For those of
you who think there's too much you-know-what
in my prose for your taste of late…
…this is not going where you think it is.
“Vice and
Virtue”
By Joseph Manno
and Christina
Moore
Someone once
wrote, "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in
According to
the literary experts, it wasn't Mark
Twain, though some sentimentalists still prefer to think so: It is, after all,
a very Clemensesque thing to say.
Very few,
though, dispute its truth—not if you've lived on the Bay…
…and especially
not if you've lived at
The end of August
had arrived, bringing with it the rise in temperature that long-time residents
hailed as the height of summer. Guests and newcomers, meanwhile, nodded their
heads and kept their jackets handy: The breeze ran hot or cold; and from moment
to moment, you never knew which it would be.
Lieutenant
Serutian Hale, however, was far too busy to care… or even notice.
She was
immersed in taking the classes necessary for a change in discipline: Until
about ten weeks ago, she’d been a litigator with Starfleet’s Judge Advocate
General. And though she was (by most accounts) a very good lawyer, the
Mittengaard case, her last, had affected her so profoundly that she'd decided
leaving JAG for starship security the best option…
...especially
for her.
It helped the
transition that the courses were stimulating.
It didn't help that one of her classmates
was even more stimulating.
When she'd
first seen him, sitting apart from the rest of the gathered students,
Serutian's thought had been, Well, aren't
we special?
Then, she'd noticed
his rank—captain, in a room where no other student had even reached
commander—and, as he shifted in his chair, gotten a good look at the man's
face…
…and a great look at his form.
She'd bitten
her lip, and, with difficultly, suppressed the approving hum that almost
escaped her.
He was a tall,
human male of what appeared to be Latin descent, with an olive complexion,
blue-black hair trimmed not quite
according to regulation… and features that on a less attractive man would've
been labeled angular, but were in this case well-defined.
And it wasn't
the only part of him she'd have said was "well-defined."
He also had a
body to die for.
And so, her
struggle had begun.
Every time she
found herself straying from the subject matter being discussed, watching him or
admiring his looks, Hale would give herself a silent, private lecture:
Regulations didn't precisely prohibit
fraternization between command-level and junior officers... but considering how rarely she saw such a
pairing, and the reaction it usually provoked, Serutian knew it was simply one
of those matters about which the protocols were unofficial… but understood.
There was,
she'd soon learned, not only a major difference in rank, but background, as
well.
Hale tended to
keep her own counsel—no pun intended—but had a source or two upon which she
relied when attempting to covertly acquire information.
And if
Lieutenant Sera MacLeod—Vulcan-human hybrid, prodigy head and shoulders above
the myriad geniuses at Starfleet Research, and one of Serutian's best
friends—didn't know it, it either wasn't yet known, wasn't knowable…
…or wasn't worth knowing.
So she'd headed
across the Bay to hear expert testimony, as it were.
Sera had
responded to the none-too-subtle inquiry in her unique way, with arched brow and
amused grin immediately gracing her elfin features.
"I find
your use of the word 'delectable' as a descriptive term for the male form
peculiar, Seru, but possessing a logic all its own—assuming my extrapolation of
the man's identity is correct."
Sera had then
returned to the various tasks currently occupying her.
Hale,
unimpressed with her friend's "Get away from me, kid, you bother me"
stance, poked her in the ribs, and was rewarded with a yelp, a dropped stylus
and MacLeod's undivided attention.
"Who is he?"
"Does your
hopping indicate a need to use the facilities? They are located…"
"Sera!
Who is he?"
The smiled
broadened, and she relented.
"I would
imagine, from your drooling description of the man, and the circumstances in
which you encounter him, that you are speaking of Captain Luciano
Mantovanni."
That revelation
had made things far more interesting.
Mantovanni was
a man out of time. Nearly 70 years ago the captain, his ship and crew had
simply… disappeared. A temporal distortion had taken the Constitution-class Intrepid
out of the 23rd century and deposited her well into the 24th.
At about the same time she'd been resigning from JAG, the Intrepid had suddenly reappeared; now, Mantovanni and his crew were
acclimating themselves to their new time.
What could they
possibly have in common?
With such
circumstances working against them, there was no possibility for a romance.
Hale knew this, of course; she wasn’t blind to the facts. But like many a young
woman still learning to cope in the all-too-harsh adult universe, she was
having one hell of a time attempting to follow all the rules…
…while trying not to fall for someone she knew was out
of her league.
***
Hale and eight
other officers filed onto the holodeck for the "lab" portion of their
Advanced Tactical Training class. Most of them then took part in the daily
scenario—on this occasion, an intricate situation involving well-to-do Orion
hostages, Maquis terrorists, Cardassian troopers, and a gul with an itchy trigger finger. On this day, Lieutenant Commander
Edmund Price was given the role of "captain," and the task of making
the final determination on the best strategy for solving the
"problem."
The scenario
terminated six hours later…
…and the little
piece of bloody, smoky chaos they'd managed faded into the familiar grid
pattern of a holodeck calmly waiting for its next victims.
This
is not good, thought Hale,
as the dispirited group trudged back to its classroom.
After they were
again seated, the replays commenced. They saw things from every perspective and
angle, pausing and replaying when either an instructor or student requested it,
until each was intimately familiar with all aspects of the mission gone awry.
Eventually, one
of their instructors, Captain Sorak, stood, took center stage… and regarded
them in silence for some time before delivering, in that drolly Vulcan style, a
succinct synopsis of the patently obvious.
"Your
rescue was unsuccessful.
"The
results of your efforts were a crippled Miranda-class
cruiser, seven of nine dead hostages, Maquis terrorists further entrenched in
their recalcitrance, and increased tensions with the Cardassian Union—that is,
assuming the diplomats following in your wake are able to avert outright
warfare."
For some
minutes, silence prevailed.
Sorak was
clearly waiting for someone to come forward with what they had done wrong.
It was their
worst showing as a group since day one of the training program. Price, who'd
commanded them today, was stiff-lipped and red-faced with embarrassment.
It's
his own fault, Hale thought.
As if able to
read her mind—a disturbing possibility, all things considered—Sorak's
discerning gaze fell upon her.
"Lieutenant
Hale, your expression is usually indicative—in beings hampered by emotion, that
is—of irritation. Are you frustrated at your lack of success in resolving this
crisis?"
Perhaps a
simple affirmation would do.
"Yes,
sir."
No such luck.
"And what
is your analysis of Commander Price's decision-making? Please stand and address
the class."
Their other
instructor, Commander Parsons, had never
done this. With him, the training had been hard, but the debriefings rather
light-hearted. Sorak had never seemed to have a problem with that style, and
had offered logical and helpful analyses.
Evidently his method was more… confrontational.
Aw,
shit.
"Lieutenant?"
Reluctantly,
Hale had finally stood.
She was as
matter-of-fact with her statements as she could be, striving for both
thoroughness and impartiality—giving her thoughts on what could have been done
differently.
Opinions were
mixed, at best.
Price, of
course, would have none of it.
"There are
established tactical procedures in place for a reason," he challenged.
"Your plan—a plan I rejected
during the scenario, I'll add—was far too risky."
"I
respectfully disagree, sir."
"Of course you do, Lieutenant," he added sourly. "That much was apparent
when you immediately struck off on
your own the minute after insertion."
Hale could feel
her temper slipping, but for a moment, didn't care.
"Oh, yes, Commander," she replied. "We
risked destroying our ship and losing the hostages." Her face then lit up
in mock surprise. "Oh, I forgot…
that's what happened anyway!"
There was a
murmur of disapproval at her sarcasm, and, for a moment, she felt like an ass
for having employed the barb.
When Price
spoke again, though, her regret vanished.
"Perhaps
it was execution rather than tactics that were at fault, here. My
instructions were to disable the fusion generators and then attempt a rescue of
the hostages; that's not what you
did."
She had led the
away team, on his orders… and now things were getting ugly. Not only was he
questioning her solutions, but her motives for speaking out.
Why he thought
that was obvious: Their respective grades and rank were a matter of public
record. The two were in a dead heat for class valedictorian… and Price was
obviously implying that she was attempting to sandbag him.
Hale defended
herself as best she could… and, for an ex-attorney, that was pretty well.
"I was the
commander on site. Once communications
failed, adapting to the new situation became necessary. It's called 'using your
initiative,' Commander."
"No… it's
called 'ignoring your orders,' Lieutenant. The minute you were unsupervised, you abandoned the agreed-upon plan
and…"
Her rival's
rail became a monotonous babble, as Serutian Hale glanced up…
…and, for the
first time, met the eyes of Luciano Mantovanni.
Perhaps it was
her imagination, but his expression seemed amused—whether at Price, her or the
situation she wasn't certain.
Serutian
decided she needed to know.
"Captain
Mantovanni," she announced. "You've been with us through our entire
curriculum; I know you're simply auditing the course, but you must have an opinion."
He arched a
brow, and answered, "Must
I?"
It seemed half
mockery, and half warning.
Undeterred, she
answered, "Yes.
"You
must."
It was bold…
almost disrespectful.
Hale glanced to
her instructors: Sorak showed no inclination to intervene. Parsons, on the
other hand, actually cringed.
Oh,
no.
"Very
well, Lieutenant.
"I think
both you and Commander Price are so enamored with your own ideas, and the
vision of that pretty little valedictorian medal resting on one of your
respective chests, that you're forgetting the goal is to accomplish the
task—not to accomplish it your way."
Once again, she
felt like an ass.
Sorak then
surprised the class by announcing, "That will be all for today.
"Dismissed."
The class
members left quickly; Price shot her a look that was at once resentful,
frustrated and even apologetic.
She found
herself alone with the instructors.
Sorak had
already turned to his observer and said something that reminded her that while
Vulcans were stoic, they weren't humorless.
"I surmise
you will now expect to be compensated as a guest lecturer."
Parsons laughed.
Mantovanni
didn't.
That brow came
into play again, though, telling as any Vulcan's she had ever seen. Hale sensed
a smile behind the poker face, though.
"You're
avoiding the fact that I won our wager, Sorak. Since Lieutenant Hale was the first member of your class to
directly address me, you owe me plomeek
soup, prepared in the traditional fashion."
Now a hint of
humor seeped into Mantovanni's tone.
"That'll
be payment enough."
"Indeed."
She'd watched
the exchange in fascination…
…then,
abruptly, realized doing so constituted eavesdropping.
Hoping to slip
out before it could result in a dressing down or worse, a reprimand, Serutian
moved for the door…
…too late.
“Lieutenant
Hale, I'd like to speak with you for a moment.”
Serutian squared
her shoulders, hoping her face didn’t reveal the panicked pleasure she felt at
the request.
Get
a grip, Ru, the young Trill scolded herself. He's not about to ask you for a date. The man is a captain, for
pity’s sake! You already know you haven’t a snowball’s chance on Risa.
She glanced at the wall chronometer as she
turned. Commander Parsons and Captain Sorak strolled past. She didn't even
bother searching the Vulcan's face for some nuance of emotion, but the little
New Englander was another story.
Oh, ayuh, he
was.
He covered his
mouth for a cough that struck her as a badly disguised laugh, and studiously
avoided meeting her gaze.
Uh,
oh.
"Sir, I
have another class in five minutes…" she tried.
"…and if
our conversation runs past that, you'll be late," he finished. "No
doubt Lieutenant Commander Brackett will find the request of a superior officer
sufficient justification for your tardiness.
"Walk with
me, Lieutenant."
And so she did.
***
“Yes, Captain?”
A cool breeze
braced her in the courtyard.
His first
observation wasn't much warmer.
“I must say… I
wasn't impressed with how you handled Commander Price.”
Hale couldn’t
stop the frown that crossed her features.
“With all due
respect, sir, it would have been remiss for someone not to have called the
commander on his mishandling of the scenario.”
Now he smiled
minutely, employing an expression simultaneously compelling and a little
predatory.
“Indeed,”
Mantovanni conceded. "To a certain extent, I like how you responded when
he laid into you. You maintained a level head—other than that flash of anger
you controlled rather well."
She flushed. It
was annoying to know someone could read you so easily.
"But this
isn't a courtroom, Lieutenant," he continued. "Many young
attorneys—and some older ones, to be sure—have an unfortunate tendency to think
their perspective is always right…
and can usually provide either Socratic method or sophistry, whatever serves at the moment, to justify their
belief."
She stopped and
rounded on him.
"I do not,
and have never, employed sophistry… and don't appreciate having it implied I
do. I'm devoted to the truth… as any Starfleet officer should be."
He seemed
unmoved.
"I didn't
imply it. You inferred it. I also
mentioned Socratic method, if you recall.
So he had.
She'd walked… practically waltzed… into a logical trap.
Then, he kicked
her while she was down.
"What did
Emerson say? 'The louder he talked of his honor, the faster we counted our
spoons'?"
Serutian gaped
at his insinuation, and nearly said the first thing that came to mind—something
about respecting his heritage by employing Mafia-style bullying tactics—but
then took a good look at his face.
His expression
was appraising…
…but his eyes
were smiling.
She laughed
aloud… and the grin touched his features.
"You almost got me, sir."
"And so did Price."
Hale lifted a
shoulder. “What good would losing my temper have done?
"If I may
say so, sir, I believe that what upset Commander Price the most was not that he
was incorrect or that his mistakes had been noticed, but that they were pointed
out by a lower-ranking officer.”
“That may
indeed be the case, Lieutenant…
"…but
you're still assuming he was totally in the wrong. He wasn't.
"Captain
Sorak is observant, as you well know… but, unlike some instructors, who feel
they're shepherding officers into new roles, or many who are rather… obvious in
their method, he takes opportunity to pressure those students under his
tutelage… and then quietly evaluates.
"Just
because Price was in the center seat
doesn't mean you weren't on the hot seat."
Despite what
Captain Mantovanni had said only minutes ago about her enthusiasm for accolades
clouding her judgment, Serutian's thoughts briefly turned to her class standing
before she chided herself and focused on more important matters.
"What do
you mean?"
"Let's
just say I found it extremely interesting that the comm system failed only
moments after your beam-in when you in
particular were in charge of the away mission."
It wasn't hard
to follow his reasoning.
"You think
Captain Sorak set me up to ignore Commander Price's instructions and strike off
on my own."
"No,"
he replied. "He didn't set you up. He gave you rope…
"…and you
hung yourself quite readily."
She could see
it all clearly now.
"Damn
it! That's not fair, and it's not right. Price's decisions were…"
Mantovanni
finished, "…whether you like them or not, those of your commanding
officer."
She couldn't quite let it go… but her tone, in a
single sentence, migrated from vehement to almost plaintive.
"He
should have listened to me!"
Her companion
wouldn't even grant her that.
"I imagine
he's muttering the same thing right about now—with more justification than you
have."
Only an hour
before, Serutian Hale had felt on top of the world, on top of her game, and on
top of just about every situation with which she'd recently been presented.
Now….
"Why are
you telling me all this, sir? You and Sorak are friends. Isn't this a little…? I don't know…"
His expression
changed momentarily, infinitesimally, and she wasn't certain what she'd seen
therein. While this man had the type of careful prepossession that seemed to
make his every facial cast and gesture an understatement,
the statement itself seemed always to
be there—if you were an avid reader, that is.
"I'm your
classmate, Lieutenant, not your instructor. I have every right to make
observations to whomever I deem might benefit from them—so long as I betray no
confidences."
She'd almost
managed to find some balance again, when he added a final observation that
chilled her.
"I suggest
you forget about class valedictorian, Lieutenant.
"Right
now, I think you're even money just to pass the course."
Abruptly, he
stopped… and Hale belatedly realized she was standing outside Decker Hall,
where her next class had probably already commenced.
He pulled open
the old-fashioned door, and held it for her.
Despite
everything she'd just heard and already knew, again Serutian suddenly found
herself thinking of him not as a sage counselor or an infuriatingly incisive
observer, but simply as a man. With a tremendous effort, she smothered a smile,
and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
Determinedly,
she suppressed a snicker at her next thought.
He's
a pace behind. I wonder if he's looking at my ass?
God
knows, I've looked at his often
enough over the last month, when chance afforded.
She turned,
hoping to catch his gaze violating the Neutral Zone, but he either hadn't been,
or altered its course too quickly for her.
Serutian
decided to be brash.
After
all, I can't get in any more trouble than I am.
Her lips curled
into a smile that was at once amused and suggestive.
"Are you
walking me to class, sir?"
"In a
manner of speaking."
Again he
slipped past her… but this time, instead of holding the door open, he passed
through it and didn't look back.
Momentarily
thrown, Hale followed… but before she could inquire, he'd already begun working
his way down into the amphitheatre. Lieutenant Commander Brackett was,
strangely enough, seated instead of running the class.
A few seconds
later, she understood why.
"Good
afternoon. I'm Captain Mantovanni; your teacher has requested I address you
concerning the events of Stardates 11452.1-3.9—what's become known as the First
Galorndon Core Incident."
He paused, and
Serutian realized he—and, thus, everyone
else—was waiting for her to choose a seat. Face flushing enough to give her
auburn hair a run for its money, Hale gave up on her own customary spot, and
slipped into the nearest chair…
…wishing
instead it were a Trill-sized hole.
When she headed
straight for him three hours later, Mantovanni wasn't particularly surprised.
Round
two. Gloves up, Captain. Stick and move.
For a few
moments, other students surrounded him, and he was bracketed with questions
concerning those long-ago days that had changed his life forever. Hale hovered
on the periphery, though, moving closer each time another student departed, and
caught his eye whenever she could.
She's
looking for a weapons lock.
Even as he
answered the questions asked on autopilot, Mantovanni took in her appearance,
allowing himself the brief luxury of examining her as a woman, rather than a
student or fellow officer. Serutian Hale was tall and slender, and it was
apparent that beneath her uniform was the well-trimmed body of an athlete. She
certainly carried herself as such. Her dark auburn hair hung just past her
shoulders and framed her face, subtly emphasizing the telltale brown spots of
her Trill heritage.
He wondered
briefly if she were joined.
Some unwelcome
part of him asked, Why? Would it bother
you?
Where
the hell did that come from?
It took only an
instant to realize what had prompted all three questions. The leap wasn't a
difficult one: Serutian Hale was attractive, she was forward and she was a
Trill—just like Saren.
Saren.
While she, like
Galorndon Core, was a subject he had no desire to revisit, in this case the
choice was his…
…and he made it
readily.
He heard one of
her classmates—not Price, thank goodness—joke, "Teacher's pet," as she approached him… but the slight
smile and faint flush the comment elicited told him its author was a friend.
For some
reason, this time he endeavored to take control of the conversation at its
outset.
“I understand
that you left the JAG Corps back in June.”
Hale nodded,
clearly nonplused, and a bit vexed, at the turn he'd taken, but momentarily
setting aside whatever she'd wanted
to say so as to better respond.
“Yes, sir,” she
replied. “I served there two years before coming to the conclusion that it
wasn’t where I belonged. I’m much better suited for security work.”
Something about
the way she said it had Mantovanni scrutinizing the lieutenant again. She
wasn’t looking at him any longer, and on instinct he knew that there was more
to the story than she was telling. He considered asking her to explain further
but then thought better of it.
It wasn't as if
he, too, didn't have subjects he preferred not to discuss.
The brief delay
gave her the opening she'd needed.
"Sir… I
wanted to say that I don't entirely agree with your assessment of my
performance, or its motivations, in the holo-scenario."
Proud
and stubborn, Mantovanni thought.
He knew the
type.
Lord, he knew the
type.
"And just when did you come to this conclusion,
Lieutenant? In the minutes since we finished with Commander Brackett's class,
or in the three hours you should have been paying attention to my lecture,
tedious though it may have been?"
This time, she
understood, and laughed.
"Are you
sure you're not an ex-attorney,
sir?"
"Worse,"
he acknowledged. "I had relentless instruction from the only Vulcan Jesuit
in the galaxy."
The walkway
split near a small planting of Berengarian snapdragons. It was clear their
paths were diverging along with their opinions.
Each stopped.
She seemed very
much at ease with him now.
For some
reason, that annoyed him… and, unthinkingly, he acted on the emotion.
"I'm going
to recommend you and Commander Price be assigned as lab partners, Lieutenant…
and that the two of you undergo a scenario designed specifically to address
your individual weaknesses.
"Further,
both of you will have to pass…
"…or
both of you will fail the course."
She gaped at
him… stepped, almost stumbled, back a few paces…
…and
practically fled up the garden path.
Mantovanni
shook his head—whether at her or himself even he wasn't sure.
Someone else,
though, was.
"Well… I
can see you haven't changed
much."
The old man's
brow was covered with sweat, and his hands buried in soil, sifting the dirt for
some purpose only he knew.
Even knowing
how much this person loved what he did, Mantovanni wondered if it wasn't simply
a secret caress for Mother Earth.
"That
hardly sounds like a compliment, Boothby."
The wizened
gardener snorted a derisive, "You get entirely
too many of those, Mr. 'Living Legend.'"
The comment
hadn't distracted him, though.
"Something
about the girl you don't like…
"…or
something you do?"
Mantovanni
arched a brow, but the gesture was deflected with a discerning frown.
"Don't try
that distantly superior crap with me, Captain Big Shot."
The younger man
grinned slightly.
"You know,
I have one just like you at home."
"No… the
one you have at home has a lot more patience for your dissembling than I do.
Now help me up."
He took
Boothby's arm, and with little assistance, the other levered himself to his
feet.
"You
didn't answer the question."
"I'm
framing my response carefully," Mantovanni answered, after a moment.
"Always
the tactician. Knew another cadet who had to consider every damned thing that
came out of his mouth, as if even his friends would desert him if he took one
misstep. Wouldn't mind seeing a meeting between you and Jean-Luc
Picard—assuming we could find a room to fit both the two of you and your pretensions."
Relentlessly,
Boothby added, "I'm still waiting."
"I do like
her. She's full of ideas and sass… but she's still just a kid."
"Generally
speaking,
"And they
say I have an acerbic wit."
The rose bushes
on the South Lawn beckoned next, and Boothby immediately set to work, his eyes
and hands never at rest.
"Now's
about the time you usually give an allegorical speech."
He grunted, and
did just that.
"Cadets
are like these roses to me—lovely and delicate petals, strong and fragile
stems, and thorns… plenty of
thorns."
"Might I
point out that Lieutenant Hale is not a cadet?"
"True,"
Boothby agreed.
"But we
all need proper handling, at one point or another, to prosper… to retain our
bloom, if you like." Having completed his brief survey of the bed, he
again reached for Mantovanni, and was once more assisted to stand.
When the
younger man would have released him, though, Boothby maintained his grip… then
leaned to whisper.
"And who said I'm talking about Hale?"
***
Serutian was so
distracted—and, to be honest, dismayed—by the conversations with Captain Mantovanni
that she found herself unable to concentrate through the remainder of her day.
The afternoon lowlight was earning the worst score of her career on the phaser
range—even including the four years she’d spent at the Academy.
The
safest place on the damned field was wherever I aimed.
Her
instructor's post-class comments only served to worsen Hale's mood.
"Well,
Lieutenant… that's the cleanest scorecard I've seen in quite some time. Now I know
I didn't give your target a personal force field, so… care to explain this
rather lackluster performance?"
Lieutenant
Commander Jennara was a Betazoid, and perfectly capable of discerning
Serutian's reasons herself, if she so desired. Fortunately, though, she
possessed a Starfleet officer's restraint… or, at the very least, one's sense
of decorum, since no telling observations were forthcoming.
"No
explanation, ma'am. No excuse."
Which
I suppose is marginally better than saying, "None of your damned
business."
Jennara, to
Serutian's relief, accepted this with a "Don't
let it happen again" expression, and the young Trill was able to escape
without further interaction. Her last thought before slinking back towards the
dorms was one with which many a harried worker and student would be familiar.
Thank
God it's Friday.
While nearly
all sentient species understand the necessity of recreation and downtime, few
indulge it so systematically, determinedly and enthusiastically as do humans.
Soon after arriving from off world, cadet plebes at
...and are just
as quickly exposed to the accompanying... rituals.
Most of them
don't quite know what to make of it.
Some
immediately fill their "free" time with supplementary study,
believing such frequent, indulgent frivolity only underscores the relative
immaturity of the human animal. Vulcans and Bolians tend to lead this
particular group—usually with arched brows and upturned bifurcated noses,
respectively.
Others embrace
the culture (and, some puritanical cynics would say, just about anything else
that happens by), and become a related species of animal—that is, the party animal. Members of this group,
generally, more often fall victim to academic attrition (or honors
violations)—though there have been a number of infamous exceptions: Ktarians
and Risians, for example, often leave Earth convinced humans are their
long-lost kin.
The last group
employs IDIC (even while usually failing to appreciate how seldom the inventors
of the concept do so) and follows the human lead, working or wallowing as
dictated by those longtime traditional foes, necessity and desire.
When these two
come into direct conflict, though….
Hale thought, I do not need this.
The communiqué
had come at 0745 hours Saturday morning. While she was an early riser, and
would probably have been on her feet within a few minutes, anyway, both the
caller and the message were less than welcome.
She’d thrown
off her grogginess and thrown on a robe, then run her fingers through what
she’d hoped—in vain, the mirror told her afterward—wasn’t a horrendous case of
bed-head.
Captain Sorak’s
expression, typically Vulcan, had managed to convey both equanimity and
irritation at having been kept waiting. Of course, he was impeccably coiffed
and completely composed—also typically, annoyingly Vulcan.
“Lieutenant… report to my office at 0900 hours.
Wear a standard duty uniform, and clear your schedule for the remainder of the
day—unless it is your desire to participate in religious services before we
begin.”
Her first
thoughts in response had been, Either
he’s telling me to say my prayers…
…or he doesn’t want me going to my fate unshriven.
She replied
with, “No, sir. I’ll be there… on time.”
He’d nodded minutely
and cut the channel.
Damn it.
Serutian had
really, really wanted the weekend to
regroup. If the call had come only an hour later she would have been ambling
through the Smithsonian or the
Louvre—sans communicator, of course, since, unlike cadets, student officers
didn't have to remain accessible during their time off.
No such luck.
Now, as she
stood before his desk, the idea of Sorak’s anticipatory telepathy became
simultaneously more plausible… and more unsettling.
“I have
reviewed your record, Lieutenant.
"The
quality described by you as 'initiative,' and Commander Price as 'willfulness,'
is the one at issue. Throughout your career you have demonstrated an
inclination to… 'go it alone,' I
believe the human phrase is. That, of course, stood you in good stead as an
attorney, where necessarily one must possess an almost monomaniacal belief in
the rightness of the cause or case you espouse.
"Now,
though, you wish to become a security officer…
"…and some
of the habits which once benefited you have become a detriment."
Hale held her
bearing only with difficulty.
"Sir…
permission to speak freely."
"Permission
granted."
"I believe
I've been unfairly singled out for criticism, sir. My grades are excellent; my
performance, despite the problem in the simulator yesterday, has been
exemplary."
Sorak, as one
would expect, was unmoved.
"To say
you have been 'singled out' is inaccurate, Lieutenant, since Commander Price,
for other reasons, had also been placed under scrutiny. That issue, however,
has been resolved—at least for now."
Serutian
frowned.
"What do
you mean?"
"Mister
Price has withdrawn from the course for…" His hesitation was brief, but
noticeable. "…personal reasons."
After
processing that for a few seconds, her eyes narrowed. It was apparent to anyone
who gave it but brief consideration that her rival, fearing for his grade, had
taken the easy path and backed out—probably citing some ready-made, entirely
plausible, all-too-convenient excuse. Sorak, exemplary member of a race that seldom
prevaricated, had no doubt accepted this without argument or qualm.
Price,
you coward. Mantovanni was right.
After a
moment's more thought, she started, and immediately appended, About you, that is.
Which
leaves my ass hanging in the wind.
The Vulcan's
gaze intensified, from inquisitive to probing.
"Do you wish to withdraw, as well?"
Then again,
perhaps Sorak had seen right through the deception after all.
Serutian Hale
considered all she'd learned about the prudence of a tactical retreat,
discretion being the better part of valor and fighting only on ground of your
own choosing. Despite herself, she leaned forward, and answered with more force
than she'd intended.
"No,
sir… I do not."
There was, of
course, no visible reaction to her choice—other than an infuriatingly arched
brow that had her fantasizing about just how satisfying it would be to reply
with a… gesture… of her own.
She restrained
herself.
"Very
well, then. Your simulator exercise requires a second participant. Since
Commander Price is no longer available, I have arranged for another to
assist." An instant later, he added, "You may enter."
She heard the
old-style latch click as it slid free, the knob turn… and felt a thrill of
dread as her new "partner" entered, nodded and stood at what she
would have called "arrogant ease"—that is, if she'd been able to
speak.
Luciano
Mantovanni had, for all intents and purposes, gotten her into this.
It remained to
be seen whether he'd be help or hindrance in getting back out again.
***
When they were
finished—six exhausting, terrifying hours later—she still wasn't sure.
The chamber of
horrors abruptly transformed itself once again into a deceptively innocuous,
grid-etched cubicle. Sweat-soaked and trembling, Hale almost lost her feet in
the aftershock of that transition.
For an instant, she was thankful for the sure, strong arm that steadied her… then remembered to whom th