Star Trek RPG - Mission #4: "Codex Aelyrr"

"In which case I may, or may not, see you there." Rangin nods in acknowledgement, then heads off and saying thanks to Crewman Farunia and Spec Tovek before leaving the Mess Hall to freshen up.

Once back in his quarters, he puts aside the datapad with the half finished story for later when he goes to visit Fujishiro. Then, when he is feeling a little more relaxed, he heads out the door to the recital curious to see who will be there and hopefully spend an enjoyable hour or two.

Hungry again, Kylah heads to the mess hall, ordering a bowl of Plomeek soup--bearing in mind Velir's recommendation that she keep her menu mild for today--and a heaping portion of mashed potatoes and gravy, which probably would not meet Velir's approval. But she craves something starchy, solid and comforting. The potatoes suit all three needs.

She finds a private table, not noticing or indeed looking for anyone familiar to talk to. Removing her shawl and folding it carefully in the chair beside her so it is not at risk, Kylah sips the broth and closes her eyes, wishing its warmth could suffuse her entire body.

Graham sits and leans forward a little. "Under the, ah--most recent circumstances, I was going to ask you the same thing, L-T." He gestures in the general direction of Sickbay. "You seemed pretty upset back there."

"Yeah," Collins admits "but at least my headache is gone," she winks. "But you're the one who wanted to talk, so you go first, then I'll spill my guts. And off duty, you can call me Jeremi"

"Sure, L- Jeremi," Graham replies, shifting slightly in his seat. "Well, look, this is probably not the best time for this, but, ah, Vargas ripped me a new one earlier about--well, let's just say it would be prudent for me to avoid Rangin as much as possible."

He grimaces. "Which is fine by me, actually, except that--well, you saw how he treated Kylah in Sickbay, and just earlier there was another weird moment that really made me wonder what the hell is going on."

He sighs and leans back in his chair and shakes his head. "Anyway, the point is I was hoping you could keep kind of a, uh, extra special close eye on her...from a, ah, professional as well as personal standpoint."

Collins tilts her head a little and studies Graham's face. "You shot first and forgot to ask questions afterwards, again, didn't you?" She sits upright and leans towards him. "I heard how he spoke to her, yeah. But I also spoke with him later and I think that was just his frustration spilling out on her for whatever they disagreed about on shore leave. I'm no expert, but I believe those two genuinely care about each other. What was this other weird moment?"

Graham's a bit taken aback by Collins tilting her head, which evokes the image of Nia. And shit, when am I supposed to meet her?

He shakes his head. "More like stepped in a giant pile of targ shit, fell and rolled around in it." Why do I have targs on my mind? Haven't encountered that word since training cadets on boarding Klingon ships...or did I hear it recently?

"Look--I know I don't have conclusive proof of anything except that Kylah's been upset a lot and that our 'mild-mannered' Mr. Rangin was a world-class asshole the other day." He pauses a moment.

"I'm just saying--I'm just asking... She's almost exactly my daughter's age. Just consider the hypothesis that--you must have gone through the same training in the Academy that I did, about recognizing abuse and abusers--uh, unless they changed it in the last hundred years or so--just consider that maybe things aren't right and keep an eye out for it."

"Okay." Collins smiles. "It'll be easy enough since she's my roommate. Anything else on your mind, Book? What's in the box?"

"What? Oh, uh, nothing, really, a little present--I, ah, I'm having dinner with N-- Lt. Onn later, is all," Graham stammers, taken aback by the question and still ruminating about Collins' rather glib answer--but best to let it lie.

"She's, ah, from a desert planet, did you know that?"

He exhales. "Anyway I was more concerned about you." He re-focuses and looks ta her more closely. "I know what it is to lose somebody on your watch," he continues, slowly and quietly. "It can make you want to...turn to...stuff."

Collins stares at Graham a few moments, then stands up and paces around the room as she talks. "It's overwhelming. And right on top of my..." Her voice trails off. She's by a view port now, and she stares out. "I thought I'd finished with being emotionally frayed. I had a good day yesterday, a great night with Ben, and a good day today. Even though it wasn't for very long, sitting in that chair was better than any drug I could take." She is quiet a few moments. "But finding out that there is absolutely no hope for a crewmate who was felled while under my command... . I keep replying the last two hours of that mission in my head. What did I do wrong? What should I have done instead? I know they taught us to learn from our mistakes and move on, but I don't know what I learned other than I'm a lousy leader. And OC3 did nothing to change that." Collins is crying again. She hugs herself and continues to stare out the viewport.

"I didn't, don't, know Fujishiro very well other than we came aboard at the same time, and we were both promoted after our first mission. The Sakathian Science Station was just supposed to be a look-see. They had a law there about no weapons on the station, so we had all our phasers locked up. But an experiment-gone-wrong turned the whole thing into a horror story. People were becoming mindless creatures operating only on the instinct to attack or feed. A lot of people were wounded or killed. The only way back to our shuttle and safety was via a malfunctioning transporter that Delaney jury-rigged. There was no guarantee it would work, so I decided I should go first. I couldn't ask someone else to do something I was afraid to do. So I went; and once on the shuttle, I beamed the others aboard, but it was too late. Fujishiro had been infected." Collins leaves out the bit about wanting to chain one of the scientists responsible for the zombies to his by then infected wife who was obviously about to become one of the mindless creatures.

"We got her back to sickbay, but the doctors couldn't cure her. All they could do what put her in stasis so she wouldn't completely turn." Collins is again silent for a few moments. "A life cut short because I didn't say something I should have, or because I didn't insist on keeping our weapons on hand, or because I should have taken the hit myself instead of her, or ..." she is sobbing again.

"I just want the pain, hers and mine, to go away. I want to go back in time and suggest that the Captain put someone else in charge of that mission. I want to go back to the Academy and study more about leadership. I want to go home to Old Mansfield and sit on the couch hugging my mother!" She collapses on the floor, weeping helplessly.

Fuck...

Given what Collins just told him, he's not surprised she's upset, but his day seems to be going from bad to worse...

Graham slowly gets up, giving her a little time and space, then crouches down and puts a hand on her shoulder.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "There are--there's an infinite number of 'what ifs' you can ask--that any decent person and good officer would ask." He shakes his head slowly. "There's no end--what if I gave a different order. What if I'd gotten an order, but disobeyed it...?"

He pauses a moment. "The fact is you can't know. What you can know is about you. Did you care about your team? Did you do your best?"

"Missions are going to be carried out. Missions have got to be carried out. I haven't heard that Starfleet has found a species of infallible and indestructible beings willing to take the load off the rest of us."

His tone gets a little firmer. "Until that day, if the answers to those other questions are 'I care about my team' and 'I do my best' you're doing something that matters by showing up. And something that in the long run is going to save lives compared to a service starved of talent or led by a bunch of cowboys."

His voice softens. "And Fuji- ah, Fujishiro did something that mattered by showing up, too--and taking the risk she did, that we all do."

Collins throws her arms around Graham in a hug, almost knocking him off balance. She holds him tightly while still crying, but the presence of a caring friend helps to calm her.

When she catches enough breath, she tells him, "I almost did, go for the Elsewhere. If I hadn't gotten that headache, I'd be back in my quarters, sweetly drifting into oblivion for a few hours. But I didn't. Partly because of you being here for me, partly because I know I shouldn't. I feel like an apple that's been sandpapered. But I won't take anything, I swear. I'll just be a sad little grump for a few days." She tries to smile, but she's too tired for it to last very long.

Graham's taken aback by the abrupt embrace, but manages to hold his ground.

Stand someplace and be solid. OK, we're in my comfort zone now, he thinks.

"Yeah, well--oblivion bad, sleep good. I know that from experience."

He leaves an arm available to lean on, if Collins chooses to do so. "You ah, look tired--walk you to your quarters?" He pauses a moment. "Or that Ben guy - he seemed all right," he adds, sincerely, noting the contrast between the impression he got from him versus Rangin....

Rangin finds a seat in the Ship's Auditorium on Deck 8 shortly before the Lyceum chamber-music concert is to begin. Patel is there, but Zweller is not. Also present are the Captain, First Officer, Lts. Thalen, Bennett, Vaudreuil and Gunnarsdottir, and about two dozen other Yorktown officers and crew. Rangin looks over the program, which lists music by J.S. Bach, G.F. Handel, M.L. Aurelia, Delvok and F. Chopin.

Kylah eats her dinner in peace, and no one bothers her.

It is now 1728 hours.

http://en.memory-alpha.wikia.com/wik...lia_(composer)
http://en.memory-alpha.wikia.com/wiki/Delvok

Rangin mingles with the assembled audience and exchanges a few pleasantries, polite conversation without betraying the fact that this is not his usual kind of music.

A few words to Lt Patel hoping she enjoys her time on board, a brief chat to Lt Gunnarsdottir about some new geological findings, acknowledgement to Farunia and Tovek when they arrive. He steers clear of the Captain and First Officer other than briefly greet them, unless they wish to say anything further of the events of the last few days. He gossips slightly with Lts Thalen and Bennett about life on the Yorktown and how he is still finding out some things even after only a few weeks on board.

Shortly before the recital is due to start, and unless anyone wants to sit next to him, Rangin quietly takes his seat somewhere towards the back of the auditorium and settles down waiting for the music to commence.

"Yeah," Collins admits, " 'that Ben guy' is terrific, and he makes me happy. But I'd be terrible company for him tonight, so yeah, my quarters." She accepts Graham's help getting to her feet, hugs him again, and through her body language shows that she's okay to walk without support. "Thank you. I'm glad I can talk to you about this stuff." She tells him as they leave the conference room. "I'll be fine, but you might want to change you shirt," she points to the tear stains on his sternum, "before you meet up with 'N-- Lt Onn' " Collins pauses and gives Graham a mischievous look, "you dog, you." She smiles bigger than she has since coming off watch, then heads to the turbolift on her own, leaving Graham to go on his date.

Once, in her quarters, she quickly gets ready for bed, so as not to spend too much time near her dresser, pulls down the covers, and gets into a comfortable position on her bunk. She picks up a data pad and scrolls thru a selection of books, settling on the fourth book in a series from the early 21st Century about a couple of brothers who investigate paranormal phenomena.

Once she is through eating, Kylah replaces her tray and returns to wrap her shawl around her again. She leaves the mess hall, her mind distracted thinking of Fujishiro and her inevitable loss of the battle against this disease.

And why Fujishiro, but not Velir? Though supremely grateful that Velir survived, Kylah finds the disparity even more frustrating. Why such a difference in reactions to the Sakathians' venom? What of the rest of the victims? Did anyone else on that station survive such a bite? she wonders. Have there been any legal repercussions for Dr. Waite and the university for all the losses suffered due to this revolting experiment?

She pays little attention to where on the ship she wanders as her mind focuses on the tragedy.

Farunia and Tovek enter and take their seats. Rangin does not have long to chat before the lights dim. Eight musicians in dress uniform emerge from offstage to warm applause, and at once launch into Bach's vigorous, glorious "Double Violin Concerto."

Collins soon is immersed in her book.

Kylah may, of course, use the Library Computer to learn more about the aftermath of the Sakathian mission, if she wishes. She might check Starfleet records, public newsnets, the Miskatonic University database and the like.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vesrqFeq9rU
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Concer...Violins_(Bach)

The shimmering green dress slinks down Nia's body, which is bare except for the scant black lace material covering the essentials down below.

She never wears a bra--her scales circle around and beneath her chest and, when she chooses, can be made firm enough to support or release her not-inconsiderable assets. Right now, they're nicely displayed in this thin-strapped dress's circular neckline but covered enough to avoid looking like she's giving away her entire inventory, so to speak.

Nia runs down the plans in her mind. Thanks to some judicious research courtesy of her connections in the Galley, she identified Booker's most commonly ordered meals from the replicator, and as a result knows he's an avid carnivore with a penchant for steak. So at least he should enjoy the dinner--Ktarian steak, a new acquisition from fairly new friends of the Federation; mashed potatoes; and to start, authentic Boston clam chowder.

Thanks to arrangements with the Quartermaster, the setting will be Observation Lounge 5, which is small enough for a sense of intimacy and has the best view available to anyone who's not Captain Singh or a VIP.

Humming along with the music playing in her cabin, Nia finishes dressing by slipping into some silver shoes--not too high, since she's tall enough and Booker isn't exactly a beanpole--and pulls on a single silver bangle on her left wrist.

Finally she stands, hands on hips, and eyes herself critically in the mirror. Hair up or down? Down, she decides, pulling the band to free her mane from its usual ponytail. It takes a few shakes and finger-combing to settle the tight spiraling curls into something that looks both managed and yet not so neat that anyone would think she'd mind if it gets a little...unruly.

Smiling at the thought, Nia adjusts the dress, its color almost exactly matching her eyes, so that the skirt smoothly follows her hips to fall sinuously to her knees.

She dabs her index finger in a pot of sheer, berry-colored and -flavored gloss, tinting her full lips only a couple of shades darker than usual. Her cheeks need no color, her eyelids already have the silvery-green sheen of her scales, and her lashes require only a light layer of mascara to darken them.

As a final touch, Nia lifts a perfume crystal and touches it behind each ear. This was a present from a man back on Risa last year: marketed under the brand name Scents Memory, the crystal activates the hippocampus and posterior piriform cortex--as her scientist admirer explained--and triggers the inhaler's olfactory memory of a most pleasant scent, changing depending on circumstances, and of course unique to each person.

For Nia, tonight it's redolent of the dewy fresh honeysuckle leaves she discovered on her first day of walking the grounds of the Academy. A scent that reminds her of all the promise of new worlds to discover.

How appropriate, she thinks, amused. I'll have to ask Booker what it evokes in him. Assuming he gets close enough. Here's hoping.

She's been fairly careless about tidying things up as she prepares, but before she leaves, Nia glances backwards, imagining what Booker's first impression of the cabin might be--again, assuming he gets close enough. It looks tolerable, with her breathing tank stored and hidden, the bed made but lightly strewn with various discarded garments, and her soft gray cashmere throw blanket draped at the foot.

Nia always finds the ship's temperature somewhat cool, and the blanket was yet another gift from someone who noticed her trembling even after their mutual exertion. He actually knitted it for her, pretty impressive, especially since by then they were no longer... well, exerting together. Nia knows she could change the room's environmental controls, but truth is, she likes the physical sensation of the blanket--and the pleasant memories it evokes of someone who cared enough to make such an effort.

Standing in the doorway, she nods. Sure, the room isn't pin-neat, but it's not a mess, either, even if it lacks any romantic artifice such as candles or flowers. The only nod to that sort of thing is the music, which she decides to keep on. If she's fortunate, it'll be a nice accompaniment for a guest to hear. If she isn't, it'll be company for her when she returns alone.

Satisfied, she murmurs "Lights out" and leaves. She strides confidently down the hall, smiling in anticipation of--at the very least--a pleasant meal.

Graham looks down and brushes at his shirt after Collins leaves, noting that it is indeed a bit damp and rumbled to boot.

He's not sure however, that he isn't already pushing it on time. And even if I did go back to my quarters, do I have anything to change into besides a t-shrt or my uniform?

He's not sure.

And Nia made all the arrangements, it would be really shitty to keep her waiting...

And dammit, I started the day looking for to this, before--everything else.

He takes a deep breath, tries to clear his head, and heads for Observation Lounge 5.

Rangin relaxes back in his seat as the lights dim slightly and the music starts.

He focuses on the musicians on the podium and lets his mind wander.

In the candlelit corner of the observation room, Nia stands and... well, observes. The stars don't move much, but a few planets and planetoids can be seen seemingly taking their leisurely time rolling across the distance.

She's already checked the meal on the white linen-draped table under the stainless steel covers: perfect, as usual. The steak is sizzling on the hot platter, but it's all right if it cooks a little more on its own; it arrived intentionally rarer than ideal. Since no servers are lurking in the background, the entire meal is ready and waiting, from the soup to the mousse chilling on the cart pushed to one side.

Yup, everything's perfect, Nia thinks, her hands clasped behind her back as she watches the expanse of space through which the Yorktown is speeding. Only thing this meal's missing is the guy who's supposed to be eating with me.

She twists her head to examine the chronometer on her chair. Ten minutes late. Not a crime. Or actually, maybe a crime--Booker is security, after all. Hopefully no one's causing any trouble. She shrugs and turns back to the infinite darkness interspersed with diamond-like stars. Five more minutes and she'll send him a message. He's new, maybe he got the rooms mixed up...

* * *

Graham wants to pause and collect himself before entering the lounge, but he's certain he must be late already. In the end he takes too short a time to accomplish anything and too long a pause that makes him feel worse about not being on time.

He almost lurches into the room and then takes a moment to orient himself--there's food here, from the smell of it, and Nia...

Nia is standing looking out at the passing stars, looking...well, stunning...

Not just, like, hot--well, that, but...present, like really...here...

He clears his throat and stands still, a bit awkwardly, for a second, then walks toward her.

He sets his gift down along the way and reaches out a hand. "I...ah, I'm sorry I think I'm late."

He pauses just before reaching her and tilts his head toward the viewport. "With you here, we don't need the stars," he says quietly, shaking his head slightly. "Not at all."

* * *

Nia's heart thumps at hearing his footfall, as quiet as it was, and then she feels her heartbeat quicken further with his soft words.

She turns to him and cannot help but let her own eyes appreciate the sight. The collarless shirt is an unusual look for a human, and though he seems a bit tired around the edges of his mouth, the energy coiled within him snaps in his admiring gaze.

"I think I just forgot what stars look like," Nia murmurs, instinctively reaching out and slowly smoothing a rumpled--and curiously damp?--patch of his shirt. Her hand traces the hard muscles beneath. "And ten minutes isn't late--we have a whole night." With a slow smile, she leans forward to kiss his cheek as a greeting, adding gently: "I am glad you're here, Booker."

* * *

Now that they're close, her...just her proximity is such a sharp contrast to every single bit of human contact Graham's had that day. As she leans forward he takes an extra half-step and takes hold of her shoulders, feeling her skin, caressing them firmly enough to feel her muscles beneath, and he pulls her toward him, sweeping his head from right to left across her hair and cheek, bringing his lips closer to hers...

"Oh..."

The scent hits him like a Gorn's haymaker. He freezes and rocks back in place just slightly.

It's vile, like a Terran skunk, and...

"It's the most beautiful butterfly I've ever seen, Daddy," Elizabeth said, wide-eyed, pointing at the butterfly-like thing flitting by overhead.

Graham conceded she may be right: its size and color were amazing. Knowing the resort planet was specifically billed as lacking any dangerous fauna, after a certain amount of gentle encouragement Graham convinced the somewhat dubious 8-year-old that it would be safe to find a place where they congregated and stay very still, hoping to entice one to land on her finger.

"I'll do it too, if you want," Graham added.

They wandered across gently wooded fields until they found a patch of some sort of flower.

It may have taken an hour of just sitting quietly, but it could have taken a million years and it would have been worth his daughter's smile when one landed on her tiny outstretched finger, flapping its spectacular wings for a moment...

And then in her excitement Lizzy moved too quickly to show it to Graham, triggering--what he later learned--was its powerful and pungent defensive mechanism, much like a Terran skunk.

But it didn't matter. They reeked together. Lizzy decided the best answer would be to collect enough wildflowers to put in each other's hair to counteract it.

They spent the rest of the day that way, together...

...and the scent was that of a moment of perfect happiness.

He had jerked backwards, but now leans back in carefully toward Nia's neck, letting the smell wash over him.

How could you know, he almost asks... Don't be an idiot Booker... It's probably a Sidonian perfume that's as common as aftershave there and just smells different to humans. Just a crazy coincidence...

Pulling his head away...slowly...seems as difficult as towing a Starship...

At first his eyes teared from the pungency, but almost immediately they moistened for an entirely different reason.

"You're..." He clears his throat. "Your perfume is...really wonderful. I--" He pauses. "Really."

It's hard to let the lingering aroma go, but he decides burying his face in her neck at this point is not the way to start the dinner...

"And, uh, you even got dinner for us?" he adds, glancing over at what look to be the preparations.

* * *

Aware that Booker seems to have had some curiously powerful reaction to the perfume, Nia isn't entirely sure she dares ask the question on her lips. Instead she gestures to the table. "Friends in high places. Starter, Boston Clam Chowder. Main, a rare steak--rare in both senses of the word, with creamy potatoes on the side, and in a nod to good health, some greens, because why not feel virtuous." She then leans over to the champagne on ice. "And because virtue isn't its own reward, some champagne."

She chuckles and lifts a hand. "I know, I know, you're the whisky type. But I didn't get shore leave yesterday and couldn't go shopping for anything good. So you're stuck with what I had on hand. Hope everything at the table meets with your approval," she finishes, moving to her chair and looking up at him with innocent eyes.

* * *

Graham manages to take his eyes off Nia for a moment to gesture at the champagne and shrug. "Well...I'll choke that down. For you," he adds, batting his eyelashes and smiling slightly.

Taking a seat as soon as she does, he looks down at the table for a moment, then back up at her. "I...I...appreciate everything, everything about tonight, Nia," he replies.

He watches as Nia raises an eyebrow, her mouth lifting in an off-center smile as she fills the champagne glasses for each of them. She raises hers. "Tonight's barely begun. Better save the appreciation until you've tasted everything on the menu."

Graham clears his throat, noting again how she tilts her expressions. "Well, I was brought up that it was rude to refuse anything I was served."

The two sip and begin to eat the delicious food in mutual, comfortable silence, though soon talk flows freely. After the first course, they're deep in conversation and Graham delves into a story he realizes he'd normally never share with most women on a first date. By the middle he's busy describing some past and slightly dubious romantic experiences...

He clears his throat and looks down, poking at his steak. "...Well, ah, it was, uh, basically of the 'hey Feddy you look to be on shore leave, too,' and some, ah, less than four-star establishments." He shakes his head, and glances up briefly, wondering how Nia will respond to that. He can't help but chuckle slightly. "Yeah, this one time, I was, uh, a little taken aback, by a new, ah, acquaintance and to--well, apologize I had to explain that Terran women only have two nipples."

He rubs his temples. "The funny thing is, that really upset her..." He looks up at Nia again. "'But the children will fight over access to food, and the little ones might starve,' she said." His smile fades and he flushes slightly. "I'm not proud that I don't remember her species...or even her name," he finishes quietly.

He gestures dismissively. "I'm sure you think that's just pathetic. I mean, not like a smart, beautiful, senior officer like you, you probably have the pick of the litter. Uh--weird metaphor. I mean I wouldn't be surprised if some Admiral was pushing through 'special assignments' and curiously timed shore leave..." His eyes abruptly widen. "Not that--uh, I didn't mean you'd be trolling for a patron kind of thing," he adds quickly. "Just--I meant...you're in a different league."

* * *

Nia just sits and watches him, her chin resting on her hand, while she's smirking in increasing amusement. When Graham finally winds down with what he finally decides is a compliment, she maintains her smile and lets the silence fall around them, as if the atmosphere itself is taking a deep, relieved rest.

"Thanks," she says eventually, eyes beaming pleasure at him. "Y'know what's going on in my head right now, Booker? While you talk about multi-nippled past dates, and turning several cute shades of pink as you compliment me by implying Admirals are beating a path to my door... I've been spending the past, oh, twenty minutes or so...thinking to myself: Here's a man who's experienced, mature, ruggedly handsome, and able to talk to hardened criminals who'd blast him if he says the wrong word..."

Nia shakes her head, still smiling. "...So why is this same guy so intimidated by a woman who's made it perfectly clear that she thinks he's pretty damn intriguing?"

She leans forward now, both elbows on the table, her eyes meeting his over the candlelight. "It's flattering that you seem to think I'm some unreachable senior officer who's being sent bouquets by Admirals and anyone with a rank higher than two stripes. Clearly you haven't done much due diligence about me. Because that isn't who I am."

"I mean... yes, I don't lack for partners when I want 'em, and you can confirm that with..." Nia pauses to calculate, lifting her fingers to count. "...About four of your current Security crewmates, and I don't have enough fingers to enumerate the other department representatives you might want to survey.

"But in the end, I could not possibly care less about hierarchy or rank. Please, Booker. Forget that I'm a senior officer. When we're off-duty, you're a man. I'm a woman. We're equal. At least, in the eyes of any respectable culture," she adds, her tone briefly turning hard before she continues. "So let's just talk like we're equal, okay?"

She reaches out and clasps his hand across the table. "I want to hear about you--the real stuff. I know a bit about your career; I'll admit rank does have its privileges, and when you were first transferred here I heard something about your... atypical Starfleet history, although few actual details. Go back further. Why did you join Starfleet, and why have you stayed with it so long, even though you've had setbacks?"

Nia squeezes his hand, her thumb caressing his slightly rough skin. "And don't get me wrong. I don't care about those setbacks. In fact, I admire you for being stubborn enough to stick with this outfit despite them."

She looks down at their hands, her scales receding as she slips her fingers between his so they're entwined. "Determination. Attitude. Pride. Loyalty. Resilience. Those are more important, more attractive to me than any number of stripes on a sleeve or medals on a chest." Her gaze returns to his. "So please, Booker. Tell me what makes you, you."


To be continued

After getting somewhat lost amid the nearly identical corridors she has traversed since leaving the mess hall, Kylah shakes herself from her trance-like state and finds her way back to her quarters. When the door whooshes open, she is surprised to find Collins present. Not just present, but already in bed.

Kylah backs across the invisible line dividing their halves of the cabin. "Lieutenant," she says in greeting, slowly removing her shawl again and folding it neatly into the tissue-paper-lined box in her dresser. She pushes the drawer shut, opens another to remove her filmy pink nightgown, and then stands, awkward, near her bed. Her right hand cradles her left wrist, which still hurts on and off. "I hope I am not disturbing you." Why is she not with Mr. Cooper? I do not think we have both been in the cabin at the same time since... I cannot even remember.

But of course: Fujishiro. Kylah is embarrassed not to have realized Collins might be mourning her colleague. "Are you all right?" she asks gently.

When Kylah enters their quarters, Collins marks her place in the book, and puts the pad aside so that she could talk to her roommate.
"I've been better," she tells the younger woman, "I went to see Fujishiro, ... I'm sure you've heard by now, ... It dredged up a lot of feelings for me. But I'll be okay. How about you? Are you okay? I heard Graham's side of the encounter from this afternoon. I'd like to hear your side, if you're up to talking about it."

Bunching up her nightgown, Kylah sits on the edge of her bed. She is a little concerned that Collins does not remember--or perhaps did not realize--that Kylah went to visit Fujishiro herself, and that they saw each other in Sickbay. But quickly Collins turns the conversation away from herself; possibly, or really probably, on purpose. She does not seem to relish showing vulnerability to Kylah.

But Kylah has spoken so much about herself. Not always the truth, admittedly, but still. She decides to push back against the course Collins wishes the conversation to take. "I can only imagine how difficult it must have been for you," she says, as if Collins asked nothing about her. "You served with Lt. Fujishiro... Iota... longer than I." Kylah prefers to use the woman's first name, it seems to personalize her, make her alive again. "Were you on many missions with her? She worked in the Science department, I believe."

This fact strikes her anew. Did--does--Velir know her well? Is he grieving? Kylah forces the thoughts from her mind and concentrates on Collins. "I have never experienced the loss of a crewmate," she says, looking down at the frothy material that she twists into a bunch on her lap. "Have you? Do you know if... I mean... when she dies... what happens? On the ship, I mean. Is there a service of some kind?"

"I'm sure there will be some kind of service," Collins answers "maybe something from her culture. I didn't know her that well. We came aboard at the same time and had only been on one mission together before the Sakathian station." Collins now sits up and faces Kylah. "But please. I really want to know what happened this afternoon. Have you and Ensign Rangin made up? I saw, yesterday, how his words hurt you, but I know he didn't mean it. He was just upset by something."

As the music continues to play, Rangin lets his gaze wander across the rest of the audience seeing how they are responding to the music, seeing those who are enraptured, and those who are being polite.

Kylah's face burns at the thought of talking to Collins about such a private matter, especially one so painful. And how can the other woman possibly know so much about what is in Velir's heart? Collins has never struck Kylah as being such a breathless romantic, and the idea of such optimism when Kylah herself knows how unlikely things are to work out well... it only hurts more.

She is too tired to put up a façade. "No, Lieutenant," she murmurs, looking down at the floor. "With respect... you are wrong. Velir meant what he said. I know it. That was not--it was not the first time he expressed such a low opinion of me. Not just yesterday, but... a few times before. He has more anger and mistrust in him than you might think. He is a good man, please do not mistake me. You know how I admire him. Despite his harsh opinion of me, he helped me today, and showed compassion. That only raises him in my eyes. I believe one's character is measured by how we treat those we dislike, not by those we... love."

Tears are pricking her eyes and she blinks, hoping to avoid such emotion. "I cannot deny that he has cause to mistrust me, from his point of view; at least, if he wishes to take the worst possible reading of certain situations.

"But he is also very... very hard, in some ways. He has strong ethics--that is why I admire him so. But it means he has a high standard that I cannot live up to, as much as I wish I could. When I am with him, I feel as if I am not good enough, that if he knew more about me, the less he would like me.

"And what is more painful is that, as flawed as I truly am, he thinks I am even worse. He thinks I am a woman who--who--" Kylah shakes her head and raises a hand to cool her cheek, which feels as if it is on fire. At first unsure how to continue, she finally blurts: "Earlier he accused me of using the shore leave to seduce a stranger. While Velir was one flight above, waiting for me in the bar, he thought I was having sex with another man. He believes me capable of that."

Kylah turns away and hugs the nightgown to her chest. "But I am not, Lieutenant. I know what others think of me, of Elasians, but... I do not do such things. And to a degree, I understand why he does not trust me. It goes back to OCIII, what happened there. A--a private matter. Truthfully, Velir and I do not know each other that well, but I am expected to reveal things I would rather never remember--you do not know how terrible things were on that planet, but--"

She stops short and, mortified, stares at Collins. "Oh. Oh, Lieutenant, I am sorry. I never meant to... I should not be talking about that, as if my circumstances were anything compared to yours." Kylah wipes a hand over her teary eyes and digs her nails into her knee, furious with herself for such insensitivity. "This is all so unimportant, it is just two people who are unable to connect because of stupid mistakes on my part, and harsh judgment on his. That is all, not a matter even close to what you have experienced. Please forgive me."

This is not the same Kylah I met when she was first assigned to my quarters, Collins thinks. "Nothing to forgive. Your experiences are just as important as anyone else's." Collins reaches across the gap between the bunks with opens hands for Kylah to hold. "You may tell me anything you want, it will help to talk about it. Whatever you went through, I want to help you get over it." she smirks a little bit "Like I'm the best example of getting over anything" Collins says with a hint of sarcasm, "But we can help each other. I need to learn not to keep things to myself. Maybe that's something you need to learn, too." Collins didn't grow up with siblings but she found a brother figure in Graham, maybe she'll find a sister figure in Kylah. "We can be each other's rock, if you like."

Kylah looks warily at Collins's outstretched hands. This hypersensitive, almost painfully friendly woman bears no resemblance to the officer Kylah has known for a month. Perhaps she has been prescribed some sort of psychiatric medication. She does not even react to most of what I said... I suppose it must be some sort of mood-calming medicine. If so, it is even stronger than whatever T'Var gave Kylah herself after her attack.

Then the thought strikes her: Or might it be hormonal? Mother varied so much after her miscarriages. With so many losses, her mother's mood toward Kylah varied between ice cold rejection and a desperate need for love and attention. Could Collins be going through the latter phase?

Despite her own discomfort, Kylah does not wish to offend, and would prefer to appease whatever Collins needs rather than risk turning the older woman against her again. So she reaches out and lightly touches Collins's hand, attempting a fleeting smile before her own protective instincts kick in and she lets go, returning to hug herself.

"I am grateful for your sympathy," she says quietly, although Collins's response did not really indicate that she accepts what Kylah said about Velir's behavior. "You are very kind to extend such an invitation. I wish I could be more open. Or anyone's rock. I... I do listen well, and whatever you wish to share, please do. I hope I can help, if it is possible. But as for me, I am so... I am not quite..." She struggles with how to put this tactfully. "It will take time for me to do likewise," she says finally with a sigh. "I am ashamed of having revealed as much as I just did."

"Please don't be." Collins is disappointed how quickly Kylah pulled her hands away. I guess a hug is out of the question. "I know it's not easy to open up to someone you don't know very well. But I can promise you, I won't judge you. If anything, you and I could be more similar than either suspects." Realizing that her roommate just isn't up to talking right now, Collins lies back on her bunk and rolls to her side, facing Kylah. "Anytime you feel like talking, let me know. And I will do the same, but I was able to get it all off my chest, for today anyway, thanks to Booker, Ensign Graham. I didn't have a brother or a sister growing up. I guess this crew is my family now."

Anytime you feel like talking. Kylah turns her face away, pretending it is necessary to straighten out her gown in preparation for changing. But she needs to hide her dismay. Have I not already said enough? I told her all that about Velir, yet... it did not matter. Did nothing I said get through?

It occurs to her, as she composes herself, that the fact that Collins is an only child puts things into perspective. Kylah learned her place in the household thanks to the presence of her siblings. For her first seven years, she had her parents' full attention, at least until they realized they had adopted a malformed child. The addition of a sister, and then a brother, diminished Kylah's role even further. But she remembers what it was like, being the suns and stars to her parents.

Kylah looks back to Collins, calm again. "The crew is your family. That is an admirable sentiment. I hope one day I feel like that. I have siblings, but we are not very close in age. And my brother's position makes it difficult for me to have any relationship with him, except of course affection and obedience. I would not even be in Starfleet if it were not for his forbearance, so of course I am grateful as well." She bows her head automatically, natural as breathing to an Elasian when mentioning the Dohlman. "May I ask, are your parents alive?"

"Yep," Collins says. "They are on Earth, in a country called The United States, in a state call Massachusetts, in a town called Old Mansfield. It's very nice there, not too fancy. We have a nice house with plenty of room for visitors. Perhaps if the Yorktown goes near Sol, you could come with me on shore leave and see it."

Looking around, Rangin thinks most of the audience is enjoying the music. A few have their eyes closed and might be dozing, he supposes, but no one looks bored.

The Lyceum chamber ensemble next plays G.F. Handel's "Arrival of the Queen of Sheba."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-TGKJ9MgCOQ
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Solomon_(Handel)

Graham feels as if he’s teetering along a tightrope, balancing between processing what Nia is saying—which is much more serious than idle chit-chat—and getting lost in the way the light is dancing--and that’s the right word, dancing—across her eyes.

He brings his free hand over to cover their conjoined hands, glancing down and noticing that her scales seem to come and go.

He wonders how far…where…when…they go…

He gives her hand a little squeeze, then looks back up at her face.

“What makes me, me. I guess I actually know the answer to that,” he says softly. “The very specific answer.” He looks down. “I don’t know that I’ve ever told anyone…” He turns and looks off to the side, his eyes unfocused, and not fully certain whether he says this out loud or not. “Not even Jane…”

He clears his throat, looks back down at their hands, and then back at Nia. “It may be that Mr. and Mrs. Graham didn’t hold to much of a, ah, ‘respectable culture’.”

“They wanted a son—but no gene therapy or other interventions for them.” He shakes his head slightly. “Real old fashioned. By the time they had four daughters, things weren’t so great between them. And then when they had a son…”

He sighs and leans back—although he doesn’t pull his hand away from hers—and sighs. “He wasn’t the little ‘man’ he supposed to be. He was scrawny, scared…weak.” His final word drips with the contempt he sensed from his father from as far back as he can remember as a child.

He closes his eyes for a moment. “My older sisters—they got the hell out of Dodge as fast as they could….” He re-opens them--and the light is still dancing over Nia’s. “Uh, Earth expression—left in hurry, as soon as they were old enough. The youngest, closest to my age…Fiona…she was still in high school when I was a freshman.”

This time he shifts position and does pull his hand back, rubbing his jaw for a moment and taking a drink.

* * *

Nia says nothing, the force of her concentration almost palpable. She can't help wondering about Jane. She knows he was married, he's a widower... Jane must be his late wife. And he told her none of this? Why?

The swell of indignation for the boy who was Booker Graham almost hurts Nia's lungs. She keeps her hand very still in his and waits for him to continue, afraid that even a hint of motion from her will break the flow of his words.

* * *

“By that time…ah, Dad—he was a cop, back on Earth—he pretty much spent his time at home complaining how women, or aliens, or anyone and anything but his own attitude and drinking kept him from getting promoted.” Graham shrugs and smiles a little ruefully. “Oh, did I mention during that time at home he was mostly drunk? Mom…well, she didn’t talk much at all.”

He clears his throat again. “Fiona, she was…” He swallows and closes his eyes. “Beautiful. And quiet. And I think…I think somehow it came across that she was alone.”

He realizes Nia’s hand is sitting, abandoned, on the table. He leans forward and enfolds it gently with both of his. “The—what would you call it, ‘alpha dog,’ ‘big man on campus…’ I guess the best word is ‘bully’ picked Fiona as his special victim.” He lowers his eyes. “Foxy Fiona. Fuck Me Fiona.” He shakes his head. “I can’t even remember all the things he and his little gang of sycophants said.”

He looks back up at her eyes and shrugs. “So things became like a game. I’d tell him to stop, he’d ask what I was going to do about it, and then I’d get beat down until I couldn’t get up. I think they all enjoyed the routine.”

Unconsciously, he tighten his grip on her hand. He licks his lips, which are suddenly dry. “What would mom have said? Probably that Fiona’d brought it on. Dad? That I was her brother and ought to take care of it. A real shit sandwich.”

He blinks. “And then she…she started…cutting herself.” He pulls one hand up, Nia’s coming with it, and traces a line along the wrist and lower arm. He’s rougher than he would have wanted to be if he was aware of it, but he’s not. He lowers their hands—now gently—to the table. “It had to stop.”

* * *

A fist of dread tightens Nia's heart. She is swept along with his story, letting him almost re-enact the violence on her own hand, and she forces her scales to remain receded instead of protecting her against Booker's rough touch. Something in her wants to feel what he's trying to express. He isn't a sadist--Nia has known one, and Graham doesn't ring that same malicious note; he's not hurting her because he wants to. Besides, the pain is minimal. Nia is strong and she can take it. She senses she needs it to understand who this man is.

* * *

Graham lets his head drop backwards, stretching his neck, for a moment. “I came up with a plan…practiced…when I was ready, I got in Alpha Dog’s face but good when he started his bullshit with Fiona. But this time I didn’t take my beating and go down. I kept getting up. At first it was all the more entertaining. Then he started to get pissed.”

“When I finally couldn’t get up again, he did exactly what I thought he’d do. He started kicking me when I was down.” He chuckles a little. “I’d practiced how much of an impact I could take to my ribs without passing out by hurling myself into all kinds of things---poles, walls… On the third kick to my ribs I took his leg into my arms and rolled over.” He huffs. “Broke his leg in two places. The first time I rolled over.”

He licks his lips and clears his throat again. “I made the point that if he came within 100 meters of my sister again, somebody would be going to more than the hospital.” He shakes his head. “Him or me. He stayed away after that.”

He shrugs. “That was the day the Booker Graham everybody knows and loves today was born.” He pulls his hand back and steeples them in front of his lips. “Three months later, Fiona attempted suicide. It was a Starfleet Security officer who found her…saved her. He got her out of the house, into a program—pretty sure he broke a bunch of rules to do it.” He looks down and then back to Nia. “He was why I joined the Academy as soon as I could after that.”

* * *

At last he finishes. Nia exhales silently, watching Booker's eyes, meeting him without any judgment. Dear Seht'Dar, I hope this family's found peace, she thinks, aching for the siblings who got away... and the two who didn't.

When she breaks her concentration, her scales ripple upwards, protecting the slight marks on her arm: a shield against an enemy that no longer exists. Which seems very appropriate, and quite possibly analogous to Booker Graham's own exterior.

But such psychoanalysis will wait. Nia is here, in the present, and she can't control her words. "That's horrible," she blurts, anger flushing her face. "What you endured. What your sister went through, and what you suffered for her sake. And it's remarkable that you persevered until you could protect her. And you call yourself weak? Even as a boy you must've had the will of a mountain."

She swallows and wishes they weren't at a table, seated in a lounge. She wants to be next to him, to cradle his head against her shoulder and to stroke his hair. Instead Nia just extends her other hand and caresses his wrist, wanting as much contact with him as possible when she asks what she must. "You don't have to answer," she murmurs intently. "But do you mind if I ask... how is Fiona now? What happened to her?"

* * *

Graham smiles—really smiles, widely and without reservation, more than he has in a long time. “She’s—she’s fine, good…”

He shakes his head. “You must think everything about me is a tale of violence or woe or both.” He’s conscious of her touch on his wrist and he thinks it would take a Klingon armada to convince him to move it. But with his free hand he brushes away a tear from his right eye.

“She was always—quiet. But she loved to write. She’s been married for a long time now, to a—well, it’s funny, they’re farmers, like, real old-school preserving the craft farmers. But her wife is ex-Starfleet. Did five years and didn’t like the…the, ah, stuff—she was in Security.”

His smile returns. “Pretty badass, too. When I first met them together, Fiona said she reminded her of me. I started to say—well, given what you just heard, I thought mostly I just let her down when we were kids. She told me if I didn’t stop talking her wife was going to make me shut up.”

He looks down for a moment. His free arm starts to move, then he lets it drop. Then he regains his resolve and brings it up to gently touch Nia’s cheek for a moment and brush a stray hair aside.

“But what about you? I, ah…” he immediately regrets bringing it up, but the die was cast… “I read about Sidonia…. It seems like a pretty, uh, tough place.”

* * *

Nia's face leans toward Booker's fingers when he briefly touches her, drawn like a magnet. She finds herself returning his infectious smile--he looks boyish, far from a word Nia would have used to describe him before--except in his sometimes awkward ways with her.

"First, I'm really happy for Fiona, and you. And her wife, for that matter." On Sidonia, same-sex relationships between people of child-bearing age are illegal. It wasn't until Nia attended the Academy that she learned that such pairings were allowed and, indeed, treated no differently from others.

"Second... hopefully this won't embarrass you, but..." She squeezes his hand and slowly and with obvious reluctance lets go, putting one of her own on her heart. "I'm touched and genuinely honored that you'd share something like that with me, Booker. Seriously. Some guys wouldn't be that open."

Of course, some guys would, and they'd be using such vulnerability as a manipulative tool to pry her legs apart. Nia doesn't think this particular man is capable of that kind of game. She could be wrong--she has been before, but not for a long time. Especially since she's not exactly hard to get.

Nia takes a sip of her ice water, clears her throat, and returns her gaze to him. "Anyway. So you want to hear about Sidonia. If you've read up on it, you know the basics.

"Number one, Sidonia's ugly. Most of the planet consists of arid, barren land, with the only above-ground water found in patches of mud. That's where you find our predators--humanoids and other indigenous creatures who lurk behind the dunes, waiting until their prey have to quench our thirst. Meanwhile, if you're caught outside during solar flare activity, the air gets hot enough to scorch your nostrils and lungs. If you're a crazy kid like me and you fly far North, your ship's windows get pelted with dust you can barely see through. Dust made up of--"

Nia shrugs and smiles, deciding against ruining the meal. They've now reached the dessert course, and the chocolate mousse is too good to spoil with talk of dirt and dried carcasses.

"But Sidonia's also beautiful," she says eventually, her eyes focusing past Booker to imagine what she used to see during better days. "The same atmosphere that killed half our planet creates a sky that has to be seen to be believed. When a distant dust storm is approaching, that portion of the sky creates a kind of...what, an optical illusion, I guess? The sun glints off of the dust and suddenly, in addition to the reds and golds, there's purple and pink everywhere. And even the land's not dull to look at. Nothing's ever the same, because the wind constantly re-sculpts the sand. The way Terrans talk about finding shapes in clouds? I'd try to find pictures in the sand."

Nia refocuses on Booker. Her smile is still there, but it's wistful. "But most of all, Sidonia's doomed. Our sun is dying. The very atmosphere we need to breathe is likely to kill us, by fire or radiation or toxins, take your pick. Many people die or try to flee, now that there's some attempt at emigration. And most of those who stay aren't free, not... not what I'd call free." She toys with her fork, absently drawing lines in her mousse. "But most of them wouldn't leave even if they were free. We're determined to save our culture. A culture that's just as ugly, beautiful, and doomed as the planet itself."

Nia places the fork carefully on the plate and refreshes her expression, leaving behind the morbid thoughts. "I left fourteen years ago for a few different reasons. One of them was in hopes of finding a new home, or figuring out some way to extend and better the lives of the people stuck on the planet. To convince Sidonians that changing our laws so we can join the Federation is worth what they'd be giving up. And--other reasons.

"But it's fourteen years later and the Federation's not exactly desperate to get involved in a planet that has no resources or even future. They've helped a bit, absolutely they have. But time's running out. Sidonians are frustrating too, they won't change, they think it's their only way to survive, creating laws that most Federation planets would abhor, and staying on a planet that wants them dead, like it's ridding itself of parasites."

Nia exhales and, after a moment, adds softly: "I understand why they don't want to leave. For all I've said about it, the place is... wild. Raw. Unpredictable. Frightening, yeah, but also... exciting. When there's fire in the sky and warm wind beats against your face as you run forward, you feel like..." She stops, looks up at Graham and suddenly laughs, shaking her head. "Listen to me. I guess I'm homesick. Homesick for hell, can you imagine that?"

* * *

Despite the fact that Nia's laughing, Graham frowns just slightly. "I'd like to think joining the Federation is more than just a beauty contest." He brightens up. "Although if that were the case and every Sidonian looked like you, you'd be in in a heartbeat."

He clears his throat. "Uh, but, yeah, 'homesick for hell...' Kinda funny." He shakes his head a little. "When I was assigned to police duty on-planet I sometimes missed the job, even though a lot of it involved seeing what most would consider the worst aspects of, you know, our miraculous modern Federation life..."

He leans backwards, pulling his hands back and reaching underneath his seat. "But--well, to brighten up your quarters or hell--or wherever, I brought you something." He puts a a rectangular black box on the table, with a black cloth over the top. He steeples his hands in front of his face, some of his anticipation probably obvious. "I didn't know the half of what you told me, but I read about the whole desert thing--I mean, beyond what we talked about before. So, I, ah -- well, I was on patrol today and stopped in the Botany lab and asked if the guys there could help me out..."

He smiles. "Open it. Uh, I mean, please -- if you want," he adds quickly,

* * *

Nia isn't tremendously surprised by the change of subject from her feelings about her homeland to her appearance. Men are men, after all, and maybe talking about Sidonia and its problems was more depth than Booker prefers from a date. Of course, his tale of abuse and suicide and beat-downs wasn't exactly light banter, but she did ask for the truth about himself. Booker didn't quite do that. Yet he doesn't seem the shallow type, only interested in himself. Maybe he's distracted. Or he just doesn't know how to communicate.

Except--she notices as he pulls out a gift box--with presents.

She stares from the box to Booker, disconcerted for a few seconds. "Another gift?" she says, not intending to sound ungrateful. "Booker, what is this?" She laughs in disbelief. "Uh, you're not under the impression it's my birthday week or something, are you? The snowglobe was more than enough, you didn't have to..."

But he seems genuinely interested in seeing her reaction, so she lets the words fade away and just accepts the box, taking care to move her dessert dish well out of the way. Eyes narrowing in mock suspicion, she pulls off the black cloth to look inside.

Like the snowglobe, there's a glass container and water. But this one is open and wide, the shape of an oval. And floating on top is a bed of green leaves--and resting atop that, like a ballerina in a tutu, is an exquisite blossoming flower--the light blue color of an early spring sky on Earth. Even from the distance Nia can smell the rich fragrance.

"Ohhh, Booker," she says, her eyes drinking in the beauty. "It's beautiful. But why... why do you keep giving me gifts when..." Nia shakes her head rather than finishing, when I haven't given you anything. Is this an Earth tradition? Unlikely, given the numerous Terrans Nia's been with. Most gave her nothing, only a few gave her bouquets or candy, and one gave her nothing but the flu.

So why does Booker seem to think gifts are necessary? What should she give him in return?

Or does she know the answer to that? Nia's gaze shifts upwards to meet Booker's. She doesn't change her pleased expression, but for the first time tonight, she has a tiny bit of wariness. She doesn't like feeling obligated to anyone. Truth is, Nia has enough partners that most of her crewmates know she hardly needs to be bought. Nonetheless, she doesn't like anyone thinking she can be.

But while there's an expectation in Booker's eyes, she doesn't read it as being expectation of anything... reciprocal. At least she doesn't think so.

All she does is smile warmly. "You already know I love it. But what exactly is it?"

* * *

Graham returns her smile, an slightly-so slightly anxious look as she opened it vanishing once she seems pleased. "I hoped you would--uh, it's kind of old-school, but still done on Earth to bring flowers on a date ...but given what you told me about Sidonia, and swimming, and snow...it's a Pacifican water lily. Grows in water, not dry ground..."

He adds quickly. "Not that dry ground can't be nice too--like the 'pictures in the sand' on Sidonia."

Something about the moment when she opened the box having passed, combined with what happened during the day, causes Graham's mood to darken for a moment.

He looks down and pokes at the food on this plate--after a second, most frustrated with himself: you were looking forward to this all day, and now you're letting yourself think about...never mind ruining this for yourself, you'll ruin it for her after all she did...

He clears his throat and returns his attention to Nia. "I really appreciate everything you did--this room, the dinner...that's a gift too, Nia."

* * *

Nia lets herself relax again and puts the glass bowl down not too far from her dessert plate. "If it was a gift, it was for both of us. Thank you for this, Booker," she says with a nod toward the lily. "It's outrageously thoughtful. And unnecessary, and unexpected, but... I guess gifts aren't as much fun when they're necessary, are they? As for unexpected..."

Her hand reaches out to his, covering his fingers with hers. "I didn't expect to be touched by you," she says, looking into his eyes, which in this light seem far darker than they are. "But I have been. Not just by your gifts, as I hope you know." She pauses, and the silence between them lingers without a trace of awkwardness. After several long breaths, Nia adds quietly: "I think something as delicate as this--" She glances at the floating lily beside her before returning to Booker. "--Needs to be nurtured as soon as possible. The blossom is so sweet, I don't want to lose a moment of it."

She moistens her lips and her voice drops slightly. "Shall we take this to my cabin?"

* * *

Graham can't imagine any universe in which the answer would be "no."


Graham= general_urko, Nia=Sidonian Gal. To be continued...

The invitation to Collins's birthplace is yet another shock for Kylah. She cannot fathom what such a visit would be like. An ordinary house, a pair of living parents who probably doted on their daughter, Collins feeling perfectly comfortable... and Kylah. Who has attended royal banquets at the high table and can recite the ritual chants for the annual Klingon Blood Warrior Feasts, but has never once spent a meal in a normal family home.

"You are too generous," she says, twisting her fingers together. "I would be very happy and curious to see your hometown." She does not offer the same invitation, not wishing to lie. After all, if Aldaan's price is met, the Federation may well be barred from Elas one day in the not too distant future.

"And your parents... what do they do? Are they satisfied that you are in Starfleet?" she asks a tad wistfully.

"Dad works in an office," Collins tells Kylah, "He supervises about two dozen people. Mom used to work there, too. That's how they met, but now she makes quilts to raise money for the local shelter. I guess they're proud of me, they've never said otherwise. They always told me that it didn't matter what I did with my life, as long as I was happy. And so far, I am happy with Starfleet."

Nodding, Kylah tries not to look ignorant, even though almost everything Collins has just told her only leads to more questions. Her father works in an office--do not most people have offices? Kylah is unsure why the location is supposed to be informative. Although if he is a supervisor he must be important. And the mother makes quilts, for... money? But not for herself, for someone else's shelter?

The most pertinent comment is the simple line: it didn't matter what I did with my life, as long as I was happy. No Elasian of any rank would say such a thing.

But how lovely the sentiment is, she thinks with a pang. Kylah finds herself sitting forward on the edge of her bed, hands on either side of her clutching the bedspread.

"And... if you do not mind my asking... what about Mr. Cooper?" She lowers her voice respectfully, knowing she is speaking of something very personal. "Are you happy with him? What is he like? And what would your parents think of him?"

"Those, my friend," Collins says with a bit of a laugh as she rolls onto her back and brings her hands up behind her head, "are very good questions. Let's see. Am I happy with him? He does make me happy when we are together, so that's a yes. What's he like?" Collins pauses to think about Ben's qualities, "He's smart, athletic, very good looking, caring, gentle, fun, sexy as all get out, and patient. And I'm pretty sure my parents would adore him. But I'm not at the 'bring him home to meet the folks' stage yet. At least, not in the 'Mom, Dad, he's the one' sense, anyway." She stares at the ceiling for a moment. "I don't know when, if at all, I'll be ready for that step with Ben or with anyone. Did you have a boyfriend on Elas?"

"No," Kylah says, glad that Collins is looking up rather than at her. "I was not... My Guardian did not think it appropriate. There was a young man... who was a friend. But not the way you mean. That is--he liked me, that way, but the match would not have been allowed, so I could not reciprocate. I should not have even let him speak to me, it caused him trouble in the end. But I..." I was lonely.

She does not finish, instead stares down at her feet feeling like a little girl admitting to stealing a cookie. "It must sound foolish and complicated."

Collins turns her head to look at Kylah who looks very sad. "Complicated, yeah. I never got why families did things like that to their children. But foolish? Not in the least." She rolls to her side again and props herself up on her elbow. "I'll tell you something else my parents always told me. Never be ashamed of feeling something. Feelings can't do damage even though it may seem they can. It's the actions we have to watch out for. They also taught me that my self worth should never be dependent on someone else's perception of me. So let me pass that one onto you. Only you are responsible for you. What you feel, how you act, that all comes from you, and no one has the right to take that from you, not figuratively, not literally. You be you and be proud of you." Collins hopes Kylah understands what she's saying, because she suddenly feels like she spouted a bunch of drivel.

The Handel piece comes to an end, and after a brief pause to retune, the ensemble begins playing a more modern piece, Aurelia's quiet, winsome "Twilight in Anorien."

Which sounds quite a bit like this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UkT3QPBh4hw

When Collins offers sympathy, Kylah appreciates it, but feels a swell of defensiveness over the slight against her family. It is her own fault: she has been very disloyal, and her complaints have been not at all appropriate for someone in her position.

She listens to the words of wisdom from Collins's parents, which seem reasonable enough. Yet Kylah is ashamed, not only because of how others see her, but how she sees herself; when she is so aware of her faults, she can only assume others see what she does. If it were not so, she would have had more friends, less disapproval from most people she meets.

When Collins is through, Kylah waits a moment and acknowledges the advice. "Your parents sound very intelligent, Lieutenant. Thank you." She cannot help wondering just how much Collins obeys all these homilies. "I am sure you are right. But I must... I must correct a misimpression I may have given. There is a very good reason for the rules placed on me. Royal alliances are of great importance, and as the oldest daughter in my house, even if not by blood, I am of significant value, not just for Elasians but other worlds--just as my cousin Elaan was, though of course, I have not one tenth her worth. Still, my Guardian knows those wish to raise their prospects higher than their own station, and if they wanted to be connected to my family, it would have been easy for them to compromise me and take advantage of my youth and... inexperience."

Kylah's face flames up and she stands, heading to the bathroom to hide her reaction to her own words. What she has just described is--except for the desire to link to her family--precisely what happened with Jan. She hurries to finish: "Until I am fully of age, it is up to my Guardian to make the decision that is best for Elas, and thus for me." Her shoulders slump. "And yes, I know this makes my feelings for Velir seem hopeless. So perhaps it is for the best, how things turned out."

She enters the bathroom to wash and change into her nightclothes. It is still early but she feels dead tired. The sad truth is that she is right: she would have had to end things with Velir at some point. Going further only to be forced to break their bond would have been even more painful. Not to mention the necessity of keeping the relationship a secret from Aldaan. The very thought sends a tremor through her. Thankfully he will never know.

Collins can tell her roommate would like to finish this conversation, poor sad little thing. "For what it's worth, Kylah," she speaks towards the bathroom, "I think you and Rangin would have made a cute couple." With that, she picks up the pad and resumes reading.

Rangin is unsure what it is about the music, but he can feel it tugging on his emotions. As the piece comes to a close and a brief interval is called, he takes the opportunity to slip away and that there is one last thing to do this evening.

Hurrying back to his quarters, he retrieves the datapad and then heads to Sickbay to stand vigil over Fujishiro.

Rangin arrives in Sickbay just as Ens. Horst Leventhal, a relief Helmsman, is leaving Fujishiro's bedside. Rangin can't be sure, but thinks he may have been crying.

See the music link just added to post 1392.

Kylah has already begun to remove her clothes when she hears Collins's comment. She looks at herself in the mirror, stripped to her undergarments, and shakes her head slightly. No, Lieutenant. We lost our ability to be a 'cute couple' when I went into that hotel room on Omicron Ceti III.

She washes and dresses herself in her diaphanous gown, hangs up her civilian dress, and returns to the main quarters. "Thank you," she says eventually, sitting on her bed and looking at the little wooden harp on her night table--where her jewelry box used to sit. "You have been very considerate to me today, Lieutenant. I hope I can be as thoughtful for you."

Collins just looks over at Kylah and smiles in what she hopes is a reassuring manner. Her smiles are always sincere, but at this angle, from her bed, it may be hard to tell.

Rangin slowly walks into the slightly darkened room where Fujishiro is lying. The room is as empty as he remembers it from only a few nights ago, the constant beeping of the monitors the only sign that life is still there.

Pulling up a chair and setting a glass of water down, Rangin pulls out the datapad and puts it on the chair before walking up to the prone body. Looking down at the pallid features, he shudders and slowly shakes his head in sadness. "Hello Fujishiro, I've come back to finish the story. I wish there was a way I could help you. It's wrong that I survived and you didn't. We should both have been able to live through it and I should have been smarter, cleverer in working out what caused it, its supposed to be my area of expertise and all that happened is that I couldn't do anything about it. I failed. Wouldn't be the first time either, no matter what I try."

Rangin composes himself with a deep breath, trying not to let the words catch in his throat. "Sorry just isn't enough for what happened, it never will be. All I can do is never forget what happened and try to never let it happen again."

Sitting back down on the chair, he flicks on the datapad, already preset to the right location in the story and begins to read aloud:

"I was in trouble and I knew it, deeper than a river at midnight, and as lost as the blind beggars at the main gate. The tea-set had been spirited away from beyond my grasp and it could only mean one thing - that there was a traitor in the Daimyo's retinue..."

The journey from Observation Room 5 to Nia's quarters seems to last an hour, with the pair exchanging no words except the command to the Turbolift.

Graham's sure something with as low an alcohol content as champagne could have gone to his head, but it's hard for him to believe they're on the same ship as the one on which they started the date. Maybe it's the occasional whiff of her surprising fragrance--which has changed a little now, less verbatim what he remembered and mixed with something more objectively pleasant...

Like hot, wind-blown sand, he thinks. OK, don't try writing poetry.

And for god's sake don't stare like a horny teenager.

Dinner and conversation were--the word "captivating" comes to mind. Now that they're walking the full... impact... of Nia's dress hits him and his gaze drops a few times to her legs, and her breasts...

He smoothly (hopes smoothly) drops a half-step behind her, focusing on her hair, the side of her face, her shoulder... no less alluring to look at, but a lot less rude...

* * *

Soon they reach her cabin's door, which opens and shuts again when they enter, leaving them in darkness. In one fluid movement Nia has set the water lily down on the nearest side table and, without time or desire to turn on the lights, almost falls into Booker's shadowed figure.

"Just one kiss, just one," she whispers, arms wrapping around his neck and her fingers clutching his hair. "I've waited as long as I can." Her mouth meets his face a bit off-center, making her smile--the dark has made her clumsy--but soon they're locked together. He seems surprised, or at least not having anticipated her. Nia softens her touch, waiting until his own lips match hers kiss for kiss. So much for 'just one.'

But Nia knows they can't just stand in the dark forever. At last they part and she murmurs--hoarsely at first, then repeated more loudly: "Lights. Lights."

They look at each other and Nia grins, wiping away the traces of her berry lip color from his cheek. "Sorry for the mess," she breathes, turning to face her not-as-tidy-as-she-remembered cabin. "Um... have a seat? Let me just... um... make some space..."

Guiding Booker toward her little sofa, she first whisks away some pairs of black stockings, a camisole, her uniform, and a couple of datapads from the cushions before he finds a place to sit. As she cleans, the music provides a nice counterpoint to her own embarrassed patter: "I could've sworn this place looked better before I left. Has a mind of its own, just loves to make me look like a slob."

She bends over the bed to grab a few more items of clothing into a pile, thinking rapidly: I'll shove it all into the shower, that should do for now...

Graham's a little surprised by the kiss, but much more by what Nia says: "I've waited as long as I can."

It's--not a throwaway line, not a naked come-on. It's...touching.

That too nudges him into a different sense of time and place.

As does the scene when the lights come on. Jane was always neat--but with specific exceptions, allowances that somehow made sense to her. Stockings over the back of chairs...

A few memories mix with taking in how Nia moves and talks, her demeanor in her own space. When were you last in a woman's own--really their own space? he wonders.

It demands a certain sort of respect... reverence.

It's also cute that Nia seems a little flustered by the clutter.

Graham smiles slightly. "To be honest, 'slob' is really one of the last words I'd use to describe what you look like right now," he replies as she bends over the bed...

Nia grabs the pile of haphazardly placed items and enters her bathroom, plopping them down in the corner outside the shower. You never know, the shower might end up getting usage...

"Thanks," she says, somewhat belatedly realizing he just complimented her. "Oh, feel free to grab some ice water, it's in the cooler by the bed. Always keep some on hand." She takes a few seconds to look in the mirror. Hair still decent, lip gloss gone--which is fine, she doesn't want to taste berry-flavored Booker, just him.

She washes her hands and calls out over the sound: "Hey, it just struck me. With all our dinner talk, we never did the 'how was your day' thing. How was it? I heard Kylah's muggers were caught. That must make you happy, all the bad guys safely out of the way. And with your help, I've no doubt."

Nia's question is timed perfectly to sink in just as he's closing the cooler door--which he does harder than he intended, maybe hard enough to be audible.

"If only it were that fucking simple," he blurts out, almost as if she'd tapped a spot that triggered a reflexive release of all the frustration he felt over the whole day.

He stands straight, takes a breath, and rubs his jaw. "I'm sorry," he says in a vastly softer tone. With a flash of anger having passed, he's left feeling beaten and burdened instead. "There's no reason to snap at you, Nia." He clears his throat and takes a few restless paces in spite of himself, feeling his shoulders tense. "Or to ruin our night with my problems."

Nia emerges from the bathroom to stare at Booker, absently wiping her hands together while trying to discern his emotions. "You didn't snap at me. You answered my question honestly." She watches him stride the small length of her quarters. "Maybe talking about your problems can get them out of your head faster, so we can really forget about them."

She moves toward him, takes hold of his right arm, and guides him over to the bed. "Sit," she orders as gently as possible. When he complies, she sits beside him, hip brushing against his. "Now, talk. There's obviously some complication I don't know about. If the case isn't cleared, why did we leave orbit?"

Graham follows Nia's instructions as much by instinct as conscious thought and finds himself seated next to her on the bed. The memory of Kylah's small hand grasping his hand grasping his intrudes on the moment, and he looks at his hands, then let's them fall into his lap. "It's not the case," he replies, shaking his head. "It's the 'bad guy' part."

He glances up at Nia. "I don't have a goddamned bit of proof, and she's insistent... Kylah, that is, is insistent--too insistent--she doesn't need any help. But I trust Rangin's intentions toward her as far as I can throw him." His hands clench into fists for a moment and he laughs bitterly. "No, I can throw him a lot farther than I trust him... give me five meters of straight corridor and an open airlock..."

He shakes his head again. "I fucked everything up, Nia. Collins thinks they would make a great couple. Vargas is ready to have me doing KP on a garbage scow off Betelgeuse if I so much as look funny in his direction."

More distant memories, those of the day, and the thoughts of the moment run together.

"I'm as shitty a friend as I am a father," he says without thinking about or even really intending too. His whole body tenses as if he's about to spring up: on reflection Graham would acknowledge there's not a physical solution to problem, but by nature he feels he should do something.

Nia examines Graham, the lines on his face deeper, his muscles coiled in anger, and his eyes fixed fiercely ahead--but clearly focused on something buried inside himself. "Okay, listen," she says eventually, leaning against him. "I don't like anyone insulting a friend of mine, including that friend. So please knock it off."

She kisses his shoulder briefly before again letting her head rest on it. "More seriously. I don't know a thing about how you are as a father--and unless you need to talk about it now, maybe that's a subject better left for another night. But what I'm hearing is that you're genuinely worried and sympathetic toward someone who seems pretty vulnerable. That's what makes you the security officer you need to be, isn't it?" Her hand runs absently up and down his arm, as if to warm him.

"Whatever's going on with Kylah and Rangin... I wish I knew what to say. At least you know she's safe for now. Collins is her roommate, and she may have a closer perspective than you do. She is security herself, she's got a duty to protect her crewmates that's presumably uppermost in her mind. And since it sounds like you've spoken to her, I'm sure she'll be on the lookout for any danger signs. She'll know there are lots of ugly secrets behind closed doors, even among Starfleet's best and the brightest.

"Speaking personally, I don't know either of them--her less than him. Rangin has always seemed like a good guy, and I'll be honest, I wrote up a report to Vargas commending the guy for his insights and hard work in finding Kylah and tracking down the bastards who hurt her." Nia can feel Booker's body tensing up even further, but she doesn't backtrack. "I'm sorry, he earned the credit, like it or not, Booker. She'd be dead without his work."

A dark memory makes her close her eyes. "But..." she adds quietly. "That doesn't necessarily mean you're wrong. I've known hunters who get almost... proprietary... toward their prey. They won't let anyone else lay a hand on whatever they've marked as their own target. It's their trophy, not anyone else's."

As her voice speaks in an almost hypnotic monotone, Nia shudders, suddenly chilly herself. Change the subject. Fast.

"As for what you say about yourself. I just spent two hours with you. I know a lot of men, good and bad. You strike me as a good one, just... with some demons I don't know about yet." She lifts a hand to cup Booker's chin, tenderly turning his head toward her. "The thing is, you're trying. You're trying damn hard. That counts," she insists, caressing his cheek, and her last words are just as much a caress: "At least to me, Book."

Graham tenses even further while Nia speaks, barely able to stop himself from interrupting when she says "he seems like a good guy." That's exactly the fucking point, he thinks.

He feels almost physically torn as he recognizes her kindness and feels--well, honored, if confused about why, he's earned her attention while reacting to words intended to be soothing that could have been tailor-made to fuel his frustration and anger.

He reaches up, suddenly uncomfortable, intending to move her hand away from his face.

But as she continues he's glad he didn't interrupt. She understands what I'm worried about, she's not pooh-pooing this... A 'proprietary predator.' She gets it, or, at least, is willing to consider--why the fuck can't anyone else? Before something even worse happens...

And then calls him what only Jane ever called him. Not like her--her voice and manner are nothing like Jane's. But no one else has ever called him "Book" intimately before...

His hand freezes in mid-air, and he stares at her, mutely, for a moment. He blinks and takes a deep breath, feeling his shoulders loosen a little.

Instead of removing her hand, he brings his--as gently as he remembers trying to catch alien butterflies year ago--to touch the scales on the side of her neck.

"The, um, scales....I know how they feel to me... But, ah, how do they feel to you, Nia?" he asks softly.

Nia closes her eyes and shivers at the brush of his warm fingertips, surprised but gladdened that his mood seems to have altered from introspection to... this.

"The ones that are always visible..." she murmurs, "they're thin, pliant. Almost exactly like skin. It only takes a little more pressure for sensations to--well, penetrate them." Her eyes open again and she smiles at the obvious innuendo. "I can make them recede voluntarily as a gesture of trust. But when I feel safe and perfectly relaxed with someone, they'll vanish on their own. It's how I know... at least, one way I know... that things are right. When the scales go away and leave just...me."

With a light shrug she lets one of her shoulder straps fall slightly, revealing more of her scales and skin. She draws Graham closer to her for a long, deep kiss, then leans up so that her lips graze his ear and his own mouth is closer to her jawline. "Make them go away," she whispers. "Please try."

Graham feels so much washing over him that it's like static filling his ears.

"It's fourth and goal with a hot woman," he can hear his Academy mate Billy Coogan over his shoulder. "What the hell is wrong with you, go for it, man!"

But that's just a nit. "Book." He almost never talked shop with Jane, it seemed like an...ugly, dangerous intrusion...into her beautiful world...

But a world can be ugly or dangerous and beautiful at the same time--like Sidonia...

He's slow to move--to respond--to her.

It's an effort to separate the anger he stills--not at her, the opposite: she's like shelter from the storm, but the storm's still there. Proprietary predator. The sonofabitch is enjoying the whole goddamned thing...

The desperate need he feels to escape from all the bullshit and to do something--anything... Give her what she wants, at least. Hell it's what you both want right now, isn't it? You know the drill. 'Hey Feddy, you're on leave, I'm on leave, let's work off some steam.'

"Safe...I could do that at least, for you," he whispers, closing his eyes as his hands reach for her shoulders, taking hold of them, pushing her slightly downward and sliding further down, reaching toward her breasts. "And whatever else you want..."

In a different moment, Graham would have been baffled by his simulacurum not calling her by name. But it doesn't register in this one.

Instead of the heated kisses along her shoulder Nia expected, Booker pauses, and she can feel his muscles tightening as if in preparation for some kind of leap. And then, after his heated whisper, he does leap--in a sense--his hands clutching needily at her, as if trying to steady himself. Then he's pushing forward, not exactly forcefully, but... decisively. His hungry mouth meets hers, and his hand now grasping her breast feels like a falling man desperately flailing to hold on to something, anything real.

Okaaay, wow, where was this guy hiding all night? Nia savors the taste of his tongue and--oh--the sensation of his fingers, which have slipped beneath her dress to her bare flesh, first gentle, now rough, then tender again. "Book," she sighs into his mouth, trying to get her arms loose so she can be a bit more of a participant in this. She wants to hold him, unbutton his shirt, feel his skin just as he's exploring hers.

His kisses move downward, and she gasps when his mouth replaces his fingers, which then grab onto her other breast. When his tongue briefly pauses in teasing her, he murmurs something, nothing articulate. Her body's on fire but something feels...

It feels wrong.

Booker isn't really listening to her, or even... Nia can't explain it... paying attention to her reactions, her instincts. He's going through the motions of lust and pleasuring a woman, except he's not taking his time to find out what would pleasure Nia. It's as if desperation is pushing him more than desire.

He's not hurting her, exactly--it's a bit rougher than she expected from him, but Nia doesn't mind rough. What she does mind is that this doesn't seem like Booker. Not the man she had dinner with, not the man she's been talking to. At least, not until the Rangin issue came up.

That's the problem, she realizes, just as Graham's body starts to press harder against hers, his free hand now feeling her thigh--newly bare now that he's lifted her dress. The pressure is building and she wants to melt against him, she wants to feel all of him and shut her mind off because his power is intoxicating.

But Nia has been with a lot of men, and she knows what their touches should be like. This is the touch of someone whose mind is on anything but her. He's upset. He's frustrated. He's taking it out on her. He's using her.

She isn't a partner, she's a life preserver.

Against every physical instinct, Nia pulls her hands up and grabs hold of Booker's shoulders. "Booker," she gasps--it has to be a gasp, his hand has parted her legs and sneaked beneath the black lace and what he's doing is incredible, but... "Book--Booker, slow down. Let's stop for a second."

When he looks up, she meets his gaze. It's unfocused, just as she thought it would be. What, did he forget I'm here? she thinks, more in concern than anger. They're both breathing heavily. When she catches her breath, she slides out from underneath him--he makes no move--and sits up.

"This doesn't feel right," she says, calm but straightforward. "I feel like this isn't sex to you, it's physical therapy." Nia exhales and brushes a hand through Graham's hair. "We need to wait, Book. Until you're in a better space, emotionally. Because as much as I want you, I am not an exercise machine or sparring partner you use to work out your frustration."

To be continued Nia=SidonianGal Graham=general_urko