I considered a lengthy explanation, or even a brief synopsis, that would serve to justify/clarify the abrupt beginning of this story. On reflection, though, I realized such might not be necessary; long-time readers know I don't write in chronological order, but rather whatever strikes my fancy. Suffice it to say that "Star Crossed" begins only minutes after our heroes return from the inter-dimensional jaunt currently being chronicled in The Liberty Incident.

I'm curious as to how long it takes everyone to get on board with what's happening… and whether it's an intriguing jump, or merely a disconcerting one. Let me know.

I’ve decided not to restore the “book cover” for this one: I’ve never really liked it. If one of you photomanipulation geniuses (Michael… Andreas… Richard…) has a hankering, I’d love to see you produce one. Hint hint, nudge nudge….

Insofar as credit goes, while Jules would be the first person to downplay her contributions to this novelette, it's impossible—and perhaps even sacrilegious—to write Erika Donaldson without the input of the woman who originally breathed life into her. And "Julie Raygun," as I call her, makes a great partner-in-crime. Whenever I suggest something geared to bring misery into the life of our main characters, she rubs her hands gleefully, cackles maniacally… and then gurgles, "Do it."

And so…

“Star Crossed”

By Joseph Manno

(with Julie Raybon)

March Patterson drew the small Type-I phaser in a fluid motion, even as he tapped the desk's comm badge.

"Security to the captain's quarters,” he ordered. “There's a shape-shifter down here that's taken the form of the late Luciano Mantovanni."

“Security, Tethyan... acknowledged. En route.”

He then returned his complete attention to the intruder.

"Put her down, gently... now!"

Whatever it was, it didn't seem impressed by the phaser… and knew enough about them to mock Patterson.

"Are you planning on shooting me while I'm still holding her, Captain? I find it difficult to believe you flunked Basic Principals of Energy Weapons at the Academy." Nevertheless, it set Erika down on the nearby couch, even as she began to stir.

"And," it added, "your 'Wild West' pose doesn't alter the fact that I am Captain Mantovanni."

Patterson ignored the ridiculous assertion.

"Back away," he commanded.

The creature's reply was redolent with contempt.

"My, aren't we fierce…? With a phaser in our hand, that is."

Something essentially male in March demanded he put the weapon down, and face his foe in the time-honored way. His Starfleet training and common sense overrode that.

You don't know what this thing can do. Wait for security…

…and protect Edie.

The entity refused, though, to give ground—instead remaining poised near the woman March loved and claimed as his.

"Back away," Patterson insisted again, "or I will shoot you."

Still, the thing ignored his commands—instead turning on him a piercing, almost condemnatory glare.

“I’m all a tremble.”

Angrily, March's finger tensed over the trigger.

The object of their concern gave a low moan.

As Erika Donaldson awakened, the first thing she heard swimming through the dizziness was the acerbic bite of her old lover's voice.

My God... it's him. Somehow, it is him.

March Patterson obviously didn't know that… and didn't want to hear any more.

"Keep your mouth shut, imposter. Despite your abilities, you've made the mistake of impersonating a dead man."

Erika opened her eyes, and tried to speak, but was still too groggy. She saw Mantovanni's expression soften infinitesimally, and he half-turned to assist her.

"Another inch and you've had it," came the low growl from Patterson.

"Go ahead and shoot me, tough guy," came the curt response.

Endeavor's captain gladly complied.

Security arrived, and the door opened to that distinctive sound of a phaser being fired.

Damn! thought Brennig Tethyan.

The Vor'shan entered, brandishing a pulse compression rifle; he was flanked by a pair of guards wielding their own. Doug Roese brought up the rear; he was armed with a "mere" Type-II.

March Patterson was crouched near the couch upon which their captain lay. He was attempting to simultaneously soothe her and retain a grip on the phaser he'd obviously just discharged. She looked to be in the process of recovering her wits… and was obviously attempting to do the same with the weapon.

"It's all right," he was telling her. "I won't let him near you again."

His target, Brennig noted with clinical interest and surprise, wasn't unconscious. He'd staggered back and fallen to one knee, but was already beginning to regain his feet.

"Let's all take a moment," he announced with as much constabulary authority as he could muster.

And hope things don't get worse, he added to himself.

During that brief interlude of uncertainty, both Erika Donaldson and the being that wore the form of Luciano Mantovanni recovered themselves.

Slowly, Adventurous' captain realized her relative state of undress: Beneath the silk robe that had, of course, conveniently fallen open, she was wearing nothing other than an extremely short and translucent negligee that was most emphatically not designed for cover and concealment.

She refastened the gown, and tightened the sash like she wished it a chastity belt. Roese, who could see the humor in most any situation, didn't even crack a smile. Instead, his expression held nothing but sympathy.

That, strangely enough, made her feel worse.

Brennig cleared his throat with an almost elitist precision.

"Captain Patterson,” he continued, in that oh-so-incongruously charming Oxford intonation, “I was, a short time past, informed that USS Liberty reappeared in Earth's orbit only six minutes ago. Evidently there was a dimensional displacement, rather than a destructive implosion, as once was thought." He hissed gingerly, and added, "This is, indeed, the real Captain Mantovanni."

Please, someone... shoot me now, thought Erika.

Patterson seemed reluctant to believe what he was hearing. For a long moment, his phaser remained trained on what, until seconds ago, he'd been certain was a doppelganger. Gradually, though, he must have realized that his stance was becoming a little comical, and he holstered the weapon.

"Everybody out," Erika demanded, trembling. "Now!"

Roese and the security guards immediately withdrew. Both the X-O and Brennig, who yet remained, could see this had already gone on long enough for their captain's coloring to darken into the red of total mortification... and they knew that anger was almost certain to follow.

Mantovanni, at first, didn't move… and neither did Patterson.

"I believe the lady asked you to leave," March told him pointedly.

Liberty’s commander arched a brow, and smiled in a way that Erika knew meant someone was about to get hurt.

"I'd find it ever so amusing if you were to try and move me," he replied.

March took both the challenge, and a step forward.

“Gentlemen, please,” Tethyan interjected. “I will shoot you both to prevent the court martial that would follow you savaging each other.”

Softly, Erika settled the dispute.

"I meant everybody." She picked up a cushion off the couch, and held it before her in a white-knuckled grip.

“Come to think of it, I don’t imagine I’m precisely welcome, anyway.” There was something cold in Mantovanni’s voice she'd seldom heard before.

He nodded, expression brimming with bitter amusement... then addressed them, “Captains, Commander… if you’ll excuse me…” turned on his heel, and left.

Erika found it suddenly hard to breathe.

“All right.” Patterson gestured to the Vor'shan. “I think we have things under control here, Brennig... you're also dismissed.”

Tethyan ignored him, and instead sinuously shifted his head until he was oriented again on his own captain.

"March,” Erika told him, “I meant you, too."

There was a moment of agonizingly awkward silence.

"I–I beg your pardon?" he declared indignantly. “You can’t possibly mean that…”

"Please…" she interrupted, almost desperately, "don't make me have to ask again."

March studied her face for a moment, and then acknowledged in a voice tinged with irritation and hurt, "All right… I'm going."

His outraged and somewhat betrayed expression only added to her anguish.

Erika noted, to her relief, that Brennig had positioned himself so that the departing captain was forced to veer left; Mantovanni had gone right.

The saurian held the door for a moment. "You will not be disturbed further."

She nodded, and he stepped back to let it slide shut.

Well, those may just have been the most humiliating moments of my life: Reunited with a friend and lover—while wearing a "just had good sex" expression I'd gotten from another man.

Erika Donaldson walked into her bathroom...

…and threw up.

As he stalked away, March Patterson was brought up short by the all too proper voice of Brennig Tethyan.

"Sir... I'd recommend against the course of action you're now considering."

Patterson worked his jaw. "And what would I be ‘considering,’ Lieutenant Commander?"

Unwaveringly, the security chief replied, "An attempt to search out and confront Captain Mantovanni.

"I respectfully submit that Captain Donaldson would not appreciate you taking this any further at the moment…if concern for your own well-being does not deter you, that is."

That brought Patterson up short. He chuckled harshly, dismissively.

"Are you implying that he could take me, Brennig?"

For a moment, the Vor'shan's aplomb failed him. He met Patterson's eyes with his own near hypnotic gaze, and answered, "No. You inferred it. Frankly, I don't care about your mammalian threat displays and mating ritual combats, sir… and in addition, I think you might regret such action later—no matter the result."

What he left unsaid was, And though I do know precisely what that quick and ugly result would be, there's no purpose to angering you further.

After a moment, he added, "But all that is secondary to Captain Donaldson's wishes. Do not make this any more difficult for her."

Patterson nodded.

"You're right, of course." He then stalked away.

Brennig watched the retreating man in silence.

There are times, he thought, when I wish my people had taken the evolutionary step towards that kind of emotional capability.

Then I recover my senses.

***

Eighty-seven minutes later, Erika Donaldson had been standing in front of Mantovanni's quarters for almost three of those. Her stalwart resolve to deal with what she knew was an inevitable confrontation had carried her this far. As she again reached for the door chime, though, her mind recalled—with unwelcome clarity—the perilous edge to his voice when he'd left her quarters... and again her determination fled.

Here I am terrified to the point of paralytic dread over seeing a man I…

She reached forward and hit the chime.

The voice within rumbled like oncoming thunder.

"This had better be of galaxy-shattering import."

She realized her hand was shaking.

"Shattering" is entirely appropriate.

"Cicero... it's me."

There was a long delay—sufficient for her to consider either speaking again, or slipping away. Then, he answered.

"Come in."

Clenching her hands together behind her back to hide the tremors, she did.

Mantovanni was, as usual, in uniform, but the clothing—or perhaps the person wearing it—didn't seem to have its usual crispness. He looked almost... rumpled.

Not surprisingly, he was involved in a chess match with the computer. Erika glanced at the board; while she wasn't nearly in his class as a player, Donaldson knew the pastime fairly well.

His pieces were haphazardly placed, as if he'd launched an offensive and then reconsidered the plan mid-assault; and his opponent had capitalized on that indecision to assume an overwhelming position.

She'd never seen even a starship mainframe trounce him so badly.

So that’s where the phrase “off your game” originated.

Donaldson suddenly realized she had no idea where to even begin.

"I... oh, God."

She wanted to go to him, but couldn't seem to move any further into the room.

He obviously had no intention of assisting her in any way. Mantovanni's expression was as carefully inscrutable as Erika had ever seen it, and he’d barely moved since she’d entered.

"You had something you wanted to say?" His voice seemed dead.

"Cicero, please. I don't even know what to think, let alone what to do or say."

Almost flippantly, Liberty's captain observed, "I'd be willing to bet that's a problem you didn't have eight hours ago."

It would have hurt less had he physically slapped her, and that showed on her face.

Her old lover didn’t even have the miserable expression of someone who'd scored a major hit, and was simultaneously sorry he had. His face was cast in something hard and unyielding.

What had promised to be difficult was fast becoming a disaster.

Erika essayed an uncertain, "Maybe I should just go."

"Maybe you should," he agreed woodenly.

The entrance chime sounded again.

Mantovanni announced, with rigid exactitude, "Whoever you are, you are trying my patience."

There was a brief hesitation, then a quiet but firm voice replied, "Cicero... it's Sera. I know you left orders not to be disturbed by anyone less than God Almighty, but I've been debating this for almost an hour-and-a-half. Since you don't want to talk, just listen."

Her voice took on a peculiar intensity.

"We've been away, according to Starfleet chronometers, for almost five months."

She saw his face change; Erika Donaldson could never in her life remember having observed Luciano Mantovanni looking befuddled. Something else was clearly...

He whispered, “We’ve only been gone four weeks.”

Erika almost laughed, in that way the nearly hysterical often do.

Suddenly, everything that had occurred possessed an unwelcome clarity.

Then, the Sicilian actually managed to smile—it wasn't only self-deprecating, it was self-flagellating—and looked directly at her only now.

"Well... I’m beginning to feel like the principal in a 21^st century French comedy,” he declared, with a tithing of his usual arid humor, then followed with, "Please accept my sincere apologies, for daring to be angry at the fact that you were engaged in living your life. I'll also track down Captain Patterson and tell him I'm sorry."

His tone hardened to adamantine inflexibility with the final comment.

"I hope you'll pardon me, though, if I can't say it was good to see you."

The chime rang for a third time; something in Mantovanni bowed to the absurdity of it all. With a lilt to his voice that would have been absolutely hilarious at any other moment, he sang, "Who is it?"

"Matt Forrest. Could I have a word with you… Commodore?"

Erika looked aghast; Liberty's commander simply shook his head.

"This just keeps getting better and better,” he muttered.

Somewhat more loudly, he told Forrest, "I'll be out in a moment.”

He turned back to her. "Though I shudder to say it, go into the bedroom—so he doesn't spot you. I don't think either of us wants to do much more talking today... and I know you're not in the mood for Matt's particular brand of humor."

Wordlessly, she complied.

Though listening should have been easy, Erika found she couldn't hear their subsequent dialogue over the blood pounding in her ears.

In a way, she was glad for that.

Suddenly, her knees gave out, and she found herself sitting on the floor.

The conversation didn't take long—less than five minutes, actually. Mantovanni entered… and saw her there.

"He was… concerned for me." There was a touch of irony to his subsequent explanation. "Evidently scuttlebutt has it that you're involved with March Patterson, and he wanted me to be aware of it… so we wouldn't, as he put it, '…be reunited in an unseemly fashion.'" As he'd done so often, Mantovanni captured Stuart's drawl perfectly.

A flood of unwelcome imagery invaded her thoughts: Lovemaking, and other time, spent with both the man standing above her, and the one…

…the one that has me now.

"I didn't mention we'd already had our reunion."

It had not been said unkindly, but even he couldn't completely disguise the upset in his tone; and hearing it was more than she could take. Erika Donaldson buried her face in her hands, and began to weep.

"I'll... give you some space."

I don't want "space." I want…

Seconds later, she heard door to his quarters whisper open, and noted that, this time, he didn’t come back.

***

March Patterson had been meaning to delete the message flashing on his quarters' terminal for the last hour, but hadn't quite been able to actually do it.

The note itself was innocuous enough—a simple, "I'll be in touch soon"—but something about it annoyed him, nevertheless.

Perhaps it was because he knew there was nothing simple about Erika Donaldson.

The 24 hours since the fateful encounter in her quarters had been aggravating, to say the least. Adventurous' ubiquitous security chief had rebuffed each of the three attempts he'd made to contact her. While he couldn't precisely fault the Vor'shan's devotion to his captain, Brennig Tethyan's determined refusal to put him through—despite even once having been ordered by Patterson to do so—had become a real irritant.

He's loyal, I'll give him that, but a little too defiant for his own good. I may have to talk to Edie about him.

March had been thankful Endeavor was currently in dry-dock alongside Adventurous: Command decisions weren't exactly something with which he wanted to deal right now.

He finally shut off the terminal's monitor, avoiding the issue altogether—temporarily, at least.

It was then the door chime sounded.

"What?!" he snapped with uncharacteristic sharpness—uncharacteristic, and thus, of course, serendipitously inappropriate.

“Captain Patterson... it’s Luciano Mantovanni.”

Why is it always the last person you have any interest in seeing...?

Absently straightening his uniform jacket, Patterson managed an almost civil, "Come in."

The man had a commanding presence, Endeavor’s captain had to give him that—almost as commanding as his own.

Now that March was aware Mantovanni wasn’t some sort of imposter, he evaluated the man somewhat more critically. His features were handsome, but somewhat severe. The beard was black, its cut sharp; and the dark eyes beneath the hair tinged silver at his temples were like chips of flint.

An odd observation sprang unsought into his mind.

I bet, Patterson thought, that’s what Satan would look like.

"Captain." He left it at that curt greeting, in part because he didn't trust himself to say anything more.

The tone didn't escape his guest's notice. Mantovanni arched a brow.

“What… no phaser?”

Endeavor's captain wasn't certain whether the observation was an ill-considered jibe…

…or a carefully considered one.

Either way, he wasn't amused.

"Very humorous," Patterson returned coolly. "Do I need one?"

The Sicilian’s grin became more pronounced… and, for a moment, more predatory.

What he said, though, was, “No. I’ve come here to apologize."

That surprised March... enough so that a startled, "Really?" was all he could immediately muster.

“Yes." For a moment, Mantovanni actually looked regretful. "I was caught somewhat off guard by the situation, Captain Patterson... I had no idea we’d been gone nearly six months. As far as those aboard Liberty are concerned, this was a journey of a few weeks’ duration.

“Thus, I was startled at the state of affairs… no pun intended,” he added drolly.

That, at least, explains some of it. Under the circumstances, perhaps I should consider granting the man some slack.

However, that was far easier said than done.

Then again, I'm sure having walked in on a woman who was once his, and is now mine… clearly mine, he amended, remembering with a barely suppressed smile what he'd been doing to her moments before Mantovanni's entrance, can't have been an easy thing to accept.

Well, as they say, the better man wins, Captain—eventually. Justice deferred…

…is a dish best served cold.

"Apology accepted," March allowed, with an attempt at magnanimousness. "The timing was… unfortunate... but certainly not your fault."

They regarded each other for a moment. Patterson briefly considered expressing his regret at having shot the man… but then decided that lying probably wouldn't help the situation. He'd actually rather enjoyed it, in a cathartic way—though Mantovanni's ability to withstand a phaser stun, even at level one, had been startling, to say the least.

The silence lengthened uncomfortably.

Finally, Mantovanni announced, “I have no doubt you’re a busy man, Captain. And, since I've now discharged my declared intent to apologize, I’ll depart. Best of luck to you.”

The seemingly straightforward phrases were fraught with subtle connotations... or, at least, Endeavor’s captain imagined they were.

He found himself examining the phrases "declared intent” and "best of luck to you" carefully.

The man had obviously spoken to Edie more recently than he had.

Patterson, despite himself, found that infuriating; it showed in the set of his jaw, and the stiffening of his shoulders—not to mention the disdainful response that followed.

"You're so kind."

March knew it was a misstep the moment he'd taken it.

Luciano Mantovanni’s expression darkened. It became apparent that, until then, the man had been holding something in careful check—something he now gave freer rein.

He gritted, “I'd venture to guess that the scope of my benevolence is somewhat beyond your current understanding, Captain.

"I attempted to apologize, and you decided to insult me. So be it. The fact that Erika bears you affection—whatever her reasons—is the one thing that prevents me from giving my genuine sentiments on the subject eloquent expression.

Mantovanni then affixed him with a dangerous glare.

"Do have any other observations you'd like to express before I depart?"

They were standing on the precipice of a catastrophe. Patterson prided himself on being able to easily read people; it was the mark of a great starship captain. What he saw in Luciano Mantovanni's face warned him that his next statement, if provocative, could have tragic consequences for them both.

He decided to be careful, but candid.

"I don't think continuing the conversation will be beneficial to either of us, Captain."

And, suddenly, the urbane gentleman returned. It was as if Mantovanni had taken off a mask.

Or, Patterson realized with a start, put one on.

“You’re correct, Captain," Mantovanni agreed, almost companionably. "Wrangling over such an unfortunate happenstance is without purpose.

“I’ll take my leave of you, now.”

Patterson nodded.

“Of course.”

In the deepest stronghold of his awareness, March Patterson recognized the sensation that flooded him in the wake of the other man's departure: Relief that the situation hadn't escalated. Tethyan had been right in that, at least.

It wouldn't have done either of them any good.

Besides… when you're winning, why change the game?

***

Berengaria Cortes, captain of the USS Masada, raised a delicate crystal wine glass.

"To the Alphabet Girls."

With varying degrees of enthusiasm, her three companions followed suit.

"'The Alphabet Girls,'" they echoed.

They had attended Starfleet Academy together, these four—Shana Arland, Erika Benteen, Cortes herself, Erika Donaldson—and had earned that nickname from the commandant after one of their more infamous misadventures: Turning the Red Squad dormitory, through their manipulation of fabric, holograms, and shadow, into a virtual duplicate of a Nazi barracks.

The fact that the woman's surname was Edgerton had prompted Cortes to ask, when standing supposedly repentant in front of her desk, whether she'd like to be made an honorary member.

That had been an anxious moment for them all, as the other three saw their future careers slipping past the event horizon, and into oblivion.

Rear Admiral Michelle Edgerton had never even acknowledged Gari's forward little invitation… but she'd been unable to entirely conceal a grin.

It helped when your disciplinarian had been a jokester in her time, too…

…and it helped even more when no one could, ultimately, prove what you'd done.

Now, the quartet gathered as they hadn't in years, all four together, and celebrated.

Or, rather, they tried.

Cortes had been the catalyst for the evening, but of the others, only Arland had been avid to participate. Both Benteen and Donaldson had other things on their mind.

The conversation had been pleasant, but uninspired. During the dinner, the two Erikas had traded looks that had devolved from appraising glances during the Paella Valenciana, to outright glares by the time they were all toying with their Torta Berengaria, a dessert pastry redolent with nuts, honey, cinnamon, nutmeg, and anything else their hostess could mingle in her effort to improve the recipe.

Cortes unwittingly ignited the fuse.

"How's Captain Mantovanni, Erika? I haven't seen him since the night he danced with me at the Christmas mixer. Very… forceful… arrogant."

The rest knew she'd left unsaid, And damned sexy.

"Not good, Gari. It's been a difficult couple of days. He doesn't seem to be handling it well."

Unlooked for, and somewhat sullenly, Donaldson interrupted with, “How the hell would you know?”

Benteen laughed, harshly.

“How do I know, Edie? I'm his chief of operations… his 'girl Friday,' as it were. I'm supposed to know everything that goes on aboard Liberty.

"And besides, I worked out with him yesterday. Every once in a while I ask him to supervise my hand-to-hand training—when I’m up for it, that is. Unlike the rest of you girls, I'm not as young as I used to be.

"I’ve watched him use exercise/combat programs that would make a squad of Klingon marines run like a troop of terrified Girl Scouts.

“Let’s just say yesterday wasn’t one of his better days.”