Liberty disappeared, and we thought he was dead. If anything, you were as broken up, for a while, as when Jonah died... and I would never have thought that possible."

Donaldson's shoulders slumped.

"And now he's back; I can't decide whether like a bad penny, or an archetypal hero."

"Considering your reaction, I'd say the latter. Fair maiden, dark prince… boy, this stuff is sickening, isn't it?"

"Well, all offense taken," the other snapped in a sudden flare of temper. "I'm thrilled you're having such a good time at my expense."

As quickly as the anger had come, though, it was gone.

"It's bad enough that I have to deal with impossible situations in the line of duty. I don't want to have to weather them in my bedroom, too."

Despite the situation's gravity, Shana Arland restrained more laughter, as she struggled to dispel a totally inappropriate vision of her friend looking at the two men—both naked—and playing "Eenie, meenie, meinie, moe" as her eyes bounced back and forth between the… highlights.

Erika was still speaking, though, and Arland dragged herself back to the subject at hand.

"…–nd I literally don't know what to do. All I can think of is, 'Shouldn't the decision be obvious? Shouldn't I just know which one I want?'

"I'm making E.B.'s analysis of me sound like unadulterated genius.

"Why can't I make up my mind?"

"Do you recall your Basics of Command 101 course, with Commander Fujiwara?"

Donaldson nodded hesitantly.

"Do you remember him talking about James Kirk, and how the man always seemed to find a solution that no one else had considered—even though, in hindsight, it was right there if one had the imagination to perceive it, and the courage to follow through?"

"What the hell does that have to do with this?"

Arland stood, and concluded, "Sorry. I can't live your life for you… or, rather, I won't."

For a few seconds, Adventurous' commander glared. Something Shana had said, though—Erika wasn't certain exactly what—had planted the seed of an idea, a resolution, in her mind.

And it would take courage to see it through.

Time to warp out of here, Shana thought, and stood.

But the noodge in her couldn't resist adding, as she left, "Wash your face. You're all puffy."

Erika gaped, then yelled, “Why, you little...!”

Grinning impishly, Shana Arland left her to her thoughts...

...and her decision.

***

Erika Donaldson had slept a grand total of five hours over the last three days, and it showed.

She'd had the misfortune to run into Jayant Mohajit, Endeavor's X-O, while boarding. Fortunately, the man had only given her an odd look and a respectful greeting as she'd hurried past.

I should have just had March meet me planet-side, she thought as she stepped off the 'lift and made her way down the corridor to his quarters.

She paused only a moment before ringing the chime.

The response was... surprising.

"If that's you again, Counselor, I guarantee you that promotion to commander you want will be delayed until at least the 25th century. I don't want to be disturbed."

It took every ounce of determination she could muster not to walk away.

"March... it's Erika."

Computer speakers and pick-ups had little sense of propriety. As he responded, "Be right there!" it also transmitted along with his words a noise that seemed to her like the sound of breaking glass.

Whatever vain hope she might have had of this going anything but poorly evaporated at that moment.

The door slid open.

Erika's initial impression was that March Patterson had been drinking, and that a glass had been optional: He was in civilian clothes, and his expression had a veneer of civility laid sloppily over recent aggravation.

"Hello!" He gestured her past him, into the room. March's quarters were usually immaculate. At the moment, the impression was "lived in."

Or "died in," she thought morosely.

Erika entered, stepping carefully over various scattered items that had taken up residence on the floor.

"Hi."

He noted her glance at the mess, and gave her a smile that couldn't have looked more forced if someone had been jabbing him with a Klingon pain stick. "I'm attempting to 'let my hair down.'"

He wasn't slurring his words. He didn't even seem a shade slow.

"I don't see an overnight bag," he observed pointedly. "We're going to Grand Teton for parasailing and whitewater rafting today... or so I thought." He pointed to a corner, where his own small suitcase lay. "Change in plans at this late date?"

She wondered just how long that bag had been packed: Erika had forgotten completely about the trip, and it suddenly irked her that he'd just assumed it was on as planned, despite the events of the past few weeks.

"I'm sorry, March, but my mind's been on other things."

He fired the first small volley.

"Or other people?"

She managed, barely, to let it pass.

"Please… don't."

“All right," he replied after a moment. “I won’t.

“Sit down; we’ll talk.” He gestured to a chair, and returned to the one in which he’d been obviously sitting. The broken bottle near it had soaked his antique Turkish rug with something green, cloying and potent: Aldebaran whiskey, from the scent.

Erika took the indicated seat. "I... I've been doing a lot of thinking," she began, absently twisting her hair around her fingers.

He started laughing. It was forced and derisive—an ugly sound.

“I was remembering an old saying just before you came in. Have you heard this one? ‘A relationship is something you have while you’re waiting for something better to come along’...

"…or, ‘come back,’ as the case may be.

“How’s that for topical?”

She flinched.

"I doubt that anything I have to say on that subject is going to be taken as anything other than a personal attack."

Now he locked gazes with her.

"You're damned right it won't be—especially when you've been talking to him and wouldn't even give me the time of day."

Has he been tracking my movements? Donaldson thought, aghast…

…but, on reflection, not astonished.

Patterson stood, and trudged over to a small oak cabinet, which he opened... and from which he removed another bottle.

“Did I tell you Mantovanni came to see me... ostensibly to ‘apologize’?

"No," she said softly, even as she was thinking, Oh, dear God, no...

“Yeah,” he countered. “It was that typical adolescent posturing I thought went out with high school graduation.

"I can’t believe that asshole is in command of a starship.”

"That's unfair, March, and you know it."

"I don't know anything of the sort," Patterson replied coldly. "The man's an arrogant prick, in my opinion."

Erika restrained the impulse to point out March's own "adolescent posturing."

"I understand why you wouldn't much like him," she tried, "but he's a good person—even if you can't see that."

His expression changed, first to one of affronted frustration, as if he were thinking, How could you possibly prefer him to me? Have you lost your mind? and then to a more normal seeming facial cast, as he wrenched his tone momentarily back towards the casually conversational.

"So..." Patterson continued, "…was he apologizing for interrupting our relationship...” He chuckled harshly, remembering his use of the word moments ago. “...or destroying it?"

Erika thought, Screw this.

She met his gaze squarely.

"If you really want someone to blame for everything that’s happened, the honor belongs to me alone. I didn't want it to be this way, but you're not giving me much leeway.

"You and I are done, March."

She could see something die in him. But what was worse...

...she could see something else—something vengeful—stirring to life.

"Get out," he growled. "And don't ever set foot on my ship again, if you know what's good for you."

The implied threat sent a chill down her spine. She'd never heard that tone in his voice before… or perhaps, had never wanted to hear when he'd used it on others.

"March, I am sorry I hurt you," Erika said softly, and rose from her seat to go—then realized she should just have kept silent.

For a moment, Adventurous' captain had a hope she'd get cleanly away: He'd neither stood nor acknowledged her as she gave him a chance to say good-bye... to say anything.

She made it about fifteen feet down the hallway.

Then Donaldson heard the door to his quarters open again. March Patterson pursued her out into the corridor, anguished, heedless... and furious. He yelled after her, his voice increasing in volume with each word, until the last phrase practically resounded through the deck plates.

“That’s just great, Erika! Go back to him, then, you faithless bi–…!”

He abruptly realized they weren't alone.

There were at least four Endeavor and/or Utopia Planitia personnel in the corridor. Two of them, horrified, averted their eyes and almost desperately attempted to go about their business, practically fleeing around the passageway curve. One, a petite Vulcan in command red, arched a curious, disturbed brow. The jaw of the last—a Bolian medical technician—dropped open, in one of those joyously scandalized expressions that let Donaldson know that this would be gossip, fleet-wide, in about a week.

Erika then watched, appalled into near paralysis, as March Patterson took an angry, all-too-purposeful step towards her...

…and the nameless Vulcan intervened, placing herself firmly between the two.

"Captain," she warned, "do not."

For a moment, his face changed, and he saw himself clearly—the way everyone else was seeing him. Then, the power of his willful denial asserted itself, and he whirled around and disappeared back into his quarters.

Stunned, Erika stood there, shaking. It wasn't until the door shut behind him that she realized, with him gone, who was now the center of attention. The Bolian, still trying to suppress one of those "I've got a secret" smiles, backed away and then disappeared through a convenient door.

The officer who'd come to her aid spoke again.

"I am T'Miir, Captain Donaldson," she announced gravely. "I shall escort you to transporter room two."

She gestured, and Adventurous' commander dully fell in with her.

"I'm sorry," Erika whispered, clearly speaking to someone who was no longer there. "I didn't mean for this to... to…" Her voice trailed off… and she suddenly found herself wondering what might have happened if the Vulcan had not interceded.

The ensign was very young... perhaps the youngest Vulcan officer Erika had ever seen. She hardly looked old enough to be a cadet, let alone a member of Starfleet.

“Your apology is unnecessary, Captain.” She spoke with an odd cadence, and said the last word with obvious reverence, like a knight would have said, “My lady.”

"Do not allow the emotional upset of another to coerce you into regrets,” she continued. “Come... we shall leave with our dignity intact."

Erika was comforted only faintly by that.

"Perhaps, Ensign," she said as the girl led her down the corridor, "but I bear no small responsibility for the situation."

Both situations.

Almost as if in response to her thought, T’Miir answered, “‘It is the blessing and curse of all great beauties to be sought after—to be cherished when possessed, and resented when not.’ - Verrian Tathar.”

This is a Vulcan? thought Erika.

She was one obviously familiar with humans, though, as her next words proved.

"I believe, after escorting you, I shall then contact Starfleet Personnel about a transfer. I do not believe my future aboard Endeavor would be a prosperous one."

Sadly, wordlessly, Erika Donaldson agreed.

***

Luciano Mantovanni had given Parihn's words a great deal of thought. As a matter of fact, he couldn't think of much else.

Nothing had managed to rouse him from his brooding thus far. Starfleet had begun to put increasing pressure on him to report for a lengthier debriefing over what was already being called "The Liberty Incident." He'd at first put them off, and then had asked T'Kara to deflect them for him as long as she could. But even a four-star admiral had to eventually defer to the C-in-C of Starfleet... and Alynna Necheyev, though she respected him and had demonstrated a surprising patience, required answers… and soon.

Well, one way or another, I have to deal with this—all of this.

He stood, with every intention of doing just that.

Finding part of his problem standing out in the hallway, thus, made things very convenient.

Erika Donaldson was startled when he opened the door, and somewhat apprehensive when she saw the look of determination on his face.

Involuntarily, she took a step back. "I'm sorry. I... didn't mean to disturb you."

Something in him found that amusing.

“If it'll make you more comfortable, I could offer to kick your ass." When Erika's eyes widened, he hastened to reassure her. "That seems to be what Parihn thinks is my preferred method of communication with women.”

"You'd have every right."

He could see her state of upset, and countered with a dry, “Like I said to her, ‘We’ll forego' that for now.”

She abruptly blurted, "I left March."

His response clearly took her off guard.

"How'd he take it?" he asked.

She gave him a hollow smile.

"I'm sure you'll hear about in a day or so—along with the rest of Starfleet."

For a moment, he was at a loss. Then he began to piece together the possibilities...

...and something in the cast of his features grew dark and terrible.

"He didn't hurt you?"

"Cicero, no, nothing like that," she said hurriedly. After a moment where Mantovanni searched her face and satisfied himself she was telling the truth, he relented. Erika relaxed, but only for a moment.

"No possibility," he inquired, "of rapprochement?"

Grimly, she replied, "None at all."

The set of his gaze changed slightly: Now it was full of warning.

"Then I can say this without being meddlesome.

"You're better off. I'm going to tell you something about March Patterson, Erika. He's a golden boy. I bet he was worshipped by his family growing up, always got straight A's in school, was the captain of the parrissis squares team at the Academy, and invariably dated the most beautiful women. When you were younger, no doubt what he symbolized was very attractive to you. You were each other's adornment, whether or not you realized it."

She was taken aback. Had he researched Patterson's records? The analysis, if as a result of mere induction, was uncanny.

"He doesn't like losing—at all. And I'd be willing to bet that you're the first woman who's ever had the temerity to walk away from him. Him!

"I guarantee he'll hate you for the rest of his life."

Erika was aghast. She'd known that March was extremely upset, but…

"I think you're overreacting, Cicero. This will blow over… we'll all move on."

He seemed to consider her words.

"I am, admittedly, a cynic and a pessimist, Erika. I also tend to be a fairly inerrant judge of character." He picked up the white king and examined it with a clinical air.

"Hmm… it's nicked. I should throw it away, or replicate a new one."

Her brow furrowed.

"Why? Just because it's not perfect anymore…?" Her voice trailed off, and she realized the analogy he'd drawn. It wasn't particularly poetic, or even apt… but it served its purpose.

She felt a tremor. More than any man she knew, her friend seemed to understand the demons that drove other men of power… perhaps because he had a few of his own.

Oh, my God.

"So watch your back, you who are dear to me… because the knife will eventually come. I don't know from what direction, yet…

"…but it will come."

She wanted to reiterate that she thought he was misjudging the situation… but now, wasn't so certain as she'd been. She prayed he was wrong, and knew he probably hoped the same thing.

At any rate, I've got far more immediate affairs to concern me.

There’s that damned word again.

She braced herself.

Please, Lord, don't let this go badly…

"As I said, I left March… but I didn't leave him for you."

He really surprised her in the next moment: His expression was, at first, impassive… and, suddenly, adopted a bemused cast. She listened in amazement as Luciano Mantovanni, in a surprisingly melodious tenor, gently sang, "La donna é mobile, qual piuma al vento, muto d’accento, e di pensiero…"

Erika recognized it immediately, even without a translator. It was an aria from Verdi's Rigoletto…

…and it wasn't exactly complimentary to women.

She blushed scarlet, and protested, "It's not like that…! I just…!"

Then, she got another shock, for the expression on his face still wasn't the one she'd expected, and dreaded. As a matter of fact, he seemed…

"You're not upset!" she accused. "You're… you're glad!"

"Not precisely," he assured her, affording her one of his rare smiles. "Perhaps I simply came to the same conclusion you did."

She found herself suddenly eager to hear what he had to say.

"Which is?" she prodded.

"That we're two friends that had a wonderful 24 hours together almost three years ago, a few rendezvous' since… and that in our eagerness to avoid confronting the unmitigated disasters our respective love lives had become, we latched onto that as if it were some sort of 'eternal romance.'"

For a moment, she was bemused… and then burst into relieved laughter.

"Yeah," she agreed. "Something like that."

Erika Donaldson sagged against the wall, sighed and closed her eyes.

"I'm so glad I didn't hurt you," she murmured.

"And I, you," he responded.

"You and I were comrades-in-arms, then friends, and finally occasional lovers, Cicero. Seeing you again made me rethink a lot of things," she confessed. "Especially my reasons for being with March."

He arched a brow.

"Indeed?"

She could see the hint of amused, "I'm that good, eh?" in his eyes. He obviously meant it as a joke, but Erika decided to answer anyway, shaking her head in disgust that was only in part affectation.

"Yes, wise guy. That had something to do with it. Why be with someone when you're not compelled by them… when they can't turn you on with a glance, or an intimation? Even if you and I don't necessarily have that anymore, we did—at least for a time.

"March and I? Never.

"I've begun to remember all I've been missing since I lost you, and…"

Abruptly, she stopped.

Mantovanni inclined his head.

"Remembering your love for Jonah, or your affection for me, isn't a bad thing, Erika. Perhaps if you'd thought about them more, you might not have gotten re-involved in what was, for you, a relationship you'd have been better off without."

Erika grimaced.

"Point taken. Certainly March is probably sorry we ever got back together."

She again considered what he'd said about Endeavor's captain, and added a final thought.

"How sorry, only time will tell."