More of Joe Manno’s stories can be found here:  USS Liberty

 

"Ulterior Motives, Part Two"

By Joseph Manno and

Gabrielle Bubis

 

“...are under arrest.”

Larkam Vott took a deep, satisfied breath as he finished his proclamation, and closed the PADD containing the warrant with a flick of his fingers.

The thick-jowled Bolian watched carefully for what he hoped would be an entertaining reaction: Aside from the curious glances he and his compatriots had received when entering the bridge, the Prometheus' personnel had at first seemed unfazed by their presence.

Now, though, he had their complete attention.

If asked, he would have admitted—to his fellow constables, at any rate—that he rather enjoyed the consternation he was causing. It wasn’t every day, after all, that a simple bureaucrat from the Marillion Provincial Judiciary arrested a Starfleet captain...

...or two.

A console to Vott’s left beeped rather insistently, but the pink-skinned human manning it didn’t even spare it a glance; instead, he was shocked into immobility by the Bolian official’s announcement.

The constable didn’t even bother disguising his pleasure at the scene.

These officers, he thought, are much more entertaining than Liberty’s were.

 

“Under arrest?”

The bridge crew, which had been at first only mildly curious when Turek had informed Captain Becker the Bolian contingent was on its way, now gaped at the intruders in astonishment mingled liberally with indignation.

Mark O’Conner stood, adopting a determined expression as he added to his first exclamation.

"That's ridiculous. There must be some mistake."

The Bolian closest to Becker, evidently the leader, puffed up in affront, narrowing his eyes at the first officer reprovingly.

"Our laws are not ridiculous."

Colin threw Mark a cautionary look; there was no need to make the situation any worse—if that was even possible at this point.

The official gave the X-O a final disdainful sniff, then returned his expectant attention to the captain.

O’Conner stewed. It would do no good to choke the supercilious expressions off their faces: Diplomatic crisis aside, it would set a bad example for the crew.

Still, it was damned tempting.

“Well, Captain?” The third—who hadn’t, until then, spoken—asked impatiently. “If you don't come peacefully, we are authorized to use force... and have no qualms about so doing.”

O’Conner watched Becker carefully, waiting for his cue... almost hoping Prometheus’ commander would authorize him to “escort” the pompous entourage back the way they came.

But it was not to be.

The captain was all too aware he had no real choice but to accede. Mark had served with him long enough, however, to read past his veneer of calm: Once everything had been cleared up, there'd be hell to pay.

“That won’t be necessary, gentlemen,” Colin replied, with a cordiality he obviously didn’t feel. "I’ll come with you."

"And the other perpetrators?" The Bolian to his right spoke up.

"Those who stand accused will accompany us." Colin's expression was forbidding enough to silence the Bolian deputies.

Not so their leader, however.

“Do not presume to correct us, Captain,” he answered scornfully. “Terran jurisprudence has not yet corrupted our planetary legal infrastructure. You are the perpetrators; it remains to be seen whether your actions will be confirmed as criminal.”

Now Naeve Sevril angrily interjected, “Sir, we can’t just...”

Becker interrupted with a raised hand, and a look similar to the one he’d given O’Conner a few minutes ago.

The expression was upgraded now, though, to a warning glare; he was obviously losing patience with the entire situation.

Prometheus’ commander then tapped his comm badge..

"Turek, have Drs. Ryan and D'all meet me and our guests in transporter room two immediately."

“Is there a problem, sir? Perhaps I can assist...”

"Just do it."

Turning to an agitated Mark O’Conner, he continued. “Please file a protest on behalf of myself, D’all and Ryan with both the Terran and Deltan Embassies, as applicable, and Starfleet’s representatives on Bolarus IX.”

“Yes, sir,” Mark acknowledged. “It would be my pleasure.”

One of the Bolian deputies keyed a large PADD and nodded in satisfaction at the screen.

“Be it noted,” he intoned into its pickup, “that subject surrendered to authorities; additional charges may be pending due to resistance encountered from officers the actions for whom perpetrator is responsible.

"We are prepared to leave now, Captain," he then announced gleefully.

"Very well." Colin glanced at Mark once more. "Exec, you have the bridge until I return."

Mark, fully prepared to launch into another vigorous protest, began with "But, si–…"

Colin cut him off before he could really get going.

"I said, 'You have the bridge.'"

Then, he made for the turbolift, Bolians preceding and following him.

The moment they'd left the bridge, the stunned quiet gave way to a burst of angry protests. O'Conner would have ordered silence …

…if he hadn't been one of them.

 

Colin Becker was annoyed for himself…

…but he was genuinely angry for his two young officers.

He noted their reactions as the quartet entered transporter room two: Ariada D'all's eyes widened in apprehension as she took in the image of her captain bracketed like a common prisoner. Daniel paled several shades as the leader pulled out a second arrest warrant and began reading in a loud monotone.

“That will not be necessary,” Turek interrupted. "Clearly they are willing to cooperate."

Vott regarded the Vulcan with an expression, that was, if not openly contemptuous, at least disdainful.

"This is Bolian space, Commander. You do not decide what is necessary, here." He finished his pronouncement… and then, adding insult to injury, repeated the process with Ariada's warrant, too.

 “It seems," Becker announced, as much to reassure D'all and Ryan as inform Turek, "that we three are being temporarily detained… but I’ll have it cleared up presently. The sooner we attend to this, the faster we’ll be back aboard Prometheus.”

Stepping onto the nearest transporter pad, he gestured for his science officers to follow. The Bolians brought up the rear.

“Turek, Commander O’Conner will fill you in on what's occurred. Remind him and Lieutenant Commander Sevril that any… displays on our behalf won't be helpful."

The Vulcan nodded; he knew even though Becker had great regard for his two subordinates, that each had a tendency towards rash action that could, in this case, only make things worse. His captain wanted Turek to keep them cool.

Though he was well aware it wouldn't be an easy task—and knew Becker realized that, as well—he told his superior, "I shall endeavor to comply sir."

Becker grinned—a light moment in a serious situation—and ordered, "Energize.”

Turek arched a brow at his captain's startling ability to see humor in an illogical and frustrating situation… and then headed for the bridge…

…there, no doubt, to confront one of my own.

 

The group rematerialized directly outside the spaceport, where they were herded away from curious onlookers into a waiting hovercraft. Although Colin attempted to question the Bolians, their captors seemed to take pleasure in refusing to answer.

“Our orders are merely to bring you to a detainment center. After that, I have no concern with, or knowledge of, your fate,” the thick jowled Bolian declared; though his disinterest was obviously feigned, he did a credible job of carrying it off.

“Why not simply beam us directly to detention, constable?”

No answer, though, was forthcoming; and after this last attempt, they rode in silence.

The trip lasted only minutes; their vehicle pulled up to a large grey building. The Starfleet officers stepped out onto the street and climbed its steps, flanked closely by their attendants. Becker noted with interest that there seemed to be a cluster of Bolian press some distance away, midway up the long stairs; these filmed their ascent, and directed questions at the officials… but they merely smiled, nodded and moved on.

There’s your answer, Colin, he thought. No direct beam because this is someone’s photo op.

Once inside, a Bolian female with bright blue skin and a shock of thick black hair wordlessly snapped confinement bracelets onto their wrists, and murmured something to several waiting guards. Silently, two of them took Ariada and Colin each by the arm and ushered the pair down a long hallway. The Deltan twisted around to look anxiously behind at a forlorn Ryan…

…who was being led in the opposite direction.

“But… but what about Daniel? He’s not going with us?” she asked nervously.

The guard at her side hmmphed in reply, but did not elucidate further as he marched them along.

Colin yanked his arm free from the man’s grasp, the captain’s expression clearly implying that the guards risked grave bodily harm if they tried to touch him again. Though neither looked particularly impressed, they didn't press the issue... which was a victory of sorts, he supposed. Tugging on his uniform to straighten it, Becker walked rigidly beside Ariada, careful to remain one step ahead of his escort.

Lining each side of the hallway were thick doors which obviously led to cells; Colin found himself wondering how many hapless individuals were "detained" in those rooms on similarly ridiculous charges.

At last, the guards paused before a door to their right; one of them checked the screen of a hand-held, PADD-like device before nodding. He placed his palm against a metal plate in the wall; the door slid open, allowing them entrance. As soon as Colin and Ariada stepped inside, their escorts sealed it shut behind them.

The cell was surprisingly large, but sparsely furnished and dimly lit. Sitting on the floor, with her knees drawn up to her chest, was an Orion woman—in a Starfleet uniform, no less.

Ariada gasped in recognition.

“Parihn!” she called; and, to Becker's surprise, the Deltan rushed to her, apparently acquainted with the…officer.

She hadn't been alone: Standing by a small window, bathed in the light that spilled onto the floor, was a tall, dark-haired man in a Starfleet uniform, hands clasped behind his back.

"I'd been meaning to contact you, Captain." His gaze swept their surroundings, paused briefly at the whispering girls in the cell's midst, and finally alighted on his counterpart. When he spoke again, his voice was tinged with an aridity that left no doubt he was even less amused by the situation than Becker.

"This is not, however, what I'd had in mind."

 

***

 

“...and I’ll wager you could imagine my surprise, Commander Benteen, when Lieutenant Irving interrupted my conference preparations with the statement, ‘You’d better take a look at Bolian Planetary News, Admiral. You’re not going to like it.’

“Needless to say, I complied with his recommendation... and this is what I saw.”

The viewer’s image shifted to display the front of a typically nondescript and functional Bolian government building. It was clearly a playback from BPN... and, according to the stardate projected in the screen’s corner, had been broadcast only a few minutes ago.

It showed Luciano Mantovanni and Vaerth Parihn—the former carefully composed, the latter visibly angry—being hustled inside.

The accompanying commentary wasn’t exactly flattering.

“The Orion animal woman who committed the assault and her commander, the once-respected Luciano Mantovanni of the USS Liberty, are shown here being remanded into the custody of the Marillion Provincial Judiciary by its designated appointees. The other perpetrators are, according to MPJ sources, even now being brought to justice.” 

The image on screen returned to that of Vice Admiral Amarian Sih’tarr.

“I’ve just been informed, Commander Benteen, that now Captain Becker of the Prometheus and two of his officers have also been detained.

“Lieutenant Irving was correct. I didn’t like it.”

Erika Benteen didn’t precisely cringe. She did, however, wince noticeably.

“Captain Mantovanni enjoyed it even less than you, Admiral. I can assure you of that.” She’d been pursuing various legal avenues since her commander and Ensign Parihn had been unceremoniously escorted off the Liberty and into the hands of a local constabulary that seemed much too eager, in her opinion.

“Sir, I have to admit, I’m not greatly familiar with Bolian law. Can they legitimately do this?”

“There are currently nine Federation starships in orbit of Bolarus IX, Commander. 17 Bolians serve aboard them in various capacities. Two of these possess at least some background in their planet’s legal procedures. I’m ordering this pair to prepare for detached duty as legal counsel, in the event this goes to trial. For now, they can at least consult and advise. No doubt they can answer your question. Lieutenant Rixx will report aboard Liberty, and Lieutenant, junior grade Teqq, Prometheus, within a few minutes. Cooperate fully with them, Commander. I have a critical conference to chair... and I do not want this incident to become any more of a distraction than it already has.”

“Aye, sir,” Benteen answered. Wryly, she added, “We’ll do our best to keep it from drawing your attention again, Admiral.” 

Despite their similarities in coloring, Bolians and Andorians couldn't, in certain aspects of their respective species’ personality traits, be further apart. While Bolians were easily offended, Andorians were essentially as unflappable as Vulcans—unless you hit the wrong button, of course.

She hadn't; Sih’tarr smiled slightly. 

“Though I decect a hint of sarcasm there, Commander, I’ll trust to the fact that you know I’d much prefer to have Captain Mantovanni at a conference table than in a prison cell... and that you’re merely frustrated at the situation.

"Keep me apprised of any significant developments. Out.” 

Benteen chided herself. Vice Admiral Sih’tarr was obviously doing everything he could to assist them—outside of overtly interfering in some fashion, which wasn’t a viable option, anyway. 

Yeah... and instead of expressing gratitude, you’re being snippy with a three-star. She leaned back in the ready room’s desk chair, and sighed heavily. 

I think you’re a little too sensitive to the idea of prison time, Erika, she thought.  

Wonder why that is? 

 

***

 

Ariada D’all sat on a bunk and shivered.

Vaerth Parihn tucked a blanket around her and murmured consoling words. Occasionally, she’d spare one of the captains a meaningful look.

“Is she all right?” Mantovanni asked his counterpart.

“I wouldn’t say ‘all right,’ but it’s probably not as bad as it seems,” answered Colin Becker. “Deltans don’t react well to certain types of stress; usually this manifests itself in a low- to moderate-grade fever, chills, and a generally run-down feeling.”

“Is that what’s happening here, sweetie?” Parihn asked the younger girl.

“Probably,” Ariada sniffled. The fact that she sounded like a sickly five-year-old child didn't help the Orion's attitude much at all. 

“Bolian bastards,” she muttered. “I ought to have caved that guy’s skull in instead of just punching him out.”

Despite the fact that it really was quite amusing to hear such a brutish threat from a mere wisp of a girl, Becker restrained a smile. 

Mantovanni, however, wasn’t as amused. 

“Well,” he announced in a voice tinged with clear displeasure, “Here’s hoping they’re not recording our conversation... and that such transcripts aren't admissible in court.” 

Parihn ducked her head slightly.

“Oops. Sorry, sir.”

One hour became two, and then four. Ariada’s condition slowly worsened: To say she looked miserable would be to give misery a bad name. Her face was puffy from her intermittent crying, and her usually flawless skin was breaking out into some sort of unsightly rash. 

Both captains watched the young Deltan with concern. Finally, Becker approached her.

“Perhaps we should see about getting you some treatment, Lieutenant...”

Her eyes widened in what looked to be near panic.

“No! I don’t want to be alone with these people! Please, sir,” she begged, “I’m fine... really.” She straightened up immediately, and made what he realized was a concerted effort to at least look like she was feeling better.

Parihn, with a subtle shake of her head, warned him not to do it. 

Grimly, Prometheus’ captain nodded, and withdrew back to stand near Mantovanni.

“Whatever infinitesimal humor value this little excursion into the Bolian penal system once possessed,” the Sicilian pointedly noted, “it’s evaporated over the last few hours. If this is ‘due process,’ then the ‘process’ is ‘due’ for an overhaul.” 

Liberty's captain noted the other man's reaction. Though his self-control was admirable, Becker's statement revealed two distinct perspectives: Frustration at a helplessness to which he was unaccustomed; and a resolve to rectify it at the earliest possible moment.

“Agreed,” the younger man finally replied. He glanced at the trembling girl again, and clenched his fists angrily.

“On both counts.”

 

***

 

Well, well…

Mav had been surprised when Seyla Ta’quith had made her appearance in the bar... but not overly so. The Grithcalar had a reputation as an exclusively enlisted persons’ hangout, and officers who walked in were likely to end up being carried out.

Klingons, though, weren’t exactly observant of propriety and tradition—tradition that wasn’t Klingon, at any rate—and Seyla strolled boldly in even as Mav was working on his second Aldebaran whiskey.

At least she’s not stupid enough to wear her rank, he thought.  She was dressed, instead, in a more traditional warrior’s garb, armored in leather and steel... and girt with the traditional sidearms, d’k’tahg and disruptor, at her side.

He grunted in approval. Not a trace of Starfleet officer. Smart girl. 

“You! Tellarite!” she growled, even as she took the seat near him. “You will drink with me!” She tossed a few strips of gold-pressed latinum on the bar. “But not that Aldebaran swill.”

Mav was amused. She’d earned her impudence, though, so he allowed her a little fun—especially since she was clearly, for now, buying. 

He motioned to the bartender, a sturdy little Bolian with whom Mav had served a tour back when he was little more than a sowling... but need not have bothered. The glint of latinum, even in the murky environs of the tavern, had drawn Jokk to them before the money had settled onto the counter.

Mav shook his head and snorted.

Credits are one thing... cash is another. 

“Then what kind of swill would you like, Klingon?” the server asked. The question had a bit of an edge, but not enough to provoke someone who was more interested in drinking than debating. 

Seyla grinned a bit dangerously.

“Romulan ale... two bottles, and make sure they’re both older than 2365. Anything else is still blue water.”

Jokk did a quick calculation of the type that was instinct to any good bartender, and informed her, “Three more slips of latinum.”

She slapped at her armor, dug through a money pouch, and produced the required sum, tossing it off-handedly to him, along with a one-slip gratuity. 

She was putting on quite the show, and it wasn’t going unnoticed: Though business was unaccountably slow this evening, there were a trio of Starfleet marines in the corner. They were taking note. Though his sight and hearing weren’t good compared to a Vulcan, or even a human, Mav could literally sniff out trouble better than most, and he knew that the collection of grunts was getting close to picking a fight. 

Just in time.

As he downed a small taste of the ale, Mav savored both the flavor, and the moment: If there was one thing he held in greater contempt than officers—well, most officers, he conceded grudgingly—it was marines.

Surreptitiously, he toed Seyla with his left hoof, and flicked his beady eyes towards the back table... where the trio had just arisen, and was headed for them with obvious intent.

“I see them,” she whispered. 

Unbeknownst to her, Mav had, upon getting a good look at the Marines, already had a brief, one-sided conversation with Jokk before she'd arrived. Playing on regard for their long-standing relationship—along with the two strips of latinum Mav had passed him—had accomplished the stocky Tellarite’s aim.

This little encounter would be neither recorded nor reported.

They were all human, and looked pretty tough; Mav privately admitted to himself that even he wouldn’t have messed with them had he been alone. Two were of a fair size and build—tanned, sandy-haired... twins, he noted with interest—but the third was what had inspired his idea.

The man was enormous... a veritable platoon in a uniform. He was perhaps an inch or two short of seven feet, impressively muscled, and didn’t move at all like he was in the least clumsy. Marines, after all, were combat specialists, and hand-to-hand for them was something to be actually enjoyed.

“Hey, Porky... no Fleeties allowed. Get out.”

Mav had heard that insult on more than one occasion: It was a reference to old Terran animations. Actually, they were pretty funny... but now wasn’t the time to admit it.

Instead he snorted in derision. “I don’t think so, Private.” 

“Sergeant!” the man snarled in protest.

“Whatever. Now why don’t you go sit down and cuddle with the girls here,” Mav pointed at the other two Marines, “before my friend here is forced to beat you 'til you start squealing... not that that takes long with humans.”

One of the twins grabbed Tellarite by the shoulder and spun him around in the barstool. “Get up… so I can knock you down.”

For a moment, the stocky engineer ignored him, and instead turned to Seyla—who’d been watching the entire scene with an statement that had evolved from perplexed, progressed swiftly through shocked, and now finally seemed to have settled on aghast.

“I’ll handle Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber over here. You drop this bum, and we’ll go find a better place. Just make sure you get out of the way when he’s headed for the ground. Hitting you on the way down is the only possibility of him actually doing any damage, after all.”

When it came to instigating a brawl, Mav was one of the best. This time, he hadn’t had to do much work at all, since the marines had been spoiling for a fight. Getting them incoherently angry, though, was the added perq for which he’d been looking.

And, once again, the Tellarite had gotten his way. 

 

***

 

The holovid clip was grainy, as if the computer enhancement had somehow gone awry. Despite that, Naeve Sevril could clearly make out Captain Becker and the junior officers as they were ushered swiftly out of sight—but not so swiftly, of course, as to prevent some very newsworthy footage.

She’d been watching FNN for the past hour, but they seemed to know even less about what was happening than she did. The captain had said he’d return shortly, but had unfortunately failed to keep that reassuring promise... no one had heard from him in the past several hours. Most of the crew were edgy, and looking to her and Mark O’Conner for guidance.

The problem was, she could have used some herself.

As the pertly photogenic little Trill announcer launched into yet another summary of the charges against her fellow officers, Sevril silenced the little twit with the flick of a switch. Restlessly, she rose and crossed the floor of the observation lounge towards the window. As she approached, she rested her palm on the glass and stared at her reflection. A soberly attractive woman stared back, concern evident on her face.

Sighing, she looked past her image to the view outside. The Akira-class starship docked directly across from Prometheus was undergoing the process that had been for centuries called, for some reason lost to idiom, “detailing”: Crew members, both from the pampered USS Agamemnon and some Bolian cleaning concern, scurried about and over the ship’s exterior, scouring, buffing and polishing, restoring her to the pristine opalescence that must have marked her departure from Utopia Planitia some years ago. Beyond Aggy—as she was known throughout the fleet—several freighters hovered purposefully against the background of Bolarus IX and Sevril enviously observed them going about their business as if nothing of importance had happened.

Of course, for them, nothing of importance has.

Never one for sitting still and biding her time, Naeve again suppressed the urge to “do something foolish.” Those were Mark O’Conner’s exact words when she'd come to him earlier with her concerns. His attempt at reassurance had been half-hearted at best, and she’d not chosen to seek him out since.

Now that’s what I call quality leadership. I’d ended up even more upset after I’d left than when I...

Naeve’s commbadge chirped, interrupting her rail before she could really begin savoring it.

“Sevril... go.”

To her surprise, the voice belonged to O’Conner.

“Report to transporter room two, Lieutenant Commander. We have a guest arriving from USS Liberty. I’ll meet you both in conference room three.”

Naeve was nearly at the door as she acknowledged the order, the view outside the window and her own foul humor temporarily forgotten. Liberty’s captain was in the same boat as their own; maybe the visitor had a plan... a stratagem... something they could do. Grateful to have a destination—and, hopefully, in a few moments, a purpose—Sevril made her way to the nearest turbolift.

 

When Erika Benteen regained awareness after the familiar disorientation of transport, the first person she saw was Prometheus’ second officer, Naeve Sevril.

Her first thought was, A pretty face... but not exactly a pleasant one.

It was there, of course. It almost always was: Though the woman had at least made a cursory effort to mute her reaction behind a veneer of Starfleet decorum, Erika’s swift appraisal had detected more than a hint of disdain, as the object of Benteen’s scrutiny stepped forward to greet her. She returned Sevril’s strained smile with a somewhat more genuine one, and the other woman politely offered a brief tour of the ship.

Although somewhat tempted to agree—if only because of a perverse desire to watch Sevril attempt to maintain a congenial air while showing the “turncoat” around the ship—Erika gave a slight shake of her head, glancing at, and gesturing with, several PADDs she held in the crook of one arm.

“I’ll certainly take a rain check... but there are several pressing things we need to discuss. The sooner we begin, the sooner both our captains will be back where they should be.”

Nodding agreement, Naeve beckoned for her to follow.

At least she’s trying, Benteen thought. Many officers don’t even make that effort when dealing with “Erika Benteen, Starfleet traitor.” I seem to have become an expert on determining the difference between being welcomed... and simply being met.

There was a distinct absence of light conversation as they wound through the ship—something else to which Benteen had grown accustomed—before Sevril at last paused outside a closed door. The ops officer motioned her through... and, surprisingly, followed on her heels.

The man who awaited them half-rose at their entrance, an oddly knowing whisper of a smile on his face. He seemed familiar somehow... it took a moment to place him as “The Man From The Bar” last night. Naeve offered the other woman a seat.

 “Commander O’Conner, this is...”

Mark cut her off with a wave.

“Introductions aren’t necessary. We’ve already met. It’s nice to see you again, Commander.” 

Naeve glanced at Erika questioningly, but neither party seemed inclined to offer an explanation. The expression, Benteen noted, was both interested—and slightly nettled.

“Likewise,” was her only response... Sevril hid her disappointment well, but not entirely.

“Thank you for coming aboard,” O’Conner offered. “Any information you might be able to share with us is certainly appreciated.”

Erika nodded, taking advantage of the opening to hand him one of her PADDs.

“Let’s begin with our current problem. I'm sure you’ll agree that the charges against our people are trumped up and ridiculous. The Bolians seem all too pleased at the media circus they’ve created—why, though, I have no idea. I checked our fearless leaders’ respective records: Neither Captains Becker nor Mantovanni has any sort of past with the Bolians, either pleasant or unpleasant, so that can't be their motivation."

She watched with carefully studied disinterest as O’Conner and Sevril exchanged uncomfortable glances. Evidently they'd neglected to pursue this avenue, and were both chiding themselves... as well as, from their respective facial casts, blaming each other, too. 

“Unfortunately," she resumed, "we too were unable to have the charges dismissed through back channels, and the local JAG rep is beginning to think they’ll actually have to argue it out in the local courts. A Bolian Starfleet officer with a working knowledge of his culture’s legal system and procedures will be arriving aboard Prometheus shortly. He’ll aid your legal council in preparing a defense for your captain and officers. Hopefully we can get this matter resolved as soon as possible.”

“Agreed.” Mark said, scanning the PADD; it held an analysis of the charges, and which penal codes they had supposedly violated. It no doubt confirmed for him what she herself had already learned during her feverish crash course in Bolian law: Tradition had long held commanders responsible for the actions of their subordinates—even when the incidents were clearly unrelated to military matters. According to the Bolians, there was a causal relationship between lack of enforced hierarchical discipline and criminal action.

He looked as thrilled as she had been.

Erika hesitated before continuing. She fervently wished Mantovanni was here with her—especially since what she was about to reveal had been his discovery.

“There’s another matter,” she announced, a bit reluctantly. It was too much like salt in the wound just now, but she really didn’t have much choice.

Her tone caught their particular attention—cutting through their mutual irritation—and they regarded her with sharp curiosity.

“Yes?” they both ventured.

She pushed another PADD in Mark O’Conner’s direction.

“Captain Mantovanni was curious about some aspects of Prometheus’ command structure, and… let’s just say his curiosity took him in a direction he didn’t expect.”

Now she had their full attention: Sevril’s agitation was obvious; O’Conner simply absorbed what she was saying with a startling impassivity.

“Perhaps you should simply read it,” Benteen prodded.

He took the small device, but made no move to peruse its contents.

“Does it pertain in any way to the current situation?” he inquired, his gaze suddenly penetrating.

Impressed, but undaunted by his sudden transformation, Erika replied, “Almost certainly not.”

He immediately put the PADD down.

“Then it’ll keep. Our first priority is to help the captain. If we allow ourselves to be distracted by something with questionable immediacy, we’re only wasting energy better put to aiding him... them.”

He sighed, smiled slightly, then addressed Sevril.

“Commander, you’re dismissed. Please await our Bolian barrister in transporter room two.”

It was clear Sevril didn't much like having tasks peremptorily delegated to her. For a shade too long, she held her ground; then, with a curt nod to Benteen, she whirled and swept out of the room.

It was in that moment Erika Benteen realized what had been distracting her since entering the room.

I’m not sure you could cut the sexual tension between those two with the Liberty’s phaser array. And they both seem clueless about it. Then, again... and despite herself, she grinned slightly, ...they’d probably have to do it standing up—since I’m not sure either could let the other be on top for long.

Ah, young love.

With a final internal chuckle, Benteen put aside her rather amusing realization, and returned to the business at hand.

She was given hardly a moment before the tone of conversation changed dramatically.

"You know, you had me going," O'Conner stated, with what was obviously an assumed casualness.

And you have me going, now. "Excuse me?"

“Yesterday at the bar. By the way, your feline friend Cleopatra…"

"Hatshepsut," Benteen corrected.

"Whatever. She doesn't have the same regard for personal space humans do, does she? I could barely keep her claws off me… and those eyes were on mine, and everywhere, all at once."

Erika smiled. "Now you know how women everywhere feel on a chronic basis, Commander."

He motioned with his hands—a staving off gesture—and conceded, "Touché." He then pressed forward.

"I checked out your personnel record. You were married, Lieutenant Commander... you have a daughter.” O’Conner folded his arms in the manner of one that has discovered a child being naughty, and wishes to shame them a bit.

Benteen suppressed the urge to roll her eyes.

“Is there a question remotely in our future here, Commander... or are you going to continue with the adolescent implications?”

O’Conner’s mouth formed a hard line... but, to his credit, he didn’t flinch away from the confrontation he himself had provoked.

“You told me you’re not interested in men. That’s obviously a lie.”

This time, when she smiled, it was vitriolic and vicious.

“Let’s see,” Benteen began counting on her fingers, listing her reasons matter-of-factly, even as O’Conner gaped in astonishment. “I could tell you that I’d lied, that I’m interested in men, just not you... but no doubt you’re far too arrogant to believe it, so I won’t bother. I could remind you that I said that I’m ‘not a heterosexual,’ but didn’t say I was a homosexual—which, I’m sure you’ll agree, leaves ‘bisexual’ a viable option—and allowed you to jump to your own conclusions, but that, too, would mean that I was somehow not attracted to you... and that arrogance thing rears its ugly head again. I could say that I'm attracted to men, but that you’re a boy, and so don’t qualify… after all, I’m about ten years older than you, if I’m not mistaken.”

He was, when she glanced at him, wearing an expression that was equal parts chagrined, dismayed, embarrassed and angry... but he’d obviously decided to let Benteen have her say.

Well, Commander, it seems as if you’ve got a touch of humility after all, she noted... and then thought to relent, a bit.

“Or I could tell you the truth.”

As she’d known he would, O’Conner snapped up the bait.

“Which is?” he inquired warily.

She told him, enunciating with sincere clarity, “That I was tired, and just didn’t want to dance. I would have been happy to just sit and talk, but you were hell bent on sweeping someone off their feet, and out of their clothes... correct me if I’m wrong,” she interrupted herself and cocked an eye at him.

"Er, well…" he tried, but didn't even convince himself.

"I thought so," she continued, interpreting his silence as an admission of guilt.

Then he grinned.

Most would have interpreted as a sheepish, conciliatory one… but Benteen wasn't fooled. She'd been deceived—and she admitted to herself ruefully, on occasion had—by men just like Mark O'Conner, and could count the hairs on their heads while they were running. The man wasn't really sorry… he was turning on his not inconsiderable charm, fishing for forgiveness rather than acknowledging that what he'd done was wrong.

The arrogance was appalling.

"Is there anything my personnel file didn't cover that you'd like to know, Commander? Questions about what prison was like? It sucked. My favorite color? Rose red. What positions I prefer when a man actually romances me rather than giving me the bum's rush? Well, that's something you'll never know.

"Grow up, Commander O'Conner. Contrary to what you might think, not every woman that doesn't want you is frigid, a lesbian, or psychologically unbalanced. Sometimes, they can simply look and say, 'All style, no substance.'

"If you'll excuse me… I'm going to take your advice now, and stick to the important matters at hand. I suggest you do the same."

She didn't have Sevril's flair for departures—you needed the haughtily beautiful features and the flowing blond locks for that—but Erika knew that as far as exits went, that had been a pretty good one…

…and, judging by his stupefied expression, she knew she'd made her point.

 

***

 

          What do you mean, ‘You’re free to go?’”

          Colin Becker had been prepared for anything from a hosing down and delousing all the way through summary execution... but he had to admit, the judge had caught him off guard with that little pronouncement.

          He’d been separated from the others some hours ago—ostensibly to discuss the particulars of the case with Vixx, a no nonsense young Bolian lieutenant assigned by Starfleet as advisory counsel. Their brief conversation had led him to think that his brush with Bolarus IX’s penal system might become a protracted affair.

          “Physical violence is not something about which my people are flexible, sir... and, according to Vaerth Parihn, she did strike first—as did Daniel Ryan.”

          Becker had been irritated: Despite his role as their advocate, Vixx had been instead sounding more like an apologist for Bolian jurisprudence.

          “They were harassing my officers, Lieutenant!” he’d protested.

          “Unfortunately, a continual attempt to state one’s case is not considered harassment on Bolarus IX. Dislocating someone’s jaw, and even simply shoving past someone, however, does constitute assault.”

          Exasperated, Becker had stood and begun pacing around the small meeting room they’d been provided for their consultation.

          “This is absurd. Just 48 hours ago, my crew was involved in a bar fight! Nothing of this sort occurred then!”

          Vixx had folded his arms; his expression hadn’t been exactly unsympathetic, but it wouldn’t have qualified as consoling, either.

          “Aliens brawling amongst themselves in an area clearly delineated for off-world traffic is entirely another matter than an attack upon a group of harmless youths exploring their natural sexual curiosity about Deltan women, Captain.”

          Prometheus’ commander had been astonished that Vixx could say that with a straight face—and had been hardly mollified when he’d appended, “You and I might find that a little odd, but a Bolian justiciar will begin with that perspective... and it will be our task to persuade him from a legal stance that has some precedent in my people’s legislative history. I don’t like our chances.”

          “All right,” Becker had gritted, flopping down in the chair again and leaning forward so as to guarantee the younger man’s undivided attention. “Give me a worst-case scenario: What are we talking about here, insofar as a judgment goes?”

          “That depends entirely on whether you wish to be assessed as individuals, in particular groups, or all together.”

          Becker closed his eyes and shook his head, as if attempting to throw off the effects of a blow. “I beg your pardon?”

          Vixx sighed, slightly, but patiently explained.

          “In Bolian society, perpetrators—yes, sir, I know you don’t like the term, but it has a legal validity, here—can choose to either include themselves in a group of their fellow accused, or take their chances on their own. The latter is, of course, the default position. The former option, however, is a long-standing tradition among my people.

          So’s railroading, Becker thought, but instead, said, “I see. Let’s assume we’re judged individually, and all found guilty.”

          “Hmm... I wouldn’t care to speculate...”

          “Well, since I’m a captain and you’re a lieutenant, consider ‘Speculate’ an order.”

          Vixx had colored a deeper blue, coughed, and mumbled, “Yes, sir.

          “For you and Ariada D’all, I’d say you’d receive a light sentence of some sort. A year's probation would be my estimate; alternately, the sentence might be six months of community service or incarceration in a mimimum security facility. Daniel Ryan, I think, would be handled somewhat more harshly, for having initiated physical contact. No doubt he’d be remanded to a Bolian penal facility for 12 to 18 months.

          “Captain Mantovanni and Vaerth Parihn, well...” He’d hesitated.

          “Go on,” prodded Becker.

          “Well, the fact that her victim is still hospitalized won’t sit well with a judge. Besides, she’s an Orion. Their reputation for troublemaking is widely known. And they aren’t likely to give Captain Mantovanni a much lighter sentence, either... since he’s so famous, they’d love to make an example of him, unless I miss my guess.”

          When he’d given his estimate, Becker had felt faintly sick.

          “He’d probably get two years, one suspended... she’d receive three to five, and be forced to serve them all—at the least.”

          Feverishly, Prometheus’ captain scrambled for options.  

          “What’re the chances of Ensign Parihn and Captain Mantovanni receiving lighter sentences if my officers and I choose to stand with them and be judged together?”

          The Bolian had grimaced. “It’s a possibility, but it’s definitely a risk.”

          “Give me a number,” Becker had demanded.

          Soberly, Vixx had estimated, “40% chance of a lighter sentence for those two...  so a 60% chance you simply make things worse for yourselves.”

          Considering how things had gone for him and his crew, Colin Becker had not thought those odds particularly inspiring.

          And now, as he stood before the local magistrate—the justiciar, I believe Vixx called him—he didn’t know what to think.

          He blurted the first thing that came to mind.

          “I don’t understand.”

          The obvious perplexity in his tone didn’t invite the explanation for which he’d hoped., though. Instead, the Bolian he thought was about to pass judgment dismissed him as readily as he had the charges.

          “It is not my duty to supply the ignorant with understanding, but only to dispense justice,” came the answer.

          Becker took a deep breath, and attempted to regain a semblance of balance. Vixx had told him that he, along with Mantovanni and Parihn, would certainly be at the center of a high-profile trial. Noted prosecutors would ruthlessly maneuver for the privilege of sending Starfleet officers to prison; such a triumph, after all, could make an individual’s attorney’s career.

          But instead of a long stretch in custody, waiting for the eventual public spectacle, he and Vixx had been interrupted mid-conference, and he’d been escorted to this opulent, well-furnished, but surprisingly small and private judicial disposition chamber—where, without preamble, the justiciar had just pronounced him a free man.

          “Respectfully... what of my fellow officers?”

          The elder Bolian sighed, and replied with insultingly magnanimous patience, “They await you in the chamber adjoining this one. You may go to them." His last statement sounded a little more like a command than a recommendation.

          Becker took the hint and left the man alone with his sublime thoughts—at least, no doubt, that's how he thinks of them—motioned to Vixx, and entered the specified room.

          Three of his "partners in crime" rose immediately to greet him; their expressions ranged from expansive relief, in the case of his two officers, to a more careful, dilute version from Luciano Mantovanni.

          "The same with all of you?" Becker asked immediately.

          "If you mean various and sundry charges inexplicably dropped, then yes," Liberty's captain replied. His tone was polite, but distracted. His pleased expression became a searching gaze as it moved past his younger counterpart and came to rest, rather heavily, on Lieutenant Vixx.

          "I assume Ensign Parihn will be joining us momentarily?"

          Becker knew the answer to that without even turning back to look at the Bolian. He only needed to glance at Mantovanni—whose facial cast hardened into genuine anger in the moment before his famed control reasserted itself.

          "No, sir," came the reluctant response.

          "B–but why not?" Ariada D'all inquired plaintively. "I thought you said all charges were dropped."

          Now, with all eyes on him, Vixx couldn't to seem meet anyone else's.

          "I'm sorry. I had specific instructions from that client not to discuss her chosen option with you."

          Mantovanni took a step towards him; it hadn't been precisely threatening, but Vixx unconsciously drew back.

          "I suggest, Lieutenant, that you 'discuss' it now."

 

***

 

Taken as a whole, Mav had to admit, he'd had a thoroughly satisfying couple of days.

Leaning rather heavily on each other as a consequence of both drink and brawling, the tipsy Tellarite and his equally woozy Klingon companion left the Grithcalar—and their unconscious Marine foes—behind.

Mav grunted, and huffed, "OK... h–here's an example of what I was talking about.

"I couldn't have taken that big guy."

At first Seyla was startled by the admission; then she grinned crookedly, and replied with an expansive, "Suuuuure you could've... you're tough."

He grunted agreeably, and smacked her shoulder. "No doubt about that, turtl–... Lieutenant... but the difference here is I haven't quite got the tools to stop that guy—not big enough, not strong enough, and don't have the moves—but you do... heh… and you did." He snorted in amusement, again visualizing the giant marine in a heap at her feet.

Surprising even himself, he continued, "You're actually OK, Lieutenant..."

"...though if I tell anyone you said that, you'll deny it," Seyla finished with a wicked grin.

Mav stared at her, and answered, "You're smarter than you look." He couldn't leave it at that, though, and her half-smile told him she'd known he'd append something.

He didn't disappoint.

"Then, again, you're a Klingon," he observed. "You almost have to be."

She threw a comradely arm about his shoulder, laughing, and replied, "I'll t–take that out of your bristly hide later.

"Right now," she finished, "we both need another drink."

          As they staggered towards the next bar, the sturdy little Tellarite found himself thinking, Hunh… if she weren't an officer, I might marry this woman.

Shivering at the mere thought, he followed, eager to drown the very concept in something smooth, strong… and alcoholic.

 

***

 

The vast assembly hall was filled with officers... and gilt with brass.

          Commanders, captains, commodores and even members of the admiralty were milling about—rubbing shoulders, making new contacts, renewing old acquaintances and generally acquiring the lay of the land.

          Presiding over the initial major military congress since the first days of the postwar galaxy was the head of Starfleet Tactical, Amarian Sih’tarr.

          This all-encompassing reception mid-conference, though, had not been his idea; he would have preferred sticking to business. Starfleet’s Bolian hosts, though, had considered some type of informal get together not only appropriate, but critical to the optimal running of the affair. Sih’tarr was certain that opinion had far more to do with local cultural proprieties than it did actual necessity, but...

          Ah, well. It is interesting to watch the interaction, though... or, in some cases, lack thereof. His judicious eye again returned, as it had three or four times already, to one commander in particular.

            Amarian Sih’tarr had known Luciano Mantovanni for the best part of a century: He had been weapons officer on the original, Miranda-class USS Liberty... and one of the vessel’s only survivors after her fateful encounter with the Romulan task force she had defied, decimated, and finally, been destroyed by. His son, Theren, had served aboard the new USS Liberty during the opening months of the Dominion War... and had one of Starfleet’s rarest and most celebrated decorations—the especially created “13th Fleet” Commemorative Ribbon—to show for it.

          I've never been able to determine, Sih’tarr thought, precisely whether trouble follows you... or you find it, Captain.

          The Sicilian had, upon entering the hall, staked out for himself what Sih’tarr knew was, in the mind of his old mentor, a defensible corner; and there he’d remained for almost an hour—nodding politely to those who greeted him, but maintaining a stance that made clear to anyone with a modicum of perception that small talk was not high on his list of priorities.

          And, other than a few half-hearted attempts, no one had endeavored to breach his privacy.

That, of course, was little deterrent to Amarian Sih’tarr.

          The Andorian made his way towards Mantovanni, watching carefully for any indication of how he’d be received. When the younger man spotted him, the admiral noted a slight change in expression—annoyance liberally spiced with resignation.

          The Sicilian’s greeting was far more one appropriately addressed to a former subordinate than it was a three-star admiral: Fortunately, Amarian was both.

          “I know that expression; I’ve seen it far too often from your son… and, time was, from you as well. Are you about to stick your antennae where they’re not wanted?”

          Sih’tarr smiled slightly. The man was nothing if not direct.

          “No doubt. Insularity is one thing... openly anti-social behavior is quite another, Cicero. As an aside, Theren sends his respects.”

          Mantovanni acknowledged the last comment with a nod. His former tactical officer was now commander of the Defiant-class USS Fearless, and had begun forging a reputation that might eventually place him beyond the two-headed shadow of the man who’d once been his captain...

          ...and the one who’d always be his father.

           As Liberty’s commander framed his response, the protective shell of personal space he’d so determinedly erected and maintained collapsed in the wake of Admiral Sih’tarr’s arrival: A pair of individuals who’d evidently wanted a word with him took the brief conversation as license to approach.

          The first announced his presence with a distinctive cadence and flair.

          “Well, Commodore... you’re lookin’ none the worse for your harrowin’ ordeal at the hands of the ‘blue bloods.’” Captain Matthew Stuart of USS Agamemnon, bedecked in that “Confederate Cavalry” variant of the standard Starfleet dress uniform he’d made infamous, sketched a half-respectful, half-apologetic bow to Sih’tarr. “Speakin’ in a purely symbolic sense, o’ course, Admiral.”

          “I can confirm that, sir,” Mantovanni added. “Any scathing commentary Matt makes will definitely be directed my way... take care not to stand too close, though. Collateral damage isn’t unheard of when he really gets going.”

          The Andorian nodded, even as Stuart grinned broadly. What a pair these two must have made, he thought. I’d imagine Matthew’s studied joviality must have weighed on Cicero, eventually. Theren was correct... he’s definitely an acquired taste.

          In his mind's eye, Sih'tarr adjusted the picture he had of both men to include the next arrival: The reptilian Vor'shan had appeared at Stuart's side with his people's customary serpentine grace. The incongruous Oxford accent confirmed his identity as another "13th Fleet" alum, Lieutenant Commander Brennig Tethyan.

          "Admiral," he greeted with care and precision. When, again, the Andorian merely inclined his head, the young officer took it as permission to proceed.

"Captain Mantovanni, Captain Donaldson sends her... compliments.”

          Before Matthew Stuart could do little more than smile in response to that infinitesimal hesitation, both Liberty’s commander and Adventurous’ tactical officer turned and affixed him with warning glares Sih’tarr was certain, that, if measurable, would have qualified as military grade ordnance.

Wisely, Stuart merely shrugged and allowed the expression to quickly fade.

          Now Sih’tarr, in his thoughts, placed the fiercely determined, forthright Erika Donaldson alongside the others.

          Hmmm... Did that immediate reaction to Stuart imply some sort of in–...?

          "Excuse me... I’d like a word with Captain Mantovanni, if you all don’t mind.”

          Judging from the barely contained anger in the tone, USS Prometheus’ commander, Colin Becker, wasn’t here to exchange niceties... and didn’t particularly care if they did mind.

          Considering what had happened during the conference’s first half, though, none

of the others were really surprised.

          It had started innocuously enough.

          “This panel discussion,” the moderator had intoned, “will address the status, necessity and disposition of the experimental Prometheus-class long range tactical cruiser in the postwar galaxy. Assembled to explore the pertinent issues are a collection of design, engineering and strategic/tactical experts, as well as a number of active duty officers with extensive combat experience, among which are: her chief architect, John Keeting; Captain Colin Becker, the class prototype’s commanding officer; Captain Karen Laughlin, assistant yard superintendent at Utopia Planitia ship-works during the vessel’s construction; Vice Admiral Amarian Sih’tarr, Chief of Starfleet Tactical; Commander William Riker, executive officer on the Federation flagship, USS Enterprise-E; Captain Matthew Stuart, captain of the Akira-class strike cruiser USS Agamemnon; and Captain Luciano Mantovanni, commanding the Sovereign-class fast battleship USS Liberty.”

          The entire history of the vessel had been condensed into an hour-long briefing, utilizing resources as varied as sensor records, ship’s logs and computer modeling. A number of the panelists had taken notes, but others had simply sat, watched and listened.

          It had been John Keeting who’d begun speaking even before the last holo-image had completely faded.

          “Well, of course, no one can be fully cognizant of the entire situation after such a cursory briefing...” he'd announced. He was a bearded, slender man, and had given Sih’tarr the distinct impression that his receding hairline had receded even more over concerns with his brainchild.

          “Rest assured, this panel is not making the final determination, Mr. Keeting,” Sih’tarr had reminded him. “It will, however, provide a valuable perspective in assisting the Admiralty’s decision as to the Prometheus-class’ disposition.”

          “The vessel’s had a... troubled history,” Matt Stuart had ventured. “I don’t mean ta be negative, but I’m still wonderin’ how she ever got past the drawin’ board. Mama Stuart didn’t raise no fools, and buildin’ a ship that splits into three components seems far less useful, ultimately, than simply buildin’ three ships.”

          “Well, the vessel’s already been built,” Karen Laughlin had countered, a bit testily; her response merely confirmed what they all knew: Dock-masters were notorious as one of a small group of individuals—along with the designer, commander, and chief engineer—who considered a ship theirs.

          “That’s true,” Will Riker had conceded, and partly disarmed her with one of his patented lopsided smiles. “I think the goal here, though, is to decide whether or not a second should be.”

          That had been the essential point, in a nutshell.

          The hour-long discussion had taken many different directions, but each side had made strong points in its favor.

          “Captain Mantovanni, you’ve been particularly quiet. What are your overall impressions?”

          Sih’tarr’s question had seemingly drawn Liberty’s captain back from wherever he’d been.

After hearing his opinion, he was almost sorry he had.

“I think the entire concept was flawed in its beginnings; it’s someone’s pet project run amuck. She is, quite simply, cost-ineffective and tactically unviable; either of these alone would call her entire existence as a class into question. Both together are damning. She has three warp cores and six nacelles; balancing them, especially after the vessel’s taken damage, must be nigh impossible. Attempting to separate into multi-vector assault mode during combat leaves her vulnerable for an all too large window of opportunity. Not only would I scrap the class, I’d consider scuttling the one we have. She’s a waste of resources if she has no sister ships. Upkeep will be enormously expensive without easily replicable parts. As a long range tactical cruiser, she’s an ambitious failure, an ingenious one... but she is a failure. It’s time her proponents accepted that.”

That had gone over extremely well: Keeting, blushing furiously, had lurched to his feet and stormed away, muttering something of which they could only catch pieces.

"Short-sighted, one-dimensional thinker... military blinders... still fighting with swords and spears if he had his way...!”

Karen Laughlin had risen and followed, but had managed a condemnatory glare for Mantovanni before she did so. Colin Becker too, had departed... he, however, had been careful not to look at Liberty’s captain.

Sih’tarr had motioned to the moderator, who’d stammered, “Th–there’ll be a short recess.” Then both had retired, as well, with Will Riker taking note of Sih'tarr's leading expression, and falling in behind, as well.

Only Matt Stuart had remained.

Dryly, he'd observed, “Nice goin’… Miss Congeniality.”

 

In the here and now, though, the admiral decided to act. It was clear that Becker was furious; while Mantovanni usually responded to another's anger with a disarming and incisive lucidity, Sih'tarr sensed that this was one of those situations wherein the problem would only escalate were the two principles left alone to "hash it out."

"I don't think so," he decided.

Becker did a double take. Stuart and Tethyan immediately, prudently, struck up a quiet conversation calculated to afford the other three at least the illusion of privacy.

"Sir?"

The admiral's eyes flicked from one to the other and back again.

"You are both clearly not in the mood to be civil; thus, I'm telling you that this conversation is unnecessary... and will not take place."

"But…" Becker began a protest.

"End of discussion, Captain." The silk in Sih'tarr's voice clearly concealed steel.

"You're dismissed."

Prometheus' commander worked his jaw momentarily, then sighed in barely suppressed aggravation.

"Admiral." He nodded to Tethyan and Stuart… then pointedly ignored Mantovanni, turned on his heel, and strode away.

The near altercation had not gone unnoticed, though: A number of officers narrowly escaped whiplash avoiding the sharp glances of both Sih'tarr and Mantovanni—as both gauged who'd been watching too closely.

          "It's unfortunate that Captain Becker is takin' this so personally," Matt Stuart observed, as Becker left not only their vicinity, but the gathering itself.

          "Unfortunate, but not unreasonable," Sih'tarr answered.

          Stuart was unconvinced. "I daresay a captain should have a thicka' skin than that."

"And how thick is your skin when someone makes disparaging comments about Agamemnon?" Sih'tarr gently inquired.

          The younger man frowned, and folded his arms.

"Respectfully, sir, no one makes disparaging comments about Aggy… there's no cause. Besides, she's not the issue here."

"Yet your entire demeanor changes at the suggestion," the Andorian noted. "Even your very posture becomes defensive. Can you blame Captain Becker for his upset?"

          Before Stuart could continue the discussion, Mantovanni interrupted with, "Fascinating as this is, gentlemen, I believe I've fulfilled my obligation to attend this mandatory gathering. If you'll excuse me… unless you'd like to order me to remain, Admiral?"

          Now Sih'tarr's tone contained more steel than silk.

"No, Cicero… you've made it quite clear you'd like to go somewhere and sulk—over what, I'm not certain, but it's obviously bothering you greatly. I suggest you attempt a resolution before returning to the conference table the day after tomorrow. Even my patience has its limits…

"…and you're beginning to approach it."

          The Sicilian's response was immediate.        

"'Approach' is an interesting word choice—considering that you approached me, Admiral.

"Good night, gentlemen."

          In the wake of Mantovanni's departure, Amarian Sih'tarr smiled slightly at Brennig Tethyan, and asked, "Did you find yourself afraid to speak, Lieutenant, for fear of saying the wrong thing?"

          The Vor'shan hissed slightly.

          "Not precisely, sir. Let's just say I appreciate the economy of silence."

          The Andorian chuckled.

          "Well said, Lieutenant.

          "Perhaps your superiors—all of them—should take that lesson to heart."

 

          Luciano Mantovanni, though, wasn't about to do so.

          After boarding the Liberty, he headed for his quarters; there, he hoped to find the "resolution" of which Amarian Sih'tarr had spoken only moments before.

          Even before he'd left the transporter room, Mantovanni had tapped his comm badge and inquired curtly, "Computer, locate Ensign Parihn."

It had answered with a prompt, "Ensign Parihn is in her quarters."

With a second tap, he'd redirected the signal, and his own stride.

"Ensign Parihn, report to the captain's ready room immediately."

The reply took somewhat longer than he expected—or preferred.

"Understood. En route."

She'd actually beaten him to the bridge.

Benteen, with a subtle inclination of her head, caught his attention before he could head for his sanctum sanctorum, indicating with her eyes that the young Orion was already there; she then approached him, her own expression concerned.

Rather than waiting, though, he turned away and entered.

Parihn stood immediately; he waited until the door had closed behind him before stating, "As you were."

Instead of settling behind his desk, though, Mantovanni took the chair opposite her; the chess board lay between them like a no man's land.

"I wanted to speak with you again."

She met his intense gaze with one of her own.

"If this is on the same subject we addressed just after being released from the penal facility, I've said all I have to say, sir."

"Well, I haven't. I want to know the nature of the agreement you made to spare me and your fellow officers prosecution. Lieutenant Rixx refused to specify—mostly because he wasn't privy to all of it—but there was an implication in his comments I found… distressing."

"You, distressed, sir?" Parihn's expression grew wide-eyed.

His own narrowed in response.

"Don't get cute, Parihn… I'm not in the mood."

She folded her arms—for a moment, Mantovanni's thoughts flashed back to Admiral Sih'tarr's comment on the posture being "defensive"—and replied, "Why do you want to know? More importantly, why do you need to know? You're out of prison; there'll be no further repercussions for you, Captain Becker, or Daniel and Ariada. That was my purpose, and I accomplished it."

"I don't want you sacrificing…" His voice trailed off.

For some reason, that particular phrase made her angry.

"Sacrificing… what?" she prodded. "By the warlords of Orion! Distressed and at a loss for words. This is a banner day!"

Usually, Mantovanni found it amusing when someone scored a point on him. Not this time.

"I'm your commanding officer, Parihn. I'm trying not to make this an order. Talk to me."

She leaned forward, and enunciated with crystal clarity, "Make it an order if you want… I'll simply refuse to answer. It's a personal matter… and none of your damned business!"

Rarely had anyone who knew him seen Luciano Mantovanni genuinely angry.

It was clearly a privilege Parihn would have preferred to avoid. She nearly flinched away from his eyes. They were penetrating in a way she found more disturbing than the other… intrusions… she'd experienced for ten years of her life.

"It's my business," he growled, "because I said it's my business.

"What do you have to do?"

Still the Orion wouldn't answer the question he'd asked.

Instead, she commented, "I find myself wondering whether this concern you're showing me is paternal… or proprietary. Neither is appropriate, after all."

His expression was now as much troubled and confused as angry.

"That was uncalled for, Parihn; when have I ever treated you with anything other than regard and respect?"

Her smile was bittersweet. It was an expression she'd long ago mastered, but had left unused for some years; now, as she dusted it off and employed it, she found—much to her private dismay—that it still fit her.

          She whispered, "Never…

"…until now."

 

***

 

Despite her best efforts to prevent it, Seyla Ta'quith found herself hurtling through the air, to land, rather unceremoniously, on her back. She remained immobile for several moments, sucking in lungfuls of air.

Her opponent stepped away and glanced down at her impassively. Despite the repeated, painstaking demonstration of his proficiency, the Klingon woman still tended to wear an expression around Turek that seemed to say, "How can a… a… pacifist fight so well?"

          “Four to three," she growled dejectedly. "You win.”

          Inwardly, Turek was amused; her disappointment was as palpable as a child's.

          "Your skills continue to improve. Never until today had you managed to take three falls from me.

          This heartened her visibly.

          "That's true," she acknowledged. A crafty look came into her eye, and she ventured, "Best of seven again?"

          "Regrettably, I must decline," he answered. “I plan on watching part of the conference Captain Becker is attending via data link.”

          “I wish to learn that last move you employed.”

          Turek regarded her for a long moment, dubious.

          “The technique is… difficult.”

          “I will attempt to master it, nonetheless,” the Klingon determinedly declared.

          The Vulcan was impressed with her resolve. Indeed the crafty old Tellarite Mav had taught her something useful.

          "Perhaps—in time—you will,” Turek conceded.

          “I am pleased with your progress,” he added.  “Good day, Lieutenant.”

          Leaving his sparring partner gaping at the unlooked for compliment, Prometheus' security chief strode briskly to his quarters.

          “Computer, dim lights to 40% intensity,” he ordered as he crossed the room and activated his console. He didn't even bother to change out of his sparring clothes; instead, Turek immediately sat at the desk and prepared to listen closely. He steepled his fingers, closed his eyes, and began the deep breathing exercises that would help him concentrate on the proceedings.

The computer took but a moment to accept his security access code prior to displaying a live feed. The Vulcan scanned the conference itinerary, and selected the panel discussion on the viability of the Prometheus-class starship.

          It wasn't going well.

His sharp eyes were immediately drawn to Colin Becker. His commander was clearly agitated, as the debate took a turn towards what both would have thought was an impossible decision: The discontinuation of the vessel class… or even the decommissioning of Prometheus herself.

          He listened closely for some time; his brow slowly inched upwards until it nearly touched his hairline. He pursed his lips in faint disapproval at the conclusion of the arguments, dissatisfied with what he'd heard. He stood up and began pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back, the ongoing conference now merely background noise. At last, he stopped abruptly and faced his console.

          “Computer. Send a personal communiqué to T’Vaar of the USS Liberty requesting a visual uplink.”

          "Sending personal hail," the computer informed him with synthetic courtesy.

          Within moments, the conference was replaced with T’Vaar’s image. Her gaze registered the identity of her caller, and she nodded briefly, carefully, in greeting.

          “Am I disturbing you?” he asked.

          “Negative. How may I assist you?” Beneath her carefully modulated tone, one could detect faint surprise.

          Turek came to the point immediately.

          “Have you been following the conference?”

          “Portions of it. I assume you have as well?”

          “Indeed. If you are not currently engaged, perhaps we can meet and discuss it,” he suggested.

          T’Vaar seemed to weigh her response before answering.

          “That would be acceptable,” she replied at last.

          “Will you beam over to Prometheus? I will await you in transporter room one.”

          If T’Vaar was curious about his desire to meet so quickly, she did not comment.

          “Very well… ten minutes. T’Vaar out.” She leaned forward to deactivate her screen and the image vanished.

          Turek quickly showered, changed into a fresh uniform and hurriedly left his quarters. He arrived just as his guest materialized and stepped off the pad.

          “It is agreeable to see you again,” she greeted.

It was a salutation usually reserved for friends.

It surprised him… but he found himself pleased by it.

          “And you. Have you eaten?” he asked suddenly.

          She arched a brow. “On any number of occasions.”

          Turek almost smiled before catching himself.

          "Forgive my lack of specificity. I should have asked if you were hungry."

          Once she had agreed to a meal, Turek steered her through several turbo-lifts and into the mess hall. They threaded their way through the throngs of crew members who all seemed to have chosen to take their meals at the same time. The Vulcans' sharp eyes spotted a table for two in the far corner. T’Vaar volunteered to claim the area and Turek headed to a vacant replicator, hoping to utilize it before someone else co-opted it.

Random chance favored him.

          “Two plates of Sivaara stew and…two mugs of Chitra tea.”

          As he gave the replicator his order, Turek became aware of a presence behind him.

          “Who’s your lady friend?” the familiar voice queried suggestively. On occasion—and this was one of them—Turek found himself wondering if the man had any other intonation in his audial repertoire.

          Without bothering to glance in his direction, Turek answered, “Lieutenant T’Vaar of USS Liberty.”

          “She’s cute,” Mark O’Conner commented, grinning as Turek turned to regard him.

          “I will relay your observation to her if you wish. No doubt she will be gratified to hear it.”

          Obviously the droll nature of the delivery wasn't entirely lost on the libidinous O'Conner. He grinned again and shrugged.

          “Don't worry; I wouldn’t dream of coming between you and your date.” His polite tone belied the humorous twinkle in his eyes.

          Turek sighed inwardly. He had predicted the progression of this conversation from the moment he'd sensed O'Conner's presence. The man was more predictable—and less amusing—than he realized.

“You err in your assumptions. She is not my…'date,' as you have so quaintly labeled it. We are having a discussion over a meal.”

          “Whatever you want to call it is fine with me,” Mark readily agreed. “She’s still cute... and you're still single.”

          Turek seemed almost relieved as his order materialized at last, saving him from having to respond.

          “If you’ll excuse me, Commander…”

          “By all means.” Mark grinned again and stepped to the side to allow the Vulcan to pass. “You kids have fun.”

          Not bothering to reply, Turek hurried away from his antagonist. Sliding the trays onto the table, he sat down opposite T’Vaar and they began to eat in silence.

          After a few moments of this, T’Vaar put her fork down and scrutinized him through narrowed eyes.

          “You appear preoccupied,” she remarked.

          Turek's thoughts, strangely enough, returned to O'Conner's final point; with an effort, he dismissed it and refocused his attention on the matter at hand.

          “I admit I have concerns on several points discussed at the conference.”

          “Those that involve your vessel, no doubt,” T’Vaar concluded.

          “Indeed.” He looked at her sharply.

          "It was a reasonable assumption. What are your thoughts, specifically? Your vessel is the prototype of its class, is it not?”

          Turek nodded, then briefly outlined the points that bothered him—and several others at the conference—the most.

For a moment, T’Vaar said nothing, chewing thoughtfully at her stew as she pondered the issues he had raised.

Again, Turek's thoughts wandered—this time, to the human concept of "small talk"… and how disappointed O'Conner would be at the lack thereof. With a somewhat more concerted effort, he again returned to the here and now.

          “… and your concerns, as we have heard, are valid," T'Vaar was saying, "but… I have an idea.”

          And she told him.

          At first, he was doubtful. He raised protests; she refuted them. He mentioned problems with her conception; she dispelled them with her responses.

          She has an aesthetically appealing intellect.

When Turek saw O'Conner smirking knowingly in his mind's eye, saying something to the effect of, "That's not all you find aesthetically appealing," he for a third time dismissed the train of thought—as best he could, at any rate.

Once the two of them had discussed it at length, they had come up with a solid technical plan. By this time, the mess hall was deserted and their tea had gone cold… but neither seemed aware of it.

          Slowly—almost reluctantly—Turek, at last, conceded.

“If the captain agrees with our logic, it certainly may work.”

 

 

CONCLUSION, POSTED 4:30 p.m., SUNDAY, 12 AUGUST 2001

 

 

          The invitation to join Captain Becker and his officers for a staff meeting aboard Prometheus had left one of its addressees leery: The summons had not only been unexpected, but incongruent, as well.

          "Let me get this straight: T'Vaar is calling a meeting of the senior staff—another ship's senior staff, that is—and wants us there?"

          Erika Benteen hadn't particularly enjoyed her first visit to Prometheus, for a myriad of reasons. To voluntarily return seemed more than a bit like pushing her luck.

          Erika had glanced at her commander with what she knew was an irrational hopefulness.

          Maybe he'll refuse. After all, he and Becker don't exactly see eye-to-eye about this.

Another part of her had added, somewhat pettily, That's because the truth hurts.

"The meeting," Mantovanni had declared, "is scheduled to begin at 1300. We'd best get moving."

Then, Liberty's captain had stood, glanced at her… and arched a brow.

Damn.

No doubt he'd read, and reacted to, something in her expression—something she'd taken pains to conceal. That particular happenstance was an all-too-common occurrence, as far as she was concerned.

Time was I used to think I had a pretty good poker face, too.

          "Problem, Commander?" Mantovanni had inquired, with that droll intonation that always left her guessing just how much he knew about the situation.

          Momentarily, she'd considered making a face at him… and had then decided against it.

          Knowing him, he'd just make a gesture against the evil eye.

          So she'd responded honestly.

          "Nothing I'm inclined to discuss at this time, Captain."

          He'd accepted that immediately; of course, the consequence of that had been clear and unavoidable…

          …which explained why she was now sitting in one of Prometheus' more spacious observation lounges, even as Captain Becker, his chief of security, and T'Vaar herself entered.

Of course, Erika's luck was running true to form: She was sitting next to Commander Mark O'Conner… and across from Vice Admiral Amarian Sih'tarr.

           As the three newcomers settled themselves, the Andorian looked to Becker.

          "Well, Captain… I'm here, and curious as to why this couldn't wait until the conference began again tomorrow." It was a subtle, almost offhandchastisement, but not entirely lost on Prometheus' captain—who responded with a surprisingly firm rejoinder.

          "The officers who presented their findings to me were very persuasive; I considered it important enough to authorize this meeting."

          Sih'tarr smiled fractionally: The expression seemed to say, "Well, we're all here."

          Becker nodded.

          "Commander Turek, proceed."

          The Vulcan stood, and moved to stand near the large viewer adorning one wall.

          "After having served aboard this ship for a number of months, and listening to the views espoused at the conference, I came to the logical conclusion that many of the concerns about the Prometheus-class were valid ones. The vessel is not ideally suited for her mission profile."

          Benteen glanced at the assembled officers. They were clearly stunned that one of their own would make such a declaration… or, rather, admission.

          "After considering the two options presented during the panel discussion—that is, doing nothing or scuttling the ship—ultimately I rejected them both as illogical."

          Uh oh.

          Benteen stole a glance at her captain, whose idea it had been to scuttle Prometheus. He wasn't a man who enjoyed having his ideas called illogical.

          No surprise there, though: If he was annoyed, no one there would be able to glean it from his expression.

          Turek continued.

          "Ensign T'Vaar proposed what I believe to be a brilliantly innovative solution to a rather difficult situation. Our preliminary findings are, in my estimation, promising." He touched at a control along the viewer's side panel, and an image of the Prometheus sprang into existence.

          This Prometheus, however, was subtly different.

          While Benteen was certain more than a few of them had noticed, Amarian Sih'tarr was the first to speak.

          "You've redesigned her."

          It was T'Vaar who responded with, "Affirmative. Rather than retaining the problematic original conceptualization, Commander Turek proposed that Prometheus might be better suited to a different mission profile. Rather than a long-range tactical cruiser, we propose a multipurpose explorer.

          "If you refer to the PADDs before you, you will note a number of design re-specifications: The paring of ablative armor from all but critical areas of the hull will allow a significant increase in sensor gain; and the elimination of certain weapons systems then permits the addition of laboratories and other facilities which would make Prometheus far more multifaceted a vessel. No doubt the ship's ability to separate into three components will remain an important tactical option, but rather than seeming, as a certain officer of my acquaintance might say, 'gimmicky,' it will merely be part of the ship's long list of capabilities."

          T'Vaar continued to speak for almost 15 minutes. Skepticism slowly gave way to speculation on the faces of her listeners; finally, as she neared the end of her presentation, she noted expressions ranging from guarded optimism to genuine enthusiasm.

          Amarian Sih'tarr, at last, rose and addressed the assembled officers.

"While the final decision isn't mine, I believe your option is a viable one. At the very least you've saved the Prometheus herself, for a time; after all, she's the only ship available to test your theories." His amused chuckle let them know he'd been quite aware of that fortuitous consequence even while listening. "If all goes well, perhaps the entire class may garner renewed support.

          "Congratulations to you both. Well done.

"Now that the generalists have shown us the way, I'll see about making certain we put the specialists to the task of making your alterations a reality."

"Thank you, sir," offered Becker, with a quiet sincerity.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, ladies and gentlemen…" The Andorian then headed for the door, a crisp "As you were" forestalling any need for ritual at his departure. Prometheus' captain motioned for Mark O'Conner to provide an escort.

And, with that, one of Starfleet's most powerful admirals, and formidable presences, quietly slipped from the room.

          The excited buzz around the table was interrupted a few moments later by Becker's calculated throat-clearing.

          "There's another matter. I've had it brought to my attention by Captain Mantovanni that we may all be victims—not just of circumstance, but intent as well."

          Their puzzled expressions didn't remain so long.

          Colin Becker told them what had, by sheerest coincidence, been found: Officers more suited to duties on a long-range tactical cruiser diverted to other assignments, and the reverse; personnel assigned to sections guaranteed to cause, if not open hostility, then palpable friction; one or two troubled individuals—including an untried captain—incomprehensibly being assigned to a experimental prototype.

          It all, Benteen knew, added up to one thing.

 

As his counterpart addressed Prometheus' crew, Mantovanni covertly observed their faces: They all seemed shocked and stricken by what Becker was telling them. He couldn't blame them… it was a shitty thing to have to hear.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph… they look so young.

Mantovanni knew that it was the type of revelation that could make—or break—a crew… and he was helpless to influence the outcome any more than he had. The only man who could save them now had the floor.

All right, Captain Becker. Let's see what you've got.

"They threw us all together because they thought we'd fail," Becker said frankly. "Not spectacularly… not in such a way that would make us a laughing stock… just enough to scrap the Prometheus and get her out of the way. We're a victim of infighting in the Admiralty—that much is clear.

"But you're Starfleet. So what if you've had a few bumps getting here. So what if they don't think you can get the job done, and they set you up to watch you fall… or at least stumble enough to press home their agenda. So what if you don't think you deserve the opportunity that's been given you." He'd caught a number of officers' eyes while making each of those points, letting them know that he not only understood them, but empathized, as well.

"You have a weapon now that they never thought you'd have: The knowledge that someone hung you out to dry. And knowledge, as someone said long ago, is power. Take that, and make them pay for doing it to you. There's only one way." He paused, took a deep breath, and continued.

"Find your faith in each other—and in the captain who's been selected to lead you—and make this one of the best ships in the fleet. I believe that, together, we can do this."

Becker's voice, if anything, became even more determined.

"No… can isn't a strong enough word… because I've served with this crew, and I know what we're capable of… what we'll accomplish.

"They gave us a chance… and that's all we'll need.

"Dismissed."

Mantovanni nodded infinitesimally.

Nicely done, Captain.

As both Liberty and Prometheus personnel filed out, he lingered, anticipating Becker's next comment.

He wasn't disappointed.

"Captain," the younger man said, after a moment's hesitation, "Might I have a word with you?"

Mantovanni imagined it'd probably be more than one.

 

***

 

Mark O'Conner and Amarian Sihtarr had walked in silence to transporter room one; without ceremony, the admiral had ascended to a pad and now stood waiting, toying with a hand-held PADD as Prometheus' X-O took position at the console and set the controls.

Hmm… I should say something, I suppose, O'Conner thought.

"On behalf of Captain Becker and the crew, sir," he finally offered, "I'd like to thank you for all the help you've given us this week."

Sih'tarr smiled.

It wasn't a warm expression.

"You're welcome, Commander. Perhaps I am not quite the 'arrogant, self-important'… hmm… 'smurf,' was it?… you once believed me to be?"

For a moment O'Conner looked dumbfounded.

What is he…?

Then, he paled, and gasped.

"How did you know I…" he began.

Though he continued examining data from the PADD he held, Sih'tarr, nevertheless, answered.

"Young humans have a pair of unfortunate tendencies: They grumble under their breath when they're angry—as you did during my class some years ago—and they forget that other species often have vastly superior audial capabilities." He turned that intense and unwavering regard on Prometheus' X-O.

"Andorians hear better than even Vulcans, Mr. O'Conner."

Mark suddenly felt sick.

"Oh, my God," he mumbled.

"I heard that, too…" The admiral folded his arms rather forbiddingly.

"…and I have no doubt that, if He indeed exists, God does not approve of muttering, either.

"Energize."

 

***

 

          Once again, Naeve Sevril found herself paired with Erika Benteen, as the two stood waiting for the next available turbolift.

          Almost against her will, the younger woman found herself evaluating her opposite number—not as an officer, or even as someone who'd once betrayed the Federation, but with more… aesthetic considerations in mind.

She smothered what she knew would have been a self-satisfied smirk.

No contest.

          "Well, Commander," Benteen suddenly announced, with an air of what Naeve thought was clearly assumed casualness, "it looks as if you won't be needing that X-O slot aboard Liberty now."

          "Excuse me?" Sevril countered; her tone was unnecessarily sharp, and she chided herself for it an instant later. She couldn't help it, though… the woman's mere presence, for a number of reasons, set her teeth on edge.

          "You're third in command of what's about to become the only multi-vector explorer in the entire Federation. If your mission profile changes—as it seems it certainly will—you'll be getting plenty of time in the center seat of whatever segment Captain Becker assigns you. That'll look pretty good in a person's record, wouldn't you say?"

          Sevril opened her mouth to reply… then shut it again. Benteen was right: Prometheus had suddenly become as choice an assignment, in its way, as Liberty.

          What really annoyed her, though, was that the woman seemed to have effortlessly predicted her thought processes—even the ones that weren't quite conscious.

          Naeve Sevril found herself silently fuming. The woman was good. As she formulated a suitably subtle and scathing reply, the lift finally arrived.

          Benteen acknowledged, "Commander," and stepped into the car.

          Just before the door closed, though, Erika winked at her, and added, "Give my regards to Mark O'Conner."

          What seemed a hundred devastating replies now presented themselves to her—all a moment too late.

With difficulty, Naeve Sevril managed to suppress the almost irresistible urge to stamp her foot.

 

***

 

          It was only now, after the various crises had played themselves to a conclusion, that the two captains were face to face.

          And not an admiral in sight, thought Becker wryly.

          "I still can't figure out how you managed to uncover this whole little operation," he admitted.

          Mantovanni, who was known for his equanimity, actually favored him with a slight smile.

          "I can't take credit for that; it was nothing more than a coincidence, Captain Becker. Your crew will have to make the new arrangement work. I have no doubt, though, that they will."

          Becker absorbed the compliment with but a smile, and a gracious nod.

          The silence between them lengthened; it wasn't precisely uncomfortable so much as unwieldy.

          Surprisingly, it was the Sicilian, hardly known for his loquaciousness, who eventually broke it.

          "You have something you wanted to ask me, Captain Becker. I'll hazard a guess that it involves the Admiralty… and one admiral in particular."

          Prometheus' commander shook his head. He'd heard an acquaintance, Jonozia Lex, call Luciano Mantovanni "the huntsman," and refer with wonder to his uncanny leaps of intuition. Now he had firsthand experience that Argus' captain hadn't been exaggerating.

          "You're right," Becker acknowledged. He considered for a moment how to phrase it… then simply cast caution to the wind.

          "Is it possible Admiral Sih'tarr had something to do with Prometheus'… situation? He has the power, and he didn't seem particularly enamored of my ship at the conference."

          Mantovanni wasn't one to dodge even a difficult question.

          "Sih'tarr has his own agenda; of that I'm certain. He unquestionably possesses the necessary resolve to have done so. In addition, when presented with the 'Prometheus as explorer' option, he embraced it with alacrity… and a certain good humor I noted, but couldn't quite catalogue. If he viewed that particular design direction as a threat to Starfleet security, then no, he's not above manipulating the situation to his advantage."

          "That's not precisely the answer for which I was looking, Captain."

          Mantovanni arched a brow.

          "I'm sorry, Captain. The response may be insufficient, but that's as far as I’m willing to go—except for a bit of advice, if I may."

          Becker nodded. "By all means."

          "I understand that your sense of justice is aroused. You'd like to track the fox back to its den, and beard it there. I suggest, instead, that you go about the business of being a starship captain, and chalk up this fortuitous consequence as Dama Fortuna smiling on you."

          This, too, wasn't something Colin Becker had wanted to hear.

          "I wouldn't have expected that perspective from you, Captain."

          At this point, Mantovanni headed for the observation lounge door.

          "Let's assume, for the sake of this discussion, that you indeed have the moral high ground, Captain. I daresay that piece of land would crumble beneath you if you stamped on it too heavily. You would be, in this case, fighting out of your weight class. I think the old adage, 'No harm, no foul,' might apply here.

          "Of course, it's up to you."

          It was then Colin Becker came to the jarring realization that Luciano Mantovanni wasn't at all threatening him, as he'd momentarily suspected.

Instead, the man was pointing out the shoals, and steering him a path to the open sea.

          The door slid open, then, and Mantovanni's demeanor immediately changed from professorial to professional.

          "Best of luck to you, Captain Becker."

The younger man thought on all that had been said for a moment, and then replied, "Thank you for the advice… sir. I believe I'll take it."

No answer was necessary, and none was offered. Instead, Luciano Mantovanni inclined his head slightly, and left Prometheus' commander to his thoughts.

 

***

 

          When Erika Benteen reached her quarters, with every intention of simply showering, changing and returning to the bridge, she found an artfully arranged collection of items on her quarters' antique mahogany table: There were a dozen long-stemmed red roses, a book, and a card.

          The Kama Sutra was open to the inside cover, where her "admirer" had written:

 

I'd have recommended some positions…

 but with your vast experience,

I'm sure you don't need my help.

      

                                                   Mark

 

          The card was small and yellow. After a moment she recognized it as an icon from her youth; it was from the game MONOPOLY—more specifically, the Community Chest.

          Despite herself, she burst into delighted laughter.

          It, of course, read, "Get Out of Jail Free."