Return to Part Four
Upon entering the isolation wardroom, Lian Rendell frowned deeply to find her expressed orders to her patient were not being followed. “I thought you said you were hungry.”
“I said I thought I could eat.” DelMonde pushed the plate of food as far away from him as the small tray over his bed would allow it to travel. “I not say I wanna chaw on some neon-colored Styrofoam.”
The doctor sighed and stepped over to the food replicator unit. “What do you want?”
“Not'ing special,” the Cajun insisted. “Some beignets an' coffee be fine.”
After puzzling over possible spellings for a moment, Rendell gave up and reported, “The computer’s having a problem with that one.”
“How 'bout some biscuits an' ham gravy, then?”
“Hmmm…” The replicator had better luck recognizing these terms, but resisted combining them into one dish. “The computer is still giving you a blank and somewhat bewildered look.”
“I really not wantin' no computer food, Li,” her patient announced, crossing his arms. “If you so fired up 'bout gettin' me to eat, what you need to do is to run down to th' galley, put yourself on a frilly apron an' rustle me up some grub your ownself.”
Rendell blinked at him.
“Not'ing fancy,” he assured her. “You know, jus' take a black skillet an' put some oil in th' bottom. I not even ask you make no roux – less you jus' happen to know how. Then you cut up some onion an' red pepper an' green pepper an' sprinkle in a li'l cayenne. Then when you get that goin' all good, you chop in some red potato an' andouille an' maybe a li'' okra if you can get it fresh – but only if. An' if you got some rice made up already…” DelMonde paused. “Li, now you givin' the look you say the computer givin' out.”
“Cajun…” The doctor shook her head. “You just don’t compute.”
The engineer sighed long-sufferingly. “Mais, then how about jus' some peach cobbler an' ice cream? Surely you got some o' that?”
Rendell consulted the replicator. “Is cobbler the same thing as pie?”
“Zoe…” DelMonde murmured almost inaudibly.
“What?”
The engineer shook his head. “Not'ing.”
Rendell turned to him. “You said Zoe.”
Since waking, DelMonde had asked about Sulu and The Paine (in that order). However, this was the first time he seemed to have remembered the yeoman’s existence.
The Cajun rubbed his face distractedly. “It not'ing.”
“Pie makes you think of Zoe?” she pressed in a half-teasing manner to make it seem less invasive.
The engineer shrugged defensively. “I jus' happen to t'ink she know a really good apple pie recipe.”
“She does?” Rendell stepped closer to the Cajun’s bed and made note on her stat board of changes in her patient’s blood pressure and respiration – both of which seemed to have ticked up a bit. “Maybe she’ll make one for you.”
“Oh, you not ought t' bother her,” DelMonde mumbled, turning away, his entire manner seeming unenthusiastic almost to the point of…guilt?
“I’m sure it wouldn’t be a bother,” the doctor insisted as if she hadn’t noticed any reluctance on his part. “She’s probably very concerned and would be happy to do something for you.”
“No.” The engineer shook his head, still not making eye contact. “Forget it.”
“She’s supposed to be your girlfriend, isn’t she?” Rendell asked jovially, clearing away the dish of food that did look a great deal like colored styrofoam.
“It not that kind o' t'ing.” DelMonde shrugged. “She busy. She got her job.”
“Now that you mention it,” the Haven observed. “She hasn’t been by to check on you.”
“Despite your turned-up Haven nose bein' all up in our business,” the Cajun replied, regaining a little of his usual fire, “we supposed to be keepin' this t'ing on the down-low. So if she come in here squallin' over me the firs' time I trip an' fall, that kinda gonna blow the cover on that whole t'ing, non?”
Rendell put her hands on her hips and tilted her head to one side suspiciously. “You’re unconscious for four days and you don’t even rate a pie?”
The engineer sighed and made a dismissive gesture. “It jus' not no big romantic t'ing ‘tween us two.” “It must not be,” the doctor responded, raising a critical eyebrow. “Apparently if you and I were in a relationship, you would be expecting me to don costumes and wrestle grubs for you, but Yeoman Elif…”
The Cajun burst out with the first peal of genuine laughter she had heard from him in what seemed like months.
“Yeah, you got that right, darlin’,” he wheezed between chuckles. “Absolutement! I would be adamant on that point, cher. Our relationship would be characterized by not jus' th' quantity but th' quality o' the grub-rasslin' that would go on. I guarantee you that.”
Rendell could see that she had somehow – Devri knows how -- lost any opportunity to have a serious conversation about Yeoman Elif, but it was worth it to see him smile again.
“Yeah,” the Cajun was giggling so hard he had to wipe his eyes. “That jus' the way o' the world, Li. Either a man has got him a woman that is jus' a genuine, Grade A, galaxy-class, costume-wearin', grub-rasslin’ fool, or he ain’t. An' he jus' gotta lay in the bed wit'out no pie wishin' fo' better days…”
“Just how old do you think I am?”
Of all the equally valid challenges to the investigation he was conducting, Sulu had to smile that the Haven Ambassador had chosen to lead with that particular objection.
“Not a day over four hundred and ninety-nine,” he retorted impudently. “Have you called to tell me how inconvenient I’m being?”
The shrug Gage gave made a great show of diffidence, but – as always – there were still the traces of lingering affection in his eyes and voice as he replied, “Not precisely the word I’d choose…”
“But these speculations I’m making about Orion involvement in Sagron VI…” the captain continued for him. “Not exactly optimal timing for you?”
The Haven crossed his arms and made a 'tsk-ing' noise. “I didn’t realize it was called 'Star Fleet' because all your relationships are meant to be so… fleeting.”
Sulu raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“There are many things we dislike about the Orions,” Gage granted with a sweeping gesture. “Their table manners – for example -- are atrocious. However we don’t go through the hellish inconvenience of negotiating a trade relationship with them and then decide, no, we simply can’t abide people who don’t know how to properly use a finger bowl only to then change our minds entirely five years later and be convinced that we simply must re-launch the entire infernal rigmarole and immediately establish relations with them again at all costs before they start to luncheon with the Romulans regularly.”
Minus the high ridiculousness of finger bowls and luncheons, the Haven’s description did – unfortunately – have some coherence to the broad outlines of the Federation’s rocky relationship with the Orions in the recent past.
“Well,” Sulu observed pleasantly, “the situation would seem to provide a certain amount of job security for you.”
“Me?”
“As a professional diplomat, Mr. Ambassador.”
Gage rolled his eyes. “Any warmth one manages to cultivate towards a profession quickly saps when one learns that 'intergalactic ambassador' is the dream avocation of the average Tellerite.”
Sulu couldn’t stop himself from chuckling. “There is that.”
“We have been playing at this little game of painful concession and outrageous demand with our old friends the Orions for a very, very long time,” Gage said seriously. “And, I assure you, it’s a pastime at which they excel.”
The captain nodded. “So when you don’t feel like you have to play that game, you don’t. For example, if the Orions violate a treaty with the Federation, the Havens might quietly decide not to break off relations… even when that’s official policy that as allies of the Federation they should be obligated to observe.”
“Which could turn out to be quite the faux pas if knowledge of that continued arrangement comes out at just the wrong moment…”
“And then is compounded by some very, very old news,” Sulu said, seeing how his investigation of the Sagron IV matter could be quite inconvenient indeed. “And could seem rather sinister given the fear of a Romulan/Orion alliance…”
“Mere inopportune happenstance over which, unfortunately, none of us can exert much control.” Gage sighed fatalistically and dismissed the entire convoluted affair with an elegant flick of his wrists. “As the philosopher once said, “The market can remain irrational longer than you can remain solvent.”
Sulu took in a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. Gage’s explanation made sense. It seemed reasonable. It was just so… profoundly Haven… that Sulu didn’t know if his superiors would believe any of it.
The captain shook his head. “It all comes back down to the market, doesn’t it?”
“Of course,” Gage replied. “We Havens are creatures of the Marketplace. We have devoted ourselves to it. Just as the Vulcans have to logic, the Indiians to fidelity, the Antari to… What do the Antari focus on?”
“Hair? Kites?” Sulu guessed, drawing from the one member of the race he knew. “Kibitzing?”
“I won’t comment,” the Ambassador replied, rolling his eyes. “At any rate, just as those species have become devoted students of those things, we have pledged our hearts to the marketplace and have become scholars of the passion that rules the market -- desire – specifically those desires that cannot be contained or controlled, but that must sated… the desires that drive us forward sometimes almost against our will.”
Although there was a near infinite sadness in the Ambassador’s eyes as he looked at Sulu, a smile was still on his lips.
“As with the Vulcans and their logic, the more we try to understand and become the masters of the workings of desire, the more we are defined by it, the more impossible it is to understand us without understanding its intricacies and contradictions… even its corollaries -- such as the fear that the opportunity for satisfying a deeply held desire will never materialize… or everlasting remorse for a desired outcome squandered…” Gage shook his head sadly. “Humans don’t even have words for these feelings. How can they understand what moves us to do the things we do?”
Sulu felt like Gage was, in a very oblique way, telling him something important. He wasn’t sure if it was about the mission, or about Orions, or Havens, or the two of them, or all of the above tumbled all together.
“Just because we don’t have words,” he replied quietly, “doesn’t mean we’ve never felt those things…”
Gage smiled. “Does make conversation damned difficult, though,” he commented, slipping easily back into his normal, acerbic persona. “I must let you go. Doubtless they’ll scold you for speaking with me at all.”
“No, no,” the captain protested, “Headquarters actually encouraged me to talk to my Haven friends. They think you’re nicer to me than you are to them.”
“Typical outrageous Federation mendacity.” The Haven sniffed diffidently as he reached to deactivate his comm. “I’m never nice.”
“Look who’s here,” Lian Rendell announced as she stepped into the isolation wardroom. “With pie.”
“Sweet Mary,” DelMonde winced as he blinked awake from his light doze.
“It’s my Grandmother’s recipe,” Yeoman Elif explained, in a somewhat apologetic tone. “It just popped into my head you might want some.”
“Funny how that works, isn’t it?” the doctor asked with a pointed smile for the engineer as she gestured for her nurse to pull his table tray into place. “And iced cream. I bet it’s your favorite flavor.”
“Butter Pecan,” Elif said, setting a smaller insulated container down next to the pie.
“Butter Pecan is just a good flavor,” the Cajun asserted defensively. “Most folks like it.”
“Do you like it?” Rendell asked Elif.
“I have a tree nut allergy,” the Yeoman demurred.
“See, she got her a tree nut allergy.” The engineer crossed his arms. “You not able t' go by her.”
Rendell turned her nurse. “What’s your favorite flavor of iced cream?”
“Pistachio.”
DelMonde favored Blake with a deep frown. “Anybody ever tell you that you no damned help?”
“Oh, yes,” the nurse replied easily as she adjusted his tray table.
“I wasn’t sure if you were able to have visitors…” Elif began uncomfortably.
“Yeah, what about that?” the Cajun challenged his doctor.
The Haven made a conciliatory gesture. “Since our grub-wrestling skills are of insufficient quality to meet Mr. DelMonde’s dietary needs…”
Elif blinked. “What?”
DelMonde gave an exasperated sigh and gestured at himself and the yeoman. “Could we have a minute?”
“Well…” Rendell began.
“Alone,” the engineer requested pointedly.
The doctor relented with a shrug and beckoned for her assistant. “Nurse…” She paused before exiting to warn, “A minute.”
Unlike a Human doctor who might have wasted several moments coming up with a adequate justification for doing so, once outside the room, Rendell lost no time in activating monitoring devices so she listen in on the conversation. After all, they had reached no agreement that she would not listen; Sickbay was her territory; and his behavior with the Yeoman had been suspicious for long time now.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been by,” Elif was apologizing.
“That all right, cher,” DelMonde replied, then immediately launched into, “Listen, I been t'inkin'…”
“..That we should kind of cool it?” the yeoman finished for him.
“Yeah, kinda…” he replied in an unconscious imitation of her apologetic manner.
“Yeah,” she agreed in a tone that seemed far more resigned than sad. “I mean, Dylan has to know… and I really don’t want to hurt him or make him mad at me or anything...”
“No,” the engineer agreed.
“And this was never all that serious anyway…”
“Not really…”
“I had fun, though..” Elif reassured him.
Rendell was beginning to reconsider her suspicions about this romance. Maybe the engineer was concealing it – just as he said – because it was so very, soul-crushingly bland…
“.. and this is weird to say..” the yeoman continued, “but it was relaxing… kind of like yoga… if you know what I mean…”
Rendell did not find out if the Cajun knew what Elif meant for at that precise moment, her nurse chose to interrupt with, “Doctor, could you possibly sign these…”
“Blake!” The Haven grit her teeth in frustration. “I’m going to strangle you one day.”
“Perhaps later, then,” her assistant decided, smoothly changing course to beat a hasty strategic retreat.
By this time, though, Yeoman Elif was on her way out, looking as untroubled and tear-free as she had when she entered.
“Well, come on in an' have some pie, why don’t ya?” her patient drawled.
Rendell sighed, deactivated her monitor, and entered the wardroom. “Earth food is so sweet,” she complained.
“This here is a dessert,” the Cajun said, pointing to the pie – that he apparently had not been too emotionally overwhelmed to start eating during his breakup with the yeoman – with a fork. “It sweet stuff wit' some sweet stuff on it. So it gonna be sweet. Kimchi is Earth food too -- An' it sure as hell ain’t sweet.”
“Kimchi?” The doctor seated herself on the edge of his bed and picked up the extra fork he pushed towards her. “What’s that?”
“Half rotten cabbage wit' some hot sauce on it.”
Rendell made a face. “Why would anyone eat that?”
The engineer shrugged. “'Cause they not like sweet stuff, I guess.”
The doctor took at tentative bite of the dessert. It was, as promised, excessively sugary. However, taken on its own merits, the dish did have its own undeniable, unvarnished decadence.
“If you got somet'ing to say, cher,” the Cajun invited after a moment. “Jus' go on an' say it.”
“Seems like a shame to get rid of a girlfriend so accommodating that even when she sees that breaking up is what you want, she races to do it for you,” Rendell observed.
“I guess a person could look at it that way,” DelMonde agreed mildly. “Or they could say that after four days of us not givin' each other a second thought until I got to jonesin' fo' some pie, it were just that obvious to us both that there weren’t no point t' the damned t'ing, non?”
“Although she did come up with this dessert and your favorite ice cream right on cue,” the doctor pointed out, tapping the side of his plate with her fork.
“Yeah, if I not a telepath, I not know how th' hell I would explain that,” the Cajun retorted easily.
Rendell shook her head ruefully. Although she generally enjoyed his company, there were definitely days when she wished he was a little less adept at Haven-style banter and was a lot easier to out-maneuver conversationally. “Were you a good child?”
The engineer’s fork stopped half-way to his mouth. “Huh?”
“When you were boy- did you obey your parents?”
“No, I was a pretty terrible li'l kid,” DelMonde admitted. “I used t' try t' steal my daddy’s liquor an' that would make my mama cry.”
Rendell nodded, somehow pleased that there were some Xaxbi Shakz elements to the Cajun’s youth.
“Did they threaten to sell you to Orion traders?”
“Nope.” The engineer shook his head. “I not t'ink it ever occur to them. Now, my mama loved me dearly an' would not part wit' me fo' th' world, but my father… I jus' not t'ink th' idea ever hit him. Though I t'ink you might could call him right now an' he might put in word wit' some acquaintances an' I could be out o' your hair by th' middle o' the afternoon. Why you ask for?”
Rendell smiled as she returned the extra fork. “Just want to keep my options open…”
The sufferings of Sagron VI were written on the bodies of her people. They called themselves the Calumbri, which, Sulu had learned, meant “those who strive.” “Sagron” was entirely a Federation concoction – the name of the astronomer who had first sighted their star from across the galaxy.
They were a thin, delicately boned people whose skin came in pastel shades of blue, green, and yellow. The Calumbri put the captain very much in mind of the Andorians and the Cyngnians… or would have if their circumstances were better. Even when viewing the stock footage of idyllic village life that the Calumbri included with their briefing material, DelMonde had concluded, “They look like somebody let they pitbull use a bunch o' fairy dolls as chew-toys.”
The members of the ruling council who were sitting in on this conference call were all either serving or former members of the military. All were badly scarred. Many were missing limbs. Several wore eye patches.
Sulu was glad that Del was not going to be here for this difficult conversation… which might only be the first in a whole series of difficult conversations as they approached Sagron. The Calumbri had looked at the power and might of Star Fleet and asked for a mission with an emphasis on extermination. Sulu and his team had looked at their situation and come up with a solution that emphasized conservation. It wasn’t going to be an easy sell.
Beth Arista and Jerel Courtland were with him in the Briefing Room for this call. However they were stationed off camera so that there would be no confusion about who was speaking for the Drake.
No pressure, Sulu thought to himself wryly as he nodded a greeting to the grim-visaged council on the viewscreen before him.
“These changes you’ve suggested,” their leader began, taking a Star Fleet-style clipboard and dropping it on the table before him dismissively. “They are not what we requested. They are unacceptable.”
“If I may be direct?” Sulu asked, automatically falling into the sort of firm but carefully deferential manner he would with some of his older Japanese relatives who might be as blunt as a baseball bat, but would get pretty bent out of shape if you took the same liberty with them. “Our research indicates that your ancestors may have had contact with an alien race who convinced them to make changes to your planet that were… extremely unwise.”
The old alien version of a samurai crossed his arms and looked down his long sharp nose at him with his one good eye.
“Your caution is therefore understandable,” the captain said. “In your place, my reaction would be the same.”
To underline this point, Sulu let a silence fall during which he did not extol the virtues of the Federation nor condemn the vices of the Orions. He merely let the quiet stretch as long and painful as his hosts wished it to be.
When their postures finally shifted – not softened a whit, but merely shifted – he continued, “The Federation is not here to sell you a ruinous bill of goods and leave. We’re here for a long-term partnership. We ask that you listen to the product of our research. If, in the end, you reject our conclusions, that’s your prerogative.”
“It is,” the old warrior affirmed with an iron-clad finality.
Sulu could hear Beth Arista’s mouth beginning to open to comment. He silenced her by turning his eyes only a quarter of an inch in her direction.
“How does it profit the Federation to give us aid?” the warrior challenged with the bitterness of a ruined planet in his voice.
“This project is, in essence, the very definition of who we are and what we do,” Sulu replied as simply and honestly as possible. “We are a diverse group of systems and planets united not by race or creed but by a shared belief that by combining resources and knowledge we can all be stronger and provide better lives for our inhabitants. By helping you and your people in the short term, we of the Federation hope to add the long term asset your planet represents to our collective good.”
There was another subtle shift in posture as the council members absorbed his words. Sulu could see that even though any trust they had left for passing aliens had been burned up hundreds of years ago, frankness and pragmatism could still hit home.
Their leader made an irritated gesture at the discarded clipboard in front of him. “We don’t have a great deal of time to pour over charts and read reports.”
Sulu nodded. “I’ll have my people compose summary versions of their research that can be scanned more rapidly in addition to the longer versions that can be kept for reference.”
“We shall speak again,” the old warrior signed off in a somewhat grudging concession.
“Until then, Grand Marshal,” the captain replied, clicking off the viewscreen.
“Sir…” Beth Arista said, releasing a breath it seemed she’d been holding for most of the call and shaking her head. “You’re good. I’m still not sure we’re going to be able to get them to agree to everything we need them to do… but you are very good at this.”
“It’s going to happen, Lieutenant,” he assured his subordinate. “There’s going to be some compromises along the way… and it may not be easy… but it’s going to happen. We want what’s best for their planet. They want what’s best for their planet. So, it’s going to happen. It’s my job to see that it happens. And, yeah…” He grinned. “I’m good. I learned from the best. So will you.”
With preparations for planetfall ramping up, Sulu was finding it more and more difficult to squeeze in time to practice with the exoskeltons with the rest of the team. He was surprised to find another crewmember crouching near the base of one of the exo’s legs adjusting an ankle brace. He was even more taken off guard when he realized who that crewman was.
“Hey.” Del turned and smiled at his surprise.
“Hey,” Sulu replied a bit numbly.
“I not die or anyt'ing,” the Cajun informed him jovially as he rose and wiped his hands off with a cloth from his toolbox.
“I can see that.” Sulu crossed his arms. The engineer looked a good ten years younger than he had before his sojourn in Sickbay. He looked… Sulu stopped and frowned. One could almost feel Del, Narcissus-like, using one’s thoughts as a mirror to catch a flattering glimpse of himself…. “Lian didn’t tell me she was releasing you.”
“Mais, you know how it is wit' a Haven doctor…” The engineer shrugged as he selected another set of tools and stepped over to examine the exo’s knee. “Sometimes it not so much 'bout gettin' well. Sometimes you say th' wrong damn t'ing an' your bed jus' not available no more…”
“Oh?” the captain replied dubiously, wondering if he needed to report the Cajun AWOL.
“Really, she jus' lettin' me stretch my legs a li'l,” DelMonde admitted, checking the calibration of a rotator. “I gotta be back there within th' hour or she gonna send a goon squad out fo' me.”
Sulu nodded at this more plausible explanation. “Oh.”
“Jus' dropped in t' see how much you all had screwed th' place up.” DelMonde made a disapproving gesture in the direction of hangar bay. “The puppy got him a nice shootin' gallery set up, non?”
“You’ve seen Dylan?”
The Cajun snorted. “I not that well.”
Sulu tilted his head to one side. “Well enough to see me, though?”
“Yeah.” DelMonde gave him a slow, rather defiant half-smile. “I decide that I could look you in the eye.”
“Lian made you write a letter, didn’t she?” Sulu deduced bluntly. He didn’t know how he felt about Rendell getting that involved in this conflict between himself and the Cajun or if an apology to Jilla that was coerced by the Haven would be at all meaningful.
“She not make me do a damn t'ing,” the engineer retorted indignantly, then after a minute conceded, “She give me a choice. Said I could write th' letter… or she could take my brain out an' wash it again…”
Sulu frowned. He wondered what was up with Del and all these attempts at jokes… The engineer had never been much of one to try to lighten a situation with humor… Or lighten a situation at all… If he were someone else, Sulu would assume the Cajun was uncomfortable around him…
The idea hit the captain for the first time – What if Del was uncomfortable around him now? What would that look like? They were so off the charts of the engineer’s normal behavior, he had no prior experience to guide him. The Cajun could hold on to venom about other people’s mistakes with clear-eyed fury until suns grew dim, but when it came to his own missteps…. Del was like the cat who fell off the fence. To get any glimpse of the split seconds of “Oh, shit, I really fucked up this time” reflection going on, one just had to be providential enough to be in the exact position to see the brief, dramatic descent from fence-top to ground before the cat hissed a “Fuck you!” and stalked away. Because that was it. That’s all there was to it. There were no weeks of moping around making forced attempts at regret and remorse that always wound up looking more like self-pity. There were no stumbling attempts at lame jokes about falling off fences. It just wasn’t natural cat conduct.
Apparently it wasn’t good for the cat, either. It turned out it could make you wind up with a very sick cat. And you’d have to call in a special Haven vet to work with it for the better part of the week to get it to even look at its food bowl again…
Sulu sighed and turned for the exit. “Let’s get this mission done and we’ll talk about it.”
“That a promise or a threat?” the Cajun called after him.
“We’ll see,” he replied over his shoulder.
Del returned to duty over the course of the next three days not all at once but in the form of unannounced “leg-stretching” jaunts of increasing duration.
Finally at briefing taking place on the fourth day, Jerel Courtland finally turned to Dr. Rendell and asked, “May we consider Mr. DelMonde back on the active duty list?”
Doctor and patient exchanged sidelong glances. There was a brief, cryptic parlay conducted via small hand gestures before the Haven shrugged and replied, “Yes, I suppose.”
Several of Sulu’s senior officers turned to him with appalled glances that clearly read, “Von Hels was a martinet and we do not want to return to that sort of agony, but this is Star Fleet, not some sort of social club, isn’t it?”
“What’s the status of your team’s research into the gravitronic propulsion systems of the mechanoids?” Sulu asked, to remind them that there were pressing reasons why they were putting up with all things Del.
“Oh, we got that worked out well 'nough t' start runnin' our trainin' sims,” the engineer reported. “That not what concernin' me. From th' point we got our reproductions goin' right this minute, we gonna be able t' hop into them droids on th' planet an' make 'em walk, talk, an' dance a jig… but they still jus' some li'l' subsystems that remain a mystery to me. It lookin' like we not gonna be 'xactly sure what some o' this shit do 'til we get our grubby paws on th' real t'ing an' jus' start mashing buttons.”
The ability to make the exoskeleton reproductions “walk, talk, and dance a jig” was proving to be the single biggest factor in their favor in winning over the good will of the Calumbri. Although they had been a bit taken aback the engineers had not chosen to decently clothe the exos in layers of decorative armor (“Skinned for the roasting pit,” one of the elders had commented in wry horror), they were mesmerized by footage of the Drake’s teams running Del’s obstacle courses. In fact, although they kept sending cranky comments about the demands on their precious time imposed by the briefing material from Beth Arista’s Science team, these complaints were usually paired unselfconsciously with requests for specific materials from the engineers or weaponry experts – and oh, yes, please, who won the footrace today? And yes, we’re going to need to review that footage… All of it, please… Yes, all pilot briefings and trial runs as well… Four hours? All of it, yes…
“They just want us to show them how to use the suits,” Arista had sighed defeatedly on more than one occasion. “Then after we leave, they’re going to try to kill everything in sight.”
“Yes,” he kept telling her. “That’s their mindset. Past a certain point, that’s not going to change. We have to find a way to use where they are to get them to where we want them to be.”
In the pursuit of getting the Calumbri to where they wanted them to be, Sulu had, at first, shared some of his first officer’s reservations about letting Del converse directly with the High Council – despite their enthusiasm for his area of expertise. Their attitude towards their battle droids seemed to be one of extreme reverence. They always spoke of them using a long, difficult to pronounce title that translated roughly as “The Epiphany Sword of Twin Gods’ Divine Retribution.” It wasn’t until they were in the midst of a discussion about setting up a training camp for pilots that in a rare flash of humor, one of the old warriors had cracked up his battle-hardened colleagues by wishing that the Twin gods would grant him the wisdom to take two steps forward in their Divine Sword without landing him flat on his backside. Upon hearing their raucous laughter, Sulu turned to Courtland and assured him, “They’re gonna be able to talk with Del.”
Perhaps because they were already somewhat familiar with his brusque manner from the training footage, or because of their shared interest in the droids, or just because they were pragmatic and plain-spoken themselves, the High Council had no problems with Del’s colorful manner of self-expression. This was a source of frustration for Beth Arista, who despite hours of pouring over linguistic tapes and carefully rehearsing each interaction, was still met with stony-faced, thinly-conceal scorn while when questioned on potential repair times for one of their sacred Epiphany Swords, the engineer could casually reply, “If one o' them shitcans pitches an' ditches, you not gonna see not'ing but elbows an' assholes fo' a good nine hours at least…” without a blink of an Calumbrian eye.
“Life isn’t fair,” the captain consoled the lieutenant. “I can see the work you’re doing even if they don’t. Just play the hand you’re dealt.”
And so the crew of the Drake braced to make planetfall on Sagron VI…
“Now, I not got no control over that, do I?”
Sulu inwardly winced at the unmistakable sound of Noel DelMonde mid-argument with Jerel Courtland as he came around the corner of the command hut. How, he wondered, could they possibly be in the mood to fight now?
Despite the fact that Sulu had watched what seemed like hundreds of hours of footage of the chaos on this planet in preparation for arrival, nothing prepared him for Sagron’s beauty. The parts of the beach where they had established their base camp that weren’t full-on, Tahiti-style, knock-your-eyes-out gorgeous were a-little-more-somber-but-still-break-your-heart, Malibu-lovely. Even given the pressures of their mission, Sulu honestly didn’t know how anyone could resist walking about breathing in fresh salt air and basking in sunshine with a giant smile on their face. It was certainly hard for him to do otherwise. “Problem, Gentlemen?”
“Nothing, sir,” Courtland replied, looking at the most (to Sulu’s relief) annoyed. “Just a minor issue of… protocol.”
“Oh?” Sulu raised an eyebrow, not surprised that Del might cause a diplomatic kerfuffle, but that anyone had time to either take or give offense. The pilot training center was still being constructed and the Calumbri, who had been so unimpressed by the promises of Star Fleet technology, were now fully occupied with wandering around in slack-jawed wonder when faced with the reality of Federation-standard conveniences such as a pressure dome with a bio-filter.
“These folks here look at our ranks as bein' navy ranks,” DelMonde explained, gesturing towards a cluster of warriors watching a engineer focus a construction beam on a strip of exposed sand to flatten and harden it into the base for another building. “They is ground forces. So they have taken to callin' me by what they t'ink should be my proper ground force rank.”
Now having a good idea where this was heading, Sulu began to have a hard time keeping that sun-basking smile off his face. “Which is?”
“Major-General,” the Cajun answered solemnly.
Sulu nodded slowly. “Very impressive.”
“Up in this place a trained engineer is a rare commodity an' valued as somet'ing more 'an jus' a glorified janitor who you occasionally call up t' yell at when you want th' boat t' go faster,” DelMonde reported.
“I see,” the captain replied, taking in the amount of silent eye rolling his First Officer was doing on the sidelines. “Very refreshing, I’m sure.”
The Cajun crossed his arms with an air of injured innocence. “True dat.”
“I haven’t noticed them changing anyone else’s ranks to a “ground force” equivalent,” Sulu mused.
“No,” Courtland agreed pointedly.
“They’re still calling me “captain.”
DelMonde shrugged. “Well, that a ground force rank too, non?”
Sulu frowned. “And it ranks lower than a major-general, doesn’t it?
The Cajun sniffed diffidently. “I sure I not know not'ing 'bout none o' that.”
“And are far too polite to bring the matter up for fear of offending our hosts,” his commander concluded.
“Absolutement,” the engineer confirmed.
It wasn’t that Sulu was completely sure that he was over being mad at Del. This was just not the day for it. He was too busy to be mad at Del. The sun felt too good on his skin to be mad at Del. He was too relieved that Del hadn’t died or gone insane or whatever Lian Rendell had feared was going to happen to him hadn’t happened for him to be mad at Del just at this moment. Tomorrow might be different. Tomorrow he could get a letter from Jilla. Tomorrow it might rain…
Of course, Del knew all this. He stood, looking as handsome as the hero of a romance novel who had somehow mistakenly wound up in a Star Fleet uniform, with his black curls shining in the golden sunlight and the barest shadow of a half-smile tugging at one corner of his insolent lips. In his best cat-who-fell-off-the-fence manner, he now seemed so whole and healthy; it made one doubt their memories of his mysterious illness.
“If you an' your first officer will excuse me, Captain,” he said in an exaggeratedly gracious manner. “I got me some pretty major general business I need t' be attendin' to.”
“Well,” Sulu commented to Courtland as they watched the engineer saunter away across the beach. “You wanted him to start calling me 'Captain' more often, didn’t you?”
“Not as if he’s addressing a subordinate,” the Equan pointed out a bit sourly.
“It’s just a good thing Rendell got him into that sensory-dep tank before we landed,” the captain confided, smiling as he took his First Officer by the arm and pointed him towards pleasanter tasks in the glorious sunshine. “I don’t think his head would fit through the doors now…”
A primary reason for DelMonde’s promotion to a rank roughly equivalent to a rear admiral became apparent over the course of the next few days. The Calumbri were, above all else, eager to begin training exercises for their battle droids. From their viewing of the Drake teams’ tapes, they knew of the engineer’s role in designing and directing the obstacle course races. The rank of major general elevated him to a position lofty enough to command similar exercises for their elite corps.
The natives’ decision not to extend a similar courtesy to the rest of the Drake officers was a bit puzzling until they observed the warrior caste’s hierarchy- based rules for their dueling tradition in action. If the warriors elevated all the Drake’s pilots to ranks as high the one they granted Del, they would not be free to challenge them to races – as there was every indication that was their dearly-held intention to do.
“They gunnin' fo' your crown, Monsieur Le Roi,” the Cajun had warned his captain as they had observed a group of Calumbri pilots pointing the two them out to their fellows.
“What’s new?” Sulu had shrugged.
Neither of them had time for anything but détente by default as yet. DelMonde was fully occupied with field-marshalling the first groups of hyper-motivated elite Calumbri would-be pilot teams through their first trial runs with the Drake’s skeletal reconstructions of their mechnoids while the real things were carefully crated and moved to the base camp to be prepped for use. An anxiously attentive Dylan Paine sniffed at the recuperating engineer’s heels each step of his way as the Cajun strode the beaches ordering armies of metal giants about with a flick of two fingers and a non-stop flow of casual obscenities.
All Sulu’s waking hours were consumed with efforts to facilitate Beth Arista’s team’s ambitious design for remaking Sagron’s damaged bio-scape. Thankfully, Calumbrian consent and cooperation were growing less difficult to obtain as the natives realized that the Science officer’s talk of miracles such as medicine that could cure crippling childhood diseases in a single dose or techniques that could instantly quadruple food production were not fantasies spun to deceive and coerce but promises that Arista could deliver on as fast as supply crates were beamed down from the Drake and opened.
Bedazzled as they were with Federation medicine and technology, the Calumbri did not lose sight of the primary mission for which they had summoned the Drake. With each passing day, it became more and more difficult for Sulu to make it across the base camp without being stopped.
“The blood tide rises, Sky Captain,” he was warned by men, women, and children who would point first at the placid-seeming shoreline with whatever stump of a finger, hand, or arm they had left, then gesture urgently to the sun-drenched cliffs above them. “The Epiphany Swords must dive to glory once more!”
“Isn’t this the most beautiful piece of machinery you’ve ever seen in your life?” Dylan Paine asked, reverently tracing the filigreed armored plating of the giant thigh of the mechniod he was working on.
“Quit strokin' th' codpiece an' get those ventricle arrays back on line,” his partner growled unappreciatively from his perch in the upper compartment.
The ensign rolled his eyes as he snapped the necessary components into place. “You have no poetry in your soul, Del.”
The hangar where they were working provided an unusual amount of scope for lyrical musing. In addition to the majestic sight of the ranks of glittering Calumbri mechanoids awaiting their turn for repair and restoration, the designers of this enclosure had incorporated a row of tall windows all along the upper edge of the building to take advantage of natural lighting that also provided the occupants with a stunning view of the natural beauty surrounding them.
“I got a medal fo' literary excellence an' an adorin' fanbase who would beg t' differ,” the engineer retorted as the weaponry expert clambered noisily up a ladder to join him.
“Huh?” Paine asked, having lost the Cajun’s reply in the noise of his ascent.
“Not'ing.” The engineer waved a dismissal. “Jus' get th' lead out, son. I got me a trainin' session in less 'an a half hour. My devoted pupils may declare a holy war on me if I happen t' be over five minutes late.”
“As if.” The ensign snorted derisively as he slid into the gunnery position. “Most days, you’re in more danger of them declaring you some kind of a Battle Saint.”
“As if,” the Cajun replied mockingly.
Grinning, Paine leaned over his console and reached down from the gunner’s nest to playfully tousle the engineer’s curls.
“Now cut that shit out,” DelMonde reprimanded, leaning forward out of his grasp.
Instead of obeying, the young man remained dangling half upside-down. He merely propped his elbow against a strut so he could situate himself a little more comfortably. “Don’t know why you’re so nervous and irritable today…”
“Who say I nervous?” the Cajun growled as he reset the same diagnostic test he’d already run three times on this unit to cycle through once more.
Paine sighed and rolled his eyes. “We ran the sims on these things a thousand times on the ship.”
Although this statement was 100% true, Del frowned mightily. “They’s a hell a lot o' difference between sittin' in front of a computer screen playin' a game an' divin' off a cliff in a hunk o' alien metal where we not figured out what all th' buttons is for.”
Space had limited how extensively they could re-create the flight capabilities of the Calumbrian mechanoids on the Drake. They’d done the best they could to compensate with computer simulations, but the reactions of the real thing in a real atmosphere was going to make a world of difference in how the crafts handled. And then there was always the nagging x-factor of those mysterious alien sub-systems whose exact function Del and his team of engineers just couldn’t quite seem to pin down…
“We know what they don’t do,” Paine said, sounding very reasonable for someone who was hanging upside down. “They’re not for propulsion, guidance, defense, offense, life support, so…”
“So you jus' gonna shrug your shoulders an' assume they jus' put whole subsystems in there fo' somet'ing that gonna turn out t' be a nice surprise?” the engineer queried acidly. “Like maybe they play us a sweet lil’ song while we crash into th' ocean?”
The ensign grinned. “More like blast kick-ass tunes all the way to the bottom.”
The Cajun sighed and shook his head. He could remember feeling this laser-proof before hard experience had kicked such cock-sure arrogance out of him. “Oh? Is that what you would do?”
Paine snorted. “It’s what you would do.”
“Yeah?” DelMonde rolled his eyes, but there was something undeniably appealing about the little devil’s impishness. “You t'ink you got it all figured out, non?”
The ensign leaned in and planted a quick kiss on his temple then laughed as he nimbly pulled back up to the gunner’s position before he could be batted away. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”