For those of
you who think there's too much you-know-what
in my prose for your taste of late…
…this is not going where you think it is.
“Vice and
Virtue”
By Joseph Manno
and Christina
Moore
Someone once
wrote, "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in
According to
the literary experts, it wasn't Mark
Twain, though some sentimentalists still prefer to think so: It is, after all,
a very Clemensesque thing to say.
Very few,
though, dispute its truth—not if you've lived on the Bay…
…and especially
not if you've lived at
The end of August
had arrived, bringing with it the rise in temperature that long-time residents
hailed as the height of summer. Guests and newcomers, meanwhile, nodded their
heads and kept their jackets handy: The breeze ran hot or cold; and from moment
to moment, you never knew which it would be.
Lieutenant
Serutian Hale, however, was far too busy to care… or even notice.
She was
immersed in taking the classes necessary for a change in discipline: Until
about ten weeks ago, she’d been a litigator with Starfleet’s Judge Advocate
General. And though she was (by most accounts) a very good lawyer, the
Mittengaard case, her last, had affected her so profoundly that she'd decided
leaving JAG for starship security the best option…
...especially
for her.
It helped the
transition that the courses were stimulating.
It didn't help that one of her classmates
was even more stimulating.
When she'd
first seen him, sitting apart from the rest of the gathered students,
Serutian's thought had been, Well, aren't
we special?
Then, she'd noticed
his rank—captain, in a room where no other student had even reached
commander—and, as he shifted in his chair, gotten a good look at the man's
face…
…and a great look at his form.
She'd bitten
her lip, and, with difficultly, suppressed the approving hum that almost
escaped her.
He was a tall,
human male of what appeared to be Latin descent, with an olive complexion,
blue-black hair trimmed not quite
according to regulation… and features that on a less attractive man would've
been labeled angular, but were in this case well-defined.
And it wasn't
the only part of him she'd have said was "well-defined."
He also had a
body to die for.
And so, her
struggle had begun.
Every time she
found herself straying from the subject matter being discussed, watching him or
admiring his looks, Hale would give herself a silent, private lecture:
Regulations didn't precisely prohibit
fraternization between command-level and junior officers... but considering how rarely she saw such a
pairing, and the reaction it usually provoked, Serutian knew it was simply one
of those matters about which the protocols were unofficial… but understood.
There was,
she'd soon learned, not only a major difference in rank, but background, as
well.
Hale tended to
keep her own counsel—no pun intended—but had a source or two upon which she
relied when attempting to covertly acquire information.
And if
Lieutenant Sera MacLeod—Vulcan-human hybrid, prodigy head and shoulders above
the myriad geniuses at Starfleet Research, and one of Serutian's best
friends—didn't know it, it either wasn't yet known, wasn't knowable…
…or wasn't worth knowing.
So she'd headed
across the Bay to hear expert testimony, as it were.
Sera had
responded to the none-too-subtle inquiry in her unique way, with arched brow and
amused grin immediately gracing her elfin features.
"I find
your use of the word 'delectable' as a descriptive term for the male form
peculiar, Seru, but possessing a logic all its own—assuming my extrapolation of
the man's identity is correct."
Sera had then
returned to the various tasks currently occupying her.
Hale,
unimpressed with her friend's "Get away from me, kid, you bother me"
stance, poked her in the ribs, and was rewarded with a yelp, a dropped stylus
and MacLeod's undivided attention.
"Who is he?"
"Does your
hopping indicate a need to use the facilities? They are located…"
"Sera!
Who is he?"
The smiled
broadened, and she relented.
"I would
imagine, from your drooling description of the man, and the circumstances in
which you encounter him, that you are speaking of Captain Luciano
Mantovanni."
That revelation
had made things far more interesting.
Mantovanni was
a man out of time. Nearly 70 years ago the captain, his ship and crew had
simply… disappeared. A temporal distortion had taken the Constitution-class Intrepid
out of the 23rd century and deposited her well into the 24th.
At about the same time she'd been resigning from JAG, the Intrepid had suddenly reappeared; now, Mantovanni and his crew were
acclimating themselves to their new time.
What could they
possibly have in common?
With such
circumstances working against them, there was no possibility for a romance.
Hale knew this, of course; she wasn’t blind to the facts. But like many a young
woman still learning to cope in the all-too-harsh adult universe, she was
having one hell of a time attempting to follow all the rules…
…while trying not to fall for someone she knew was out
of her league.
***
Hale and eight
other officers filed onto the holodeck for the "lab" portion of their
Advanced Tactical Training class. Most of them then took part in the daily
scenario—on this occasion, an intricate situation involving well-to-do Orion
hostages, Maquis terrorists, Cardassian troopers, and a gul with an itchy trigger finger. On this day, Lieutenant Commander
Edmund Price was given the role of "captain," and the task of making
the final determination on the best strategy for solving the
"problem."
The scenario
terminated six hours later…
…and the little
piece of bloody, smoky chaos they'd managed faded into the familiar grid
pattern of a holodeck calmly waiting for its next victims.
This
is not good, thought Hale,
as the dispirited group trudged back to its classroom.
After they were
again seated, the replays commenced. They saw things from every perspective and
angle, pausing and replaying when either an instructor or student requested it,
until each was intimately familiar with all aspects of the mission gone awry.
Eventually, one
of their instructors, Captain Sorak, stood, took center stage… and regarded
them in silence for some time before delivering, in that drolly Vulcan style, a
succinct synopsis of the patently obvious.
"Your
rescue was unsuccessful.
"The
results of your efforts were a crippled Miranda-class
cruiser, seven of nine dead hostages, Maquis terrorists further entrenched in
their recalcitrance, and increased tensions with the Cardassian Union—that is,
assuming the diplomats following in your wake are able to avert outright
warfare."
For some
minutes, silence prevailed.
Sorak was
clearly waiting for someone to come forward with what they had done wrong.
It was their
worst showing as a group since day one of the training program. Price, who'd
commanded them today, was stiff-lipped and red-faced with embarrassment.
It's
his own fault, Hale thought.
As if able to
read her mind—a disturbing possibility, all things considered—Sorak's
discerning gaze fell upon her.
"Lieutenant
Hale, your expression is usually indicative—in beings hampered by emotion, that
is—of irritation. Are you frustrated at your lack of success in resolving this
crisis?"
Perhaps a
simple affirmation would do.
"Yes,
sir."
No such luck.
"And what
is your analysis of Commander Price's decision-making? Please stand and address
the class."
Their other
instructor, Commander Parsons, had never
done this. With him, the training had been hard, but the debriefings rather
light-hearted. Sorak had never seemed to have a problem with that style, and
had offered logical and helpful analyses.
Evidently his method was more… confrontational.
Aw,
shit.
"Lieutenant?"
Reluctantly,
Hale had finally stood.
She was as
matter-of-fact with her statements as she could be, striving for both
thoroughness and impartiality—giving her thoughts on what could have been done
differently.
Opinions were
mixed, at best.
Price, of
course, would have none of it.
"There are
established tactical procedures in place for a reason," he challenged.
"Your plan—a plan I rejected
during the scenario, I'll add—was far too risky."
"I
respectfully disagree, sir."
"Of course you do, Lieutenant," he added sourly. "That much was apparent
when you immediately struck off on
your own the minute after insertion."
Hale could feel
her temper slipping, but for a moment, didn't care.
"Oh, yes, Commander," she replied. "We
risked destroying our ship and losing the hostages." Her face then lit up
in mock surprise. "Oh, I forgot…
that's what happened anyway!"
There was a
murmur of disapproval at her sarcasm, and, for a moment, she felt like an ass
for having employed the barb.
When Price
spoke again, though, her regret vanished.
"Perhaps
it was execution rather than tactics that were at fault, here. My
instructions were to disable the fusion generators and then attempt a rescue of
the hostages; that's not what you
did."
She had led the
away team, on his orders… and now things were getting ugly. Not only was he
questioning her solutions, but her motives for speaking out.
Why he thought
that was obvious: Their respective grades and rank were a matter of public
record. The two were in a dead heat for class valedictorian… and Price was
obviously implying that she was attempting to sandbag him.
Hale defended
herself as best she could… and, for an ex-attorney, that was pretty well.
"I was the
commander on site. Once communications
failed, adapting to the new situation became necessary. It's called 'using your
initiative,' Commander."
"No… it's
called 'ignoring your orders,' Lieutenant. The minute you were unsupervised, you abandoned the agreed-upon plan
and…"
Her rival's
rail became a monotonous babble, as Serutian Hale glanced up…
…and, for the
first time, met the eyes of Luciano Mantovanni.
Perhaps it was
her imagination, but his expression seemed amused—whether at Price, her or the
situation she wasn't certain.
Serutian
decided she needed to know.
"Captain
Mantovanni," she announced. "You've been with us through our entire
curriculum; I know you're simply auditing the course, but you must have an opinion."
He arched a
brow, and answered, "Must
I?"
It seemed half
mockery, and half warning.
Undeterred, she
answered, "Yes.
"You
must."
It was bold…
almost disrespectful.
Hale glanced to
her instructors: Sorak showed no inclination to intervene. Parsons, on the
other hand, actually cringed.
Oh,
no.
"Very
well, Lieutenant.
"I think
both you and Commander Price are so enamored with your own ideas, and the
vision of that pretty little valedictorian medal resting on one of your
respective chests, that you're forgetting the goal is to accomplish the
task—not to accomplish it your way."
Once again, she
felt like an ass.
Sorak then
surprised the class by announcing, "That will be all for today.
"Dismissed."
The class
members left quickly; Price shot her a look that was at once resentful,
frustrated and even apologetic.
She found
herself alone with the instructors.
Sorak had
already turned to his observer and said something that reminded her that while
Vulcans were stoic, they weren't humorless.
"I surmise
you will now expect to be compensated as a guest lecturer."
Parsons laughed.
Mantovanni
didn't.
That brow came
into play again, though, telling as any Vulcan's she had ever seen. Hale sensed
a smile behind the poker face, though.
"You're
avoiding the fact that I won our wager, Sorak. Since Lieutenant Hale was the first member of your class to
directly address me, you owe me plomeek
soup, prepared in the traditional fashion."
Now a hint of
humor seeped into Mantovanni's tone.
"That'll
be payment enough."
"Indeed."
She'd watched
the exchange in fascination…
…then,
abruptly, realized doing so constituted eavesdropping.
Hoping to slip
out before it could result in a dressing down or worse, a reprimand, Serutian
moved for the door…
…too late.
“Lieutenant
Hale, I'd like to speak with you for a moment.”
Serutian squared
her shoulders, hoping her face didn’t reveal the panicked pleasure she felt at
the request.
Get
a grip, Ru, the young Trill scolded herself. He's not about to ask you for a date. The man is a captain, for
pity’s sake! You already know you haven’t a snowball’s chance on Risa.
She glanced at the wall chronometer as she
turned. Commander Parsons and Captain Sorak strolled past. She didn't even
bother searching the Vulcan's face for some nuance of emotion, but the little
New Englander was another story.
Oh, ayuh, he
was.
He covered his
mouth for a cough that struck her as a badly disguised laugh, and studiously
avoided meeting her gaze.
Uh,
oh.
"Sir, I
have another class in five minutes…" she tried.
"…and if
our conversation runs past that, you'll be late," he finished. "No
doubt Lieutenant Commander Brackett will find the request of a superior officer
sufficient justification for your tardiness.
"Walk with
me, Lieutenant."
And so she did.
***
“Yes, Captain?”
A cool breeze
braced her in the courtyard.
His first
observation wasn't much warmer.
“I must say… I
wasn't impressed with how you handled Commander Price.”
Hale couldn’t
stop the frown that crossed her features.
“With all due
respect, sir, it would have been remiss for someone not to have called the
commander on his mishandling of the scenario.”
Now he smiled
minutely, employing an expression simultaneously compelling and a little
predatory.
“Indeed,”
Mantovanni conceded. "To a certain extent, I like how you responded when
he laid into you. You maintained a level head—other than that flash of anger
you controlled rather well."
She flushed. It
was annoying to know someone could read you so easily.
"But this
isn't a courtroom, Lieutenant," he continued. "Many young
attorneys—and some older ones, to be sure—have an unfortunate tendency to think
their perspective is always right…
and can usually provide either Socratic method or sophistry, whatever serves at the moment, to justify their
belief."
She stopped and
rounded on him.
"I do not,
and have never, employed sophistry… and don't appreciate having it implied I
do. I'm devoted to the truth… as any Starfleet officer should be."
He seemed
unmoved.
"I didn't
imply it. You inferred it. I also
mentioned Socratic method, if you recall.
So he had.
She'd walked… practically waltzed… into a logical trap.
Then, he kicked
her while she was down.
"What did
Emerson say? 'The louder he talked of his honor, the faster we counted our
spoons'?"
Serutian gaped
at his insinuation, and nearly said the first thing that came to mind—something
about respecting his heritage by employing Mafia-style bullying tactics—but
then took a good look at his face.
His expression
was appraising…
…but his eyes
were smiling.
She laughed
aloud… and the grin touched his features.
"You almost got me, sir."
"And so did Price."
Hale lifted a
shoulder. “What good would losing my temper have done?
"If I may
say so, sir, I believe that what upset Commander Price the most was not that he
was incorrect or that his mistakes had been noticed, but that they were pointed
out by a lower-ranking officer.”
“That may
indeed be the case, Lieutenant…
"…but
you're still assuming he was totally in the wrong. He wasn't.
"Captain
Sorak is observant, as you well know… but, unlike some instructors, who feel
they're shepherding officers into new roles, or many who are rather… obvious in
their method, he takes opportunity to pressure those students under his
tutelage… and then quietly evaluates.
"Just
because Price was in the center seat
doesn't mean you weren't on the hot seat."
Despite what
Captain Mantovanni had said only minutes ago about her enthusiasm for accolades
clouding her judgment, Serutian's thoughts briefly turned to her class standing
before she chided herself and focused on more important matters.
"What do
you mean?"
"Let's
just say I found it extremely interesting that the comm system failed only
moments after your beam-in when you in
particular were in charge of the away mission."
It wasn't hard
to follow his reasoning.
"You think
Captain Sorak set me up to ignore Commander Price's instructions and strike off
on my own."
"No,"
he replied. "He didn't set you up. He gave you rope…
"…and you
hung yourself quite readily."
She could see
it all clearly now.
"Damn
it! That's not fair, and it's not right. Price's decisions were…"
Mantovanni
finished, "…whether you like them or not, those of your commanding
officer."
She couldn't quite let it go… but her tone, in a
single sentence, migrated from vehement to almost desperate.
"He
should have listened to me!"
Her companion
wouldn't even grant her that.
"I imagine
he's muttering the same thing right about now—with more justification than you
have."
Only an hour
before, Serutian Hale had felt on top of the world, on top of her game, and on
top of just about every situation with which she'd recently been presented.
Now….
"Why are
you telling me all this, sir? You and Sorak are friends. Isn't this a little…? I don't know…"
His expression
changed momentarily, infinitesimally, and she wasn't certain what she'd seen
therein. While this man had the type of careful prepossession that seemed to
make his every facial cast and gesture an understatement,
the statement itself seemed always to
be there—if you were an avid reader, that is.
"I'm your
classmate, Lieutenant, not your instructor. I have every right to make
observations to whomever I deem might benefit from them—so long as I betray no
confidences."
She'd almost
managed to find some balance again, when he added a final observation that
chilled her.
"I suggest
you forget about class valedictorian, Lieutenant.
"Right
now, I think you're even money just to pass the course."
Abruptly, he
stopped… and Hale belatedly realized she was standing outside Decker Hall,
where her next class had probably already commenced.
He pulled open
the old-fashioned door, and held it for her.
Despite
everything she'd just heard and already knew, again Serutian suddenly found
herself thinking of him not as a sage counselor or an infuriatingly incisive
observer, but simply as a man. With a tremendous effort, she smothered a smile,
and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
Determinedly,
she suppressed a snicker at her next thought.
He's
a pace behind. I wonder if he's looking at my ass?
God
knows, I've looked at his often
enough over the last month, when chance afforded.
She turned,
hoping to catch his gaze violating the Neutral Zone, but he either hadn't been,
or altered its course too quickly for her.
Serutian
decided to be brash.
After
all, I can't get in any more trouble than I am.
Her lips curled
into a smile that was at once amused and suggestive.
"Are you
walking me to class, sir?"
"In a
manner of speaking."
Again he
slipped past her… but this time, instead of holding the door open, he passed
through it and didn't look back.
Momentarily
thrown, Hale followed… but before she could inquire, he'd already begun working
his way down into the amphitheatre. Lieutenant Commander Brackett was,
strangely enough, seated instead of running the class.
A few seconds
later, she understood why.
"Good
afternoon. I'm Captain Mantovanni; your teacher has requested I address you
concerning the events of Stardates 11452.1-3.9—what's become known as the First
Galorndon Core Incident."
He paused, and
Serutian realized he—and, thus, everyone
else—was waiting for her to choose a seat. Face flushing enough to give her
auburn hair a run for its money, Hale gave up on her own customary spot, and
slipped into the nearest chair…
…wishing
instead it were a Trill-sized hole.
When she headed
straight for him three hours later, Mantovanni wasn't particularly surprised.
Round
two. Gloves up, Captain. Stick and move.
For a few
moments, other students surrounded him, and he was bracketed with questions
concerning those long-ago days that had changed his life forever. Hale hovered
on the periphery, though, moving closer each time another student departed, and
caught his eye whenever she could.
She's
looking for a weapons lock.
Even as he
answered the questions asked on autopilot, Mantovanni took in her appearance,
allowing himself the brief luxury of examining her as a woman, rather than a
student or fellow officer. Serutian Hale was tall and slender, and it was
apparent that beneath her uniform was the well-trimmed body of an athlete. She
certainly carried herself as such. Her dark auburn hair hung just past her
shoulders and framed her face, subtly emphasizing the telltale brown spots of
her Trill heritage.
He wondered
briefly if she were joined.
Some unwelcome
part of him asked, Why? Would it bother
you?
Where
the hell did that come from?
It took only an
instant to realize what had prompted all three questions. The leap wasn't a
difficult one: Serutian Hale was attractive, she was forward and she was a
Trill—just like Saren.
Saren.
While she, like
Galorndon Core, was a subject he had no desire to revisit, in this case the
choice was his…
…and he made it
readily.
He heard one of
her classmates—not Price, thank goodness—joke, "Teacher's pet," as she approached him… but the slight
smile and faint flush the comment elicited told him its author was a friend.
For some
reason, this time he endeavored to take control of the conversation at its
outset.
“I understand
that you left the JAG Corps back in June.”
Hale nodded,
clearly nonplused, and a bit vexed, at the turn he'd taken, but momentarily
setting aside whatever she'd wanted
to say so as to better respond.
“Yes, sir,” she
replied. “I served there two years before coming to the conclusion that it
wasn’t where I belonged. I’m much better suited for security work.”
Something about
the way she said it had Mantovanni scrutinizing the lieutenant again. She
wasn’t looking at him any longer, and on instinct he knew that there was more
to the story than she was telling. He considered asking her to explain further
but then thought better of it.
It wasn't as if
he, too, didn't have subjects he preferred not to discuss.
The brief delay
gave her the opening she'd needed.
"Sir… I
wanted to say that I don't entirely agree with your assessment of my
performance, or its motivations, in the holo-scenario."
Proud
and stubborn, Mantovanni thought.
He knew the
type.
Lord, he knew the
type.
"And just when did you come to this conclusion,
Lieutenant? In the minutes since we finished with Commander Brackett's class,
or in the three hours you should have been paying attention to my lecture,
tedious though it may have been?"
This time, she
understood, and laughed.
"Are you
sure you're not an ex-attorney,
sir?"
"Worse,"
he acknowledged. "I had relentless instruction from the only Vulcan Jesuit
in the galaxy."
The walkway
split near a small planting of Berengarian snapdragons. It was clear their
paths were diverging along with their opinions.
Each stopped.
She seemed very
much at ease with him now.
For some
reason, that annoyed him… and, unthinkingly, he acted on the emotion.
"I'm going
to recommend you and Commander Price be assigned as lab partners, Lieutenant…
and that the two of you undergo a scenario designed specifically to address
your individual weaknesses.
"Further,
both of you will have to pass…
"…or
both of you will fail the course."
She gaped at
him… stepped, almost stumbled, back a few paces…
…and
practically fled up the garden path.
Mantovanni
shook his head—whether at her or himself even he wasn't sure.
Someone else,
though, was.
"Well… I
can see you haven't changed
much."
The old man's
brow was covered with sweat, and his hands buried in soil, sifting the dirt for
some purpose only he knew.
Even knowing
how much this person loved what he did, Mantovanni wondered if it wasn't simply
a secret caress for Mother Earth.
"That
hardly sounds like a compliment, Boothby."
The wizened
gardener snorted a derisive, "You get entirely
too many of those, Mr. 'Living Legend.'"
The comment
hadn't distracted him, though.
"Something
about the girl you don't like…
"…or
something you do?"
Mantovanni
arched a brow, but the gesture was deflected with a discerning frown.
"Don't try
that distantly superior crap with me, Captain Big Shot."
The younger man
grinned slightly.
"You know,
I have one just like you at home."
"No… the
one you have at home has a lot more patience for your dissembling than I do.
Now help me up."
He took
Boothby's arm, and with little assistance, the other levered himself to his
feet.
"You
didn't answer the question."
"I'm
framing my response carefully," Mantovanni answered, after a moment.
"Always
the tactician. Knew another cadet who had to consider every damned thing that
came out of his mouth, as if even his friends would desert him if he took one
misstep. Wouldn't mind seeing a meeting between you and Jean-Luc
Picard—assuming we could find a room to fit both the two of you and your pretensions."
Relentlessly,
Boothby added, "I'm still waiting."
"I do like
her. She's full of ideas and sass… but she's still just a kid."
"Generally
speaking,
"And they
say I have an acerbic wit."
The rose bushes
on the South Lawn beckoned next, and Boothby immediately set to work, his eyes
and hands never at rest.
"Now's
about the time you usually give an allegorical speech."
He grunted, and
did just that.
"Cadets
are like these roses to me—lovely and delicate petals, strong and fragile
stems, and thorns… plenty of
thorns."
"Might I
point out that Lieutenant Hale is not a cadet?"
"True,"
Boothby agreed.
"But we
all need proper handling, at one point or another, to prosper… to retain our
bloom, if you like." Having completed his brief survey of the bed, he
again reached for Mantovanni, and was once more assisted to stand.
When the
younger man would have released him, though, Boothby maintained his grip… then
leaned to whisper.
"And who said I'm talking about Hale?"
***
Serutian was so
distracted—and, to be honest, dismayed—by the conversations with Captain Mantovanni
that she found herself unable to concentrate through the remainder of her day.
The afternoon lowlight was earning the worst score of her career on the phaser
range—even including the four years she’d spent at the Academy.
The
safest place on the damned field was wherever I aimed.
Her
instructor's post-class comments only served to worsen Hale's mood.
"Well,
Lieutenant… that's the cleanest scorecard I've seen in quite some time. Now I know
I didn't give your target a personal force field, so… care to explain this
rather lackluster performance?"
Lieutenant
Commander Jennara was a Betazoid, and perfectly capable of discerning
Serutian's reasons herself, if she so desired. Fortunately, though, she
possessed a Starfleet officer's restraint… or, at the very least, one's sense
of decorum, since no telling observations were forthcoming.
"No
explanation, ma'am. No excuse."
Which
I suppose is marginally better than saying, "None of your damned
business."
Jennara, to
Serutian's relief, accepted this with a "Don't
let it happen again" expression, and the young Trill was able to escape
without further interaction. Her last thought before slinking back towards the
dorms was one with which many a harried worker and student would be familiar.
Thank
God it's Friday.
While nearly
all sentient species understand the necessity of recreation and downtime, few
indulge it so systematically, determinedly and enthusiastically as do humans.
Soon after arriving from off world, cadet plebes at
...and are just
as quickly exposed to the accompanying... rituals.
Most of them
don't quite know what to make of it.
Some
immediately fill their "free" time with supplementary study,
believing such frequent, indulgent frivolity only underscores the relative
immaturity of the human animal. Vulcans and Bolians tend to lead this
particular group—usually with arched brows and upturned bifurcated noses,
respectively.
Others embrace
the culture (and, some puritanical cynics would say, just about anything else
that happens by), and become a related species of animal—that is, the party animal. Members of this group,
generally, more often fall victim to academic attrition (or honors
violations)—though there have been a number of infamous exceptions: Ktarians
and Risians, for example, often leave Earth convinced humans are their
long-lost kin.
The last group
employs IDIC (even while usually failing to appreciate how seldom the inventors
of the concept do so) and follows the human lead, working or wallowing as
dictated by those longtime traditional foes, necessity and desire.
When these two
come into direct conflict, though….
Hale thought, I do not need this.
The communiqué
had come at 0745 hours Saturday morning. While she was an early riser, and
would probably have been on her feet within a few minutes, anyway, both the
caller and the message were less than welcome.
She’d thrown
off her grogginess and thrown on a robe, then run her fingers through what
she’d hoped—in vain, the mirror told her afterward—wasn’t a horrendous case of
bed-head.
Captain Sorak’s
expression, typically Vulcan, had managed to convey both equanimity and
irritation at having been kept waiting. Of course, he was impeccably coiffed
and completely composed—also typically, annoyingly Vulcan.
“Lieutenant… report to my office at 0900 hours.
Wear a standard duty uniform, and clear your schedule for the remainder of the
day—unless it is your desire to participate in religious services before we
begin.”
Her first
thoughts in response had been, Either
he’s telling me to say my prayers…
…or he doesn’t want me going to my fate unshriven.
She replied
with, “No, sir. I’ll be there… on time.”
He’d nodded minutely
and cut the channel.
Damn it.
Serutian had
really, really wanted the weekend to
regroup. If the call had come only an hour later she would have been ambling
through the Smithsonian or the
Louvre—sans communicator, of course, since, unlike cadets, student officers
didn't have to remain accessible during their time off.
No such luck.
Now, as she
stood before his desk, the idea of Sorak’s anticipatory telepathy became
simultaneously more plausible… and more unsettling.
“I have
reviewed your record, Lieutenant.
"The
quality described by you as 'initiative,' and Commander Price as 'willfulness,'
is the one at issue. Throughout your career you have demonstrated an
inclination to… 'go it alone,' I
believe the human phrase is. That, of course, stood you in good stead as an
attorney, where necessarily one must possess an almost monomaniacal belief in
the rightness of the cause or case you espouse.
"Now,
though, you wish to become a security officer…
"…and some
of the habits which once benefited you have become a detriment."
Hale held her
bearing only with difficulty.
"Sir…
permission to speak freely."
"Permission
granted."
"I believe
I've been unfairly singled out for criticism, sir. My grades are excellent; my
performance, despite the problem in the simulator yesterday, has been
exemplary."
Sorak, as one
would expect, was unmoved.
"To say
you have been 'singled out' is inaccurate, Lieutenant, since Commander Price,
for other reasons, had also been placed under scrutiny. That issue, however,
has been resolved—at least for now."
Serutian
frowned.
"What do
you mean?"
"Mister
Price has withdrawn from the course for…" His hesitation was brief, but
noticeable. "…personal reasons."
After
processing that for a few seconds, her eyes narrowed. It was apparent to anyone
who gave it but brief consideration that her rival, fearing for his grade, had
taken the easy path and backed out—probably citing some ready-made, entirely
plausible, all-too-convenient excuse. Sorak, exemplary member of a race that seldom
prevaricated, had no doubt accepted this without argument or qualm.
Price,
you coward. Mantovanni was right.
After a
moment's more thought, she started, and immediately appended, About you, that is.
Which
leaves my ass hanging in the wind.
The Vulcan's
gaze intensified, from inquisitive to probing.
"Do you wish to withdraw, as well?"
Then again,
perhaps Sorak had seen right through the deception after all.
Serutian Hale
considered all she'd learned about the prudence of a tactical retreat,
discretion being the better part of valor and fighting only on ground of your
own choosing. Despite herself, she leaned forward, and answered with more force
than she'd intended.
"No,
sir… I do not."
There was, of
course, no visible reaction to her choice—other than an infuriatingly arched
brow that had her fantasizing about just how satisfying it would be to reply
with a… gesture… of her own.
She restrained
herself.
"Very
well, then. Your simulator exercise requires a second participant. Since
Commander Price is no longer available, I have arranged for another to
assist." An instant later, he added, "You may enter."
She heard the
old-style latch click as it slid free, the knob turn… and felt a thrill of
dread as her new "partner" entered, nodded and stood at what she
would have called "arrogant ease"—that is, if she'd been able to
speak.
Luciano
Mantovanni had, for all intents and purposes, gotten her into this.
It remained to
be seen whether he'd be help or hindrance in getting back out again.
***
When they were
finished—six exhausting, terrifying hours later—she still wasn't sure.
The chamber of
horrors abruptly transformed itself once again into a deceptively innocuous,
grid-etched cubicle. Sweat-soaked and trembling, Hale almost lost her feet in
the aftershock of that transition.
For an instant,
she was thankful for the sure, strong arm that steadied her… then remembered to
whom that certain grasp belonged, and angrily shrugged it off.
Before Mantovanni
could react to that, the holodeck
door parted for Captain Sorak, who stepped in and regarded their grime-caked
uniforms with a distance that seemed to Serutian, for a paranoid moment, more
like disdain.
He dispelled
that with a matter-of-fact, "Lieutenant… you have successfully completed
the scenario. Congratulations."
Hale drew a few
deep breaths, pulled herself into an approximation of attention, and replied,
"Thank you, sir." The smile she summoned was slight, but sincere. It
lasted all of a second; then, she pivoted to face the man with whom she'd run
this particular gauntlet.
"Well, are
you satisfied? Or will I have to do
this again the next time we have a difference of opinion?" After a moment,
she added a resentfully conceded, "Sir."
Sorak seemed
about to speak, but Mantovanni stopped him with a brief warding-off gesture.
"To answer
both your questions: One, for the most part; and two, I suppose that depends on
the nature of our disagreement. Don't ask for my involvement if you're not
interested in having it, Lieutenant. I was quite happy in the back of the room.
You wanted my opinion… and you got it."
He stepped
back, and gave them an encompassing nod.
"I have a
date with a sonic shower and a cooperative replicator. If you'll excuse me,
Captain… Lieutenant." And with that, he withdrew: Calling it retreat would
have been inaccurate, because she doubted he ever retreated from anything.
She longed to
go after him, to tell him precisely what she
thought of him—his arrogance, his
interference in her life and future—but Sorak served as an admirable abettor to
Mantovanni's escape by beginning an immediate debriefing.
It lasted for
long moments, but abruptly ended when the Vulcan announced, "My apologies,
Lieutenant. You are clearly exhausted. Please attend to your personal needs and
we shall conclude this discussion in my office Monday afternoon following
class."
She would have
preferred if he'd realized that 15 minutes before.
This time, Serutian
didn't even make it halfway to the dorm before she was accosted. A gruff, "Hey, Red" stopped Hale in her
tracks.
Only one person
called her that; she smiled, and turned.
Boothby tossed
her an artfully prepared arrangement. "Flowers for the conquering
heroine."
They were
Kaferian apple blossoms wreathed in baby's breath—her favorite. Supposedly they
wouldn't grow on Earth; yet these were obviously not replicated, and since they
bloomed only for an hour or two after cutting… well, the old man had done the
impossible yet again.
How he'd known
about the particulars of her examination was a question she knew well enough to
leave unasked: The groundskeeper's powers were beyond mortal
comprehension—well, at least her
mortal comprehension.
Another thought
occurred, though, and she cocked an eye at him.
"But
what if I'd failed?"
He grunted, and
continued plying his most recent reclamation project, a cluster of Vulcan forge
flowers, with a rather antiquated-looking atomizer that dispensed a mist so
fine Serutian couldn't even see it.
"No charge
for lilies, either," the old man informed her. Before she could counter,
he added, "So… how's Mantovanni as a partner?"
In swift
succession, Serutian gaped, blushed… and then realized she'd inferred something
Boothby hadn't implied. Even after everything that had happened, her mind was
still running along a very dangerous
track.
"Don't be
embarrassed. Even I was young
once."
She nearly
clenched her fists, but remembered his fragile gift and instead forced herself
to relax.
"I don't
understand it… or him. He's the one
who forced the evaluation; then, he goes into the simulator with me and helps
me get through it. Why would he do that?"
Boothby
produced a small pair of clippers from one of his coveralls' innumerable
pockets, snipped away a withered bulb and applied his sprayer again.
"I thought
you were going into Security, Ms. Hale. Isn't Investigations a subset of
that?"
Serutian knew
better than to bother pursuing the subject further: When Boothby stopped
answering questions the conversation was essentially over.
"Thanks
for the flowers."
An offhand, "Anytime, Red" let her know
she'd already been relegated to past and future: The present consisted solely
of gardening. Of course, she didn't blame him.
Serutian had
some digging around of her own to do.
***
Luciano
Mantovanni sat in his quarters and sourly contemplated a universe that had done
its damnedest to leave him behind... and had perhaps succeeded.
At first, he'd
almost been lulled into thinking life was much the same as it'd been in his era. The starship that had appeared
to lead Intrepid home after her
temporal jaunt, USS Hood, had been an
old-style Excelsior-class commanded
by an old school captain. The man had striven to put the new arrival at ease—to
connect with him. It was in large part as a result of Robert DeSoto's empathy
and compassion that they'd formed a tentative friendship; and the newfound
attachment had slightly eased Mantovanni's lingering shock at being told he'd
spent the last 70 years slipping into the realm of legend.
Even so, the
differences between 23rd and 24th centuries had been more
than a little startling.
Civilians
serving on starships, Klingons as allies…
What's
that old song… "The World Turned Upside Down"?
And it wasn't
just circumstances that had changed.
In the time
Mantovanni had spent in his host's company, the man had received at least four
communiqués from Starfleet Command, on matters his guest had considered
low-priority at best, trivial at worst. Upper echelons had clearly become more
hands-on in the seven decades he'd been missing, and that didn't sit well with
him—at all.
Looking
over your shoulder is one thing. Holding your hand is quite another.
He sighed, and
glanced around for the thousandth time at his "home away from home."
Except for the few touches he himself had added, the décor in Mantovanni's
room, and most of the others he'd seen, was blandly cheery—a reflection, he was
beginning to think, of the perhaps not-so-brave new world in which he'd found himself
months ago.
That wasn't
entirely fair, he knew. Starfleet was still the bulwark of the Federation; it
just seemed as if it had forgotten that true strength lay not only in
preparation, but in presentation, as well. History had proven that over and
again, but his fellow citizens and servicemen seemed to have forgotten it once
more. He'd spent some time aboard the fleet's flagship class during one of Hood's innumerable rendezvous en route to Earth. The USS Odyssey had reminded him of a luxury
liner, and the glorified pantsuit uniforms to which he'd not yet reconciled
himself had only added to the sense of illicit ease that had seemed to him
entirely inappropriate for a ship-of-the-line.
His displeasure
had become clear to Starfleet when, during Mantovanni's debriefing, some
stuffed shirt whose name now escaped him had asked his impression of the Galaxy-class. The response had been
tactless, but no less true for that.
"She's
rounded, unwieldy and absurdly comfortable—that is, everything a capital
starship shouldn't be. You might as
well have painted a happy face on the damned thing."
That, of course,
had gone over very well.
His prospects
hadn't improved when the Chief of Personnel, soon-to-retire Vice Admiral
Montrose, had inquired, during a supposedly informal
interview, what he'd planned on doing now that he'd returned to the here and
now.
Mantovanni had
arched a brow.
"I assume
I'll be given a starship eventually."
Montrose had
smiled sadly, and the object of his faux affection had realized in that moment
he'd been the only one who'd made
that assumption.
"I'm sorry, Captain. You're no longer
qualified to sit in the center seat. You're 70 years out of touch with the
latest technological advancements; nor are you familiar with the current
political climate. Putting you in the command chair would be…" He paused.
Mantovanni had
known precisely what the man was
thinking: "…like giving a child a charged phaser."
The older man
had finished with, "…inappropriate." Then, an instant later, he'd
added, "But I'm sure Starfleet will find productive duty for you, Luciano."
It had been all
too clear that this man was taking not a little pleasure in bearing such
tidings.
"What
about Intrepid?" Mantovanni
tried. "She's pristine, even if not state-of-the-art. She and I can evolve
together."
"That
wouldn't solve your gap in historical awareness… and, to be frank, I'm sure
Starfleet has other plans for your old ship—especially since there's a new Intrepid-class out there. No doubt
she'll become a training vessel, a museum… or simply be sold to the Magna
Romans."
He'd let that
last lie, astonishing though the idea was.
"I'll
simply re-qualify, then."
"You're
welcome to try, of course…"
Montrose's
smile had been sincere, but not exactly encouraging; in a moment, its
motivation became clearer, and the unpleasant undertone of the discussion
positively discordant.
"…but,
having glanced at your records, I daresay you might find some of the
technicalities of modern starship command a little… complex. No offense intended, Captain; I'm just relying on your
Academy transcripts, here."
It hadn't been
since his youth on Vulcan that Mantovanni's intelligence had been so
disparaged. Even though he hadn't been a particularly good student—hell, he'd
been a shitty student, unless
motivated—the comment had been obliquely vicious and completely inappropriate.
Mantovanni had
thought, Rank hath its privileges.
Then,
again, so doth notoriety.
He'd then used
his.
"Well,
sir, this has certainly been an education."
Montrose was no
idiot; he'd noted the particular word-use with a frown.
"I hear
you're retiring," the younger man had continued as he rose. "I'm
hoping you'll reconsider… because I 'm
already imagining that affronted little grimace you'll wear when writing the
orders for my next starship."
He'd then
turned for the door.
Montrose had
sputtered a shocked, "I haven't dismissed you, Captain."
"No, you
haven't," Mantovanni had immediately agreed… and it hadn't slowed him for
an instant. "Fortunately, you're the one who'd called this 'an unofficial
little chat.'
"Well, I'm through chatting, Admiral."
And with that
departure, he'd dismissed
Montrose—figuratively speaking, at any rate.
For the last
few months, thus, he'd been a uniquely inspired pupil… but he was neither scientist
nor technician, and the strain was beginning to tell. Pride had prevented
Mantovanni from sitting in class like a common cadet… but, of course, that
meant he had only himself to rely upon, and self-reliance was, in this case,
highly overrated. His weeks-ago choice to audit Advanced Tactical Training had
been motivated by a need for a breath of fresh air and friendly faces—the
better to forget for a time, each day, the sea of numbers and equations that
threatened to drown, or at least ground, his career.
Wearily, he
turned back to the PADD containing the course on temporal mechanics, noted with
flagging amusement the irony of having lived through something he'd probably
never fully comprehend…
…and gave a
start as his quarters' chime sounded.
Hale glanced
into Mantovanni’s chambers hesitantly, nervousness increasing exponentially.
Nearly bolting at the sight of him, her inner voice screamed, What am I doing here?!
When she
stepped across the threshold and the door slid shut behind her, though, something
inside clicked off… or on: Serutian wasn't sure which.
She was sure, however, that there was no
turning back.
“Lieutenant
Hale, this is unexpected. What may I do for you?”
Wildly, she
thought, Well, since you asked so nicely…
He was close
enough that she reached him in three long strides. Feeling as if her body were
out of control, Hale reached up and took his head in her hands, bringing his
mouth down onto hers for a crushing kiss.
Mantovanni was
so stunned that it took a split second for his brain to catch up with what was
happening; and before it did, he found himself responding.
It was, after
all, one hell of a kiss.
When it finally
registered, though, restraint, common sense and protocol overrode instinct, and
the powerful grip he'd taken of her shoulders served well to set his fervent
guest back on her heels. Evidently Hale, in that instant, recovered a modicum
of awareness and decorum, too, because she then stumbled away and backed
towards the exit, her expression seeming to him very much like one she'd wear
if he'd started all this—as if he'd kissed her.
She gasped when
he snapped, "Computer, lock the
door," and turned back, seemingly against her will, to face him. Her
lower lip trembled for an instant, and he noted with dismay that it took a
tremendous effort not to simply throw caution to the wind and let events
proceed as they would.
He summoned up
the best façade of detachment manageable under the circumstances, drew a
somewhat ragged breath, and declared, "That
should not have happened."
She joined him
out on that declarative limb with, “I
know.”
He arched a
brow. "I'm waiting."
Hale seemed to
be scrambling for an answer, and what she finally gave him was, "Uh… welcome to the 24th
century?"
It broke the
ice, or at least cracked it.
Mantovanni
granted her a brief smile and replied, "Well, I'll concede that the
welcoming committee does a damned thorough job."
She colored.
"Serutian…."
The
gentle beginning gave way to a generous dose of his natural acidity. "Pardon my presumption, but I'm
going to proceed with the idea that it's acceptable to call you Serutian… or,
better yet, Dr. Hale, after that impromptu tonsillectomy."
Her blush
darkened, but she managed, "Serutian is fine… C–Cicero."
He nodded at
the usage, a "fair enough" expression displacing the irritation and
curiosity written there… but only for a moment.
When it
returned, along with his customary raised eyebrow, Hale smiled sheepishly and
shrugged.
“Because I had to do it. I thought maybe it would
help me get you out of my system.”
"Out
of my system"? he thought. What the hell…?
Evidently he'd
made far more of an impression on Serutian Hale than he'd thought.
***
For a long
moment, Mantovanni waited for his guest to elaborate, but there was no
explanation immediately forthcoming.
She
seems to have lost her tongue. He then considered the moments-ago
kiss, and wryly amended, Well, linguistically speaking, at any rate.
All
right… let's both of us regroup.
"I have to
use the little captain's room, Serutian. While I'm occupied, you may want to
consider precisely what it is you want, or need, to say."
He then left
Hale to compose her thoughts and a
response.
Options,
Seru… options, she thought, glancing about the room for them—for anything.
I
could try to override the door lock and leave—like a tactical retreat. That is what all this training is for, isn't it?
She sighed. No. That just delays the inevitable
disaster.
A more amusing
thought then occurred.
I
could try to subdue my "captor." She imagined herself either
putting up her dukes… or pulling off her uniform. Considering how events had
transpired thus far, though, Hale doubted whether she'd be successful trying either method.
Abruptly, the
stress of the last few days took a firmer hold than it yet had, and she felt a
need to sit down before she fell over. Mostly because it was the nearest piece
of furniture and she didn't feel like taking even one more step, Serutian
flopped onto the antique black leather couch she guessed Mantovanni had been
seated upon before her noteworthy entrance. Hale shut her eyes, and closed out
the universe for a few cherished seconds. The momentary relief, though, abated
when she remembered that her problems—and one in particular—were still out
there.
She opened her
eyes… and they strayed to the collection of PADDs strewn on the coffee table.
Seizing on anything to distract her from the moment, Serutian leaned forward,
picked one up and examined the series of equations displayed.
Hmm...
Intermediate Principles of Temporal Mechanics. This is pretty rudimentary
stuff.
A second PADD,
which she retrieved a moment after realizing its purpose, contained a series of
workbook questions, and to their right, what she assumed were Mantovanni's
responses.
Hale couldn't
help making a face as she read through them.
Ugh…
good thing this stuff isn't being graded.
Except…
I bet it is being graded. Oh, dear….
Serutian heard
Mantovanni washing his hands and decided that she didn't want him to see her
poring over his studies—such as they were. She replaced the PADDs in precisely
the places from which she'd taken them, stood, and moved to sit in one of the
more generic Starfleet-issue chairs facing the sofa.
He strode to
almost precisely where she'd been a moment before, but instead of sitting,
regarded her with an expression he'd no doubt used on everyone from fellow
poker players to opposing commanders.
"Did you
enjoy your look at my homework?"
"I, uh… how…?"
"Well,
you're not a cow by any means, Serutian, but that shapely tush of yours does
leave a rather attractive little concave impression in the sofa after you've
been perched on it nosing through my stuff."
Whoops.
And I'm supposed to be a security specialist—with an eye for detail, even.
Hah.
Fortunately,
Mantovanni seemed to decide it was an attempt to distract him from the more
pertinent matters at hand. He remained standing—almost looming. If the stance
was an attempt to impress or intimidate, it was certainly having an effect.
“Now…
why do you need to get me 'out of your system,' as it were?”
Well,
I don't suppose he's going to be surprised, considering the last few minutes.
It's not as if you haven't already thrown caution to the wind, Serutian…
…and
then phasered a few holes in it.
Boldly, she announced, “I’m sure you’re aware
that you’re a virile, strapping lad. More than one woman’s told you that in
your lifetime, no doubt.”
It seemed to
her that Mantovanni fought back a grin—only just. “Not in so many words, but…
yes,” he conceded. "Some do it with a kiss."
Hale’s cheeks
flushed crimson and, for an instant, she looked away.
"So… were
you hoping that I'd demonstrate my virility… or take a strap to you? Either
seems a viable option, Mister Hale."
A series of
half-thoughts stampeded through her mind: Option
Three: Call security… you're supposed to be security… he's going to spank me… mmm, that might not be so bad… as long as I get the virility after the strap…
Her face must
have shifted through a cavalcade of expressions in just a few seconds.
Instead of
reacting to any of them, he brought a hand to his lips, in mock dismay, and
then did smile—minutely.
"Relax.
I'm joking. As the old song says, 'A kiss is just a kiss.' What people do, or
don't do, behind closed doors is their business… but I think, for the most
part, that side of our business is
concluded." He finished with a reassuring, "No harm done."
She repeated
the phrase in her mind: "No harm
done"…
…and felt her
tension and nervousness drain away. Her shoulders unlocked and she relaxed,
feeling at that moment as if coming here had been precisely the right thing to
do, even if it hadn't worked out quite as she'd expected… or probably, on some
level, had hoped. Serutian was surprised but also pleased—pleased that she
hadn’t made a fool of herself.
Well,
not a complete fool, anyway.
Mantovanni had
observed as she'd digested that, and probably noted when she'd slumped back
into the chair, relieved beyond measure.
"Well," he said, with
only a hint of his usual aridity, "let's steer this in the direction it
would take were we two normal people
having a conversation." He then stopped, as if seeming to consider what a
"normal" person would actually say
in this situation. Finally, he asked, "Would you like something to drink?”
“I would, thank
you. Peppermint tea, hot, lightly sweetened.”
Walking over to
the replicator for a fresh cup of cocoa and the tea she’d requested, Mantovanni
said over his shoulder, “Just so you know, not all of my female friends are
ones who’ve been attracted to me.”
“Of course
not,” Hale replied, and then grinned rather impishly. “There must be plenty of
women out there who think you look like a targ.”
An image of the
nasty-looking, nastier-tempered beast loped through his mind. Whenever he saw
one, Mantovanni recalled the German word schweinhund.
He shook his head at her candor, again forcing back a smile.
"When I
said we could drop ranks, Serutian, I didn't mean off the side of a cliff. A little respect, if you would."
She chuckled,
"Sorry, sir," and accepted
the tea gratefully.
"I wanted
to ask: Doesn't anyone call you 'Luciano'?"
"No."
"Well,
that sure sounded like, 'Not if I can help it.' You don’t go by your first
name?” she asked, perhaps too innocently.
A frown briefly
creased Mantovanni’s brow as he took a drink of cocoa. Considering his
expression, Hale concluded it was the question rather than the confection
leaving the bad taste in his mouth.
“No,” he told
her. “I’m not particularly fond of it.”
He showed no
intention of elaborating.
Hale smiled
knowingly. “Then we have something else in common. I don’t care for mine
overmuch, either.”
“I’d wondered
about that,” he noted. “I’ve known a number of Trills in my time, and your name
struck me as rather unusual.”
“A lot of
people say that about it. Serutian is a combination of my two grandmothers’
names, Seru and Tian,” Hale explained. “Though I’m honored to be named for them
and I love them both dearly, putting their names together created something
altogether different that I’ve just never really liked.”
"I think
it's a matter of pronunciation."
She frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"Well,
when you say it, your dislike is
evident… and people take their cue from you. SUH-roo-shin—like you're trying to
get the word over with. It sounds like a stereotypical Japanese attempting to
pronounce 'solution.'
"Why not
emphasize the second syllable, and stretch it from three to four?"
Hale wondered
whether he'd spent time in
He said it
once: "Say-RUH-shee-ahn."
She blinked.
"Do
that again."
"Say-RUH-shee-ahn."
"You make it sound
like a caress."
He smiled,
easily this time, and she felt her heart skip a beat.
"Shouldn't
it? It seems like a perfect name for an elegant… "
The grin
mutated from provocative to devilish.
"…mouthy,
impudent redhead."
Hale snatched a
throw pillow from behind her back and whipped it at him—to no avail. He rather
easily caught the makeshift missile out of the air and set it aside. The
martial artist in her noted, Damn, he's really fast.
"My friends
call me Seru… or Ru for short."
"'Ru'?"
A wry grin
formed on her lips and a faraway look came into her eyes. “Mostly because it’s
part of my name. My older brother Delis, however, calls me that for a different
reason.”
He crooked a
finger at her—an indication to continue.
“Well, I don’t
remember it, but apparently I was rather energetic as a child. I’ve been told I
preferred hopping around to walking, and because of that, Delis took to
referring to me as an Earth marsupial.”
"Which
one?" Mantovanni asked. "Koala? Wallabee? Ah, must be Tasmanian
Devil, if your recent behavior's any indication."
Hale made a
face, and countered, primly, "You know very well which one I
mean." After a moment, she added, "Didn't anyone ever teach you to be
nice to your company—even the uninvited kind?"
"While I
could point out the ironies inherent in protocol lessons from 'The Kissing
Bandit,' I'll simply take that as it was intended… Ru."
She wasn't sure
if that was meant teasingly, or as a subtle indication that perhaps they, too,
could be friends.
“Anyway,” Hale went on,
ignoring the counter jibe, “the nickname got shortened as I got older, though
Delis still likes to call me 'Kangaroo' on occasion.”
The man had an
amazing ability to keep her almost constantly blushing: With that ghost of a
grin she'd already come to recognize, he dryly observed, "Perhaps it's
because of your tendency to jump people."
Serutian
sighed, and smiled through the embarrassment. "I'm never going to
live this down, am I? You know, I'm really not that kind of a
woman—well, not usually."
She immediately
decided on a return to safer conversational paths.
“Delis is a
doctor. He’s in Starfleet, actually, stationed at one of the outposts on Trill
so that he can go through the Initiate training."
“Have you gone
through it?" Mantovanni asked… in a tone that seemed to her suddenly, carefully
neutral.
Hale’s eyes
narrowed.
Now that's
interesting. File for near-future reference, she thought.
“No,” she
answered. “Contrary to the desires of the Symbiosis Commission, I’ve decided
against seeking to become joined. They don’t want me; they want my intellect.
They’re hoping that it will be a benefit to future hosts.
"Personally,
I believe any Trill that wants to become a host has an immortality complex.”
There are other
reasons, too, but…
…I don't know
you that well, Captain.
Mantovanni
regarded Hale in silence, sensing that they'd begun dancing around what might
well have brought them together. Most of the Trills he’d known, with perhaps
one exception, clamored for the chance to carry a slu–… a symbiont. He knew the
Symbiosis Commission regulated the process with strict qualifications and the
claim that there weren’t enough symbionts to accommodate potential hosts. The
initiates were known to be cutthroat, even vicious, in their competition
because of this.
Yet Hale didn’t
want a symbiont… and didn’t seem to care that the Commission knew it. A person
with her extraordinary intelligence would be actively pursued for hosting, and
Mantovanni could just imagine how vexing it was to the Commission’s Evaluation
Committee that her answer had been "No." He envisioned a group
of arrogant, smugly self-important Trills milling about, goggle-eyed and
affronted at her refusal.
Good for you,
Serutian. Be your own woman—literally.
"So…
according to you, your brother 'has an immortality complex.'"
Hale shook her
head.
"You should
have been an attorney, Cicero.
“With the
people I’m close to I try to reserve judgment. Anyone I know that wishes to
pursue it I offer my full support to. It’s just not a choice I’ll make for
myself. My mother and father subscribe to the school of thought that it’s this great
honor to become a host. Of course, they're both joined, so… I'm not exactly
certain their perspective's unbiased. Delis told me that he’s doing it so that
Trills in the future will better understand people like me—people who don't want
to be Joined."
Somehow I
seriously doubt that's his primary motivation, Mantovanni
thought. From Hale's expression, she did, too, but wasn't about to admit it.
"A lot of
the Trills I know believe a record of their achievements isn’t going to be good
enough, that they have to actually be there, even though vicariously via a
symbiont. They’re of the mindset that it’s the only way future generations will
get a full appreciation of what they’ve done, and joining allows them to do
that.
“You’d think
such questionable ideals would disqualify a hopeful host, but they slip through
the cracks all the time.”
Mantovanni
observed, "The promise and possibility of eternal life is something most
species pursue relentlessly. The Trills seem to have found a way to make
it happen. You're in the minority."
She didn't
quite realize he was simply baiting her, and answered with an assertive, "So?
“I once read
that we're immortalized by what others remember about us.
“Trills who are
joined imprint their entire memory into the symbiont in order to pass on their
life’s experiences, making the creature into nothing more than a glorified
storage unit. I have no problem being remembered as a really smart person who
may or may not have done something worthwhile with her life, but what I don’t
want is some stranger I’ll never meet being able to analyze me and pick me
apart a hundred years from now. I’m just not comfortable with the fact that
anyone who comes after me will have free access to my most personal thoughts
and feelings… and some things just aren’t meant to be shared.”
He almost found
himself responding at length, but then settled for, “I understand that, better
than you know.”
Another
interesting, enigmatic comment. I'm not letting it slide this time,
Captain.
For a moment,
they sat in companionable silence… but, gradually, she grew restless.
"Well?"
"'Well,'
what?"
Finally Hale
set her empty mug on an end table and, tilting her head in a contemplative
manner, said, “Now tell me something about you.”
"Quid
pro quo, eh?" he asked. At her nod, he said, "I'm not sure that's
necessary, or fair: People already know too much about me. More than
half my life is public record… and I’m constantly badgered for details on the
rest—that is, when reporters and biographers can get close enough.”
"How about
friends?" she tried.
For all that
seemed to move him, she might as well have been trying to breach a fortress
with her fist.
OK. You're not
the only person who can regurgitate someone's words for use against them,
Captain.
"All
right. Just a minute ago you said, 'I understand that, more than you know.' I
didn't get the impression you were sympathizing. It seemed more like empathy—like
you were reliving something unpleasant. And you know a lot more about Trills
than the average layman, or even a man who's been friends with a few in his
time.
"I’m a
trained investigator, and from what I've been able to learn from talking to you
here and poking through various sources—some reliable, some not so… and a few unquestionably
accurate—I have a working hypothesis, Cicero."
At last, she
concluded, "You have a bigger problem with joined Trills than I do... and
it's personal—very personal."
Serutian Hale
leaned forward and whispered, "I want to know about that…
"…and I
think a part of you wants to tell me."
Well, I’m about
to get thrown out…
…or let in—really let
in.
She had no idea
which it would be.
A second later,
she had her answer.
An hour later,
she had his.
He stood with
her, and walked her to the door.
"Thanks
for talking. I'm sorry about all this," Hale muttered, gesturing vaguely
to indicate the entire evening.
Mantovanni at
last gave her an undiluted smile… and she decided that it had been worth the
risk.
"Thanks
for listening. Sometimes you just have to have faith that things happen for a
reason.
"Oh, and
there's just one more thing before we put this opening chapter of our
friendship behind us."
"What's
th–… mmmf…!"
It was
precisely then that Serutian Hale, pulled helplessly into his embrace, learned
a lesson she never forgot: Kissing Luciano Mantovanni and being
kissed by him were two entirely different things.
Her arms
fluttered in protest for all of an instant before coming to rest between them,
palms flush to his chest. If she'd intended to push him away, the effort never
came. Instead, her fingers curled almost possessively, nails digging into the
hard muscle they'd found there. Her mouth opened readily under the pressure of
his, and the moan that built in her throat was pleasure-filled, and more than a
little desperately longing.
Her mouth had
followed after his as he withdrew, like a bird anxious for more sustenance.
He'd pressed her back against the wall and now she was thankful for its
support: Her body was flushed, her knees were rubbery, and Serutian Hale knew,
for that moment, she'd do whatever
Luciano Mantovanni commanded—for as long as he wanted.
And she was more than ready, willing and eager to
receive his orders.
None came,
though… and gradually she began to recover her senses, and her common sense.
She panted, "Wha–… why…?"
His expression
was thrilling, terrifying… and infuriatingly amused. He leaned forward and
whispered in her ear, an intimacy that actually elicited another gasp.
"I can't
have you totally comfortable around me, now can I?"
***
Luciano
Mantovanni had thought the "riposte
baiser" a particularly appropriate bit of revenge—though he'd felt
like something of a cad when Serutian Hale had, afterwards, stared glassy-eyed
at him, mumbled "Good night,"
and practically staggered off towards her dorm room.
When his
quarters' entrance chime rang again about a half-hour later, he nearly decided to
ignore it: Mantovanni knew that if his newfound friend threw herself at him
again it was possible he might, in a moment of lust and weakness, decide to catch her this time. And while that set
of events would make for an extremely pleasant evening or two, it would, in the
long-term, hurt them both incalculably. Dreading either an impassioned plea or
worse, another passionate embrace, he nevertheless rose, moved to the door and
opened it.
It was, indeed,
a woman… but not the right (or, rather, the wrong) woman.
This one,
instead of stepping into his arms, stepped past him into his quarters, without
a word—there to sit down on his sofa and begin examining and organizing the
dozen or so PADDs he'd been poring over in near despair.
He thought of
nothing better to say than, "May I help you?"
"The
reverse, actually, sir.
“Sit
down," she offered, then patted the sofa next to her rather off-handedly.
"From what I am able to determine from a cursory examination of the
material, we have a great deal of ground to cover."
Mantovanni
arched a brow. Since she wasn't looking at him, though, the gesture was wasted,
and probably wouldn't have had much of an effect anyway, considering that his
new guest was of Vulcan descent.
"Who
are you?"
That earned him an
interested, interesting look: She was one of those women with what could have
been regarded as severe features, but a thoughtful regard that gentled them,
and even made them pretty.
"Lieutenant
Sera MacLeod, sir. I am Serutian Hale's friend… and, thus, yours by association.
She tells me your work in temporal mechanics is, I believe she said, 'Beyond
pathetic—almost disgraceful.'
Before he could
reply, she appended with a kindly, "I do not believe it is quite so serious as all that."
Nice
to know you’re not hopeless.
Well,
not completely hopeless.
MacLeod then
tossed him the PADD she herself had been carrying. On it was a note from
Serutian Hale—who seemed to have recovered her brash and provocative wit before
writing it.
It read:
An almost
furtive glance at Sera MacLeod informed him that she’d probably been privy to
the letter—assuming the sly elfin grin was a reliable indication, that is.
At last,
Mantovanni exhaled, and declared with a sigh, “I don’t deserve this.”
His prospective
new tutor replied easily with, “Are you referring to the abuse… or the
assistance?”
Considering the
question carefully, Mantovanni sat down beside MacLeod, took the PADD she
offered, and matched her amused expression with one of his own.
Finally, he
answered.
“Both.”