OK, I'll admit it… I like Gabrielle Bubis' work on STAR TREK: PROMETHEUS. It's a little reminiscent of a soap opera, at times—and by her own admission, she's not exactly the Tatrix of Technobabble—but she's got talent, and she's constantly looking to improve her craft. I'm honored to be working with her.

I think stories like this are important; it's good to remember that not every enemy uses phasers and torpedoes, or even some other, more esoteric physical weapon. Sometimes your greatest foes arise out of differences in philosophy or perspective; these, though, can be just as implacable, and even more insidious, than the ravening aliens who simply want you dead.

"Ulterior Motives, Part One"

By Joseph Manno and

Gabrielle Bubis

“…vital to the future direction of both Starfleet tactical deployment, and her shipbuilding philosophy..”

The image froze as Colin Becker tapped a key on the display screen to pause the recording.

Commander Mark O’Conner glanced at the pips designating the Andorian speaker as a vice admiral, and suppressed a disdainful snort: Amarian Sih’tarr was the current head of Starfleet Tactical, and he seemed just as arrogant and self-important as Prometheus' first officer remembered. Sih'tarr had once given a guest lecture to Mark's Starship Combat Tactics class back at the Academy, and his acumen had been impressive—not so his personality, though.

O'Conner forced himself to pay attention as the recording resumed play. Sih’tarr had apparently just invited the captain to a special conference on tactical and strategic issues facing the Federation in the post-Dominion War era.

Mark suppressed a swift stab of envy as he imagined the people his commander might rub shoulders with, and sighed.

An answering exhalation came from his left, where Lieutenant Commander Naeve Sevril sat, her expression mirroring his own. Their eyes met briefly before she turned her face, subtly shifting position so that her back was to him: It was just enough to let him know she was still angry, but not so obvious as to draw their commander's attention.

Mark frowned slightly at her shoulder blades as he recalled how, two days ago, he'd directed her to rewrite a systems review report—twice. She hadn't felt it necessary on either occasion... and had perhaps, admittedly, been correct the second time.

Her sullen defiance, though, had ensured she'd do it again, as an object lesson: He'd intentionally indicated a few compositional weaknesses and then what she should do to correct them. That, too, had gone over extremely well: Naeve had practically stormed off the bridge; if there'd been a door to slam, she'd have deafened half the people aboard.

While he understood, and sympathized with, Sevril's frustration at having been passed over for an X-O slot, her attitude had begun to wear thin with him.

She's going to grow up a bit, or this is going to be a rough tour—for her, that is.

Something kicked at his shoe and he looked across the table at the offender: Mirana Keset had noticed the exchange and made her disapproval known. She shook her head slightly at him, but smiled. The doctor had, somehow, gotten into the middle of their private war, and had declared herself mediator; she was constantly attempting to mend their fractured relationship.

He didn’t have the heart to tell her it probably couldn’t be done: Naeve, it seemed, would always view him as the man who'd stolen her job.

Besides, he enjoyed Mirana’s company. Mark welcomed the pretense of reconciliation with Sevril as an excuse to spend time with the attractive redhead. Though he’d seen her having dinner once or twice with the captain, there didn’t seem to be any sort of commitment there. Thus, he considered Keset still up for grabs.

No pun intended.

His eyes wandered again, as the display screen went black and the captain began speaking. His gaze meandered around the room…

…and he suddenly found himself eye-to-eye with Security Chief Turek.

Mark shifted uncomfortably; while it seemed to him that the Vulcan's expression hadn't been precisely calculated to intimidate, it did let O'Conner know—rather directly—that his short attention span this morning wasn't exactly a well-guarded secret.

Oh, well... Turek’s usually annoyed at me for something, anyway. I wouldn’t want to disappoint him. Now well aware of the scrutiny, O’Conner nevertheless swept the room with his gaze again, until it fell on Rhianna Jorrell. His eyes flicked back to Turek, as if to imply, “See? I’m not the only one not paying attention!” The Vulcan, however, had already resumed regarding the captain, and missed Mark’s protesting expression.

He smiled inwardly: Rhianna wasn’t exactly raptly attentive, either. While the chief engineer’s ice-blue eyes could impale even the hardiest of officers—regardless of rank—at the moment, they were focused on her own hands. She seemed to find them infinitely more fascinating than anything the captain had to say. Though most observers might guess that she was focused on his words, Mark bet that she, too, was off in her own little pocket dimension.

Abruptly, O'Conner noted that the captain had stopped speaking and was looking expectantly from face to face. He sat up straighter under the scrutiny.

“Any questions?”

There were none.

Becker placed his palms flat against the conference table, elbows extended as he leaned over the assembled group of senior officers. When no one spoke, he nodded briskly, and stood.

“Good. Then you're all dismissed. Commander, you have the bridge. Inform me when we arrive.”

“Yes, sir,” Mark replied automatically.

Feeling guilty for his wandering thoughts, he belatedly asked himself, Arrive where?

***

Colin Becker stepped into the turbolift and exchanged a nod of greeting with Naeve Sevril, who had evidently received a summons to the bridge as well. As the turbolift made its way to deck one, the captain stood with his arms clasped casually behind his back and allowed himself a covert assessment of his ‘lift mate… and, to a limited extent, his entire senior staff.

They need a break. With one or two exceptions they looked like restless school kids in that briefing this morning. I thought Mark was going to start firing spitballs any minute there.

He smiled. Becker wasn't at all angry: They knew their jobs and performed them well; they simply required a change of scenery and some relaxation. Fortunately, Bolarus IX would provide that opportunity—for everyone but him, that is.

Their latest mission would be good for the crew, he decided. He only hoped that Lieutenant Commander Sevril afforded herself a chance to wind down: She'd been more withdrawn lately, more quiet and moody. He'd hoped Naeve would have, before now, come to him with what had been bothering her; but she was still keeping it to herself.

The captain had decided to give her more time—but not much more—before having a chat with her: He needed a sharp ops chief, not a competent but troubled and somewhat distracted one—which was what he’d had for the past few weeks.

The ‘lift came to a stop, its doors obediently sliding open to reveal their destination.

“After you, Captain.” Naeve said politely, gesturing with her hand that he should precede her.

Colin tugged at his tunic, smiled at her and stepped out. His sharp eyes scanned the bridge, passing briefly over the watch officers, who snapped to attention at his arrival. They settled onto the large sphere that was Bolarus IX, dominating the display screen at the front of the bridge.

As he approached his chair, Mark O’Conner promptly vacated, allowing the captain to wordlessly take his place.

“I assume we’re finally about to be cleared for docking, exec?” he asked dryly.

“So they claim, sir,” Mark answered with the barest intimation of humor.

Colin Becker wasn't even that amused: They'd arrived over half an hour ago, but had been unceremoniously placed in a holding pattern until "suitable arrangements" for docking could be made. They'd then had to wait for several sluggish-looking cargo transport vessels—all of Bolian registry, coincidentally—to depart.

Now, finally, it seemed the wait was over.

The planet faded, only to be replaced by the visage of an aging female Bolian, her features set in that customary self-important officiousness so common to that race.

“Greetings, Captain Becker. Welcome to Bolarus IX. The Prometheus is cleared to dock at…”

Reflexively, she touched a hand to her head, where a small earpiece was evidently relaying data.

"Please stand by for a moment."

"A moment" became five minutes—then ten.

Finally, Naeve Sevril gasped; then, she angrily announced, "Sir, I've just received a text-only message from the dockmaster.

"We've been placed back in the holding pattern!"

O'Conner was incensed. "What?"

Becker's reaction was—on the surface, at least—more sanguine.

"Any explanation offered, Commander Sevril?"

Now she looked even more affronted.

"It's evidently a matter of precedence, sir. Another vessel requested permission to dock… and they 'bumped' us." After a moment's hesitation, she concluded, rather hotly, "Only one ship's entered orbit in the last few minutes, Captain."

"Well, let's see her," Becker instructed.

Naeve gritted her teeth. "Switching now."

The image of a Sovereign-class Federation starship filled the screen.

O'Conner immediately referred to his own armchair console.

"Her ID call sign reads NCC-1776… she's the USS Liberty."

"Why the hell does that get priority over us?" demanded Sevril.

Even as they watched, indignant, the great starship gracefully glided into the dock station that had, seconds ago, been almost assigned to Prometheus.

"I don't believe this," O'Connor growled. "What does that lumbering behemoth have that we don't?"

Becker, without missing a beat, replied, "I'll assume you mean besides a dock space?"

Prudently, no one laughed.

The captain rose.

"Commander O'Conner, you have the bridge; I have more than a bit of reading and research to do before the conference begins in four days. Take me off the duty roster until further notice. You can deal with the vagaries of Bolian dock assignments… and anything else that comes up."

When he left the bridge, Sevril immediately moved to the X-O's chair even as O'Conner shifted one seat over.

They sat in angry silence for almost an hour—watching as yet another set of Bolian vessels was given precedence—before finally being accorded a slot in which to berth.

After Prometheus had been settled into its assigned place and station-keeping initiated, Mark O'Conner leaned back in the center seat.

"Let's get as many people down for shore leave as we can, Commander Sevril; they've had a few solid months of duty, and I'm sure they'd like a break."

"Yes, sir," she replied sweetly.

He frowned, but didn't offer anything further—at first.

Naeve's attitude with him was always just short of identifiably mocking or insubordinate—that is, not quite enough about which to even warn her, he knew. She'd simply look at him with those incredible eyes, and give a somewhat more professional version of, "Liddle ol' me? You must be mistaken, sir."

It had become a festering problem.

"Commander?"

The young gamma shift ops officer, T'Path, waited patiently while he returned from his reverie.

"Yes, Ensign?"

"I believe it necessary to remind you, sir, that protocol demands we send Liberty's commander, Captain Mantovanni, our compliments."

"Mind your station, Ensign," Sevril ordered sternly.

"Yes, ma'am," she replied promptly, and did just that.

O'Connor, after a moment, realized an explanation was probably a good idea; he reminded the young Vulcan, "Protocol, though, also frowns on nudging ships out of their place in the docking queue." His annoyance found expression in his final statement.

"If the famous Captain Mantovanni wants compliments, well… he can bloody well send them first."

T'Path, though, was not done.

"I remind the X-O that Captain Mantovanni is senior to Captain Becker. It is our place to initiate hail—no matter the situation."

Curtly, Naeve snapped, "I thought I told you to mind your station, Ensign."

T'Path did not look back.

"And I am doing so… Commander. That does not preclude reminding the senior officers of their responsibilities—especially when they seem loath to fulfill them."

The bridge went dead silent.

Sevril colored furiously; she was about to reply, but O'Conner cut her off.

"Your opinions and observations have been noted, Ensign."

She continued to monitor her station, as she'd been instructed, but acknowledged, "Thank you, sir."

Naeve Sevril, however, obviously didn't consider the matter finished.

"Ensign, you'll report to my office after your shift," she ordered.

After a brief hesitation, the Vulcan coolly answered, "Understood, ma'am."

O'Conner glanced at her, but, again, said nothing.

A few moments later, Sevril handed him a PADD, saying crisply, "The shore leave list for your approval, Commander."

He took it, tapped in a few notations, then said, "Hmmm… one or two of these are problematic. I'd like to discuss them… we can talk in the observation lounge."

She nodded. "Of course."

When the door had closed behind them, she asked, anticipating, "Was there some difficulty with my request for some shore time?"

O'Conner shook his head.

"No… my problem is with your attitude."

She looked startled.

"My 'attitude'?" she echoed incredulously. "I beg your pardon?"

"Sir," he finished.

"Excuse me?" her tone was practically—but, again, not quite—disdainful.

"'I beg your pardon,' sir." His voice was cold and hard. She hesitated momentarily; he added, "I'm waiting."

Naeve practically spat the phrase, "I beg your pardon… sir."

O'Conner was extremely irritated, but kept his tone even.

"I've been willing to put up with a lot from you, Lieutenant Commander; I understood that you'd expected to be an X-O, and that your position as chief of operations has you extremely frustrated and disappointed—perhaps, I'd first believed, with some justification. Thus, I've been patiently waiting for you to reconcile yourself to your duties and responsibilities… and begin performing them without that neutron-star sized chip you've been carrying around on your shoulder since you boarded."

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" she inquired angrily.

"Denied," he answered bluntly. "You're going to learn that you don't always get what you want, Commander Sevril. Your attitude over the last few months has proven that you're not yet ready for the X-O position you so desperately crave. I'm Prometheus' executive officer; you're her chief of operations. That's reality. If you find that state of affairs intolerable, then your sole option is to request a transfer. I'll make sure you'll get it, without any mark on your record, have no fear… but I'll also make certain you specifically don't receive an X-O billet, because it's become clear you're not mature enough to handle one yet. What happened on the bridge just now is a good example."

Desperately, Naeve tried to control her temper.

"What exactly do you mean… sir?" She was practically trembling with suppressed fury.

"Ensign T'Path has every right to express her opinion without fear of reprisal."

"You yourself made the decision!" Her voice rose almost an octave.

He nodded. "I did. But that doesn’t mean T'Path's perspective should be suppressed simply because you or I find it aggravating or disagree with it. She’s a Starfleet officer, entitled to respect when she voices her viewpoint.

"In addition,” he added firmly, “you will not speak to her after your shift on anything relating to the incident we're currently discussing. I consider the matter closed... and so, it is. I as much as said so on the bridge… and you decided on a show of overbearing authority in direct defiance of my clearly implied desires."

He fixed her with a dangerous glare, and told her, "Don't ever do it again.

"Are we clear, Lieutenant Commander?"

She was back on her heels, but not completely cowed. Each of her next words seemed drawn through a meat grinder.

"We are... sir.

"I respectfully request permission, however, to eventually speak with Captain Becker on matters related to this conversation."

If Naeve thought that would worry him, she was wrong; O'Conner inclined his head.

"You're authorized to do so at your convenience, Lieutenant Commander Sevril." He hesitated a moment, then decided a final statement was necessary.

"You are dismissed."

***

"…dismissed."

It wasn't often Luciano Mantovanni noted an undercurrent of childlike anticipation in USS Liberty's senior staff. Now, however, they'd just been loosed on an unsuspecting Bolian population after over 18 months of near-constant duty.

As they filed out the observation lounge door, a hint of his amusement must have been apparent to Erika Benteen, because she grinned slyly herself, and said, "Wondering if the planet's big enough for them, eh?"

"They’ve deserved a long rest, and haven't gotten it," he told her, rather soberly. "What with Liberty's presence constantly in demand during the postwar reorganization, the crew never actually received that leave Admiral Jellico promised us a few months ago."

Benteen smiled more gently, and observed, "You know, you have over three days before the conference begins. You should take some time and relax."

"Unfortunately, I have some work I should catch up on—administrative matters." He stood, and motioned towards the observation lounge door, but Erika was having none of it.

"Nope," she countered firmly. "I'll handle all of that. I'm better at paperwork than you are, and I don't need leave right now. After all, I sat in a prison cell for three years… I'm all rested up." She managed to make it a joke.

"In addition," Benteen continued, determinedly, when she registered his attempt to protest, "I've discussed this already with Counselor Hatshepsut and Dr. McDonald. We're more than willing to use our combined authority to force you into taking at least 72 hours for yourself. I know you went to the Roman home world a few months ago, but that wasn't exactly relaxing, considering what happened there."

Mantovanni arched a brow. "You, Hatshepsut and McDonald… why am I suddenly reminded of the three Furies?"

Benteen was unfazed.

"Because you'll wish you only had them to deal with if you don't take the next few days and relax."

She leaned across the table and set her face into a caricature of relentless ferocity.

Mantovanni wasn't exactly a jovial fellow, but his slight smile at her antic was genuine.

"Very well, Commander. You and your gaggle of gadflies win. I'll take three days' leave."

"And there'll be no hiding in your quarters playing chess," she scolded. "Go do something fun: There have to be innumerable dusty historical libraries you can poke around in for a few days. The Bolians used to kill each other with systematic precision… and chronicle it with tedious exhaustiveness.

"That's right up your alley."

With an amused, henpecked expression that wasn't entirely assumed, Luciano Mantovanni gestured off-handedly and retreated before his acting first officer's merciless assault.

She got one more comment in before the door slid open.

"And wear something for a while besides that uniform, will you…?"

On the bridge, Müeller stopped his captain with the announcement, "Sir, a Lieutenant Commander Naeve Sevril, off the USS Prometheus, requests permission to beam aboard and meet with you."

He glanced back at Benteen, who glowered disapprovingly.

She began, "The captain is…"

"…more than willing to see Commander Sevril," he interjected; then appeased Benteen by appending, "for a few minutes, since she obviously thinks it important.

"Permission granted, Ensign Müeller. Send her to my ready room, and we'll see what this is about."

***

Ariada D'all didn't often take shore leave anywhere other than Delta V; it tended to cause… problems.

Despite her people having been Federation members for over a century, most races still had difficulties reacting to a Deltan's presence with anything less than lusty fervor.

Bolians seemed to be no exception—though it took the oddest form, here.

I never should have let you talk me into this, Daniel.

"You can't just stay aboard," he'd practically wheedled. "You didn't enter Starfleet to hide on a ship; there's so much to see on Bolarus IX!"

This, though, I didn’t need to see… or hear.

Even as that thought resounded through her mind, the trio of Bolian males that had clustered around her moments ago began yet another systematic attempt to wear down her resistance to the idea of their companionship. They never touched her, they never precisely leered… but they never took a breath, either.

"You are, of course, aware that Bolians are not one of the species with whom Deltans are legally proscribed from casually coupling?" relayed the first, a tall, officious-looking (not that most of them weren't) fellow who seemed incongruously placed in the midst of a sexually aggressive little band—not that that was slowing him down an iota.

"And that Bolian endurance is significantly greater than the humanoid norm?" added the second, a stout little man whose eyes left her breasts only to see if his argument was at all persuading her... and then returned to their original points of interest.

Everywhere she turned, one of them was before her, making another argument, moving ever closer, becoming progressively more insistent. When Ariada tried to move past one, they simply adjusted and got in her way… she couldn't just leave them behind.

D'all glanced desperately around, but the shoppers in the marketplace bustled past, clearly unaware of her distress.

"Please…" she practically begged. "Don't…"

"Excuse me," came a voice from behind their leader. They turned.

At last… Daniel, thought Ariada in relief. Where have you been?

Dr. Daniel Ryan looked apologetic: Nature had called at the worst moment, and by the time he'd completed his ablutions in the nearby public restroom, the Deltan had been surrounded by the determined trio.

"The lady is with me," Ryan asserted as firmly as he could—which, unfortunately, because of his gentle nature, wasn't as firmly as was necessary.

"This is your mate?" the tall one glanced down at the young researcher skeptically. "You have made a somewhat questionable choice," he said to Ariada. "It's well known that humans are notoriously inadequate as sexual partners. They lack endurance… their equipment is…"

"Hey!" Ryan protested.

The third began to recount a litany of human sexual failings, while the other two, deciding that their rival had been effectively dismissed by their arguments, began attempting to persuade Ariada to join them… and then join with them.

Daniel Ryan had had enough. He tried to move past them and extricate his friend. While doing so, he inadvertently brushed one—who took extreme exception to that.

"Do not touch me," declared the offended party. He shoved back—Bolians were, naturally, slightly stronger than humans… this one outweighed the slender Ryan by over thirty pounds—and sent his "rival" stumbling back into a fruit stall, where he landed hard and came to an unceremonious stop amidst a pile of Bolian maada berries. They were sickly sweet, disgustingly sticky… and, to humans, slightly poisonous. Ryan was literally soaked in them.

There was scattered laughter from the crowd.

"Daniel!" Ariada cried; again, though, as she tried to move towards him, one of the three—again, the tallest—intercepted her.

"We only wish to sample you," he told her matter-of-factly. "Why are you being so unreasonable?"

Daniel, meanwhile, had gotten to his feet. Angrily, he staggered forward, but the juice of the berries was already beginning to affect him.

"Let… her… g–…" he slurred, sounding almost drunk. He stopped, and shook his head slowly. He tried to tap his communicator, forgetting that he wasn't in uniform, and slapped only at his chest.

This time, when he hit the ground, he didn't move.

The Bolians ignored him, and resumed harassing Ariada, who was now on the verge of tears. She fumbled through her travel bag, trying to find her own comm badge and summon help.

In her near frantic attempt, of course, she couldn't find it.

Fortunately, it wasn't necessary.

"Leave them alone… or I'll rip your ugly blue tongues out and choke you to death with them."

Shocked, the Bolians all turned.

There stood another pair of off-worlders, these two in the uniforms of Starfleet officers. One, a dark-haired Vulcan female, had evidently found her companion's choice of phrase interesting… or so her arched brow seemed to indicate.

The one who must have spoken was an Orion—a stunningly beautiful Orion.

"That constitutes verbal assault, I'll have you know," said the short, stout one. All three managed to look offended, even as they examined her with growing interest.

The Orion wasn’t impressed with their assumed affront, or their obvious attraction. She stepped forward with startling speed and snapped a short, vicious palm thrust into the speaker's chin; his eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell like a dead tree in a sudden summer storm.

"And that's physical assault," she declared, with a patronizing sarcasm. "Now get the hell out of here before I decide to make it aggravated assault."

The other two gaped, stammered… then, when she took a step towards them, fled.

"This man requires immediate medical attention," announced the Vulcan, as she examined the prone form of Daniel Ryan.

"Parihn to Liberty. Four to beam directly to sickbay. The others are in close proximity: A Deltan; and a human who's been exposed to some sort of toxin."

There came a snort from her commbadge.

"Yeah. You ready?"

Ariada watched in relief and amazement as the rude response from her vessel inspired a smile instead of further anger.

"Yes, Mav. Energize."

The last thing Ariada D'all heard before disappearing was an incensed Bolian, indignantly demanding, "And who's going to pay for all my maada berries?"

***

Naeve Sevril hesitated at the door to Luciano Mantovanni's ready room. She was experiencing a state of mind with which she wasn't overly familiar: That of being intimidated.

This is silly, she told herself, with more conviction than she felt. He's just another starship captain. A little more famous than most, but…

It didn't ring true even in the private corridors of her own mind.

She glanced back at Liberty's bridge… and found that Erika Benteen, the chief of operations, had fixed her with a wry, knowing grin.

That annoyed her… enough to motivate an instant sounding of the ready room chime.

"Come in."

Naeve stifled the small sense of guilt that seemed to persist in the back of her mind. She admitted that she’d been somewhat impulsive in her decision after the altercation with Mark O’Conner… but it was too late to change her mind at this late stage—not when she was standing outside Mantovanni’s sanctum sanctorum. She could still feel Erika Benteen’s curious gaze on her back and straightened her spine.

It couldn't hurt to show some military precision. With carefully measured steps, Naeve marched to stand before the center of his desk even as the door whispered closed behind her.

Deliberately, she saluted.

"Lieutenant Commander Naeve Sevril, sir; thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

He's really handsome, she thought, unbidden, and younger than I realized.

While there was, indeed, a touch of silver at the man's temples, the rest of his hair remained a lustrous, wavy black. The beard was neatly trimmed; it partly concealed features that were sharp and severe.

And that hawklike gaze now regarded her.

"At ease, Lieutenant Commander. Please, sit."

Naeve settled herself into one of the two chairs flanking the antique chessboard—the lone decoration adorning the matching oaken table between them.

After a few moments, Mantovanni's brow arched in a peculiarly Vulcan fashion; she realized that he wasn't, at least for the moment, inclined towards niceties or chit-chat… and was waiting for her to speak.

"Sir," she began, earnest but hesitant, "I understand Liberty has an opening for a bridge officer—X-O, if I'm not mistaken. I believe I'm qualified for such a position."

He frowned slightly, and glanced at his desktop viewer.

No doubt examining my personnel record, Naeve thought.

This suspicion was borne out, when, a moment later, he inquired, "You've only been aboard the Prometheus for half a year, Commander. What prompts this interest in a transfer?"

Naeve Sevril realized that she had two ways to conduct the bulk of the interview. She could: Allow Luciano Mantovanni's formidable presence to continue throwing her off stride; or, attempt to recover the initiative.

She chose the latter.

"To be frank, Captain… I don't feel my assignment as chief of operations for Prometheus is a sufficient challenge for a person of my abilities and accomplishments. I've held the senior ops post on a starship before, and I'm interested in shouldering newer, greater responsibilities. It seemed… serendipitous to me that Liberty would need an executive officer while someone eminently qualified for the post would be available and desirous of same."

It was, she knew, a gamble to be so forward… and his next statement didn't tell her much about whether it had been a successful one or not.

"I've had a number of officers serve as my X-O aboard Liberty, Commander Sevril: Rajah Bagheer is now captain of the Sacramento; Theren Sih'tarr commands the Fearless; Kate Sheridan's serving with Captain Lex of the Argus; and my acting first officer, Erika Benteen, once held the center seat on the USS Lakota. Are you implying that I should disregard her qualifications—which include experience as a first officer and a captain—and award you the position?"

Now that's a loaded question if ever I heard one, Naeve thought.

"Sir, it's not for me to comment on another officer's capabilities—only my own. I noted that Liberty had the position available, and decided to apply." She added, proudly, "I apologize if that seems presumptuous to you… however, you've had months to fill the position with Lieutenant Commander Benteen, and haven't done so."

That, Sevril saw immediately, was the wrong tactic… or at least one sentence too many. Mantovanni's expression hardened slightly.

"Your only current presumption, insofar as I can determine, lies in thinking you can predict my thought processes, Commander. That sheen of aristocratic hauteur you seem to carry like a badge of honor leaves me singularly unimpressed." Before she could protest, he continued, in a tone that seemed to imply his next statement was almost an afterthought.

She didn't believe that for a minute… especially after hearing it.

"Why haven't I heard from Captain Becker on this matter? Customarily, one seeks a commanding officer's blessing before looking to transfer… you do recall that filling a position here would leave one open on Prometheus?"

After a few seconds, Naeve realized she was staring blankly at Liberty's captain.

Oh, no… she thought. I was so angry at that jerk O'Conner I never went to…

"Captain Becker is extremely busy at this time, sir," she tried, rather lamely. "I have the X-O's tacit permission to seek a transfer, however..." That's not precisely a lie, after all.

Mantovanni's tone was cold.

"…and since you don't have your captain's, you're hoping I'll accept that? I daresay labeling you merely 'presumptuous' would be something of an understatement."

"Sir, I…"

He wasn't interested.

"If you want to try this again, Lieutenant Commander, I suggest you have Captain Becker or Commander O'Conner contact me. Until then, you're wasting my time… and your breath.

"Now get out of my ready room."

There was nothing she could say to recoup the situation. She'd made an atrocious first impression on one of Starfleet's legendary commanders, and had almost certainly ended any possibility of ever serving with him.

She departed with as much dignity as she could muster… but Naeve Sevril knew in her heart that she was, essentially, slinking away.

After she'd gone, a curious Mantovanni began a more detailed perusal of her personnel file.

For the most part, he liked what he saw. There was no question that Naeve Sevril had an excellent record: She'd been decorated by Starfleet twice in her short career, and her direct supervisors had invariably proclaimed her skills to be above reproach.

Command, though, despite what many thought, wasn't just about confidence and competence: Sevril's blatant disregard for her captain—whether intentional or not—indicated that she clearly had at least a slight ways to go before taking the next step towards holding a center seat.

She'll get there, I'd wager. The road may just be a bit more difficult to navigate than she expected.

After a moment, he entered his private ciphers, and accessed that part of her records containing personal observations and anecdotes by former commanders—the ones accessible only to officers holding the rank of captain or above. It was an elitist little secret of the upper ranks, to be sure… but it did have its uses.

There, in the inner reaches of the performance evaluations, were the words and phrases he'd expected to see: "A bit arrogant"… "somewhat standoffish"… "rather full of herself"…The notations were nothing damning, to be certain—God knows they're not as bad as some of the more amusing comments in mine, the Sicilian thought wryly—but he wasn't surprised to note that he hadn't been the first to make such observations.

A part of him wondered whether he shouldn't have a talk with either Captain Becker or his X-O concerning Sevril's actions. While he debated that, he idly flipped through the remaining sections of the file.

An odd notation under "Previous Assignments" caught his eye.

Hmmm… she came to me seeking an X-O position… it would probably thrill her to know that she'd had one—however briefly.

What had occurred wasn't unprecedented, but it was certainly not customary: Sevril, seven months ago, had received a nomination to the position of executive officer—aboard the Nova-class USS Archimedes. Only hours later, though, the assignment had been not overturned, but superseded by the one that brought her to Prometheus as chief of operations. On occasion, such orders were issued because a particularly ardent, well-meaning someone at Starfleet Personnel thought the new assignment was a "better fit."

Almost as often, though, it meant that you'd irritated some admiral, and they were dogging your heels a bit.

So why had the posting been changed?

It was really a question for Colin Becker… but it was possible Prometheus' captain had never even noticed Sevril's previous assignment: While the bureaucracy was scrupulous about documenting such things, it didn't exactly leap out at one, unless you were studying the file in-depth.

Why the hell is this bothering me? Mantovanni asked himself. It's really none of my business.

Instead of answering that, he simply called up another file—this time, that of Captain Colin Becker—and began to read.

***

Dr. Jane MacDonald ran her medical scanner over the unconscious man on her biobed, absorbing the readings intently with her sharp eyes.

“I suppose someone has an explanation?” she asked.

Before Parihn or T'Vaar could speak, Ariada, who'd been silent until now, opened her mouth.

“My friend and I were being harassed by a group of Bolians when the ensign and lieutenant here came to our rescue.” She inclined her head towards the two women gratefully.

“And the maada berry juice?” MacDonald prodded, clearly a little annoyed at having to coerce the story from the shy Deltan.

“He was pushed into them,” she supplied reluctantly, her voice heavy with guilt. Because of me. This is all my fault.

While MacDonald continued to examine Daniel Ryan, the Orion stepped forward and offered her hand in greeting.

“We were never formally introduced. I’m Vaerth Parihn and this is T'Vaar. Welcome aboard Liberty.”

She had never seen an Orion woman quite so…stunning before. Then, again, she'd never seen a green. Certainly not in Starfleet. Ariada shook the ensign's hand in wonderment.

Her skin is so silky.

The Vulcan coolly appraised Ariada, the corners of her mouth slightly upturned in welcome, and the Deltan smiled at them both as she released Parihn’s hand.

“My name is Ariada D’all, and that’s...” she gestured in the direction of the biobed, “...Daniel Ryan. We’re science officers from USS Prometheus. Our captain gave us some shore leave and Daniel convinced me to go off ship with him. I guess it was a bad idea,” she concluded ruefully.

Parihn’s eyes darkened as she spoke. “You have a right to enjoy your time on Bolarus IX; I’m sure you’ve earned it. A sexual press gang shouldn’t be allowed to ruin it for either of you.”

Ariada shrugged and said softly, “I suppose I should be used to it by now.”

“No,” Parihn said deliberately, catching and holding the younger girl’s unsteady expression with her own resolute gaze. “You shouldn’t be.”

It slowly dawned on Ariada that the Orion, unlike just about everyone else she knew, undoubtedly understood exactly how she felt.

“Very well,” the doctor interrupted, as she pressed a hypospray against Ryan’s neck. “This should stop his airways from constricting and throwing him into anaphylactic shock.”

She picked up a second dispenser and repeated the procedure. “And this should neutralize the maada toxins and flush them out of his system. He’ll wake up as good as new, within two hours. I'll inform your vessel of your location, so that they don't start an unnecessary search for you, either.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Ariada said gratefully, relieved that Liberty’s crew had appeared so fortuitously. Who knows what would have happened—to either of them—if they hadn’t?

“Would you like to look around the ship while your friend’s sleeping off his maada berry hangover?” Parihn offered.

“Yes. I’d like that very much.” Ariada answered softly, her grey eyes luminous in their intensity. She'd taken an instant liking to the Orion, and it had been a long time since she had felt anything other than wary regard for another female.

It was a pleasant surprise.

***

The street was crowded, filled with throngs of purposeful Bolians. Most moved with the aggressively single-minded self importance common to that race; it made for a rather intense scene... just a typical marketplace day on Bolarus IX.

Naeve Sevril allowed herself to be propelled by the crowd through a narrow square of the shopping district where she and Mirana Keset were spending the afternoon bargain-hunting.

She glanced rather apathetically at her shopping bag; her purchases remained pitifully few on a day which, under other circumstances, would have been quite fruitful—and fun.

The doctor, on the other hand, struggled under her load; she was encumbered by several layers of packages which, miraculously, remained attached to her person as she trudged along.

Naeve, despite her mood, nevertheless marveled again at Mirana's ability to look happy even as she carried weight that might have caused a mule to balk at taking another step.

Either there's some sort of gravimetric anomaly surrounding and assisting her, or she's got another arm I can't see.

And Mirana's enthusiasm, even after five hours of concentrated shopping, remained undiminished.

"Let's go in there!" She gestured in the direction of a building, which displayed articles of clothing through large glass windows. If there was one thing the doctor could do as well as practice medicine, Naeve noted with a roll of her eyes, it was sniff out a sale.

She followed rather distractedly, barely paying attention to the fussy old shopkeeper who hurried over to assist them. Mirana temporarily abandoned her previous purchases in a corner and began to peruse the clothing racks with a relish that bordered on genuine lust. Periodically, she would pull out an item and Naeve would be forced to make appropriately enthusiastic comments—or otherwise risk an entire episode of the, "You're not having a good time? Is everything all right?" game.

Her shore leave had been ruined, all because—once again—she had allowed her temper to get the best of her.

Like oil and water, she and Mark O'Conner just didn't mix: He was never satisfied with her work and seemed to enjoy lording his power over her. He had practically invited her to leave when he was the one hot for a transfer only months ago! She should have encouraged him then... but, then, they always said hindsight was 20/20.

And, impulsively, as usual, she'd gone to the captain of the Liberty to suggest herself for its available X-O slot. It had seemed like a good idea at the time... but, somehow, it had backfired.

Terribly.

"What do you think of this?" Mirana held up a sheath of bright blue material to her chest, the color complementing her copper hair.

"Looks good," Naeve said, with bright insincerity; fortunately, it was convincing enough to inspire Mirana to march off and try it on.

Sevril watched her go, quickly returning to her private thoughts.

Mantovanni.

What an awful experience meeting him had become. He'd deflated her self-righteousness and pride within seconds, and then proceeded to flay what was left of her dignity shortly thereafter. She had committed a terrible breach of protocol by not going to Captain Becker first and could only pray that Liberty's captain wouldn't pursue the matter any further.

Not likely.

The few times that Naeve had passed Colin Becker in the corridors she'd purposely avoided him. She'd been successful so far, but lived in perpetual dread of a summons to his ready room and nearly flinched each time her comm badge chirped. The way things stood, it was simply not possible to enjoy her time planetside; and what rankled her the most was the knowledge that it was entirely her fault.

"Come on," Mirana called from the front of the store. She held a parcel in her hand, most likely the sheath she had been admiring, and was slowly collecting her belongings. "Let's go have lunch."

Sighing inwardly, Naeve followed.

***

The cadence of a familiar footfall behind him gave Turek notice that he was about to relinquish his cherished solitude—at least for the moment.

“Heading my way?” Mark O’Conner asked casually; he'd appeared beside the Vulcan with what he no doubt thought was startling speed, even as they both emerged from the crowded transporter facility.

Prometheus' security chief eyed him with clinical detachment: Unlike Turek, who still wore his Starfleet uniform, Mark had made an effort to look the casual tourist; he sported khaki pants, a gray sweater and a pair of dark glasses designed to filter out the more painful wavelengths of the Bolian sun.

The Vulcan answered with dry candor.

“That would be unlikely, Commander, as you are undoubtedly in search of an establishment that will allow you to imbibe large quantities of alcohol... and engage in unnecessary conversation with the local populace.”

Mark grinned.

“Don’t forget the women, Turek. Liberty’s docked right next to us, and there are a lot more ships coming in today. The possibilities are endless.”

Turek raised a skeptical eyebrow in response.

“You should come with me," O'Conner couldn't resist adding. "I’m sure there’s a lovely Vulcan lady, or two, just waiting to catch your eye.”

“Evidently it is necessary to remind you, once again, that I am betrothed."

O'Conner's roguish grin seemed to imply, "Your point being?"

"I have already planned my day," the Vulcan continued, ignoring the obvious attempt to bait him. "I shall spend the morning at the Bolian Institute of Fine Arts; this will be followed by a walk in the gardens surrounding the government center. I am told the local flora is quite fascinating.”

Mark shrugged—then chuckled.

“Suit yourself, you wild man, you. I’ll see you back on Prometheus.”

He adjusted the sunglasses and took his leave.

Turek watched him go, vaguely surprised at the realization that although O’Conner remained as illogical as always, he found his company and his conversation more tolerable these days.

Not that he would ever have admitted it if asked.

Tugging on his mustard colored tunic, the Vulcan glanced about in an attempt to orient himself. As his gaze passed over a small souvenier shop window, it settled on a figure perusing the store shelves. Although he had never formally met her, he recognized T’Vaar from the image in her personnel file: He'd noted her fleetingly several times yesterday, along with her Orion companion—who was, this time, nowhere in sight—and had perused Liberty’s crew manifest last night to confirm her identity.

As if aware she was being watched—not an impossibility considering her reputation for psionic formidability—T’Vaar glanced up suddenly, turned her head and met his eyes through the store window. Without changing expression, or even acknowledging him, she immediately returned her attention to the trinkets she'd been examining.

Turek watched her for another moment... before making up his mind to approach her. Casually, he walked to the shop entrance, where he was greeted at the door by a plump matron. She was old, that much was apparent: She'd begun to lose the sky-blue skin tone that was indicative of youth and vigor among Bolians. In her, it had already become a desultory blue-gray.

“Come in, sir,” she invited anxiously; at first, she seemed to consider attempting to steer him inside by the elbow—but quickly reconsidered when she caught his expression. Gingerly, she withdrew her hand as she recalled that even the least gifted of Vulcans were touch telepaths and preferred not to be manhandled.

“Xalara welcomes another Starfleet officer to her incomparable establishment.” She continued, after a moment of uncertain silence, “Is there something I can help you find? A memento of our lovely world for you, or a loved one, perhaps?” She rubbed her hands together in anticipation of a sale.

“No,” he answered shortly. When her face fell, he amended, “I prefer to evaluate your merchandise prior to making a selection.”

Xalara hesitated. "Very well. If you n–"

“I shall inform you if I require your assistance.” He brushed past her, his eyes seeking for T’Vaar.

She was now in one of the shop's back corners, stooping at a low shelf to examine a display of Bolian figurines. Turek approached her slowly and stood to one side, just far enough away not to violate her personal space but close enough that she had to be aware of his presence. Although he remained there for several seconds, she had yet to look up.

“Greetings,” he said at last. “I am Turek of USS Prometheus.”

She spared him not even a glance, and coolly replied, “I am aware of your identity.”

Despite the seeming discourtesy, Turek pressed on.

"I observed you on numerous occasions yesterday, and was curious if memory served. I confirmed your identity by accessing Liberty's personnel files.

"Concerning your philosophical stance: I wanted to..."

“I do not wish to discuss it.”

Slightly taken aback by her reply, Turek tried again.

“That seems a curious response. I only desire to..."

“Your desires," she emphasized firmly, "do not concern me. Please allow me my privacy.”

Turek remained expressionless, but withdrew a step in symbolic concession. “It was not my wish to disturb you, and I see that I have done so. My apologies.”

He turned as if to depart, then cleared his throat and said, more quietly this time, “I am honored, however, to meet you in person. I have heard a great deal about you and your break with the T’Pelline monastery; I admire your ability to stand on your convictions in the face of such adamant and influential opposition. I shall not disturb you further.”

“Wait,” T’Vaar called after his retreating back.

Turek turned uncertainly to see that he now had her full attention.

“Yes?” he asked, when, for a long moment, she didn't elaborate.

Finally, she announced, “That was not what I expected you to say.”

“Indeed?” Turek raised a brow at her questioningly.

“No. The overwhelming opinion of our people on the choices I have made tends to be less… favorable.”

A tinge of understanding and humor touched his expression. “Then you drew what was a logical—albeit incorrect—conclusion.”

“Indeed. Apologies for my presumption," she stated, a hint of warmth appearing in her own.

"Perhaps you would care to join me in obtaining a refreshment? We could discuss this further... or proceed to another topic you find more amenable to fruitful conversation.”

T’Vaar seemed to waver briefly, then slowly nodded.

“That would be acceptable.”

By silent accord, they selected the closest pub, a large establishment with the image of a scantily clad Bolian female on the sign above the entrance.

"Provocative… if unimaginative," observed T'Vaar wryly.

As they entered, Turek immediately noted the atypical silence they encountered, highly unusual in establishments that served alcohol.

He then became aware of the ugly tension in the air.

Several Starfleet officers and enlisted, including some he recognized as belonging to Prometheus’ crew, sat rigidly on bar stools, their attention focused on a squat Tellarite who'd just muttered a shockingly offensive oath at someone.

The guttural reply delivered in angry Klingonaase came swiftly.

“Khoi-udt, Ki’lhe!”

"Drop dead, shit eater!"

Belatedly, Turek recognized the voice as belonging to his assistant chief of security. Before he could even attempt to defuse the situation, Seyla followed her insult with both a snarl and a tremendous backhand that sent her tormentor sprawling back over a table, and into the laps of a pair of bystanders—though, technically, once they'd all hit the ground, they weren't exactly standing by any longer.

Before the Vulcan pair's eyes, the bar burst into chaos: Others leaped to their feet with angry cries and threatening gestures, joining in the fray.

A chair sailed across the room and hit a Nausicaan in the muscle mass at the base of his shoulders. He growled in pain and anger, then rushed at the person he guessed had thrown it.

He didn't seem to be looking for an apology.

“Regrettably, some of the combatants seem to be from my ship,” T’Vaar observed. Remarkable, she thought, that Parihn is not among them. She seems to have an entirely illogical affinity for such altercations.

“Indeed?” Turek replied. “I recognize several of my shipmates as well.”

“Do you wish to summon assistance and restore order?”

“Ironically enough, the Klingon female is my assistant.” He sighed. “And several of my security staff are already here, participating with what I would have to label a… notable enthusiasm.”

“I see.”

They watched in contemplative silence for a few moments: By far the most fascinating of the pairs was Klingon officer vs. Tellarite NCO.

Seyla was putting some of her training to good use: When Mav had advanced on her to deliver a punch, she used her superior speed to slip it, grab his wrist with her hands and roll to the floor. Before he could somehow counter, she thrust a boot into his stomach… and, with a satisfied grunt, sent him hurtling into yet another collection of brawlers.

“Her techniques are… sound,” T’Vaar said with a trace of humor in her tone.

The Vulcan woman then spied a pair of ensigns, both female, huddled near the back of the room; they didn't look afraid, but neither did they seem eager to participate in the—festivities.

"Ensign Cawley, and an officer with whom I'm unfamiliar," she noted.

Turek followed her gaze, and informed her, "That is Ensign Lin Cheu from the Prometheus." After a moment's hesitation, he added, "It is somewhat reassuring to see that not all our shipmates have abandoned decorum… and their senses."

Though the brawl had separated them for a few moments, Seyla and Mav had finished off their respective intervening "obstacles," and now the former moved in on the latter again.

This round seemed a little different, though: She rained a series of blows on his sturdy form, but the Tellarite seemed to shrink in on himself as he covered up—snorting and grunting with each impact, but presenting an extremely difficult target at which to get in a telling shot. He seemed to be keeping up a running commentary on Seyla's technique, her parentage, her looks and anything else that crossed his mind; and, as the two Vulcans watched, the Klingon's assaults were growing more and more frenzied.

T'Vaar grew more concerned, and took a step forward to intervene. "We should stop this."

"No," Turek told her. "I wish to view the conclusion of this combat. I predict it will be over momentarily."

The security chief was right; Mav blocked several more blows, countering her swiftness and strength with the best defense he had—an uncanny ability to cover. He chuckled, despite the punishment he was taking, and cruelly continued his diatribe of insults. As Turek and T'Vaar listened, courtesy of their Vulcan hearing, he ridiculed her strength, her gender, and then mentioned something about his grandsow hitting harder than her.

Finally, it had an effect: The infuriated Seyla overextended herself, spinning and attempting to deliver a kick to her foe.

It was what Mav had been waiting for; he crouched, and her leg sailed over his head. Then he charged forward, smashing the hoof-like portion of his right hand into her suddenly exposed jaw. Her head snapped back, and she staggered.

The Tellarite gave her little chance to recover. She managed to land a few solid blows to his side… but now he was up close, inside her formidable guard—where his solidly rotund build gave him the clear advantage.

Disengage, Turek told her silently. Get yourself some distance, and come at him again. You are allowing yourself to…

She was too angry to heed, though—even if she could have heard him. She stepped back… but instead of dancing away, she went for another knockout blow—a vicious roundhouse right that would probably have left him with a concussion had it connected solidly. Instead, it simply grazed him—as he bent and butted her in the stomach.

She exhaled explosively and doubled over, almost onto him. When Mav straightened with surprising speed, taking her off guard, his shoulder found her already abused jaw with brutal, jarring force.

Seyla sprawled back across one of the last remaining intact tables. She struggled to regain her feet, but was momentarily unsuccessful, and slumped groggily back onto its surface. She was, T'Vaar realized, "dazed and confused," as Ensign King would've put it.

It was just then that the Nausicaan reached for her, grabbing her by the hair and preparing to strike her again in his mindless fury.

Turek went for his phaser, as did T'Vaar.

Mav took care of it; he stepped forward, and with a vicious kick of his left hoof, struck the Nausicaan a blow that would leave him regretting for at least a week he'd been born male.

His target cried out with a note that would have impressed a Wagnerian valkyrie; he hit the ground and proceed to gurgle incoherently for the rest of the fight.

T'Vaar ducked as a flagon of wine whistled past her ear. The pair stepped aside to allow two bodies to roll by, as they struggled to beat each other into unconsciousness.

Turek sighed, minutely.

“Perhaps you should call your security staff.”

***

Colin Becker stared at the PADD for a long time before looking up at the Klingon who stood dejectedly in front of his desk, arms stiffly at her side.

“These aren’t the types of reports I enjoy reading, Lieutenant,” he said coldly. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

“It was not my fault,” she declared adamantly.

After reading Turek’s follow up report, he had to agree, at least partially: She’d been provoked. Master Chief Petty Officer Mav had a fleet-wide reputation for both truculence and a dislike of officers that was almost legendary, and, according to various bruised witnesses, he'd spared no effort to goad Seyla into taking a swing at him. The other combatants, on both sides, had been itching for an excuse to attack each other—though it did seem from the reports as if Prometheus' crew had had the much bigger itch. Seyla Ta’quith had merely been the catalyst. Inwardly, he smiled as he recalled the Vulcan’s positive observations on her hand-to-hand prowess—right up until Mav had taken her to school, that is—but he didn’t allow his flinty expression to reveal his inner thoughts.

“I disagree, Lieutenant.”

“I did not start it. The Tellarite p'thk insulted me—my heritage, my honor. I could not allow that to go unanswered,” Seyla objected.

“Lieutenant, you represent Starfleet—not the Klingon Defense Force. You are an officer and the assistant chief of security. You let your temper get the best of you and that’s no example to the crew. You disappointed me... and more importantly, you reflected poorly on your supervisor and on your department, which should at all times represent itself with restraint and dignity.”

“I am… sorry, Captain,” she said stiffly. It was obvious she'd not considered it in that manner.

Colin shrugged.

"Don’t apologize to me, Lieutenant. I believe the regrets should go to Captain Mantovanni of the Liberty.”

“I am prepared to accept whatever discipline you or he feel is necessary, sir,” Seyla offered stoically.

“How belatedly gracious of you, Lieutenant! I'd considered a number of punishments for you, but then decided that Commander Turek would be far better qualified to decide the appropriate penalty.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You're dismissed,” Colin responded sharply, his eyes two slivers of ice.

He only allowed himself a smile and chuckle once he heard the ready room doors shut firmly behind her.

***

"Hey! It's not my fault that turtle head was stupid enough to throw the first punch. She could have walked away."

Erika Benteen had already dealt with the rest of the Liberty crew members who'd been involved in the altercation; evidently, they'd given offense with their mere presence two days ago: The Bolians had "bumped" Prometheus out of the docking queue in favor of Liberty, and the former's crew had been affronted enough to remember it none too fondly when encountering the latter's planet side.

Erika sighed inwardly. It was just the kind of thing that really galled prideful Starfleet officers and NCOs, and she and Captain Mantovanni hadn't even known about it.

The Prometheus crew, of course, had… and they'd pointed it out in no uncertain terms. Things might have been settled without punches being exchanged—if only Mav hadn't zeroed in on the Klingon lieutenant with all the porcine enthusiasm of which he was capable.

"Come on, Chief! It's one thing to take shots at me; I'm almost as old as you. It's another to bait helpless lieutenants. They're no match for an old campaigner like you."

Whether Mav's silence was stubborn or thoughtful, she couldn't tell at first.

"Hunh," he grunted. Then, amazingly, a touch of humor invaded his tone, and he countered, "They've got to learn some time, Commander—better with me than a genuine enemy."

Benteen nodded slowly.

"Granted. But a good 50% of it was simply the fact that you like punching out officers, true?"

"Yeah, well… it's good to enjoy your work, right?"

Exasperated, Benteen sighed explosively, and announced, "Fine… I'll deal with you later; go run a diagnostic on the security field for brig number four, and be thankful I’m not having you fix it… and then putting you in there.

"Dismissed."

Mav left the ready room, and headed for security station two to begin his work.

He was in a remarkably good humor, especially for a Tellarite; he'd managed to cram drinking, insulting officers and brawling into a singularly satisfying afternoon.

He was sore, though, and rather heavily bruised; the Klingon girl was a good fighter, and could almost certainly have taken him after a long, brutal contest if she'd kept her composure. Instead, like so many of her species, she'd eventually allowed her temper to get the better of her, and had become angrily careless.

In addition, she hadn't expected him to have a few tricks up his sleeve. Typical Imperial Klingon attitude to assume he was no match for her. He smirked as he recalled her shocked—and groggy—expression when he'd really let her have it.

Then, she was mine, Mav thought satisfyingly. Little idiot.

The pair of officers—ensigns, ugghh—on duty at the security station both greeted him with an enthusiastic, "Hi, Chief!"

He ignored them and stomped over to brig four; there, indeed, the activated security force field was flickering off and on—but mostly off.

Yeah, that'll hold 'em in there, he thought in sarcastic disgust.

He removed the access panel next to the brig, examined the situation, and finally clicked a hoof on the ground in satisfaction.

"You… Ensign Cutie Pie," he snorted to the female, a little blonde human who managed, in his eyes, to be even more disgustingly perky than the majority of her species. "Call Lieutenant T'Lann and tell her to have Ensign O'Halloran run my epsilon tool kit down here."

"OK, Chief," she replied, only too happy to comply.

He squatted before the access panel on his powerful haunches, and waited for the tools he needed.

After a few moments, the door opened behind him; a few seconds later, the proper tool—namely, a null-field modulator—was slapped firmly into his palm by a surprisingly helpful assistant standing just behind him.

Surprised, he grunted, "Very smart, Ensign. You're much more competent than most sowlings."

He made his adjustment with swift efficiency, and was rewarded with a force field that smoothed back into transparent solidity.

"That's why you use a null field modulator," he instructed curtly. "This way you can make alterations to the flow while watching the force field, instead of turning the power off and on twenty times."

"Very efficient," his helper replied.

He realized, then, that the voice was surprisingly familiar… then he recognized the scent that had been nagging at him for a few seconds, but that he'd pushed aside as a residual memory.

The Klingon, he thought.

He closed the panel, and then turned to face her. Mav noted with a certain satisfaction that she still sported a nasty bruise along the line of her jaw; to her credit, she hadn't had it tended to, like most humans would have.

He peered suspiciously at her.

"What do you want?"

She seemed a little bitter.

"Absolutely nothing; I've been instructed by my supervisor, Lieutenant Commander Turek, to engage you in conversation, and to maintain my temper—no matter what you say. It's an exercise in self-control."

"Did he say how long this… exercise… was supposed to take?"

She frowned, seemingly disconsolate. "He said I was to tell you that it was at your discretion… that you should release me when you thought I'd demonstrated sufficient restraint."

Vaguely, Mav knew that the Vulcan's assignment could be viewed as insulting to Tellarites in general, and him in particular. He chose to interpret it somewhat differently.

Heh. This could be fun.

Abruptly, he moved past her, none too delicately, and strolled out the door.

"Come on, turtle-head," he threw back over his shoulder.

"We don't want to disappoint your boss, now do we?"

Seyla fell in sullenly behind the Tellarite who'd so recently insulted her honor, and wondered what further humiliation lay in store.

Vaguely, she became aware of Liberty's sheer size as they traversed her corridors: The great vessel was immense; in addition, she was swift, maneuverable and packed a near irresistible punch. The Sovereign-class was considered the pride of the Federation Fleet.

The Prometheus-class will change that, she thought, with quiet confidence.

He stopped outside holodeck two, and grunted, "Computer: Standard hand-to-hand exercise ring."

A second later, it replied, "Program ready."

Without a backward glance, Mav entered, crossed the room until he was at one end of the ring, and then turned.

"All right, little girl, let's see just how much control you have."

"What exactly are you trying to accomplish here? I shall not fight you," Seyla told him, rather forcefully.

"Why not?" he asked, and snorted contemptuously. "Afraid I'll put you to sleep again?"

Why, you little…

"My orders are not to lose my temper," she countered, gritting her teeth.

"Hah! Typical Klingon. All that targ shit about honor and glory, until they meet someone who can actually fight back. Then it's time to hide behind regulations and the orders of Vulcan pacifists."

Seyla began to tremble in fury. Her fists clenched and unclenched… but she managed not to move.

I mustn't…

His nostrils wrinkled.

"Ah, the sweet stench of cowardice. That's exactly what I got from you in the bar. It's why I came after you, you know. I could smell the fear on you.

He leaned back against the wall, and sniffed at the air again.

"Ugghh. By the way… if you've shit yourself, I can get housecleaning down here."

That had done it.

Seyla narrowed her eyes to mere slits as a low growl emanated from deep within her throat. Her fists clenched almost involuntarily. The crack of his skull against the bulkhead would be a most satisfactory sound. She flexed her knees slightly, shifted her weight to the balls of her feet—and charged him. Vaguely, she saw him crouch to meet her, and take a step forward to receive her assault. At last they would meet strength to strength. She built up an impressive array of speed…

…and slammed into the wall with incredible force when Mav stepped aside.

There was a flash of explosive incandescence in Seyla's head, as Klingon cranium contacted Federation duranium, and the harder substance won.

She actually stood up straight for a moment, a befuddled expression on her face as she swayed.

A single, gentle shove from the Tellarite was enough to set her back on her rump.

When her head stopped spinning, she again got shakily to her feet, twisting her body to face her tormentor.

"Surprised?"

"I am… impressed." Accompanying the confession, her expression was as sour as if she had eaten a lemon, but he could hear an underlying wistfulness in her tone.

Inexplicably, he grunted, "So was I."

She regarded him, startled and suspicious, but still saw nothing more than an obnoxious Tellarite. An NCO, no less—probably with no formal tactical training.

But the p'thk could fight!

"I watched you in the first few minutes of that barroom brawl, turtle-head: You're fast, strong, and you've got excellent technique. You could have whipped my curly tail… if you'd just not gotten angry. The minute you did, you were fighting my fight…

"… like you're doing now."

Mav snorted in amusement. "It would've just happened again and again, you stupid Klingon… because you were fighting like a stupid Klingon."

He crouched into a combat stance again.

"Now come and get me… but this time, come with intent, not just anger. If you remain frosty, you're going to be damned near impossible to beat."

Cautiously, she approached, affording him all the respect she should a skilled and canny opponent.

Mav continued his lecture.

"Listen to me: You were beaten; it happens. It's hard to deal with, I know, but you have to take something from it. The first rule of battle—any battle—is that you use your anger, but you don't let your anger use you…like you let happen against me, in the bar and just now.

"You've been able to avoid the consequences of that, mostly, I'd bet… Klingons can bluster through a lot, because as a species, you're pretty damned tough. But against a foe that's stronger, faster—or, just in this case, simply a little smarter—that warrior's rage can kill you, girl.

"I've beaten on a lot of Klingons in my time, 'cuz you're usually easy to piss off. Then you all start flailing; usually, flailing's enough when you're a Klingon.

"Not with me."

The mockery in Mav's voice was gone; it was almost as if he was speaking in front of the access panel again, instructing a charge.

"You were a lot harder," he told her. "It usually only takes one or two of my insults to get a Klingon incoherently angry. You lasted almost five minutes. I had to be really inventive.

"Now it's time to take it to the next level, Lieutenant… that whole thing about 'revenge being a dish best served cold'? If you reach that point, you're going to be out of sight.

"So let's see it… not that I think you can… as a matter of fact…" And he launched into another series of insults.

She hardly listened, and he was still irritating. Mav was a veritable noodge, and knew how to use it. Still, he'd reminded her of lessons she'd learned long ago—but in the last few months of frustration, had temporarily forgotten.

Now she'd show him.

Seyla moved in, with speed, skill and strength. They exchanged blows for long moments. The Klingon could tell that Mav wasn't holding back, but she was slowly taking control of the fight. Eventually, he was breathing heavily, seemingly finished… even the insults had ceased.

Instead of assuming that she'd won, though, she gave him even more respect, waiting for the trick or feint—and when it came, saw it, countered it, moved in and struck him with a mok'bara blow that she'd saved for the coup de grace.

It put him on the ground… and she knew he hadn't been expecting that. The old veteran had planned on one more lesson for her, and instead had gotten schooled himself.

Then, she found herself fighting against the urge to finish him. He was helpless; he'd insulted her. Now was the time…

…to step back, Seyla told herself.

And, with the control she'd fought so hard all her life to gain, she did.

After a long moment, Mav struggled to his feet. For a moment, he swayed unsteadily, drunkenly. She thought about shoving him over, but decided it was conduct unbecoming an officer. Knowing she could have was enough for her.

"Lesson over," he huffed. "Go back to your ship."

Rather than complying, she stared at him for a long moment.

"Thank you," she said grudgingly.

Mav grunted in reply.

Seyla found herself saying, "Why not go drinking with me?"

Mav peered at her suspiciously, then shook his head.

"I don't drink with officers…"

She nodded, respectfully; he had a reputation to maintain, after all.

Then, though, he continued, "…but if I were to meet a Klingon in a bar like the Grithcalar…one I didn't know was an officer—I'm nearsighted, you know—I might be persuaded to have a drink or two."

Seyla nodded. "Of course, Master Chief. I understand that you can't drink with a lieutenant. Excuse me." She left the holodeck.

For a moment, Mav nursed his wounds, then turned his thoughts to the Aldebaran whisky—the real stuff—the Grithcalar's bartender kept in stock.

I'll need a gallon, he thought.

That turtle head can really hit.

***

Mark O'Conner drummed his fingers against the table, his eyes drifting lazily from one female vision of beauty to the next as he leisurely nursed a mug of ale.

I must have died and gone to heaven, because this is too good to be true.

He had been in the bar for nearly an hour before a large stream of officers and crew had poured in and raucously taken over the establishment. From the fragments of conversation he'd picked up, they must have come from the assorted Starfleet ships berthed with Prometheus, and their demeanor indicated they were more than ready for shore leave. To Mark's obvious delight, at least half of the newcomers were women…

…and in his slightly inebriated state, they were all attractive.

He'd been admiring a blond in medical blue who'd met his eyes flirtatiously several times, but she was, unfortunately, claimed by another man while he debated approaching her.

Oh well. Her loss.

Before he'd set his sights on her, a shapely little raven-haired beauty he'd danced with for over an hour had abruptly admitted she'd come with her fiancé—who didn't like to dance. Luckily, the man had been too drunk to recognize Mark's advances for what they were, and O'Conner had quickly extricated himself from the girl's all too willing, enthusiastic embrace and disappeared to the far side of the bar.

Yikes.

After hearing she was engaged, he hadn't want to touch her with a tractor beam, despite—or perhaps, because of—the fact that he was, even then, more than fairly certain he could've persuaded, and could probably still persuade, the woman to depart with him for a brief assignation while her fiancé romanced another bottle or two.

He raised his glass in silent salute to the man she was marrying.

I hope you know what you're getting into, buddy… because I don't think you're going to be the only one getting into it—even after the vows.

His newest interest was a slender brunette sitting at the bar, swirling a glass filled with clear liquid. She'd been there alone for some time and appeared unaware of his scrutiny, as she distractedly circled the rim of the glass with a fingertip. She wasn't beautiful in the classical sense, but there was something about her that was certainly compelling.

It was about to be her lucky day.

Erika Benteen distractedly put her glass down, allowing the bartender to refill it as her eyes roamed the bar. The noise level had gone up significantly in the past half-hour, much to her distaste, and she had almost reached the point where she'd had enough with her raucous compatriots.

Captain Mantovanni had insisted she take at least a few hours for herself—in part, she thought, because she'd given him the bum's rush—and she'd complied, having elicited the promise that, barring trouble, her return would begin his time away.

Out of the corner of her eye, Erika noticed a figure heading purposefully in her direction. Stifling a sigh, she took another swallow from her glass. The man had been watching her for several minutes; she'd been quite aware of his scrutiny. He approached her now with the cocky self-assurance of someone who was well aware of the effect he had on the opposite sex. Pausing briefly at her side, he gave her his most charming smile and offered a small bow.

"Mind if I join you?"

Erika shrugged. "Do as you like."

His rather arrogant grin indicated that he'd planned just that. Sliding in next to her, he held out a hand. "Mark O'Conner, USS Prometheus."

Grasping it somewhat reluctantly, she introduced herself. "Erika Benteen, USS Liberty."

She smiled and extricated her hand, thwarting his attempt to maintain the contact. With flashing eyes, he offered another grin obviously meant to melt her defenses as he signaled the bartender for a drink.

Not gonna work, buddy.

He was certainly handsome, she granted; his demeanor and bearing more than suggested he was completely unused to failure in such circumstances. Leaning towards her, he asked in an intimate tone, "Would you like to dance?"

"No, thank you," she said politely—but firmly.

"Oh, come on. Just once," he coaxed.

"I don’t think so."

"You can pick the song," he persisted.

Ironically enough, it was enlightening to watch a handsome man unaccustomed to rejection forced into experiencing it: It often told a lot about just how substantive the personality beneath their looks actually was.

"Thanks, but no."

"Why not? Are you seeing someone?" he asked curiously.

"No…." She shook her head.

"Married?" he guessed.

Of course that would be next, she thought, amused. That's the only way I could possibly resist your powers, eh, Mr. O'Conner?

She shook her head again.

"I'm not…"

"…a dancer? I can teach you," he offered.

"No," and now she smiled slightly. "I can dance. I'm just not…"

He interrupted again.

"…interested in dancing right now? I'll buy you a drink, then."

Erika tried a little harder. "No, it's not that. I'm not…"

"…interested in me?" he finished for her, his voice holding a tinge of disbelief.

Finally, she turned towards him with as cold a smile as she bet he'd seen in some time.

"Let me say this quickly before you interject again. I'm not a heterosexual. So you can understand why I'm not enthused about taking you up on your offers—charmingly though they were presented.

"It's nothing personal, of course. You're just not attractive—to me, that is."

After a long, gaping moment, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Oh," he said lamely, no doubt feeling somewhat foolish.

Her sympathy was less than it would have been if he'd simply let it go a few minutes, and attempts, ago.

Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, she thought wryly. Take some telepathic advice, Mr. O'Conner… get over yourself.

Too bad she didn't have psi powers: The expression on his face might well have been worth it.

Directly over his shoulder, Erika caught the eye of a familiar figure, and smiled mischievously as she beckoned her over, an idea dawning.

Unable to resist, she leaned towards him, placed a hand over his and smiled brightly.

"But if you're interested, I do have someone in mind who'd be perfect for you."

He looked up at her quickly, searching her guileless eyes, and asked suspiciously, "Who?"

"Well, she's another officer aboard my ship. A counselor, in fact, and she most definitely likes men."

Now growing interested, Mark asked, "What's she look like?"

"Well, she has auburn, almost… tawny hair, amber eyes and is exotically attractive. She's also quite adventurous," Erika described suggestively. "I think you'd be perfect for each other. If you met her, I'm sure you'd click.

"In fact, she's right behind you."

"I'm more than game," he agreed good-naturedly, envisioning an attractive brown-eyed blonde—what used to be called "an American beauty."

The mental image was jarringly shattered as a… paw came down on his shoulder. A whisker brushed against his cheek as a throaty voice purred in his ear, "Hello, sexy."

To his alarm, a sleek-furred feline materialized from behind and settled onto the stool next to him, eyes bright with interest. He watched in uncomfortable fascination as her pupils grew from slits to saucers while she examined him.

"Erika, you must introduce me to this outstanding male specimen. I insist." She leaned towards him suggestively, her paw inching towards his hand.

"Of course, Hatshepsut. Where are my manners?"

He blanched visibly as introductions were made, barely recalling what Benteen said. Although he had been with many different types of women in his time, he wasn't quite drunk enough to consider a cross-species encounter—particularly with a big cat.

The two women exchanged amused glances. No words were needed; Hatshepsut seemed to understand the situation perfectly. Unseen by O'Conner, she winked, even as Erika rose.

"I really have to go now… but it was so nice meeting you," Benteen announced.

Seeing an opportunity for retreat, Mark added quickly, "I should probably go, too."

"Don't be silly," Erika countered firmly. "You mustn't leave on my account."

"Yes," Hatshepsut coyly agreed. "I simply won't let you depart until you tell me all about yourself, hmm?"

Erika smiled with a wicked beneficence—usually a contradiction, but strangely apropos here—and left the couple. She could feel Mark O'Conner's desperate gaze on her retreating back.

Try and get out of that one, Casanova.

***

Erika's feeling of self-satisfaction lasted precisely three minutes after beaming back to Liberty: Ensign King immediately accosted her as she entered the bridge.

"Ma'am, the captain wanted to see you in his ready room as soon as you reported back."

"Thanks, Brett," she acknowledged.

Mantovanni's "Yeah?" in response to the chime was rather distracted.

After Benteen had entered, she could see why: There were PADDs strewn hither and yon across the desk. One or two had even fallen to the floor, where they now lay un-retrieved and forgotten.

"I take it you're not ready to go on leave?" Erika observed sardonically.

"Come here." The distracted crook of his finger and the sober, elsewhere-focused expression on his face dismissed any thoughts of pestering him about his time off.

He passed her the PADD he held.

"I've collated this data into what I think is a coherent analysis. Read it… take your time… do your own confirmations… then tell me what you think. I want your opinion in three hours."

She cocked an eye at him. "What happened to 'Take your time'?"

He rewarded her with a slight grin. "Within reason, Commander."

"Security to Captain."

Erika's brow furrowed: Usually the tactical officer on duty simply used the term "Bridge" when summoning or contacting his superiors, especially when they were in the ready room.

She noted the distinction. "That's probably Brett's subtle way of telling us this is a more pressing matter."

The captain nodded approvingly, and tapped his comm badge.

"Go ahead, Ensign."

"Sir, I have a contingent of the Bolian Planetary Constabulary requesting to see you."

Before Mantovanni could respond, a background voice was heard saying, "It's not a request, young man. Your captain will present himself immediately."

Liberty's commander and his acting first exchanged glances: Hers, nettled; his, as usual, unreadable.

Rather than replying, he rose, motioned for Erika to follow, and stepped out onto the bridge.

A pair of tall, snooty-looking Bolians were standing, arms folded somewhat forbiddingly. They turned to face him as he approached, but, if anything, their expressions grew even more standoffish.

King started to speak, but the taller, and presumably higher-ranking official interrupted. As he did so, the other began keying material into a rather impressively large hand-held PADD.

"You are Captain Luciano Cicero Mantovanni, commanding the Federation starship USS Liberty, registry number NCC-1776?"

"Yes, I'm…"

"'Yes' or 'No' is sufficient," the man interjected a second time. "A certain Ensign Vaerth Parihn is one of your officers?"

At this, the Orion stood up from her station.

"Well, if it isn't obvious enough, I'm Vaerth Parihn."

Neither constable spared her so much as a glance.

"I await your response, Captain," he prodded impatiently.

If Mantovanni's expression had been neutral before, it now diffused into inscrutability.

"Yes," he replied simply.

The Bolians, as one, nodded. Then, the second one took up the task.

"By order of the Marillion Province Judiciary, we hereby place Vaerth Parihn under arrest for aggravated assault, verbal assault, destruction of public property… and attempted murder. Other charges may follow as the investigation progresses."

Liberty's crew was rendered momentarily speechless.

This didn't deter their guests in the least.

"And, according to Bolian law, Captain Mantovanni," he declared with a tone that bordered on genuine satisfaction, "we are perfectly within our rights to charge you with the same crimes, according to precedents of association and command responsibility.

"Moreover, we have opted to exercise those rights."

He met the captain's glare with one of his own.

"You, too, sir, are under arrest."