USS Liberty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        "Hey!" Ryan protested.

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

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

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

They were sickly sweet, disgustingly sticky… and, to humans, slightly poisonous. Ryan was literally soaked in them.

There was scattered laughter from the crowd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Fortunately, it wasn't necessary.

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

        Shocked, the Bolians all turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        There came a snort from her commbadge.

        "Yeah. You ready?"

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

        "Yes, Mav. Energize."

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

 

***

 

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

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

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

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

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

"Come in."

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

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

Deliberately, she saluted.

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

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

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

And that hawklike gaze now regarded her.

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

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

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

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

He frowned slightly, and glanced at his desktop viewer.

No doubt examining my personnel record, Naeve thought.

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

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

She chose the latter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mantovanni's tone was cold.

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

"Sir, I…"

He wasn't interested.

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

"Now get out of my ready room."

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why had the posting been changed?

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

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

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

 

***

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her skin is so silky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a pleasant surprise.

 

***

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Terribly.

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

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

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

        Mantovanni.

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

        Not likely.

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

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

        Sighing inwardly, Naeve followed.

 

***

 

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

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

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

The Vulcan answered with dry candor.

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

 Mark grinned.

 

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

Turek raised a skeptical eyebrow in response.

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

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

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

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

Mark shrugged—then chuckled.

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

He adjusted the sunglasses and took his leave.

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

Not that he would ever have admitted it if asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Despite the seeming discourtesy, Turek pressed on.

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

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

“I do not wish to discuss it.”

Slightly taken aback by her reply, Turek tried again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That would be acceptable.”

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

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

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

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

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

The guttural reply delivered in angry Klingonaase came swiftly.

“Khoi-udt, Ki’lhe!”

"Drop dead, shit eater!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turek sighed, minutely.

“Perhaps you should call your security staff.”

 

***