James T. Kirk was surprised to find himself humming a bit of a happy tune as he made his way down the ship’s corridor. He didn’t know what he had to be pleased about. The appointment he was on his way to keep had to do with yet another snafu generated by the increasingly infernal nonsense that the cooking contest suggested by the new ship’s psychologist had become.
Ah, the new psychologist…. The Captain of the Enterprise found his lips curving into a smile. Could it be that she was the source of his inexplicably cheery mood? This meeting, fraught with the ridiculous though it might be, was with this lovely lady. Morale of the crew, he decided, was worth expending a little extra energy on… particularly when that energy could be expended by conversing with the fascinating Dr. Han…
Kirk stepped through the door of the ship’s psychologist’s office….
…And into a jabbering pit of mayhem.
“Ladies! Ladies!” he shouted, for there seemed to be at least twenty female officers packed into Dr. Han’s consulting room. All of them seemed to be involved in at least one heated argument with at least three of their fellow crewmembers.
“Captain! Captain!” they shouted back and began to simultaneously direct their complaints at him.
Just at the moment Kirk thought he was going to have to call in Security, an ear-piercing whistle sounded. The crowd parted to reveal Dr. Han, sitting behind her desk looking weary and annoyed. She took the two fingers she had used to make the surprisingly shrill noise from her mouth and frowned. “One at a time,” she ordered in a tone that promised deadly consequences if she were disobeyed.
There was a second of abashed silence.
“Look,” Ruth Valley said, electing herself the spokesperson of the protesters. “It was like this…”
Her self-appointment apparently did not sit well with her fellows, because they all began to drown out her explanation with their own.
Another eardrum-shattering whistle silenced the din.
“Very well,” Dr. Han said, with lethal calm. “I’ll tell him.”
“Please do,” the captain invited.
“We are having a little difficulty,” she said with an almost Vulcan gift for understatement, “with the selection of judges for the cooking contest.”
There were the beginnings of mutterings of adamant agreement, but the doctor silenced them with a look.
“Really?” the captain asked. “I thought that you and I and Mr. Spock were to judge?”
The mention of the First Officer’s name generated more rumblings from the crowd.
“He can’t judge!” Valley burst out. “He’s going to be in the contest!”
“No, he’s not!” came a simultaneous contradiction from several directions at once.
“Yes, he is!” the Antari insisted loudly.
“Oh, give up the dream,” Sophie Alvarez, a curvaceous lieutenant assigned to the Weaponry crew, advised caustically.
From the look in Valley’s eye, Kirk thought he might have to step in to break up a fight, but the Antari put her hands on her hips.
“Okay,” she replied grimly. “If Spock’s not entering, then there’s no reason why I can’t be a judge!”
“No! No! No!” and other expressions of dissent echoed from around the room.
Dr. Han’s deafening whistle brought the assembly once more to order.
“As I was about to say,” she began with fatal calm, “yes, Captain, that was the original plan. However, at this point, we have over a hundred and thirty entries in six different categories… plus the award for top chef.”
“Hmm,” Kirk mused. “That’s a lot of haggis and cobbler for three people to have to eat.”
“Exactly,” the psychologist agreed. “Therefore, I decided to recruit some additional judges…”
The desire to voice their unhappiness once more overcame the assembled officers’ fear of the doctor’s wrath.
“Let me guess!" Kirk held up a silencing hand. “There was a problem with some of the judges you chose.”
The crowd set to nodding vigorously and giving each other venomous looks.
The captain sighed, but knew he must ask, “Such as?”
“Her! Her!” The crowd swiftly rearranged itself to point to Ensign Monique Dubois.
“Oh, mon Dieu!” the outraged navigator protested. “But of course I must judge for the contest!”
“Why?” Kirk wondered.
“Because I am French!” the ensign replied as if this conclusion were self-evident.
“But you’re shtupping Ramon,” Daphne Gollub, seated comfortably on a couch and looking like she was rather enjoying the whole scene, pointed out.
“But I judge the dessert,” Dubois argued. “Ramon does not cook the dessert. What would he do to make the dessert? Take the little doughnut and the little marshmallow, put them on the sword and wave them over the fire?”
“If you can imagine a dessert that can be made with swords and fire,” Alvarez rebutted. “So can he.”
“Even if Ramon doesn’t enter a dessert,” Gollub said, “Monique could torpedo someone else’s entry in that category on purpose to improve Ordona’s shot at Top Chef.”
“Mon Dieu!” the Frenchwoman exclaimed. “As if I would do such a horrible thing! Incroyable!”
“Just as a hypothetical,” the chemist protested, holding up her hands. “Not that it’s going to happen.”
“But it could!” someone in the back of the crowd shouted and the scene once more broke into chaos with Ensign Dubois loudly defending both her honor and the proud tradition of French cuisine.
Dr. Han’s earsplitting whistle was almost a relief.
“Obviously, I am not yet fully aware of all the established couples on board,” the psychologist granted. “And even when I suggested individuals who did not seem attached, such as Yeoman Tamura…”
“Which would be okay if you just want to tie a bow around the whole thing and give it to Sulu,” Gollub drawled.
Kirk frowned. “Tamura and Sulu? But they’re not…”
“But they used to,” the chemist assured him.
“So Saki’s out,” Ruth concluded.
“If we’re going by that standard,” Sophie Alvarez put in. “So are you.”
The Antari stuck out her tongue. “Jealous?”
“No,” the Weaponry officer admitted. “Because… well, then so am I.”
“Me, too,” several ladies confessed quietly.
Kirk shook his head wonderingly. “I had no idea this crew was so… friendly. What if we chose only male judges?”
“Doesn’t eliminate the problem,” Daffy Gollub assured him.
“Eww!” Ruth Valley exclaimed, exhibiting her usual and incongruously puritanical-seeming Antari knee-jerk squeamishness about same-sex couplings.
“Oh, grow up,” Sophie Alvarez advised.
“How about someone who’s just arrived?” Kirk suggested quickly before the two young women came to blows. “How about Ensign LiLing?”
“No!” the crowd answered with one voice. “Definitely not! No way!”
As the group began to descend into increasingly agitated and lewd speculation about the ensign’s associations, Dr. Han’s whistle once more rang out.
“So, you see my problem,” the psychologist concluded wearily.
“I do indeed, Doctor.” The captain nodded sagely, then stepped to the intercom. “Lieutenant Uhura.”
The Communications Officer’s voice immediately answered. “Yes, sir?”
“Lieutenant, you are very familiar with the list of entrants for this damnable cooking contest, are you not?”
Uhura’s sigh was audible over the comm line. “Yes, sir.”
“You also have a rather formidable knowledge of…interpersonal relationships on this ship, do you not?”
The lieutenant paused. Her reply of “Yes, sir” sounded more than a little puzzled.
“Not only current pairings,” the captain clarified for the benefit of the crowd, “but past liaisons, and future… interests?”
“I suppose so, sir,” the Communications Officer admitted dutifully.
“Very good, Lieutenant.” Kirk smile beneficently. “You will immediately report to Dr. Han’s office and help her construct six three-person panels of the least biased judges that the two of you can come up with. Understood?”
Uhura’s sigh sounded resigned. “Yes, sir.”
“Very good.” The captain deactivated the comm, opened the cabin door, and gestured the assembled group outwards. “Ladies? If there are no further objections?”
“No, sir,” the officers replied, exiting. “Thank you, sir.”
Ruth Valley paused at the door when it came her turn to leave. “But…”
Kirk folded his arms. “Aren’t you supposed to be counting probes, Lieutenant? Or do I need to expand your assignment?”
“Uhm…” the Antari mumbled, increasing her pace. “Just getting right back to that, sir.”
“And what are you hanging around for?” Kirk asked, turning to the sole hold out from the crowd.
“If you need help with sorting out the schtupped from the schtupping from the angling for a good schtup…” Daffy Gollub offered generously.
“We should go to the girlfriend of the Tsar of Borsht who is also currently running the biggest not-so-secret betting pool on the contest?” Kirk jerked a thumb towards the door. “Scram.”
The chemist sighed as she gave up her comfortable seat and obediently headed for the door.
“Scramming, sir. But if you change your mind…”
“Out!”
“Making myself scarce, sir!” Gollub acknowledged, speeding her exit.
“My, my,” the psychologist said, surveying her pleasantly empty office with a smile. “James, you cut through that knot with positively Alexandrian ease.”
“I came, I saw, I delegated,” Kirk replied, adapting the motto of one of his other favorite conquerors. It took him a few moments to realize that there was really no longer a reason for him to linger – no matter how pleasant that prospect might seem. “Lieutenant Uhura will be here in a few moments, so…”
“You have to hurry away?” Although still smiling, the psychologist sounded regretful.
“What?” Kirk grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid that the mob will return if I leave.”
Dr. Han gave a charming shrug. “Something like that,” she replied enigmatically, turning to the replicator behind her desk.
“I suppose I could stay and discuss the judging criteria,” Kirk began, then smiled to discover that the psychologist had taken the liberty of ordering not one, but two steaming cups of coffee. He settled down into the comfortable chair opposite her desk. “Or something like that.”
“Hi, hon,” Sulu greeted Jilla as his love entered the ship’s galley. “I was just making a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?” she asked, surveying the culinary battlefield ranged across the counter where he was working.
“Yes.” He grimaced and pointed towards a row of bowls full of unevenly colored balls and cylinders of foodstuffs. “I’m making a plate of failure for you.”
“Failure?” she repeated, looking somewhat alarmed.
“Yeah. I’m experimenting with adding different flavors to the vegetable matter I bought on the outpost. This was supposed to be sweet.” He cut a slice from the yellow roll in front of him and held it up to her dark lips. “It turned out to be tart.”
Jilla obligingly bit into the slice, chewed it evaluatively, then nodded her concurrence.
“This batch was too salty,” he said, holding out a slice of a red ball for her.
As her sweet, innocent face turned up to him again, her sensuous mouth opened obediently, he knew without doubt that he loved her. He loved her as much as he had ever loved any other being he had ever encountered. And yet…
He watched her lips contract almost as if from pain as her taste buds registered the unexpectedly biting aftertaste of his failed concoction. Why can’t you let yourself just love her and be satisfied? It was almost as if a part of him couldn’t stand the thought and was determined to rip to shreds any hint of lasting contentment that accidentally floated into his wandering life. How can I even look at another woman? Jilla is so perfect… so perfect that he didn’t deserve her. It was a crime for someone as flawed as he knew himself to be to cage such a blemishless and sweet soul. In the long run, any sane person could see that it would be less cruel to release her than to keep her trapped in a smothering embrace…
“This paste is too dough-y,” he said, turning away when he could stand to meet her trusting grey eyes no longer. “So I decided to put them all together and make roola wraps.”
“Indeed.” Rather than chiding or reproaching him for the feelings she could not help but read, his divine darling nodded a vigorous approval for this vegetarian delight. “A very practical solution. Do you require assistance?”
“The more the merrier,” When his lover tilted her head at this phrase, he sighed and clarified, “I mean yeah, sure. If you'd like to. Why not?”
Seeing that there was no room for her to work beside him, the Indiian began to clear away discarded bowls and shakers of spice. “You are putting a great deal of time into perfecting your ingredients.”
“Starting to feel jealous of my pots and pans?” he teased, but the edge of the jest came out unexpectedly sharp.
“I simply do not understand,” she replied without rancor. “You are devoting much effort to a competition you intend to lose. Was the point of this contest not to give your friend an opportunity to win?”
“Yeah.” Sulu slid a pile of red cylinders towards her with the side of his knife. “But I’ve got to make it competitive for him.”
“That should not be too difficult,” she remarked, slicing into the first of rolls with a hint of unnecessary firmness.
“Oooo!” Sulu was strangely delighted to catch her in what could be broadly interpreted as a moment of pique. Although he knew this meant the Cajun had probably said something to hurt or offend her, it seemed very important at that moment for her to seem even one jot less perfectly perfect than usual. “Sounds like you’ve seen a little of the competitive side of Del already?”
“He does not seem to lack self-confidence,” she replied in a tone that it would take an expert to read as anything other than a bland statement of fact.
Sulu was an expert. “What did he say to you?”
“At this morning’s meeting, he was very critical of the protocols I wrote for the maintenance of the G-18 systems and related subsystems.” Although Jilla’s tone remained even, she was mincing the hell out of those red rolls.
“And you worked so hard on those,” he murmured sympathetically.
“Mr. DelMonde believes that they are needlessly detailed and require too much replication of effort…” The Indiian gave the cylinder under her knife a particularly firm chop. “Or at least, that is what I am told he meant.”
“What did he say?”
Her dark lips pursed. “He is difficult to understand.”
“He does have that accent…” Sulu granted, pouring a mix of the vegetable matter onto a thin layer of dough.
“His speech is imprecise,” Jilla replied, collecting the pile of tiny red chunks she’d accumulated into a bowl. “He inserts words that refer to body parts, sexual acts, and bodily excretions into his statements for no discernible reason.”
The helmsman had to chuckle at the veracity of this description. “Well, hon, he’s being colorful…”
She turned and blinked at him almost accusingly. “Spoken language has no chromatic value.”
“I mean he uses vivid metaphors and unusual word pictures to draw emphasis to what he’s saying,” Sulu explained, adding the vegetable rolls she’d chopped into his mixture and adding more spices. “He didn’t say anything that offended you, did he?”
She lifted her chin in a gesture of regal displeasure. “I disagree with his critique.”
“And what did Scotty say?”
“That Mr. DelMonde’s incomprehensible tirade was 'poking a wee bit of fun' but contained kernels of truth and that I should consider his suggestions for revisions and 'nae be sa serious'.”
Sulu smiled. He loved her imitations of Scotty. His smile faded as he reminded himself that these impersonations were not actually her idea at all. Whenever she had trouble deciphering a comment from the chief engineer, Sulu always had her repeat the phrases she was having difficulty with back to him verbatim, reproducing her superior's intonation as exactly as possible. She was not, therefore, trying to be entertaining at all – despite the fact her approximations of the chief’s Scottish brogue were always adorably droll. She was actually indicating that she was not sure that she properly understood what had been said to her. Sulu sighed. Yet another of the many ways you're always controlling her, subtly manipulating her into being something she's not. Why can't I just be happy…?
Seeing her gaze turn to him in puzzlement, he quickly brought himself back to the conversation. “Well, hon, if Scotty thinks there’s merit to what Del’s saying…”
“Mr. DelMonde is overly emotional,” Jilla replied in the flat tone that was as close as she usually got to an actual complaint.
The helmsman raised his eyebrows, thinking that this particular grievance was probably not one that usually came from someone with burgundy hair and silver skin. “Yeah, he is a very emotional person. In some ways, I suppose he's almost like an Indiian...”
“I can perceive some points of congruence,” she conceded reluctantly. “However he is….”
Sulu watched her search for just the right way to express her objection before suggesting, “Is there an Indiian word for it?”
She inclined her head as if to thank him for allowing her the greater precision a shift in language could offer. “Chelethe-thejh’ia.”
“Mmm.” The amateur xeno-etymologist inside Sulu thrilled to hear this word that he had come across in his studies but had never before heard spoken in conversation. In addition to having the unusual 'the-the' sound in the middle of it, the word was deliciously specific to the Indiian race. It was one of the many complex terms they had for emotional interactions for which there was no equivalent in any other known language of the Federation. The word indicated someone who was insufficiently socialized. Although the term usually carried negative connotations, the literal meaning made it a little funny – especially when applied to the Cajun. Chelthe-thejh’ia translated word for word meant 'wild head.'
“Uncivilized?” Sulu asked, choosing the closest equivalent in Standard he could think of. “You think Del’s a barbarian?”
“There are certain patterns of behavior…” She paused for a moment before very deliberately -- almost defiantly -- choosing the word, “Protocols for interaction… that every Indiian is taught from birth. Either Mr. DelMonde has never learned them or willfully neglects to observe them. Given the character of his tia and the depth of his sensitivity…” She paused again to ponder the most accurate manner to describe her complaint. “He is inconsiderate of those around him.”
Again Sulu had to laugh at her dry but accurate description of the Cajun’s ferocity. “As Del might say, ‘Tru dat, honey!’” Seeing his lover’s furrowed brow, he hastened to explain. “Not to excuse anything he may say or do… or fail to do… but telepathy -- particularly telepathy coupled with empathic abilities -- is a very rare among humans. I don’t know much about his childhood, but I don’t think he ever got any sort of special training at all. When we were teenagers… I guess he didn’t exactly hide his abilities – he couldn’t completely do that – but he almost never talked about them. Didn’t want other people to talk about them either… Like if we all ignored them long enough, they’d just go away.” Sulu shrugged as he added another tightly rolled roola wrap to the growing pile on the plate in front of him. “I don’t think he was ever tested for psychic abilities until he was at the Academy. According to what I’ve heard Ruth say, he learned….”
Sulu broke off as he observed a tiny but telling twitch of his lover’s features that another, less experienced observer might miss completely. He quickly reviewed what he’d said for something that had sparked a reaction. He didn’t have to go too far before he realized what the trigger had been.
“Ruth?” he repeated and got another verifying miniscule movement of the Indiian’s full lips. “You’re worried about her, aren’t you? Worried about the two of them?”
“I have noted some areas of potential concern,” Jilla replied parsimoniously, schooling her features once more into lovely impassivity.
Sulu shrugged and nodded. “They had pretty strong feelings for each other for a long time…”
“She is wed.” The words were like a stone wall.
“Wed not dead.” His rejoinder came out unexpectedly sharp and angry. “We emotional barbarians don’t have an off and on switch or a lifetime of protocols to fall back on. Sometimes you just can’t help the feelings that come… and go…whether we want them to or not…”
Sulu, the expert, could see the minute indications of pain in her eyes. He swallowed hard, knowing that she knew perhaps even more clearly than he did that his words referred not only to Ruth and Del.
“They’ll work it out,” he said brusquely, turning to add another wrap to the stack. “Just give them some time.”
There was a long moment during which neither of them commented on the ways time failed to heal some things.
“After all,” Sulu said, unable to bear that cheerless silence a second longer. “She and I still have strong feelings for each other…”
“You are not…” Jilla paused, once more not able… or perhaps not willing… to voice her opinion.
Looking at her, Sulu’s heart almost broke with how much he loved her. He smiled and used the clean side of his index finger to stroke her cheek. “Indiian word?”
“I will not use that word,” she replied, her voice soft, but resolute. “The Indiian word is an accusation.” Her grey eyes were clear. Her gaze was unflinchingly steady. He could feel her unshakable love absorb both her knowledge and her acceptance of his doubt. “I do not accuse. I merely note points of potential concern.”
Sulu felt weak and ashamed in the face of her strength.
To hide this, he picked up a plate stacked with roola wraps. “Come on, hon,” he said, handing an identical platter to her and headed for the door to the officer’s mess, “I think I’ve made enough failures to share with everyone today.”
“How are you on soups?” Daffy Gollub questioned abruptly as she slid into a seat opposite her boyfriend in Rec Room 5.
The Russian blinked at her from behind his lunch. “I am having a sandwich.”
“I’m not talking about eating.” She gestured irritably. “Why would I be talking about eating?”
“Because it is lunchtime?” Chekov ventured.
“There’s a cooking contest, you schlemiel,” the chemist reminded him lightly. “How are you on cooking soup?”
The Russian shook his head. “Not as good as Dawson.”
“That’s a defeatist attitude,” his girlfriend scolded.
“I think it is a realistic attitude,” Chekov rebutted. “He is a very good cook.”
“Yes, odds on favorite in three categories.” The chemist waved a dismissive hand. “Yada, yada, yada. Don’t quote my own numbers back to me.”
The Russian considered before taking another bite of his sandwich. “I would say that I am better than Davie Kelly.”
“That’s the spirit!” Gollub applauded.
“Although he is improving...” Chekov admitted. “We have been working together.”
“Working together…?!!” The chemist threw up her hands. “Oy, he’s the competition! You can’t help the competition!”
“We are learning together, Dafshka,” the navigator explained. “I do not think of him as the competition.”
“Well, you’d better start,” the chemist warned sternly. “You’ve got to get your head in the game. You need to maintain a competitive edge. You know what a competitive edge is, right?”
“Of course I do.”
“Of course you do. You did some sort of sports thing at the Academy, right?”
Chekov tilted his head warningly. “Sports thing?”
Gollub waved a dismissive hand. “Some kind of man-ball, right?”
The Russian drew in a deep breath. “I was a forward for the hockey team.”
“Yes, hockey-ball,” the chemist acknowledged impatiently. “How could I forget?”
“Khokkey s shayboy,” Chekov corrected firmly. “Or ‘ice hockey’ in Standard. Not… what you said.”
“Whatever,” she acceded absently.
The navigator frowned. “Daphne, we attended the Academy at the same time…”
“...And might have been in that huge Art History class together, I know,” she interrupted, impatient to get back to the subject of the cooking contest.
“I sat in the front row,” he informed her for the fortieth time, as if that would finally prompt her to remember him.
“Yes, and I might have noticed that if I ever stayed longer than the first fifteen minutes,” she said, taking a sip of coffee.
Chekov shook his head. “I do not know how you passed.”
“I don’t know how you stayed awake,” she countered.
“Not to boast…” he began.
She rolled her eyes. “Thank God.”
“…But I was a starting forward on the championship team,” the Russian said, unable to believe that she could have been so completely unaware of what to him had seemed a quite momentous event for the entire school.
The chemist toasted him. “Mazel tov.”
“I would think you would remember. I scored a critical goal in the final game of the tournament.”
She patted his hand patronizingly. “Of course you did, bubee.”
Chekov sighed deeply. “Daphne, sometimes I wonder if we have anything in common at all.”
“Of course we do,” she insisted.
“Such as?”
“Remember the money you loaned me?” The chemist smiled reassuringly. “I bet part of it on you. That’s something in common.”
The Russian’s mouth dropped open in horror. “Oh, Daphne, no!”
“Relax, I’m not completely crazy,” she said, taking another sip of coffee. “I bet most of it on Sulu. But you were just too irresistible…”
Chekov was surprised at this unexpected sentimentality. “Thank you… I think.”
“I mean, 84-1 odds that you won’t win anything in any of the categories?” The chemist/bookie laughed. “You’re hopeless. But no one can be that hopeless, right?”
The Russian closed his eyes. “Daphne…”
“For example -- You’re entered in the “soups” category,” she explained, drawing a rough invisible chart of the competition on the table between them. “There are only six guys in that category right now. Beat two. Win fourth place. We clean up.”
“Daphne...” Chekov sighed. There was so much wrong with the situation, he scarcely knew where to begin. “You bet my money on me?”
“I’m the bookie,” she retorted, offended. “I can’t bet my money on you. Think about how that would look.”
“Daphne…” The Russian held up his hands in a gesture of exasperation. “Why do you not think about what you are doing?”
“Why don’t you think about soup?!!” she suggested/demanded vehemently.
“Hey, stranger,” DelMonde greeted him without turning around.
“Stranger than you?” Sulu retorted as he approached the counter in the abandoned galley where the Cajun was working.
“Now, that is a high bar to jump,” the engineer admitted, splitting a measure of red wine between himself and whatever he was mixing up. “But can't say as I ever notice you bumpin' your heels on it too many times.”
“What can I say?” Sulu leaned his elbows against the far end of the counter. “I'm inspired by a challenge.”
“True dat,” the engineer agreed readily. “What you come down here fo'? Spy on th' competition?”
The helmsman pointed a thumb towards one of the big refrigeration unit behind him. “I've got a marinade I'm checking on. “
“An' you gotta feed a li'l yeast an' sugar to that sour dough batter you got goin', non?” the Cajun speculated with some assurance.
Sulu crossed his arms. “Who's spying now?”
“I figured that had to be you,” Del replied with a very unrepentant grin.
There was always a certain charge in the air when ever Sulu was near Del. He was amazed that after all these years, it was still so strong. The most simple and incomplete explanation was that he was attracted to the Cajun. Del had matured from a gorgeous teenager into an exquisitely handsome young man. The two of them had a certain amount of history together. It was no shock that he should feel a completely natural pull of desire.
However there was much more to it than that. Something about the engineer roused a sleeping thing inside Sulu to avaricious wakefulness. It wasn't just sexual desire. It was like there was a dark thing in his heart that wanted… something…
The helmsman tried to dismiss the feeling. But it crept back into the corners of his mind on black mouse-feet. There was no pretending it wasn’t there. What it wanted was complete domination. Del's strength excited and challenged this shadow in his soul. It wanted to master Del. It needed to defeat him as if his mere presence constituted a dare... or a threat...
Sulu shook his head to clear it of such strange thoughts. That was also futile. It wasn't really like he could hide such impulses from Del. However, where such a slip used to agitate the Cajun into belligerent defiance, now the engineer just sighed and rolled his expressive eyes as if to say, 'Not this old shit again.'
If pushed, he knew that Del was still ready to fight, though. Somewhere deep inside Sulu, a darkness licked its chops at the thought. If it chose mêlée, there would be glorious, bloody battle…
The helmsman cleared his throat and turned his mind forcibly away from these irrational impulses. All too often these days, he was letting his mind wander into these shadowlands… He was just depressed. That was all. The trouble with Jilla...
Honesty made him halt. There was no problem with Jilla. She was the same angelic embodiment of perfection she had always been. The trouble was with him... and Li…
Sulu stopped himself again. He couldn't even think of Li near Del. It was too much. Too soon. Having someone else know made it all too real... What's there to know, though? his mind countered. It's just a harmless flirtation. Nothing serious. Not for either of us. Just working off a little body heat... The thought of Li's naked body sizzled through him like fire.
“What are you doing?” the helmsman asked to shut up his overactive brain.
“Cookin'.”
Sulu gestured at the crowd of brimming bowls and pans surrounding the Cajun. “The contest is on the basis of quality, not quantity.”
“Screw the contest.” The engineer flicked his fingers giving the helmsman permission to pour them both a cup of what Sulu’s nose told him was a pot of thick, black Cajun coffee. “This fo' me. I really do hate replicators.”
“Jer always said you ate like a snake,” the helmsman commented as he searched for cups. “One big meal -- then nothing for a month. “
“As if.” The Cajun snorted. “One t'ing this contest mess teachin' me, it that this ship has an excellent bio-storage system an' a quartermaster who can be persuaded to let a man tuck away a few t'ings in the corner of it.”
Sulu raised an eyebrow as he pulled up a stool to the counter. “You were able to talk him into it?”
The engineer grinned. “I let my latest batch of fake shrimp remoulade do my talkin' fo' me.”
“Oh?” The helmsman quickly spotted a dish of this delicacy sitting on the far side of the counter. If he didn’t already know it was composed of cleverly disguised plankton from the J12 outpost, he would have never been able to spot the difference.
“Go on. Have a bite.” Del nodded towards the bowl. “That is, if you t'ink you can stomach New Orleans bar food this early in the day.”
“Gotta keep up my strength for chopping,” Sulu retorted. He gingerly picked up a very convincing looking fake shrimp covered with a sauce with the correct spicy aroma and brought it to his lips. It was heavenly. “Not too bad.”
“Don't lie, motherfucker.” Del shook a spoon at him and gave a short, mocking laugh. “You know it good.”
Sulu refrained from commenting as he ate another piece of the too delectable to be believed fake shrimp. He silently amended his prior musings on his relationship with the Cajun to take into consideration that it didn’t exactly demand the presence of a secret darkness inside one’s soul to feel challenged and/or threatened by Del. “How long is this gonna last in storage?”
“That not what I gonna put in.” The engineer added what looked like flour to the brown gravy he was stirring. “Now I that I t'ink I finally got this conversion system down, I makin' up some bases an' mixes that I can pull out an' cook me up later.”
Sulu silently surveyed what looked like preparations to feed a small army of very hungry marines. “You sure you bought enough?’
“I not buy all this.” The Cajun paused to push a damp curl back from his forehead with the back of his hand before thinning his mixture with a little more wine. “You managed to sneak in durin' a lull. It been like the Martian freight hub down here fo' the past sixteen hours. People buzzin' 'round all over the place.”
“People just gave all this to you?”
“Non, I traded fo' a few t'ings here an' there.” The engineer pushed a plate of small breadsticks in Sulu’s direction. “But, let me tell ya, cher, the competition startin' to thin out even 'fore it begins. Several fellows got down here elbow deep in the muck they bought at the J12 an' decided it jus' weren't worth th' bother.”
The bread had encouragingly flawed thick texture and a slightly fish-y taste, but went well with the remoulade. “So they gave what they’d bought and now aren’t gonna use to you?”
“When I was in the right spot at the right time,” the Cajun demurred.
“Yeah.” Sulu smiled at the success of his secret mission. “We don't want it to sound like you're making friends or anything like that.”
“I not doing not'ing but standin' here,” DelMonde retorted stubbornly. “Not my fault if this happen to be a chatty bunch o' folks.”
“That they are.” The helmsman nodded. “I hope they're not getting on your nerves too bad.”
“I reckon I gonna survive... Quite a few familiar faces in the bunch.” The arch of the Cajun's eyebrow clearly indicated that he was talking about ex-racers from the Clave.
Del knew more Clavists than anyone Sulu knew of – with the sole exception of Jeremy Paget... and another person he was determined not to think about. Jer knew things about people because he was a very social person. He’d recruited quite a few racers and groupies himself. Beyond that, Jer just made it his business to know as much about everything and everyone as was possible.
Del, on the other hand, was not social. He seemed completely disinterested in almost everything and almost everyone. Being a telepath, a certain amount of unguarded personal information had to float his way. However, the real reason he had an encyclopedic familiarity with the roster of racers was because of his renown as a Maker. Every racer wanted to meet the Cajun. He even knew an unheard of number of the real identities of his clients. His creations were so costly that most racers wound up having to tap their real world resources to pay his bills. It was difficult to just show up with a nice anonymous stack of credits like one usually did to purchase a needle... Although on one memorable occasion, an industrious soul had shown up with enough sapphire to settle his account...
“More than on the Hood?” Sulu asked, sipping from his steaming cup of black coffee so strong it could be used to propel the ship if the engines were to give out for any reason.
“A different sorta mix than the Hood,” Del replied. “But on both, they sure is a shitload o' folks from what my cabinmate calls 'the secret racin' club'."
“Oh, he calls it that, does he?” The helmsman frowned. “Sounds like I need to have a word with Miss Gollub.”
"An' jus' what word you 'spect gonna do any good?”
"Jilla, you busy?"
Jilla smiled briefly at the voice that accompanied the quick signal and opening of her cabin door. It was Ruth's habit never to wait for an acknowledgment before entering when a) she was aware Sulu was on duty, b) had just seen him elsewhere so she knew the helmsman and her former roommate would not be otherwise occupied, or c) it was after zero hundred hours. It was a comforting routine, particularly with the emotions that were swarming around the Indiian with the cooking contest. Being aware that such a contest would raise the competitiveness of the participants had not prepared Jilla for the reality of it. She had not expected the girlfriends, lovers and companions of those participants to be coming to her for advice, since she had actually lived as what they called a 'housewife' and had had a garden and knew how to cook without replicators. Nor had she realized exactly how difficult it would be for Sulu to deliberately lose.
"Nothing pressing at the moment, Ruth," she answered the Antari as she rose to get the coffee Ruth usually wanted.
"No time for coffee," Ruth announced as she began pacing.
Jilla turned back, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. "No time for coffee?" she repeated.
Ruth ignored the question. "You've got to help me come up with a sure fire way to convince a Vulcan to do something he doesn't want to do."
For a moment, the words 'that is not possible' formed in Jilla's mind, then retreated with a flush of both chagrin and sorrow as the memory of exactly how she had convinced Selar to alter her genetics came vividly to her awareness. She swallowed, then faced Ruth.
"My only experience with such a thing involved months of true distress on my part, an Indiian nature, the disapproval of my husband's parents and homeworld, and a confluence of scientific discovery and the specific work of...."
"I don't have that kind of time," Ruth interrupted with a frown, then added, "do you think if I called Amanda...? Nah."
"What precisely do you wish to convince Spock to do?" Jilla asked.
"Enter the cooking contest, of course," the Antari explained as if Jilla were being particularly slow that day.
The Indiian took her seat, allowing only a small sigh to escape her. "I should have realized this would be your reaction," she stated. "Sulu and I thought that by inserting a requirement that this contest be for males only would..."
"You and Roy cooked this up - you should pardon the expression?" Ruth demanded.
"Mr. Paget suggested that Mr. DelMonde would be in need of some assistance after transferring to be with you only to find that you and..."
"I know, I know!" Ruth broke in angrily. "I didn't tell him. But how was I to know the bastard would actually transfer? He KNOWS we can't actually be together on any kind of long term...!"
Jilla gazed at her former roommate, trying not to absorb too much of the Antari's tumultuous emotions. This was something Ruth had explained before, amid a wash of frustrated tears, just after Noel DelMonde had signed aboard. It was why Jilla had so readily acceded to Sulu's - and, of course, Jeremy Paget's - idea to help DelMonde.
Ruth took a deep breath, scrubbing her hands over her face. "Okay," she said at last. "What's done is done. So help me convince Spock to..."
"Ruth, that would be unwise," Jilla interrupted gently. "The contest is a way to force Mr. DelMonde to create a peer group on the Enterprise so as to keep him from holing up in a way that would be detrimental to..."
"Holing up?" Ruth said in surprise. "Since when do you use phrases like..."
"Sulu used it and I was able to comprehend its meaning without..." Jilla began.
"So you're so proud that you incorporated it into..."
"I AM using it correctly," was the Indiian's almost defensive counter.
Ruth grinned, and Jilla went on.
"So since this contest is for Mr. DelMonde's benefit, it would be best if you and Spock would simply allow it to proceed without your participation."
After a moment, Ruth said, "So, what Daffy said about Sulu..." She let the sentence drop in a manner Jilla knew was meant to be leading.
"I cannot know what Daphne said," Jilla reminded her.
"Oh, well, nothing really, except that she kinda implied that Roy was - well - goading is too strong a word, but..."
"I have already stated that the contest was our idea," Jilla reminded. "Mr. Paget was of the opinion that Mr. DelMonde would not participate unless he felt challenged in some way."
"Because it's not like he's the most competitive..."
"A trait you and he share."
Ruth's huge purple eyes widened, her cheeks flushing - then she made a face.
"Yeah, yeah, okay," she conceded. "But don't you think this looking out for everyone else isn't really Roy's - uh - forte?"
Jilla tilted her head. "A small fortified enclosure?" she asked.
Ruth scowled. "Very funny, Majiir. Although he could use a small, fortified enclosure," she added in a mutter.
The emotion that was leaking from Ruth's being was not a new one. It was suspicious and worried and caring and concerned; the last three more directed toward Jilla herself than toward Sulu. It was uncomfortable enough that Jilla let it pass unremarked - as she did with her confusion over Ruth's word choice.
"What I mean is," Ruth was continuing,"that it isn't like Roy to go so far out of his way to..."
"Sulu is a very caring man," Jilla defended automatically. "Noel DelMonde is a friend of long acquaintance - longer than yours, in fact - and it is Mr. Paget who is going out of his way to suggest that Sulu give aid to him."
"Yeah, all the way from the Hood," Ruth murmured "Which is not the only thing that's going out of her way from the Hood.”
"I beg your...."
"Never mind, I know, you never do, but in this case you should."
Jilla glanced away, not wanting to understand what Ruth was so plainly implying.
There was an awkward pause, then Ruth sighed.
"Look, Jilla, I'm not saying anything bad, it's just.... Del's a big boy. He can take care of himself."
At the overriding emotion that now dominated her friend's tia, Jilla smiled. "And you want to win," she said decisively.
Ruth brightened. "See, I knew you'd understand!" she enthused. "So, how can I convince Spock to..."
"Has he actually said no?" Jilla enquired.
Ruth frowned. "Yeah."
"More than once, I take it?"
"Yeah. So?"
"Ruth, when a Vulcan says no, that tends to indicate the answer is 'no' - particularly when he is speaking to his wife."
"I'm not a Vulcan wife," Ruth reminded sternly.
"In this case, perhaps you should be," Jilla suggested, hoping that her use of the same phrasing Ruth had would communicate to her friend's mind the other reason Ruth should stay away from the contest.
The Antari's eyes narrowed. "And just what is that supposed to mean?"
Jilla took a breath to explain what was plainly obvious, as evidenced by the frequent shouting matches which had occurred between Ruth and her fellow engineer in the short amount of time he had been aboard, by Ruth's already admitted guilt over the reason DelMonde had transferred from the Hood, and by the emotion Ruth still felt toward him, which lit both the Antari's and DelMonde's tias just before the inevitable shouting matches. Then she reconsidered as anxious apprehension filled her friend's emotional signature.
"Only that Mr. DelMonde is no less attractive than he was when last you saw him..."
Ruth bristled, and Jilla quickly added, "...and Spock would be comforted by the reassurance that you now think only of him."
Ruth made a mollified sound. "Okay," she said. "I get it. We'll just let Del win so he can become less of a foul tempered son of a bitch."
"I knew you would understand, Ruth," Jilla returned, and smiled her best 'you would never be so petty' approval.
And she firmly put aside Ruth's attempt at warning her about Sulu's reaction to Ensign LiLing.