Despite the many hurdles thrown up by the local bureaucracy, within ten minutes, Paget and DelMonde did have a good amount of progress to report to their captain. Although progress did have to be repeatedly spurred forward with threats of forceful application of boots to Quionon derrieres, a large part of their ability to make advancement was due to the fact that within moments, NC and Jer had simultaneously intuited that although it might take forever to get a “yes” answer to travel up and down the bureaucratic line, even a minor functionary felt free to give them a firm “no.” Therefore, by using the trick of framing their questions in such a way as to make a negative response readily available, they were able to quickly frame out what spaces, equipment, and native personnel were available for their use.

All this they were able to relay to their captain, who was still trying to adjust to the surprise of finding that a full three-quarters of the guest accommodations he’d been provided with were taken up by a luxurious pool.

“Well, our hosts 'bout three-quarters fish,” the Cajun had pointed out practically, as he handed over his preliminary list of supply requests for his commander’s perusal.

This was a move that shocked Paget, since the engineer was usually notoriously secretive about his notes and did not let others read rough drafts even of work-related compositions.

Immediately the Commander’s eyebrows raised. “Three to five frilly/sexy Acturian petal-style negligees in colors indicated wrapped up in shiny paper with lots of bows and girly shit…?” he read.

The Cajun’s eyes widened. “An' here they was all this time tellin' me you not able t' make out my handwritin',” he said, hastily reaching to retrieve his writing pad.

“It was never your penmanship I had a problem with DelMonde,” the captain assured him, keeping a firm grip on the pad just out of the engineer’s grasp.

Reading the engineer’s handwriting was no mean feat and was probably a testament to Aronson’s love of military history. Only a practiced aficionado of deciphering antique graphology could really be comfortable transliterating vintage NC script on the spot like he had just done. DelMonde produced an intricately loopy, old-fashioned, fairly gothic scrawl when he wrote. Paget had seen one fan of the Cajun’s poetry enthuse in a posting “It’s the sort of handwriting Edgar Allen Poe might have borrowed just to write Annabelle Lee.

As an artist/engineer with a passion for composition/design from a young age, DelMonde’s notes were as copious as they were cryptic. In addition to their anachronistically ornate appearance, his jottings were full of idiosyncratic, frequently rude, quasi-French abbreviations. One of Paget’s favorites was something that looked kind of like the letters 'ltrshtnne' which was stood for a 'literal shit ton' and despite including the word 'literal,' was always meant to be taken metaphorically.

The Cajun’s calligraphy was – in short -- a lovely and endlessly fascinating artifact to collect when you were the fan of a poet, but a rather annoyingly opaque nuisance to have to decode on a daily basis in the workplace.

Aronson tilted his head to one side and squinted. “There is a staggering amount of alcohol on this list, lieutenant.”

“I hope so, sir,” the engineer confirmed impatiently, still reaching out for his notes.

“This is a red wine, isn’t it?” He pointed to one item. “I prefer white wine.”

The Cajun sighed long-sufferingly. “I know.”

“It’s a Southern Louisiana wine, isn’t it?”

“It be a pitiful computer-generated simulation o' one, yes,” DelMonde affirmed.

The captain gave him a dubious scowl. “You’re not going to try to convince me it has aphrodisiac properties, are you?”

No, sir.” The engineer firmly reclaimed his notepad. “It just a simple drunk-o-disiac – which should suffice to our purposes.”

Within a half hour, planning and negotiations had proceeded to the point where boxes of requested and approved supplies had begun to arrive from the Hood. However, DelMonde was still grumbling.

“I cannot believe Brandt flat lied to me…” he was muttering for the thousandth time as he stood checking items off his list with one foot propped on a box with “Diplomatic Supplies” stamped on the side in Star Fleet block lettering.

Since it was a topic they’d covered rather thoroughly already, Paget felt comfortable directly but gently contradicting, “Well, he didn’t exactly lie, now, did he?”

Jer was stuck trying to assemble one of the tents DelMonde had ordered to be set up in the audience hall. They were using the silky structures to delineate storage and staging areas for the preparations - since they weren’t being allowed to go much further into the building - as well as to create an appropriately intimate and festive atmosphere. The Quionons were appropriately dazzled by the delicate little pavilions since they did not have an exact native equivalent, but were little help in their construction.

“He tol' me the captain couldn’t read my writin',” the Cajun rebutted hotly as he checked the contents of another grey box carried in from the control room where the shipments from the Hood were being beamed in and scanned. “If not once then forty ‘leven-zillion times.”

“Is that what he said?” Paget persisted as he searched among his stack of featherweight support bars for the correctly numbered strut. “Or did he say that the captain didn’t understand what you’d written?”

“Why would he not understand what I writin'?” the engineer asked irritably as the Quionon in front of him opened the top of a box that was also marked “Diplomatic Supplies” but sounded like it was full of bottles of liquor.

“Did you use abbreviations?” Jer asked, sighing as he discarded a part that had to only be a tenth of a millimeter too big and wishing that Star Fleet’s markings for the letter “A” looked less like their marking for the letter “H”.

“Yes!” The Cajun directed the Quionon to deposit its burden in one of the precious few assembled tents with an indignant flourish of this stylus. “I gotta use an abbreviation. When they makin' you fill out an eleven damn page form 'bout shit that is perfectly damn obvious t' everybody’s ass t' begin with, then yes. I do not have a lifetime t' piss away on that shit. Ever'body do it.”

“Not everybody uses the same abbreviations that you do.”

“Like what?” the Cajun challenged beckoning the next Quionon forward. “Name one abbreviation I use that is in any way obscure.”

“Like…” Paget had to pause only because there were so many choices. “The one for “tighter than a gnat’s ass.”

DelMonde snorted as he opened up a panel of a box marked “Communication Equipment” and a plume of colored feathers unfurled. “Ever'body say that.”

“Not in French.” Jer patiently stretched a length of silk between two impossibly thin wands. “Not with a special little picture.”

“If I use a damn picture, what th' hell difference it make that it in French?” the Cajun argued, gesturing the next Quionon in line forward. “All right, now here is a job I got fo' you, Mr. Paget…”

The Security man looked up to find that this underling had arrived bearing what looked like a garment bag emblazoned with a proud Star Fleet logo, and was carrying a small travel bag.

“This requires your particular skill set,” DelMonde announced, relieving the Quionon of his burden. “It a job I cannot do myself.”

Paget rose and dusted himself off. “I am simultaneously challenged and intrigued.”

“This the captain’s dress uniform,” the Cajun announced, handing him the garment bag. “But he got a couple hours 'fore it time fo' him to get ready fo' this party. So I need you to get him nice an' relaxed.”

Jer raised a lascivious eyebrow.

Del rolled his eyes. “Too relaxed is counterproductive to our purposes,” he scolded, then handed him the travel case. “I need you to make him one -- or a couple -- o' them big ol’ olive-juice, manly-man, smack-your-ass martinis…”

Paget opened the travel case and there beside some very 'manly-man' grooming supplies in their own leather case were a bottle of gin, a bottle of vermouth, and lovely silver cocktail shaker set. “You want me to get him drunk?”

“Not drunk per se…” The engineer made a gesture that suggested the navigation of a fine line. “Remember that too relaxed 'fore he gotta get wit' that fish-gal is gonna mess us up. What I need is fo' you to jus' get his mind in a good place. You know, get him talkin' 'bout somet'ing else… Maybe get him t' swim a couple laps in that pool… Just relaxed an' out my hair.”

“Not to put too fine a point on this,” Jer felt obliged to mention as he carefully re-closed the case. “But the captain, who outranks us both by… by a whole lot, is still technically in command of this mission…”

“Now that is exactly th' sort of pissant shit I not need to be bothered wit' right now,” the engineer barked irritably.

Knowing that there was little point in arguing with the Cajun when he was in this sort of mood, Paget remained tactfully silent and let the engineer sort through the warning he was trying to communicate at his own speed.

“Listen, Jer,” DelMonde said drawing in a deep breath after a moment. “This plan I got goin' here has a lot o' movin' parts an' I gotta be on top o' ever' one of ‘em if it gonna work. I gotta concentrate. I not able to be stoppin' ever' minute to make sure Aronson is satisfied that ever' 'I' is dotted an' ever' 'T' is crossed. I gotta keep movin' wit' the flow an' rollin' wit' the roll. That where you come in. You gotta keep him confident we headin' in the right direction -- even when you not understand 'xactly the lane I headin' down at that second. Can you do that fo' me, Jer?”

Looking into those intense, exquisite, and perilously mesmerizing black eyes, Paget knew he’d never say 'no' even if he should. “Yeah.” He smiled and draped the garment bag over his arm. “I’ll do my best, babe.”

The Cajun gave a satisfied nod and beckoned forth the next Quionon in line.

“No pressure,” he said coolly, opening the top of a box marked “Negotiation Paraphernalia” and lifting out what looked suspiciously like a jeweled g-string. “But they is the fate o' a whole planet dependin' on you, you know.”

Jer was a little surprised at how easy it was to talk Aronson into going for a swim until he paused to reflect that the captain had been stuck in these elegant guest quarters trapped in the role of a personage too important to handle details with little to do in between updates other than to brood and stare at the elaborate multi-chambered pool that took up most of the room for nearly three quarters of an hour.

Aronson raised an eyebrow, but did not refuse the martini Paget had waiting for him along with a towel and a robe when he emerged from the glittering shallows of the heavily ornamented entrance to the pool. “DelMonde’s starting the drunk-o-disiacs already?” he asked, holding the cocktail glass up to the light as if to search for secret ingredients.

“He feels like it’s important for the mission for you feel relaxed,” Jer explained, then added with what he hoped was reassuring honesty, “but not too relaxed.”

The captain snorted and took a tentative sip. “Mmm,” he said, licking his lips appreciatively. “This is…epic. Were you a bartender in a previous incarnation, Paget?”

Jer smiled and was glad that his some of the more misspent parts of his youth did occasionally turn out to have their advantages. “No, just an enthusiastic amateur mixologist.”

“Got all the lieutenant’s tents up yet?” Aronson asked, heading for one of the deck chairs near the pool and gesturing for Paget to follow suit.

The Security guard shrugged fatalistically. “Well, I’m on the third 'just one more' so…”

The captain smiled and shook his head. He took another long, slow sip of his drink then turned to Paget and shook his head again. “Don’t.”

“Sir?”

“Don’t make excuses for DelMonde.”

Being friends with a telepath did make you somewhat accustomed to having someone know what you were about to say before the words left your lips, but Jer wasn’t expecting such accuracy from that person at that moment. “Sir, he…” he tried to begin as if an apologia wasn’t exactly what he was about to launch into.

“He’s an arrogant son of a bitch,” Aronson finished for him in exactly the words Jer was not going to say. “But when he goes on one of these tears where he won’t shut up, he usually turns out to be right… which does not make him any easier to take… and is probably not going to be great for his career in the long run… But you don’t need to explain him to me, Lieutenant.”

There was a long silence during which the captain enjoyed his drink and Jeremy Paget eventually realized that he needed to close his mouth – which had apparently dropped open in surprise. Nothing in Jer’s experience of Aronson – that had, admittedly, been heavily filtered by the Hood’s senior staff – prepared him for the notion that the captain was perfectly capable of accepting that Noel DelMonde was simultaneously a colossal pain in the ass and fine officer who was an asset to the service.

It took Jer several moments to reconcile his old vision of Aronson as an inflexible by-the-book guy with this new picture of him as a commander secure enough in himself, his command, and his crew to hand-wave some occasional insubordinate slips from select officers if that meant he knew he’d always be getting absolute honesty when he needed it – even if doing so didn’t spare his feelings or play by the regs all the time. This new vision felt so true, Paget immediately began to psychoanalyze Brandt for selling him on the old by-the-book one, and himself for buying into it.

The Security guard was so engrossed in this activity that he almost did not hear when his captain asked, “You’ve known DelMonde a long time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Since the Academy?”

“Before.”

“So you knew him when he was doing business with the Havens?”

“Uhm…” Jer’s attention was suddenly fully back on the present conversation. “He told you about that?”

“Yes.” Aronson nodded and took another slow sip of his martini. “Somehow I can’t quite picture you as the amateur teenaged engineer, though…”

Paget tried not to squirm as he searched for a harmless explanation of NC's “business” with the Havens that would hopefully tally with whatever the Cajun had come up with. “Well…”

“With DelMonde’s mouth and the Havens’ attitude, he’d need a go-between,” Aronson speculated. “A good one.”

“Well…” It suddenly dawned on Paget that the Clave was of absolutely no interest to his captain. What would be of use to his commander would be to find someone with experience in conducting negotiations with the pesky Haven trade vessels who the Hood were encountering more and more frequently on their patrols.

At the Academy, one of his favorite instructors had taken him aside one day and told him, “Paget, you’re one in a thousand. Not just a dumb redshirt, but the real thing. A security professional. And some day you’re going to have a commander who will look into your eyes and realize that you have the drive, the instinct, the special knowledge, the brains, and the guts to do the things that he or she will not or cannot do to keep your ship safe. That’s when you’ll start to find your real mission. That’s when you’ll start find your real work.”

Jer treasured that advice, but never dreamed that some of the “special knowledge” part for him would come from boozing and screwing around with Lane Gage and his cronies…

“I’m not an expert on Haven commerce…” Jer warned.

“Good.” Aronson drained his glass and poured himself another from the shaker. “They hate those.”

“And my interactions,” Paget confessed, “both past -- and to be quite honest – recent, have not been entirely in keeping with the standards and practices of Star Fleet’s Diplomatic Corps.”

The captain gave a nod as wise and discreet as any priest in a confessional. “Noted.”

“I can’t promise miracles…” Jer said, getting that same sort of terrible/wonderful butterflies-screaming-in-his-stomach feeling he always got when he made this sort of promise to NC. “But I’ll do what I can, sir.”

“Have a drink, Paget.” Aronson poured out what was left in the shaker into an extra glass. “If DelMonde doesn’t kill us, things might be starting to look up.”

“What happened to my tents?”

DelMonde gave the barest of glances up from the clipboard which apparently had become glued to his hand. “We combined a couple an' altered the design a li'l.”

Paget tilted his head at the burgeoning structure that had sprouted in the middle of the Audience Chamber like a silky mushroom in his absence. “It looks like a…”

“…Jus' added a l'l…” The Cajun made a vague gesture with his stylus.

All was explained when Lieutenant Otgonbayar stepped out of the newly re-shaped tent and gave it a satisfied nod.

“…a yurt,” Jer finished.

“…Which I am told has certain ineffable qualities that are surprisin'ly more conducive to romance,” the engineer reported.

Paget nodded, then weighing all the evidence, concluded, “You’re a chicken.”

“I tryin' to keep my mind open t' different cultural perspectives,” DelMonde rebutted.

“You’re trying to keep your teeth.”

“You got that right, son,” the Cajun confirmed. “But now if we gonna talk 'bout scared, you the one that tiptoein' 'round here, bitin' his nails, actin' nervous fo' no reason.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you,” his friend accused. “Actin' like you not t'ink I know not'ing 'bout throwin' a party when you an' I been to forty ja-million an' a half parties together if we been t' one.”

“And at each and every one,” Paget countered. “You just sat there and drank, complained about the food, and bitched about how much you hate parties.”

“That not mean I not know how t' throw one.” The engineer made a noise of exasperation and balanced his clipboard on his hip. “Sweet Mary, Jer. Who you t'ink I am?”

“Someone who has never been exactly shy about making it clear how much he dislikes parties,” Paget answered evenly.

“I a Cajun, non?” DelMonde demanded indignantly.

Paget conceded the point with a nod. “If not, you’re putting a lot of effort into an accent for no good reason…”

“If a Cajun is able t' breathe, son, he able t' throw a damn party,” the engineer asserted. “An' have I not been throwin' parties since I was able t' walk? Did I not have t' help my mama throw a birthday party fo' my rotten-ass cousin Antoine ever' year?”

“Did you?” Although Paget was – unfortunately -- more familiar with Mrs. DelMonde’s efforts to school her son in the social graces from his stories about her techniques rather than the results, this did sound like one of her methods.

“An' his snot-nose have t' thank me in front o' all the relatives when I done a good job?” the Cajun asked rhetorically. “So you be knowin' I do a real good job ever' year…”

Though he could see where DelMonde’s competitive spirit could be engaged by such an exercise, Paget did still feel compelled to point out, “Well, this is a little different than that, isn’t it?”

The engineer’s chin came up defiantly. “In what way?”

“Well… For one thing, the Heiroenfanta threatened to boil us all in oil.”

“What? You t'ink we not got no oil in Southern Louisiana? An' th' thought never occurred t' no one?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Paget had to grant. “But this is a pretty big affair…”

“An' did we not also throw at leas' two crawfish boils ever' year when I was growin' up?” DelMonde demanded. “One for my daddy’s folks an' one fo' the ladies o' St. Mary’s parish? An' did they not always go off wit'out a hitch?”

“Did they?” Paget inquired, trying not to sound too dubious.

“Mais, they was that time that Harvey Abellard took a shot at Uncle Johnny an' the time Ms. Thibadeax slapped th' rector in th' face,” DelMonde allowed, beckoning two Quionons forward before dismissing any further of Paget’s concerns with a quick flourish of his stylus. “But neither one o' them incidents had not'ing to do wit' the meal.”

The next time Paget returned from updating his commander, it was not the party landscape, but the appearance of party landscaper himself who had been transformed in his absence.

“What happened to you?” he asked, gesturing to the billowing Quionon robe that was now draped over the engineer’s lanky frame.

“I was doin' my best to condense th' entire culinary history, practices, an' traditions o' planet Earth into one easy-to-follow lesson, when one o' my pupils managed t' slop a bowl o' mustard sauce all over my shirt,” the Cajun explained, then dismissed the nuisance with a wave of his silk clad arm. “But never mind all that, I jus' found out somet'ing vital that is gonna definitely tip this mess in our direction.”

“Yeah?” the Security guard inquired eagerly.

DelMonde leaned in. “These fish-folk eat shrimp.”

Paget blinked. “…And?”

The Cajun narrowed his eyes. “What the hell you mean 'and'?”

“Oh, that was it?” Jer backpedalled as rapidly as his credulity would allow him. “Eating shrimp is the thing? The big thing? The vital thing?”

The only response he got was an intensification of the engineer’s already venomous gaze.

“Oh, okay…” To Paget’s own ears, his affirmation sounded as weak as it was belated. “I guess that’s… good.”

The Cajun closed his eyes, bowed his head, and sighed deeply. “Jer, you know I love you as a brother.”

Jer had to smile. Even though he knew the statement was the opening of a larger rhetorical assertion, such rare declarations of affections still warmed his heart. “Thanks, man.”

“But then,” DelMonde continued sternly, “ever' once in a while, some clueless Yankee-ass shit like that gotta pop out your mouth that make me wonder if I ever even know who the hell you are.”

Paget had to look down and bite the corners of his lips, knowing that smiling would be the worst possible response to this reprimand. He also wished with all his heart that Sulu was here… well, for many reasons… but primarily because he knew the perfect absurdity of the moment could never be adequately recaptured in the telling.

Because the Cajun had been so standoffish – to put it as mildly as possible – Sulu had not seemed all that interested in him when the young man had first arrived at the Clave. The pilot had tended to lump N.C. in with the rest of Jer’s assortment of attractive recruits with useful talents. However, the engineer had begun to stand out almost immediately for reasons other than his good looks and his brains.

Although quite permissive in a multitude of ways, the Clave, like most close-knit cultures had a range of unspoken does and don’ts that were generally understood, but could be completely opaque at first to newcomers. Sulu, with the bored amusement of an old hand observing the antics of newbies, would routinely pass on warnings beginning, “One of your strays is…” when he felt a protégée of Paget’s needed a gentle course correction. The Cajun, however, proved to be both intransigently eccentric and remarkably resistant to reproof. Jer listened to his friend’s reports graduate from characterizing N.C. from “your stray” to “that stray” to “the Stray” to “our Stray” as cataloging and categorizing the budding Maker’s stubborn peculiarities went from a minor annoyance to an engrossing spectator sport.

The Cajun had just performed a classic example of what they had termed “Inexplicably Defiant Southernism” a behavior pattern in which for no easily discernable reason the engineer was not only surprised – but indeed seemed highly offended -- to discover that the majority of people he encountered did not conform to the tastes, attitudes, and practices of his native region… no matter how bizarre those tastes, attitudes, and practices might be.

Looking at the situation that way, Jer decided that perhaps it might, after all, be a very good and remarkable thing that the Quinions liked shrimp.

“I am really sorry, man,” he apologized with all the sincerity he could muster instead of voicing any of this… or giggling… which was sooooo tempting at this moment. “I promise to try to avoid that sort of comment while you’re trying to concentrate.”

The Cajun gathered his Quionon robes around himself with icy dignity. “Any an' all efforts in that direction will be much appreciated,” he informed his friend coolly before stalking away in a cloud of trailing borrowed silk.

Jer didn’t know how it stacked up to one of rotten cousin Antoine’s birthday parties or if it quite matched the splendor of one of crawfish boils enjoyed by the ladies of Saint Mary’s Parish, but the present opening ceremony given by the officers of the USS Hood for the Heiroenfanta of the Quionons was without a doubt one of the most magnificent parties he had ever attended.

The interior of the large central yurt looked like one of Scherazade’s opium-induced daydreams. The floor was strewn with plush rugs. The tent was lit with colorful paper lanterns and helium balloons with tiny lights suspended within them giving everything a pretty, magical glow. There were no chairs, only piles of huge, soft cushions. Even Captain Aronson and the Heiroenfanta were provided with side-by-side throne-like seats that upon use turned out to be constructed of loosely-attached mounds of pillows that eventually worked loose and left their occupants lounging in the same sort of semi-recumbent pose as the rest of their guests.

The music and the food were a deft blend of alternating Federation and Quionon contributions, first titillating the guests’ palates with a taste of the exotic then reassuring them with the deliciously familiar. There was, as Paget had been given to expect, a plethora of seafood dishes based on a shrimplike creature. Each guest was allotted only a tiny, exquisite portion of each offering, though, which kept everyone nibbling… and drinking. No one had consumed much of NC’s Cajun red wine at first, which -- as he had warned -- wasn’t all that good, but as the party wore on and supplies of other beverages dwindled, in the end, there was just more of the red wine than anything else.

DelMonde, still draped in Quionon silk, somehow managed to be everywhere at once, directing the serving of the food, the presenting of the gifts, the pouring of the wine, and even directing an impromptu kazoo orchestra in rendition of a native love song at one point in the proceedings.

Paget could now see why the engineer was so unimpressed by the parties they had attended together so far. If this was the Cajun’s expectation of the normal level of engagement for a host, then the competency of the average party-planner would be so lacking in his eyes, he would probably be as annoyed as a concert pianist forced to endure listening to a four year old bang out “Chopsticks” on an endless loop. Of course, the survival of a whole planet didn’t usually hang on a couple of friends getting together to drink some wine and smoke a bowl of Rigellian…

The Cajun’s ingenuity was most apparent in the gifts themselves. The presents were given a literal center stage in the proceedings. The guests entered to find a very shiny, frilly, but surprisingly modest (when one considered the astronomical expectations set) stack of them on a low table in the middle of the yurt. However, as each gift was unwrapped, it was replaced by at least one and usually two or more packages, so instead of shrinking, the pile of presents seemed to grow for a rather long time.

The guests were not left out of the gift-giving. Every fifth gift was accompanied by what the Cajun called a “goodie bag” filled with a simple present for each of the thirty-seven Quionons chosen to attend the ceremony. The presents started out as things with a high “Oooo!” factor such as kaleidoscopes and Spican flame gems, then got rather silly with Martian pop rocks and kazoos, and finally took a turn for the sensual with feather boas and Xiluran massage gloves. Some of these gifts were bigger hits than others. The Quionons were encouraged to pass anything they didn’t like or want or simply felt overburdened by along to their underlings. Therefore, gifts were soon literally overflowing the party area.

Giving gifts to guests also allowed the two central figures of the ceremony a little island of a kind of privacy in the midst of the proceedings. The gifts were cleverly timed so that while the Heiroenfanta was receiving some very provocative lingerie from Aronson, most of her guests were goggling through their kaleidoscopes.

There were also gifts that were narrative prompts. This idea was a little too high concept to be immediately grasped when the first of these, a lovely little replica of a British man-o-war, emerged from its gold wrapping.

Paget had to quickly cross the room and direct DelMonde’s attention to his captain’s pleading look for help as the Heiroenfanta turned the object over in her hands with a displeased frown.

“Tell her the story,” the engineer mouthed, making a spinning motion with his fingers.

“There’s a story?” Paget asked as Aronson also spread his hands in confusion.

“That dumbass Admiral Nelson story,” the Cajun grumbled. “Lord knows I done heard it a thousand times.” Then in broad pantomime, the engineer put one hand up to indicate Nelson’s blind eye, then cupped his other hand to indicate the telescope, slapped it over the first, and mouthed, “I do not see any signal.” When his captain still balked, the Cajun held up both hands. “Sparkle, cher,” he mouthed, wiggling his fingers. “Sparkle.”

Aronson replied with a surreptitious and rather un-captainly gesture that his companion would not have understood if she could have seen, but turned and began to explain the gift in his most charming and erudite manner.

Subsequent prompts were thankfully a little easier to pick up on and by the third one, the Heiroenfanta was curled on a cushion beside the captain listening in open-mouthed wonder to the tale of a recent battle against a Romulan raider dramatically illustrated with a pair of glittering miniatures of the ships involved.

Relations had grown so warm and cordial between the two leaders that the commander dispatched Paget to inquire of DelMonde what arrangements had been made for the afterparty between the two of them that had been the object of this whole exercise.

Jer had to interrupt the engineer who was helping the drum section of the Quionon musical sextet present at moment improvise a suitable accompaniment to Lieutenant Otgonbayar’s weirdly hypnotic throat-singing. He was informed that yes, a bed was prepared for the couple in a tent adjoining the main structure with all suitable arrangements made for privacy, but it was imperative that for the moment, captain needed to wait.

Aronson was not terribly pleased with this answer but did bide his time until around fifteen minutes later. By this point, he and the Heiroenfanta (who, when she was not waxing poetic with threats and imprecations, was really quite an attractive fish-person) were very amicably feeding each other from the scrumptious shrimp cocktails that had recently been distributed.

Paget caught DelMonde just before the Cajun exited with the last of the trays to urgently inquire exactly where the exit to the afore-mentioned adjoining and hopefully very private tent was (since there were multiple curtained passageways to the main structure that kept changing function as the festivities progressed). The engineer sent back the reply that the proper egress was marked by a purple paper lantern emblazoned with a gold Star Fleet symbol, but still, the captain must wait.

After fifteen more minutes of searching, Jer was finally able to catch up with DelMonde again, as he reentered the yurt with a band of Quionon servers carrying trays of what looked to be a champagne punch. The Security Guard was at last able to deliver the adamant inquiry from their commander (who now had the Heiroenfanta seated on his lap, teasingly anointing his ears with the expensive Andorian massage lotion he’d just given her) as to what in the high hell exactly was he supposed to be waiting for?

The Cajun smiled and snagged himself a drink from a passing tray. “Tell him,” he answered, turning and mouthing his words in and exaggerated manner so the captain could understand them directly. “That we waitin' t' see how long it take ol' Jack Aronson t' figure out he not need some piss-ant lieutenant t' tell him when he ready t' be wit' a woman.”

As DelMonde often said of him, Captain Jack Aronson prided himself on being both a scholar and a gentleman, but the strangled noise that came out of his throat at this point was neither scholarly nor gentlemanly.

“Damn you, DelMonde!” he growled – but not entirely in anger. It was more the peculiar mix of extreme emotions of a person who finds himself the target of a masterfully well-executed practical joke. Quickly recovering the gentlemanly side of his persona, Aronson turned to the Heiroenfanta who was blinking her sparkling pink eyes at him in puzzled surprise and offered her his hand. “Madame,” he said, gathering his dignity as he helped her to her feet and gestured towards the curtains lit by the purple lantern. “Shall we?”

The Quionons – at least those who were still sober enough to notice that a significant moment had arrived – registered their approval by chorusing a trilling sort of gurgling noise from their throats. The officers of the Hood had learned over the course of the evening that this was the natives’ equivalent of heart-felt applause.

Aronson acknowledged their tribute with nod as he held the curtain open for their somewhat tipsy and quite amorous ruler. He paused only to give DelMonde a last look that said both “We will laugh about this some day” and “I’m going to strangle you with my bare hands.”

Drink up, ever'body! Drink up!” the Cajun encouraged the guests, getting another drink from a passing tray and placing it Jer’s numb hands. The engineer then turned to the musicians. “Hit it, boys!”

Paget blew out a long breath as the Quionon sextet plunged into a raucous dance tune. “I think we’re in trouble.”

“Jer,” the Cajun reproved, shaking his head and sipping on his drink. “I t'ink I was jus' able t' sneak down to th' control room an' steal a data transfer card outta the integral stabilization unit which I now got stashed in th' top o' my boot….”

Paget sighed as the blood began to flow back through his veins at a normal rare. “…Without which that Jedezian Vindicator’s control systems will start to shut down within the next forty-five minutes in what’s going to look to them like a simple systems malfunction.”

The engineer nodded. “So unless Brandt jumps th' gun an' beams somebody up 'fore he gets his pants back on…”

Despite that peril, the Security guard found himself heaving another huge sigh of relief. “..We’re going to beam out of here with everything we want plus a trade deal that’s going to piss off the Havens.”

“So I be t'inkin'…” The Cajun offered his glass for a toast.

Paget clinked his to it gratefully. “…We’re golden.”

“I just want to say one thing…” Jeremy Paget began when around an hour later, he and DelMonde were safely back aboard the Hood headed down the corridor towards their quarters.

Things had wrapped up smoothly on the planet. Because theirs was literally an affair of state, Aronson and the Heiroenfanta had not been allowed (or allowed themselves) much time for afterglow. Paget had been permitted into the chamber along with some of the Quionon leader’s trusted attendants. When he’d whispered news of the engineer’s liberation of the data transfer card, the captain had only commented, “And the other shoe drops” as if he’d been expected to hear exactly that sort of thing and quickly gulped down the black, black coffee the Cajun had sent as antidote to all that red, red wine before squaring his shoulders and saying, “Alright, Mr. Paget, let’s get to work.”

Teams were still ironing out the details, but the illegal planetary defense system was kaput, the ink was drying on the new trade agreement, the last of the tents had been packed up, and Paget and DelMonde had been dispatched back to the ship.

“You’re always complaining about me not trusting you enough…” Paget observed to his friend.

“'Cause you never do,” the engineer, who was still outlandishly garbed in Quionon silk, grumbled.

“…But you could’ve clued me in more this time.”

“How so?”

“By letting me know that the party,” Paget paused to qualify, “as magnificent as it was…”

“An' it was,” the Cajun confirmed immodestly.

“It was indeed,” the Security Guard granted before asserting, “Was a diversion.”

The engineer yawned in the faces of two yeoman goggling at his ankle-length gown. “It sure as hell was divertin'.”

“I mean…” Paget found himself almost too tired to be able to explain if the Cajun wasn’t going to try to understand. “The party and the shrimp and you dressing up in native costume… It was all to give you more opportunities to scan for openings…”

“To what?” DelMonde asked around another big yawn.

“You know, scan…” Jer made a vague gesture around his head. “Telepathically scan..”

The Cajun made a face. “Scan them fish people?”

“Yeah.”

“Jer…” The engineer gave a big dismissive gesture. “They fish-people. All I hear is 'blug, blug, blug.'”

As long as he had known him,  Jer had noticed that DelMonde had a tendency to come up with his own -- sometimes indecipherable -- versions of onomatopoeia.  Paget and Sulu had catalogued this penchant as "Personalized Soundscaping."  Fans of the poet categorized it as proof positive of NC's genius.  "You mean glub, glub, glub?"

“Oh, you the telepath, now?” the Cajun retorted defensively.

“You never said you couldn’t read them,” Paget said, not being able to decide whether he should be grateful the engineer had spared him the agony of knowing there was that added level of dangerous uncertainty to the Cajun’s calculations or if he should just choke him for being a reckless idiot.

“I could read them,” the engineer assured him. “I jus' not able t' make heads or tails of it. I a telepath, Jer. I not magic or not'ing.” “You’re a tel-empath,” Paget remembered belatedly.

“Yeah.”

“So you had the empathy still going.”

“Yeah,” DelMonde confirmed. “Which, really, I like better. It not so noisy. An' I mean, past a certain point, who cares what folk t'ink? What they really feel is a better indication o' what they gonna end up doin' than what they t'ink they feel.”

“So you didn’t say anything about not being able to use your telepathy,” Paget concluded.

“No, I find they not no percentage in drawin' attention to distinctions like that.” The engineer shook his head. “You see, most Humans have a good amount o; empathy, but 'stead o' that makin' them able to appreciate what I can do, they jus' say, “Well, shit, I coulda figured that out.” Or they since know the amount o' guesswork an' interpretation that goes into drawin' any sort o' conclusion from an empathic impression, they start goin' all green 'round the gills…” The Cajun pointed to his friend’s face and chuckled. “…Jus' like you doin' right now…”

“Guesswork?” Even though they were safe and on the ship and everything had worked out, the word still made the pit of Paget’s stomach tighten.

“Yeah.” The Cajun dismissed his concerns with a broad drowsy gesture. “But my guesses are really good.”

“So you went ahead with a plan that you let the captain think would be using your telepathy…” Paget summarized, starting to think about how all this was going to sound in all the reports they were going to have to write for all the presents and booze and shrimp they’d just doled out. “…. which wasn’t really working…”

“It was workin' fine…” DelMonde insisted as they turned down the corridor to their quarters. “… jus'…”

“Glub glub glub?”

“Blug blug blug,” the Cajun confirmed.

“...And instead were relying on your emphatic gifts and guesswork..”

“Really, really good guesses,” DelMonde asserted.

“But without mentioning that what you were doing.”

The Cajun shrugged. “It make people nervous.”

“Yeah.” Paget’s pulse rate was attesting to that assertion. “It does.”

“Well, I’d done sorta shot off my mouth.” The Cajun paused thoughtfully beside the door to their cabin. “An' we was about to blow up a planet. So I kinda felt obligated…”

“Yeah. Listen, I’ve got an idea…” Paget carefully ushered his friend inside and made sure the door was firmly closed behind them. “Why don’t you take a nap while I write a rough draft of your log entry that won’t get us both court-martialed?”

“Ohhhhhh!” The exclamation pulled from the Cajun’s lips was purely orgasmic. He kissed his cabinmate on both cheeks in the style of the French Foreign Legion and saluted him. “Jeremy Maurice Paget!!! That is the single best idea ever uttered by a sentient being in all th' entire history o' mankind up until this date an' prob'ly fo' four or five weeks into the future!”

Jer smiled. “I strive to please.”

“An' this…” the Cajun said, turning to his bed. “I believe, is where I come into this damned story.” He held out his arms in warm welcome. “Hello, darlin',” he greeted his mattress affectionately before falling full length upon it. “I miss you more than the universe has yet to t'ink up words to say, ma chere amour.” He embraced his pillow and whispered, “Je t’adore. Je t’adore…” And with enviable, cat-like ease slipped immediately into a deep slumber.

Paget sighed, ordered himself a cup of black coffee and settled in before his terminal. He started a log entry, but only got a few sentences in before he closed it and started an entirely different document.

“Hi, babe,” he said, giving the screen a special smile for the person who would eventually be seeing it. “Okay. Get comfortable. Pour yourself a big drink. Maybe a Seabreeze. Definitely something with a nautical theme, because, man, have I ever got a fish story for you…”

The End