Go to Part Four
After the second dinner, the engineer’s mood was not much improved. “I thought 'bout what you said,” DelMonde had reported as he peeled off his uncomfortable dress uniform. “In fact, Aronson caught me starin' at him an' give me this, 'What you lookin' at, Poem-Boy?' look. So I say, 'Captain, one o' my colleagues has done informed me that th' appropriate t'ing fo' me t' do under these circumstances is t' make some light conversation.' And ol’ Jack rolls his eyes like he rather have his intestines pulled out through his nose. So I say, 'Yeah, I t'ought it was a pretty damned stupid idea too' an' shut up an' drink my damned thimble-full o' cat piss.”
And that, Paget had thought, was going to be that. But when faced with a trial that no one – not even N.C. himself – thought he was equal to, the Cajun’s mettle was challenged. It became an engineering problem – even if it was a social engineering problem… and even if social engineering was not exactly his specialty. Noel DelMonde, the tel-empath, had some resources that most misanthropes did not, though. Therefore after the next ordeal, the engineer was able to triumphantly announce, “I made a positive fuckin' comment an' it was well damn received!”
Paget sat upright on his bunk, mouth dropped open in surprise. “What did you say?”
“That the fuel use efficiency ratings fo' the new coils had gone up fo' th' third quarter in a row,” the Cajun admitted a little anti-climatically, then pointed a warning finger at his cabin-mate. “Do not minimize my fuckin' accomplishment, Jer.”
“Minimize?” Paget held up both hands in a combination of protest and homage. “You are my hero. Scores of lieutenants’ careers have been utterly destroyed for attempting far, far less…”
“You gotta know it,” DelMonde confirmed immodestly as he flopped down exhausted on to his bunk. “An' this is just Step One. Ol’ Jack Aronson might not know it now, but we gonna be chattin' 'bout th' weather an' everyone’s damned health next time even if it by God kills us both…”
And so, from this modest beginning, the engineer had with atypical industry set about the surprisingly Herculean task of being able to converse with the captain of the Hood.
In the process the Cajun had come to know the man’s mind so well that when he suddenly stopped in his tracks and exclaimed, “Shit! Can’t leave that stiff bastard alone fo' a minute!” Paget’s heart sped back up to crisis pace again.
Sharing a look to confirm that something was amiss but without wasting time to go into any details about what the problem might be, DelMonde and Paget quickened their steps to as rapid a rate as their guards could tolerate and raced towards the gigantic doors of what was presumably the throne room before them.
One thing that was immediately apparent when they entered the audience chamber was that the Quionons they had been dealing with thus far were merely of the garden – or perhaps, more appropriately -- pond variety of fish-folk. The Heiroenfanta was both literally and metaphorically something else. She seemed to be of a slightly different species. Her face lacked the distinctive whiskers of her underlings. A proud crest stood atop her bald head. Whereas their skin was an undistinguished whitish-grey, hers varied from an iridescent baby blue to a soft pinkish color. Her pupil-less eyes were also a sweet coral shade that sparkled and caught the light in a manner that was startlingly like shimmering amethysts.
In stark contrast to the costumes of her subjects that were so concealing as to make their genders a complete mystery, the Heiroenfanta’s raiment was an Atlantian mer-princess fantasy costume made up of a scant sort of a bikini top, a flowing loincloth, and a pirate’s chest worth of jewelry scattered liberally about the whole ensemble.
If her lack of clothing put the matter into any doubt, the lady’s mien and manner left no uncertainty that she was a personage of great piscine importance. In fact, she happened to be discoursing loudly on just this subject in a loud, clear voice as Jer and Del entered.
“Am I not favored of the Great Gods of the Eight Waters?” the lady was demanding rhetorically as she paced up and down on her high dais. “Am I not Ruler of the Nine Kingdoms? Am I not Queen of the Seven Reaches of Space?”
Since it did not seem as though they were expected to respond to this query any more than all the other uncomfortable people avoiding eye contact with the enraged ruler, DelMonde and Paget joined their commander and Lieutenant Otgonbayar at a distant end of the audience chamber.
“Talks have reached an impasse,” Aronson informed them grimly in an hushed tone as the Heiroenfanta continued to enumerate her increasingly exotic list of titles.
“No sh…” Del began, before Jer’s elbow in his rib stopped him.
“What happened, sir?” the Security Officer inquired quietly.
“By their laws, in order to ratify any trade agreement, I have to…” The captain paused, looked down, and cleared his throat. “Uhm… have sex with.. uhm… her.”
“…Supreme Sovereign of the Six States?” the Heiroenfanta seethed as the Hood officers digested this information. “Overmistress of the Dread Deep Keeps of the Twelve Gorges of the Grand Divide?”
“An' she not havin' none o' ya, huh?” DelMonde speculated sotto voce.
The captain gave the engineer a withering look.
“Oh, fo' shit’s sake, Jack…” the Cajun groaned before Paget could stop him.
“What Lieutenant DelMonde means, sir…” Jer hastily attempted to revise.
“I think I got what the lieutenant means, Paget,” Aronson silenced him.
“..and must I now be slighted by these stinking, dog-eyed, monkey creatures?” the lady was now fuming, casting a venomous coral gaze in their general direction before storming to the other side of her throne. “These hairy barbarians? These thick-lipped aliens? These unsightly…”
“Captain, sir,” DelMonde took a deep breath and re-attempted. “Wit' ever' single ounce o' respect you are due, sir -- What I mean is that there are sixteen some billion sentient souls on this planet. An' yes, we have caught them red-handed up to some heinous shit, so if you gotta snuff ‘em all out – includin' th' sweet old catfish-folk grannies an' cute li'l catfish-folk crib babies – then, yeah, they’s gonna be some reasons t' explain why, but one o' them reasons gotta not be ‘cause you t'inking 'but she had that fish head, though…'”
Aronson made a rumbling noise.
Jer winced inwardly, fearing that the other shoe had finally dropped in the always unlikely détente between the two of them. There were tons of people who passed in and rapidly out of the engineer’s life who were amused by his acid tongue and brutal honesty… until it was turned on them.
“An' yes,” the Cajun said, continuing where a less brave or more sane human wouldn’t. “I jus' a not'ing li'l piss-ant lieutenant who not makin' the big decisions – who not so much as decide what color shirt he gonna wear this mornin'. An'l no, I not gonna be th' one t'l have to stand up an' look th' Admiralty in th' eye an' explain that I decided to let ever't'ing go to shit here knowin' full well in my heart o' hearts that it was in part because I had a stick rammed too far up my ass to be able to…”
Aronson coolly turned away from him mid-rant. “Paget, your analysis?”
Jer paused. One reason he’d failed to stop Del’s unfortunate outburst in time was that it had been too close to his own initial reaction. As an alumnus of the Clave, his reservations about having sex with a total stranger in order to resolve situation of this sort of extreme gravity were low to nil. He realized such a lack of inhibition was not the norm; however, barring anatomical incompatibilities, he couldn’t imagine having any hesitancy to agree to such an arrangement to save everyone a little inconvenience -- let alone save a whole planet.
“Do you have to be the one to have sex with her, sir?” he offered practically.
Aronson raised an eyebrow at this devotion to duty. “Laudable initiative, Paget,” he replied. “But it does appear it has to be me. When the ministers noted that the two of you were absent, they made it clear that the Heiroenfanta was not going to accept any 'scrawny, unattractive' substitutes – in case that’s what we were trying to pull.”
“Scrawny an' unattractive?” DelMonde snorted. “Ain’t they not heard that Dave Calvin’s crew jus' got me into Stardate Holo-zine’s list o' th' top 100 most eligible bachelors in th' Alpha Quadrant?”
“…foul-smelling, feline-furred, freakish fools…” the Heiroenfanta was fulminating.
Despite the gravity of the situation and his irritation with the Cajun, the sheer absurdity of it all combined with the engineer’s unpredictable sense of humor must have hit Aronson with some force at that moment. A smile came dangerously close to curling the corner of the captain’s mouth.
“Apparently not, Lieutenant,” he replied in a tone that while still rather stiff and formal was considerably thawed from the chill it had directed towards DelMonde just a few moments before. “You need a new publicist.”
The Cajun sighed and shook his head. “If only Star Fleet would let me get rid o' th' one they done give me…”
“…beastly barbarian brutes!” the grand lady was thundering. “They should all be boiled in oil! Scourged with seaswaths! Flogged with fiery….”
“This insistence that you must sleep with the Heiroenfanta,” Jer began seriously, “could be strategic -- a deliberate attempt to distract or demean you so they can turn the situation to their advantage, sir.”
Aronson nodded. “Or it’s another deliberate delaying tactic.”
“Or,” Del asserted, “these could jus' be some hick-ass fish-folk at the ass end o' the galaxy who is in a life or death situation that their pappys an' grandpappys and even great-grandpappys never dreamed of. So th' only t'ing they know is t' pull out this here old gal, cuz even if she fin-flappin’-crazy, they know an' understand her, which is more than they can say o' any o' us. An' they all jus' goin' along wit' her an' doin' what they usually do in a weird situation.”
Aronson gave a pained sigh. Jer recognized the sound not just of a private and careful man distressed to be put in a situation where he had to suddenly be intimate with a high drama alien high priestess he’d just met, but also the deep disappointment of a gifted military tactician who was convinced he was on the scent of a subtle stratagem only to find his opponent was actually just being chaotic and more than a little stupid. Jer shared that feeling, recognizing as the captain did, that DelMonde’s description fit the Quionon’s typical pattern of boneheaded groupthink wrapped up in opaque provincial customs.
“Paget?” the captain asked, inviting him to provide weight to the more interesting and rational side of their speculations.
“…ever so insulted!” the Heiroenfanta was fuming. “Do they not know that the Seven Lords of the Lower Depths could drag them away to the Drowning Deep at my merest invocation? Do they not realize that the Six Spirits of the Lofty Leafless Reaches…?”
Jer matched his commander’s deep sigh with his own Sometimes-I-Hate-It-When-N.C.-Is-Right one. “Well, sir, if the lady has decided that she is no longer willing either, then…”
“Mais, as far as 'willin'' goes…. Now…” The Cajun paused and sighed the most frightening sigh in Jeremy Paget’s lexicon of exhalations – the Even-Noel-DelMonde-Thinks-This-May-Be-A-Risky-Idea sigh. “Well… We got options there.”
Aronson blinked at him. “Options?”
“Jer,” the engineer began with a very serious and professional air. “Will you confirm fo' the captain that my cousins Willie an' T-Boy are two o' the ugliest, craziest sons of bitches to walk the streets o' New Orleans?”
“Uhm…” As his friend assumed, Jer was immediately able to grasp the broad outlines of what the Cajun was planning. The problem was that he needed a few moments to deal with the surprise that DelMonde -- who seldom even admitted to having telempathic powers at all -- would volunteer their use in this sort of way. Paget also would have preferred a consultation on the advisability of launching this sort of plan with Jack Aronson as the main actor.
“An' that me bein' able t' keep them two laid is proof positive that I can work miracles?” the engineer continued heedlessly.
“When we say 'work miracles,' Captain…” Paget began, picking up his cues as slowly and carefully as he might heft a bucket of radioactive waste covered in excrement.
The story, as it had been related to Jer, had begun as an argument over the efficacy of poetry. Young, cash-strapped Del had won a bet by writing a poem that had gained Willie access to the physical charms of one of his up-to-that-point-uninterested lady-friends. The Cajun had actually tilted the odds in his favor by surreptitiously shadowing the courting couple and augmenting the poetry reading with a little tel-empathic erotic boost. Thereafter, the teen-aged bard had been able to occasionally supplement his meager income by collecting fees for similar “love poems.”
Aronson looked as dubious as if he could glean all the sordid and ridiculous details of the story from Paget’s expression. “I’ve read his file.”
“An' I know it the sort o' woo-woo crap you hate,” DelMonde apologized as he crossed his arms and watched the Heiroenfanta pace back and forth, gesticulating furiously. “An' I know I said that t'ing 'bout givin' you ever' ounce o' respect you due an' then pulled up several kilos short o' the required load. But, sir, you gotta remember we talkin' here 'bout the lives o'…”
“..Little old catfish grannies and cute little catfish babies,” Aronson gave another pained sigh. “I know, Lieutenant.”
The Cajun’s black eyes followed the high priestess as intently as a kid waiting to run into a double-dutch jump rope session. “Maybe if I give ya a li'l demonstration…?”
Aronson gave Paget an Am-I-going-to-regret-this side glance.
Jer replied with an apologetic Probably-but-it’s-also-probably-our-best-and-maybe-our-only-shot look.
The captain paused only to utter one more sigh of protest to the unreasonable powers that be before releasing the Cajun to do his worst with a command of, “Go.”
“…Craven creatures who should be cast into the fiery pits!” the Heiroenfanta was ranting. “Filleted like felons, poached like predators…”
“So,” DelMonde asked, stepping forward. “You gonna do all that before you have th' chance t' open any o' your presents?”
The utterance hit the Quionon ruler mid-stride like freeze-ray. “Presents?”
“Presents.” The Cajun’s mouth caressed the word. “You know -- Gifts. Tokens o' our esteem. Respectful offerin's o' various delightful baubles…” He favored the Heiroenfanta with one of his rare, slow smiles. “That sort o' t'ing.”
The Quionon blinked her amethyst eyes. “Baubles?”
“Oh, jus' pretty, precious t'ings.” The engineer made a dismissive gesture with one hand as he moved close enough to put one foot on the first step up to her high dais. “Emerald pearls from Orion. Glow gems from th' Outer Antilles that sparkle like your eyes. Darlin' little necklaces made o' pure dilithium…”
Although he frequently used it to say vile things, NC had a wonderfully pleasant voice. His speaking voice was more melodious than most people’s singing voices. In addition to its rich natural tonal qualities, there was a thing he could do with it… Listening to him weave this magic now, Jer realized that a good portion of the heavy lifting for this alchemy was performed by the Cajun’s mind instead of his vocal cords. Still there was something about the way he could alter and sweeten his pitch that created a sound you’d agree to do jus about anything to keep on listening to…
“Iridescent rubies from th' Martian colonies, an' maybe even a few singin' moonstones from Beta Antares,” the engineer was promising deliciously. He ended the list with an irresistibly intimate chuckle. “Jus' the sort o' t'ing t' make the proudest Haven green wit' envy…”
It was obvious from the lustful intensity of her glittering stare that he had the Heiroenfanta hook, line, and sinker.
She turned to her advisors furiously. “I have been told nothing of presents.”
In their best buck-passing manner, the Quionons each glared at an underling until a delegation of three under-advisors descended the steps of the dais to stare balefully at DelMonde.
“Lord Aronson has said nothing of any presentation,” their leader accused.
“Captain Aronson a very important individual,” the engineer replied without deigning to make eye contact with this official. “I thought you understood that.”
This assertion traveled up and down the chain of command nonverbally and was grudgingly confirmed. “We do.”
The engineer looked down, shook his head, and sighed as if he were embarrassed to have witnessed such a display of gaucherie on the Quionons’ part before answering. “He too important to take care o' stuff like this.”
The realization that this was a bit of an obvious faux pas on their part quickly spread up and down the line of command.
“We understand that,” the lead under-advisor assured him abashedly.
The Cajun rolled his black eyes in the Quionon’s direction for the first time. “He got officers t' take care o' this sort o' stuff.”
“Of course,” the under-advisor agreed readily since this was part of his job description as well.
The engineer’s gaze narrowed. “Scrawny, unattractive officers.”
The under-advisor swallowed uncomfortably. “Oh.”
As glares of recrimination traveled up and down the ranks, Jer reflected that even if this was just part of the engineer’s act, it was probably in everyone’s best interests to discourage the Quionons from making further disparaging comments about NC’s looks.
“When am I to have these presents?” the Heiroenfanta demanded, stamping a delicately finned foot impatiently.
“Well, accordin' to the proper way to do these t'ings followed by all th' civilized folk in our part o' the galaxy,” the Cajun explained in a manner that made it clear that they were perfectly free to do things in an improper, uncivilized way if they were uncouth enough to have such preferences. “There should be a nice li'l party – which we shall provide, o' course. An intimate dinner wit' lots o' food an' drink from the far corners o' the sector – as befits your rank and demonstrates the wealth of our captain’s… experience.” The engineer’s pause gave just a piquant dash of double entendre to his description. “An' you an' the commander can have a li'l tête-à-tête while we make a formal presentation o' the gifts… since that could take some time….”
The Heiroenfanta’s greed was whipped up into such a high froth one could almost taste it wafting through the audience chamber. She turned furiously to her advisors. “Why was I not told there were gifts?”
The advisors closest to her made a gesture that involved bowing their heads and waving their hands in front of their faces. They chorused various versions of, “We were not told, oh, Your Most Grievous Graciousness!”
After so abasing themselves, there was some fierce glowering at subordinates, which inevitably worked its way down to DelMonde.
“Your incompetence is not part o' my responsibilities,” the Cajun informed the under-advisor aloofly.
Where are the presents?” the Heiroenfanta thundered, patiently directing everyone’s attention back to the central issue.
“They on our ship,” DelMonde answered.
This simple response threw the advisors into a fury. “This is a trick to try to make us let them return to their vessel!” they shouted at each other. “Or to abduct our Heiroenfanta!”
The Cajun waited patiently for the protests to die down to just an accumulation of fierce frowns directed in his direction. Then he simply spread his hands and replied, “Or…?”
There was a stunned and thoroughly appalled silence as the advisors realized the Cajun was not going to make proposals for them to shoot down and that the responsibility for coming up with an idea that would appease their ruler’s newly awakened gift-lust was now quite firmly in their hands.
After several uncomfortable moments of a complete lack of suggestions that would bring her closer to the promised presents and party, the Heiroenfanta frowned mightily and pronounced, “The presentation of the gifts will take place here.”
“But, Your Serene Splendor,” an advisor objected abjectly. “We cannot allow these aliens to make contact with their vessel.”
“Because…?” The sovereign asked, copying a bit of DelMonde’s technique.
“It is a ruse!” A brave soul insisted. “They wish to defeat the grip we have on them and leave us empty handed!”
“If we allow them to speak with their vessel directly,” another chimed in, “they will find a way to escape us.”
In response to these accusations, DelMonde merely gave a particularly Gallic shrug as if to say 'Ah, it could have been so magnifique, cherie, but… c’est la vie!'
Jer had been at first amused then puzzled that NC seemed to be making so little effort to weave his magic on the Heiroenfanta’s council. Now, though, he was beginning to suspect this might be a part of the plan. With his engineer’s brain, NC preferred to run 'diagnostics' on people. Rather making a deep, spooky dive into their subconscious as one might assume would be second nature to a telepath, he preferred to play little mind games to trick an individual’s true nature to the surface (engaging in exactly the sort of behavior he so hated in psychiatrists – although Jer did not think it would be particularly politic to point that out). Rather than persuading them forcefully, the Cajun seemed to be using the promise of gifts as a lure to tease their fears out into the open and trick them into coming up with a plan to bypass them of their own devising.
When – despite several minutes of intense glaring and impatient foot stamping – none of her advisors was able to figure out a workaround, the Heiroenfanta pointed out, “They have been permitted to communicate with their vessel indirectly already.”
“Your wisdom humbles us as always, your Most Dire Magnificence!” a senior advisor groveled gratefully. “If the Federation representative submits a list of necessary items…”
“And gifts,” the lady added firmly.
“Most assuredly the gifts, Your Celestial Rapture,” her underling replied bowing. “Most assuredly! We could use our teleportation mechanisms and at the same time to screen for any poisons or…”
“Captain Aronson is a most honorable an' puissant commander,” DelMonde asserted loudly, but to no one in particular.
“We do not doubt this,” one of the senior officials assured him from the dais.
“Perhaps it would be wise, then,” the Cajun suggested, still directing his comments to the air around him, “not to anger him by listin' all th' nefarious shit ya’ll t'ink you gonna be screenin' his gracious, noble, honorable, an' quite generous presents fo', non?”
“Oh…” the advisor grimaced.
His sovereign gave him a reprimanding rap on the shoulder. “No wonder we are considered such fools by the…”
There was a high squealing noise as a whole school of her advisors attempted to prevent the Heiroenfanta from finishing that sentence with the word 'Havens.'
The ruler went a little pink around the gills. “I must go consult what auguries can be cast to judge the portents of this proposed alliance,” she huffed, deciding the best course was to beat a hasty retreat. “See this one is provided with all that is needed for the presentation of my gifts.”
All her subject chorused various versions of, “Yes, Your Most Grave and Glorious Grandeur.”
Despite the fact that NC talked a lot about having worked for a repair shop as a teenager in New Orleans, the trade Paget actually had witnessed him plying when they’d met in a Bourbon Street dive so many years ago had been hustling tourists at the bar’s pool tables. It was not an occupation that the engineer was proud of or at which he considered himself to be much of a success. However, at moments like this, Jer was forcefully reminded that the part of the job that Noel DelMonde was not very good at was playing pool.
In the wake of their Heiroenfanta, Quionon courtiers swirled away into agitated groups like minnows scattered by a shark. DelMonde authoritatively commandeered a clipboard and stylus from one passing under-secretary to an under-advisor and ambled towards his shipmates busily scrawling notes.
Captain Aronson greeted him with a frown. “That was less of a demonstration than it was a firm commitment to a certain course of action.”
“I can call 'em back an' tell ‘em we’d rather just blow up the planet,” the Cajun offered without looking up from his notes, seemingly unsurprised and untroubled by his commander’s lack of enthusiasm.
“There may be some spontaneous combustion when the lady realizes that I don’t carry dilithium necklaces around in my back pocket,” Aronson observed sourly.
“In a way, you do, sir,” DelMonde replied, continuing to jot down items as spoke. “Remember a few weeks ago we cracked a couple crystals runnin' down those Romulan scouts? We still got ‘em in storage. Wouldn’t take not'ing to toss ‘em in th' recycler an' pop out some jewelry. She not gonna know industrial grade stones from shit. An' yes, as an engineering officer I am intimately familiar wit' all th' regulations governin' th' proper disposal of dilithium, but it not like I suggestin' the two o' us set up a fake-ass jewelry shop on Wriggley’s selling busted rocks. This about savin' a damn planet, non?”
Aronson crossed his arms. “You’re familiar with Form V9-W873-A?”
“Yes, sir. That would be the form you’d have t' fill out t' get override on the disposal regs..”
“That somebody would have to fill out,” the captain corrected pointedly.
This finally got the Cajun’s attention off his notes. “That a nine damn page form, sir.”
“Yep.”
“Wit' at least eleven questions that gotta be answered in essay form wit' corroborating log entries from four department heads,” DelMonde elaborated with a pained expression on his face. “Three o' who hate my damned guts wit' most purple o' purple passions.”
Aronson shrugged. “We are talking about saving a damn planet, Lieutenant.”
DelMonde sighed long-sufferingly. “I would have settled fo' a heartfelt “thank you,” Captain.”
“I promise to give you one when I’m sure you’ve not just helped me from the frying pan into the fire.”
“I gonna take that as an IOU, then,” the Cajun replied with easy confidence.
Paget bit his lip and tried not to wince. He was very glad that Aronson and DelMonde had worked out a relationship that was amenable to them both. However, both men were possessed of such a bone-dry and soul-biting caliber of wit that it made it painfully difficult for an outsider to discern when and if they were joking with each other. Jer was convinced that introducing such high-stakes jocularity into a relationship between two individuals -- each of whom was noted for his lack of a sense of humor about himself -- was a singularly bad idea all around.
“Not to nit-pick,” the Captain observed in this same I-may-or-may-not-be-teasing-mode that put Jer’s teeth on edge. “But it doesn’t really require telepathy t' figure out a greedy woman can be swayed by the promise of gifts, does it?”
“A) It telepathy. It ain’t rocket science,” the Cajun rebutted. “I get into folks’ heads. I not responsible fo' the dumb shit that there once I get in….”
“Hmmm.” The Captain nodded. “Hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“Lord Aronson!” A slightly breathless delegation of Quionons marched up to the captain. Their leader made a sweeping gesture. “A chamber has been prepared for you while your underlings see to the preparations.”
“Thank you.” Aronson gave a regal nod before turning back to his officers. “Gentlemen, I’ll want updates every ten.”
“Yes, sir,” the group from the Hood chorused.
“An' B),” DelMonde continued at a grumble as the Captain was whisked away. “If it so damned obvious, then why was your sad ass not already t'inking of it, huh?”
“Captain is too important to think,” Otgonbayar reminded him with a pat on his shoulder. “For that, he has scrawny Cajun.”
“Ha ha,” the engineer replied humorlessly.
“Stick to him, Otgonbayar,” Paget decided, as the Quionons turned to head out an arched doorway.
“Like glue,” the Siberian concurred.
Within a few strides he was shadowing the group surrounding the captain.
“Were you really good drinking buddies,” Paget mused as the group disappeared behind a curtained passage, “or are you a little scared of Otgonbayar?”
“Scared o' him?” the Cajun repeated incredulously as he appropriated another pad and stylus from a very startled passing Quinon.
“You let him call you a nickname,” Paget pointed out, accepting the purloined note-taking equipment with a belated gesture of thanks to the dazed underling who immediately sped far beyond their reach.
“Oh, that jus' a Russian thing,” the engineer dismissed.
“And you let him talk shit to you,” Jer disputed conclusively.
Faced with this piece of irrefutable evidence, DelMonde shrugged. “I respect his hobbies.”
“Hobbies?” Paget blinked. “Like playing hockey?”
The Cajun gave a short half-laugh as he singled out a Quionon who was foolish enough to make eye contact and beckoned him over. “Like collectin' teeth.”
“Teeth?”
“Yeah. He got a necklace of 'em. He not show it to you yet? All carved. Teeny-tiny. Real nice.”
Jer frowned, not sure if this was an example of some of that wit-so-dry-you-couldn’t-be-sure-the-other-person-was-joking he’d just been mentally bemoaning. “Animal teeth?”
“People teeth,” the Cajun asserted.
“Well, I’ve always heard hockey is a pretty rough game…,” he replied, thinking of the number of dentally impaired hockey players he’d heard of.
“It is when you got a teammate who take up collectin' teeth as a hobby,” the engineer confirmed. He then waved his less than enthusiastic Quionon assistant forward. “We gonna need us a couple o' chairs an' a table here. Pronto. You got that?”
“I will speak with the under-advisor to the…” the Quionon began tremulously.
The Cajun made a sharp noise of negation then held up two fingers. “Two chairs. One table. Now! Am I clear? Or do I need to call th' Heiroenfanta back in here to explain what givin' me every cooperation means?”
The underling held up his pale hands in protest. “No, sir!”
“Then move your fish-ass 'fore I put a boot in it,” the engineer ordered.
“Immediately!” In typical fashion, the functionary quickly found two other subordinates to similarly browbeat.
“So,” Paget put his hands on his hips and idly wondered how many Quionons would have to yell at each other before they’d actually get chairs. “You think you can do this?”
“Oh, yeah.” DelMonde went back to his furious note-scribbling. “I not usually have to run th' sales job down both side o' the street, mais, it not not'ing I never done before. Unlike you, I not some hopeless romantic jus' gonna commit where I not t'ink I gonna be able to come out on top.”
Jer had to smile a little bit at the thought of himself as being less prone to grand gestures for seemingly lost causes than the Cajun. “Not even for some catfish grannies and catfish babies?”
DelMonde snorted. “Yeah as soon as I come in here an' heard what she was talkin' 'bout doin', I knowed I had to act.”
“Yeah?”
“It not like I not able to appreciate th' irony, considerin' how many o' their li'l Earthly cousins I done put away in the same manner,” the Cajun said adamantly. “But there not no way I gonna let no catfish boil me in oil.”