Return to Part One
Jer reflected, as he looked down on a visibly trembling Quionon pointing them towards a grand staircase, that the Hood was probably the best starship assignment in the Fleet for a Security specialist. For example, a few seconds of eye contact and a slight inclination of his head was all it took for him to propose and have accepted a recommendation that he and his fellow officers fall into a formation with Paget taking point, Del stationed at the captain’s left, and the formidable Otgonbayar bringing up the rear. It was a small thing – a simple, common sense precaution, really. However Jer had seen and heard of other well-respected captains who didn’t pay any more attention to the deployment of their security task force -- when they even remembered to include them in a landing party -- than they would have to a couple of ceremonial robe-bearers. There were well-known and highly decorated captains who were infamous in Security circles for plunging into insecure settings headlong, leaving their armed escorts to trail along behind like half-forgotten balloons. Jack Aronson treated his security guards like vital elements of his tactical approach – not as nearly embarrassing reminders that Starfleet was still a military organization.
Of course, the missions the Hood drew were a part of this attitude. Captain Aronson was not much of a diplomat. Starfleet was aware of this. As Del liked to say, “They know he a man o' few words… an' that a couple o' them words is like to be 'Fire forward phasers'.” Starfleet had its uses, though, for a commander who liked to let a fully charged phaser array do his talking for him. If the Hood wasn’t the first ship into a hot zone, you could bet your last credit that she was going to be the second. They might not get many First Contacts but they did get more than their share of missions that it was starting to be obvious this one was. The poet DelMonde had characterized such visits thusly, “When the Hood show up at a planet’s door, it like gettin' a hand-engraved note from Starfleet sayin', 'Congratulations on makin' the top o' our shit list'.”
Although no hint had been shared with the crew, Jer thought there had to be some reason why the Hood had turned and headed in the direction of the anomalous power signature even after the drop in power levels had been noted and reported quite emphatically by a certain cranky engineer of his acquaintance…
“Now take look at this,” that engineer observed as the staircase rounded a curve and the massive mechanical structure filling this lower floor became visible.
The entire floor was incongruously populated with massive computer terminals and a glowing, humming conglomeration of metal and plasma-filled pipework.
“Well, sir,” DelMonde said in a broad parody of the repairman he once had been. “I t'inkin' that this be your problem right here.”
Aronson crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at the droning mass of obviously alien machinery. “Is this what I think it is?”
The engineer nodded. “If you t'inkin' it th' ops room of a Romulan War era Aldebarran planetary defense system, then yeah.”
“A Jedezian Vindicator,” Paget said, noting certain unmistakable stylistic structural elements. “Mark IV, I think.”
“What he say,” DelMonde graciously deferred to his comrade’s superior expertise on weapons systems.
“This is ours!” a nearby Quionon protested.
“Yeah,” the engineer nodded. “I sure you paid a pretty penny fo' it too.”
“Engineer.” Aronson turned his back to the Quionons and spoke quietly. “If you’re about to speculate on where they got this…”
“I not call it so much a speculation, Cap’n,” Del replied, pointing with his eyes towards evidence of the conclusion he had yet to utter.
“Not now,” his commander ordered.
“Understood,” the engineer agreed reluctantly.
Jer dropped to his friend’s side for a moment before moving on and swiped at his nose in such a way that his fingers would obscure his lips from the Quionon’s view for a moment and mouthed, “Havens?”
DelMonde carefully looked away and nodded.
“Lord Aronson,” the most senior Quionon began, dripping with oily charm. “Since you and your knights seem to have surmised your situation…”
“An' here come th' pitch…” Del muttered under his breath to Paget.
Jer gave him a grin and whispered back, “I'm a knight!”
“Yeah, like that somet'ing new…” the Cajun replied.
Ignoring this byplay, Jack Aronson folded his arms forbiddingly. “Release my ship.”
“Of course,” the Quionon agreed unctuously. “But there will be a substantial release fee…"
“Oh, Lord..” As was wont to happen, DelMonde’s background commentary crossed over into the clearly-audible-to-everyone range. “Bless they scaly li'l hearts. They t'ink they got theyselves a li'l' business goin' up in here…”
“Lieutenant,” Aronson cautioned.
“Sir,” the engineer stepped forward and uttered words that Jeremy Paget would have never predicted would have ever fallen from his friend’s lips. “If I may quote from th' Star Fleet Manual fo' these fine folks?”
A barely detectable micro-fraction of a smile flicked at one corner of Aronson’s frown. “If you feel you must, Engineer.”
“Mais, then, let me be tellin' ya’ll – jus' fo' your information…” DelMonde folded his arms behind his back in the style of a lecturer. “In Star Fleet among th' many an' various rules an' regulations we got on us to make sure we mind our p’s an' q’s, when folks start tryin' to play it fast an' loose wit' us, we also got this t'ing called General Order 24. An' it states – an' I quote -- When a society is deemed a clear and present danger to intergalactic peace and commerce, the commanding officer of a Starfleet vessel has the right to issue a command to destroy the surface of a planet which shall be enacted within 24 standard hours unless countermanded within that period of time by said commander.”
The Quionons as a unit recoiled from the Cajun like startled minnows.
“But…! But…! But…!” the senior minister sputtered. “The Federation prides itself on its beneficence! It constantly claims Star Fleet is primarily a research organization. Its missions are more scientific than military!”
“That all true,” DelMonde nodded, then crossed his arms. “We ain’t stupid, though.”
“What the Lieutenant is trying to do,” Paget said coming forward quickly, “is not to threaten, but to fully and honestly inform you of all of the options available to our commander in this situation before you irrevocably commit us all to something very regrettable.”
The Quionons did not look significantly reassured as they withdrew to the other side of the chamber to confer.
“Paget,” Aronson said, “You’ve got the makings of a diplomat.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jer acknowledged, maintaining a wary eye on the Quionons.
“You.” The Captain turned to the engineer and gave a rueful shake of his head. “Not so much.”
“To be fair, sir,” the Cajun defended himself quietly. “We standin' in front o' an illegal hunk o' weaponry the size o' four starbases stacked on top each other that can be --- an' jus' was -- used fo' the purpose of hijackin' a top o' the line Federation starship, non? An' we not got no indication these fish-faces have got any intention o' pullin' down th' Jolly Roger an' takin' off they eye patches 'til someone make' 'em do it, do we?”
“I would not say we have had any indications of that, Lieutenant,” Aronson agreed parsimoniously.
“Star Fleet may have even had indications to th' contrary – such as a certain amount o' unexplained merchant ship disappearances in th' quadrant – that have not been mentioned so far,” DelMonde speculated, judging the moment ripe to push his luck in that direction.
“Heads up, gentlemen,” Aronson replied instead, nodding towards the Quionons who who seemed to be collectively recovering their nerve.
The Hood officers braced themselves as the Quionons wheeled and headed back their way in a sort of spearheaded formation with a different official taking the lead.
“Your threats are empty!” the official retorted leveling a scaly finger at Aronson. “Your power levels are already insufficient to lay waste to our planet!”
The captain delegated the response to this to Paget with a simple wave of his finger.
“As I said,” Jer began in a calm an even tone. “We are not trying to threaten you. However, your information on Star Fleet weapons capability seems to be a little out of date – as out of date as is your weapons technology. During the Romulan War era when the Vindicator was cutting edge, yes, we couldn’t have done much to you. But now, starship phasers bank power in an entirely different manner.”
The Quionons blinked their large eyes at him blankly.
“In addition,” Paget continued. “We have photon torpedoes – which are essentially self-propelled. So as long as we can open the bay doors…”
“You don’t have enough power to open your bay doors!” some smart-carp in the back of the phalanx taunted.
Jer frowned. “Well, if that were to happen, we could still put on space-suits, get a pair of mag-clamps, go up to the bay doors, and…”
He gestured to Ensign Otgonbayar, who with gratifying quickness of wit, stepped forward and mimed tearing open torpedo bay doors accompanied with terrible gnashing of his white teeth and horrifying grunts as he broke through the imaginary boundary preventing the Hood from raining photon destruction down on their wayward planet.
The Quionons folded like a pack of damp cards. Half had to carry the other half back to their neutral corner.
“Gotta love the subtleties o' diplomacy,” DelMonde complimented his fellow officer.
“Actually, sir,” Paget began with a tentativeness somewhat at odds with the pantomime he’d just staged. “There has been a certain amount of chatter on some subspace channels…”
“Gentlemen, I am always gratified to hear my junior officers thinking above their pay scale,” Aronson said, holding up a hand. “However this does not obligate me to reveal information Star Fleet has decided needs to remain classified.”
“Yes, sir,” Paget replied, obediently chastened.
“Fair 'nough.” Del shrugged philosophically as he watched the Quionons confer. “I guess th' Brass not up fo' too much yammerin' jus' at present when they not knowin' if they on th' edges of a long nasty war wit' the Havens or already in th' midst of a particularly catty friendship wit' them bastards.”
“Not going to wade into that mud puddle, DelMonde,” his captain said firmly. “But… I’m glad that you seem to have a grasp of why some of your… technical conclusions about any aid the Quionons may have had in operationalizing this weapons system may or may not be deemed… relevant to the way our final report will have to be framed.”
“Oh, I understand, sir. I start out as a repairman in Kenner. I been in the situation where to get my credits, I jus' gotta sign at th' bottom of a blank slate an' let the details o' what the job was be worked out 'tween my bosses’ over-active imaginations an' th' client’s lawyers.” The Cajun crossed his arms and gave his captain a speculative side-glance. “I jus' not see you bein' too happy 'bout bein' caught up in that sort o' nonsense.”
“You are correct, Mr. DelMonde.” Aronson confirmed, frowning at the Quinions who once more seemed to be forming up around a new leader. “Star Fleet command has, so far, neglected to inquire, but I am not happy.” The captain’s frown deepened significantly as the natives began their march forward. “Not at all happy.”
Sensing where his commander's mood was headed, Del gave his friend a discreet, “step back” signal.
“You will cease this ridiculous posturing immediately and listen respectfully to our demands!” the new Quinion leader shouted as they stamped forward noisily.
Aronson made a broad gesture giving the Quionons the floor.
…Which took them completely off guard. “Well, we… that is to say… we…” the new leader sputtered.
“Release fee,” the captain prompted.
“Yes. The release fee,” the Quionon reminded itself, hastily straightening its uniform. “Everyone complains, but it is standard…”
It was difficult for Del to convincingly convert his snort into a cough. “I bet it is..”
“And quite substantial in our case?” Paget dared venture.
“The fee is commiserate with the resources of the payee, of course,” the Quionon replied in a patently Haven formulation.
Del was glad his hand was already at his mouth to stifle his fake cough so he wouldn’t laugh out loud. “T'ink I used that one myself…” he had to admit under his breath.
“And in our case…?” Aronson prompted unsmilingly.
The Quionon pulled out a stat board. “Two metric tons of dilithium…”
“Damn!” Paget exclaimed involuntarily.
“An immediate lifting of all intergalactic trading restrictions and a credit line of 75 billion Federation credits…” the native continued, unfazed.
Del blew out a low whistle. “Baby need some new flippers, apparently…”
“Three shuttlecraft…”
“...When we got four.”
“4700 phaser hand weapons…”
“…And a partridge in a pear tree,” Paget concluded.
The Quinion looked up. “What?”
Aronson didn’t bother to so much as shoot a silencing glance at his officers. “Go on.”
“And permanent access to a trained team of military advisers,” the Quinion concluded.
“That you, son,” DelMonde said, nudging Paget in the ribs.
Apparently Ensign Otgonbayar felt included in this demand as well for the Siberian rumbled forbiddingly.
“What he said,” muttered Jer to his friend.
Aronson merely folded his arms. “Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“And if we refuse..?”
“Your ship will be destroyed,” the leader announced as the Quinons gave each other little nods of approval that business was finally being conducted to their satisfaction.
“Noted.” Aronson’s reply was singularly unadorned. “My officers have identified the technology you have used to disable my ship as a modified Romulan War era Aldebarran planetary defense system - specifically as a Mark IV Jedezian Vindicator. Do you dispute this identification?”
This produced a buzz of protest from the natives. “It is ours!”
“This technology is specifically outlawed in the treaty of Arlan 754, Section III, paragraphs…”
“We signed no treaty!”
“Your planet was at that time part of the Gorlon Trading Alliance,” Aronson reminded them patiently, “who were signatories…”
“Cease this quibbling!” an anonymous Quionon shouted.
Another stepped forward to shake a scaly fist. “This is all nothing but posturing and delay!”
“All right.” The Hood’s captain held up both hands for silence. “I’ll give it to you straight.” He leveled an unwavering finger at the whirring machinery beside them. “You are inarguably in criminal possession of illegal war machinery which you have used to commit an unprovoked act of terrorism upon a ship of the line. You have now compounded this crime by a blatant act of extortion which confirms multiple allegations of unbridled piracy of the part of this planet which have come to the attention of Star Fleet.” His strong voice echoed ominously in the large chamber. His unsmiling eyes met each of the natives’ in turn. “Your society, therefore, in my judgment, poses a clear and present danger to the peace and stability of this region of space.”
“Who are you to judge us?” an unrepentant Quionon cried.
The captain drew up to his full height. “I am Captain John Robert Franklin Aronson of the U.S.S. Hood,” he in a voice that was as cold as ice and as commanding as thunder. “Under intergalactic treaty, Star Fleet regulations, and given your egregious, bald-faced, and unapologetic malfeasance, I have the power to act as this planet’s immediate judge, jury, and executioner.” The captain’s tone dropped to its lowest, most deadly register. “And I assure you, sirs, if you do not immediately reverse this foolhardy course and release my ship, we will be completing this discussion of your planet’s fate in the ashes of its destruction.”
The Quionons blew away like a pile of horrified leaves before a strong breeze.
Noel DelMonde turned to his captain with a half-smile.
“You,” he said, shaking his head, “Not so much.”
“Tactical evaluation,” Aronson requested of his security team instead of responding.
Otgonbayar frowned after the still retreating Quionons. “They run like cowards… Then turn and charge like heroes.”
“Despite the uniforms and weapons of the honor guard,” Jer reported, now glad he’d spent hours obsessing over mission briefings. “This is a mercantile society – not a warrior one. They have few taboos about openly displaying fear when they feel it.”
Aronson nodded, although his eyes were still on the Quionons. “So to them, discretion very much outweighs valor.”
“Yes, their past experience and/or some bad advice has told them that this extortion trick will work as long as they keep standing their ground,” Paget confirmed, carefully not saying the word “Haven.” “You’ve just heard just how much they think they have to gain.”
The captain of the Hood sighed bitterly. “They think I’m bluffing.”
“They gotta be hopin' you bluffin',” the engineer offered, crossing his arms. “They obviously scared you not. Hell, I gettin' pretty scared we not…”
“Is that your take, DelMonde?”
“We keep surprisin' an' frustratin' these folks,” the Cajun reported. “They itchin' t' do the same t' us. They scared. They mad… They greedy as all hell.”
“Captain,” Paget began carefully. “When they come back this time… If you wouldn’t mind standing back for a moment while I speak to them, sir?”
“Hey, yeah…! Give ‘em a li'l o' the ol good-cop bad-cop, non?” The engineer nodded enthusiastically. “You should let him try, sir. He good as hell at that stuff.”
Aronson considered a moment before signaling his assent. “Don’t make any promises, Lieutenant,” he cautioned.
“No, sir,” Paget assured his commander.
“He just gonna provide a li'l wiggle room then mark th' direction they decide t'squirm,” Del vouched for his friend.
“Good luck,” Aronson said quietly, signaling the Siberian to accompany him and the Quionons once more formed up for a new approach.
The Captain turned his back on the natives to bolster the impression that Paget was operating independently and indicated with an inclination of his head for DelMonde to follow.
When they reached what they judged to be an appropriate distance, there was nothing to do but wait.
“Not'ng quite as awkward as standin' 'round on a planet you done threaten to blow up, non?” the Cajun commented after a few uncomfortable moments.
His captain rolled his eyes, but made no comment.
“Firs' time I ever done it…” the engineer admitted. “… to somebody’s face, at least. I not guess you get used to it…”
“Not a good sign if you do,” Aronson said, glancing discreetly to where his other officers were deep in animated conversation.
“You got a good damned point there,” DelMonde agreed.
“Maybe you should try to concentrate on something else, Lieutenant,” the captain advised.
The engineer shrugged. “Funny how th' prospect o' the planet under your feet gettin' blowed up tends to keep hoggin' the center of a man’s attention…”
“Have you have much experience with the Havens, DelMonde?” Aronson asked, helpfully changing the subject to something attention-getting.
“You could say that I have,” his engineer answered carefully.
“As a former repairman?”
“No, I had gone on to doing some work designing and customizing small interplanetary crafts by that time,” the Cajun replied with an atypical lack of embellishment. “Specialty stuff. High dollar. The Havens loved it.”
“All before you went to the Academy?”
“Yep.”
“You’ve led an adventurous life, Lieutenant,” Aronson observed.
“You not know the half of it, sir,” the Cajun confirmed.
Before his commander had time to frame questions about that other half, Paget and Otgonbayar returned.
“I did my best to explain to them that although we cannot countenance piracy, or pay 'release fees' if they free our ship now, there’s still an opportunity for them to open negotiations for a formal trade relationship with the Federation that could be far more profitable to them in the long term,” Paget explained, sounding a little breathless.
“And they were interested?”
“Yes, but… apparently they’ve got to kick the idea up to next bureaucratic level.”
“Let me get this straight.” The Cajun tilted his head to one side. “They t'ink they okay t' deal wit' us threatenin' to blow up th' planet, but we start talkin' 'bout settin' up a used tribble stand wit' ‘em an' they gotta call in their supervisor?”
“Basically.”
DelMonde shook his head. “The world of business is jus' beyond me…”
“If you agree, sir,” Paget said, directing his proposal to Aronson. “We can request an audience with the Heiroenfanta. She’s a relgio-commercial-royal personage of some importance. We’re in part of her palace right now, in fact.”
The Cajun sighed deeply. “Oh, Lord, not some stuck-up High Priestess…”
Paget shrugged. “Seems to be our best option.”
“Sounds like a delaying tactic,” Aronson decided, shaking his head. “They’re just trying to run out the clock on us.”
“I can’t say that’s not true,” the Security guard conceded. “If only there was some way we could get them to temporarily turn off that beam for the duration of any peace talks…”
“Sir, if I rememberin' my Romulan war machinery right...” the engineer began slowly. “They should be able t' spectrum shift wit'out deactivatin' their beam… Right, Jer?”
Paget snapped his fingers in enthusiastic agreement. “Yes! They can cut out the zeta range…”
“Wit'out deactivatin' the beam entirely, they can restrict z-range emissions – which should be pretty attractive t' them 'cause it would help their power utilization curve an' ultimately let them hold out longer against us…” DelMonde expanded.
“And what’s in it for us?” Aronson asked.
“Well, our engines won’t spontaneously recharge like they would if th' drain was cut entirely, but cuttin' those z-waves will give Jacobs some breathin' room. He gonna be able to claw back a few points here an' there if we talk long enough…”
“Okay.” Aronson gave Paget a quick pat on the back and turned him towards the Quionons. “And Lieutenant, don’t request. Demand. We demand an immediate audience. We demand they cut zeta emissions. Never mind that we just came up with them. These are standard, non-negotiable parlay conditions. Understood?”
“Understood, sir.” The Security Man nodded and set off for the Quionons with renewed purpose and a spring in his step.
Once more Aronson turned a back of lordly indifference on his junior officers. DelMonde, however felt free to keep a watchful eye on his friend as he waded back among the Quinons.
“Are they buying it, Lieutenant?” the captain asked quietly after a few moments.
Del tilted his head to one side as he evaluated. It was difficult to make hard and fast judgments about alien emotions and non-verbals.
“I t'ink they want to,” he decided. “They wanna get this mess off their plates an' on to somebody else’s. They can tell they fightin' out o' their weight class. They jus' lucky that we run up on ‘em 'fore the Klingons did. They’d be a big ol’ tuna fish sandwich already if they tried to pull any o' this shit on that bunch.”
The captain grunted his agreement to this evaluation.
Silence lapsed as again the captain and the engineer were stuck with nothing to do but wait for further developments.
“Do you have much experience wit' the Havens, sir?” Del asked preemptively when he sensed that Aronson might be tempted to make conversation back in that direction.
“No. Well…I once saw Bek Mokollian steal an admiral’s yacht and wife out from under his nose…”
“Let me guess,” the Cajun said. “He bringed the wife back…”
“Uhm-hmm.”
“Figures.”
Thankfully at this point, there was movement in the group in front of them.
“Here he comes,” the engineer reported. “Smilin'. I have always said ol’ Jer could charm th' birds out the trees. Apparently, the fish out the pond too…”
“We have a truce of sorts,” Paget announced happily. “They’ve agreed to cut the z-waves while we talk.”
Aronson gave him a discreet congratulatory pat on the arm. “Excellent work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It the power drain,” the Cajun concluded. “An' your diplomatic genius, o' course, Jer.”
Paget gestured towards the masses of plasma whirling through untold acres of piping just beyond them. “These old Romulan War era defense systems suck up resources like there’s no tomorrow.”
Aronson nodded as a team of Quionons trouped down to man a series of control panels. “Because at that time, if your defense grid failed, there literally was no tomorrow.”
“When the Hood went fo' more than an hour or so wit'out cavin' in, the civilian authorities musta started howlin',” the engineer speculated.
“I wish you’d told me earlier,” his captain commented.
“I wish I thought of it earlier,” DelMonde agreed as the sound of the machinery around them hummed down several octaves. “I not much of a military history buff.”
“Never neglect our past…” Aronson quoted.
“…For in the reaches of unknown space, it may serve as guide to some civilization’s present,” Paget finished with him.
“Not that I argue wit' Dr. Gill,” DelMonde said as the natives beckoned them forward to check the new, modulated power output readings. “I jus' directed my studies o' history assumin' any sensible alien civilization would tend to base a parallel Earth on what I thought were th' most interestin' qualities o' our past.”
“The quest for higher justice and the pursuit of individual liberties?” Aronson assumed.
“More like th' quest for heavy drinkin' an' th' pursuit of scantily clad dancin' girls…” the Cajun corrected, leaning forward to check out a readout. “But those other t'ings are good too…”
An officious looking Quionon strode forward and looked down its stubby excuse for a nose at the group from the Hood. “You have been granted an audience,” it announced in a tone that indicated such a development was very much against its judgment.
“That was fast,” Paget murmured in surprise.
“Too fast,” his captain decided gesturing towards Jer and Del. “You two hang back and make sure everything here goes as agreed.”
“Yes, sir,” the pair chorused as their captain and his huge Siberian bodyguard climbed back up the grand staircase surrounded by a phalanx of Quionons.
“They don’t even seem to notice that you and I are staying behind,” Paget observed.
“We obviously small fry,” Del concluded, keeping both eyes on the power spectrum indicators. “It th' red shirts. Universal sign fo' expendable.”
Paget crossed his arms as he craned his neck to get a better angle on what the technician a few feet away was doing. “I think we look devilishly handsome in scarlet.”
The engineer nodded distractedly. “Yeah, that the two o' us all right – jus' so much brilliant, deadly eye candy…”
Jer gave a contented laugh as the z wave indicator on the panel in front of them zeroed out.
“By th' way…” The Cajun gave his friend a significant sidelong glance. “You watch yourself.”
Paget lifted an eyebrow. “What?”
“I not sayin' not'ing,” the engineer insisted diffidently.
“Yes, you are,” Paget pointed out. “You’re just not being very specific about what you’re saying. What do you think I’m doing – other than my job like the total professional that I am?”
“You getting kinda flushed an' dewy-eyed 'bout it, though,” his friend observed. “Non?”
When one was best friends with a tel-empath, it would seem like intrusive observations about personal reactions would be a constant, nearly unavoidable nuisance. With Del, though -- either because he made a point of not paying attention to anything around him most of the time, or just didn’t care -- such “busybody” sort of comments were rare enough to be a little adorable.
Jer grinned as they both moved forward to observe the next tier of computers. “You scared I might be on the edge of a swoon?”
“Jeremy Maurice Paget,” the Cajun scolded quietly. “Don’t act like you not crushin' on ol' Jack Aronson like a big dog.”
“I am being a consummate professional going about my duties in a consummately professional manner,” the Security guard replied with just the right touch of theatrically self-righteous dignity.
“Yeah,” the engineer agreed sourly. “It not your fault if he jus' down here bein' a big ol’ badass wit' a nice coat o' dreamboat sauce on top…”
Paget gave his best imitation of a starry-eyed sigh. “And a big dish of military-history-geek intellectual yum on the side….”
“Quotin' John Gill together…” Del shook his head in disgust as they crossed to a different bank of computers. “‘Bout make me wanna puke…”
The Security guard fluttered his eyelashes. “He can target my major cities any time…”
“I jus' not want you t' be cryin' on my shoulder next week when he not know your name,” his roommate warned.
“Oh, he’s going to know me – Noel DelMonde’s darkly handsome friend with a certain gift for…” Jer filled the pause with lascivious promise. “…diplomacy…”
“I may puke after all…” the Cajun decided.
Paget scanned the control room. “Are we done here?”
“I convinced these fellows have zeroed out th' zeta levels,” the engineer replied, folding his arms, “an' that I am never gonna open my damn mouth t' ever try t' tell you a damned t'ing ever again.”
“Wanna see if they’ll let us try to get to the Heiroenfanta’s chambers by ourselves?” Paget asked, gesturing towards the grand staircase.
“I gonna bet no,” DelMonde replied, “but let’s us give it a spin an' see how far we get.”
They got seventeen steps up before a contingent of armed Quionons fell in step with them.
“’Bout this far,” the Cajun concluded as they continued to climb.
Although he had made light of Del’s warnings, Jer did have to admit it was incredibly thrilling – and yes, even to the point of being sexually titillating – to have this much unfiltered access to his captain.
Aronson in his element was charismatic in a way that was almost never visible on the Hood… at least not for anyone under the rank of lieutenant commander. The agile and deadly mind so gorgeously on display here was usually obscured by a cold and distant demeanor on the ship. Of course, the captain wasn’t on the verge of blowing up a planet all the time every day… which was a good thing… if not as attractive….
“The fella only got two speeds,” Del would often say of Aronson. “Sublight or warp ten.”
The reason that Del had become one of the very few members of the very rarified group of Hood junior officers able to offer such insights on their captain’s true nature was because after the engineer’s Denebian Literary adventure, there were a certain number of VIPs, wives of VIPs, teenaged daughters, and even a few sons of VIPs who arranged things so that they could get a glimpse of the poet/engineer in his natural habitat.
Aronson’s well-trained and thoroughly appalled staff had reacted by crafting carefully stage-managed dinners at the captain’s table with a seating plan that placed both the Cajun and the captain where they could be seen by their guests but not close enough to be spoken to easily by anyone outside the captain’s charmed inner circle. Simple geometry decreed that the most effective arrangement would be for the two of them to sit side by side to offer the best deployment of protective flanking on each side. Del and Aronson, therefore, had reached their current level of détente out of a shared desire to survive the seemingly endless parade of visitors without dying of boredom.
Jer remembered that his friend had arrived back from the first of these dinners in a very miserable state, reporting that he had been forced to “dress up in a damned gold-braided monkey suit” and read three poems members of the senior staff had selected that were so bone-dry and charmless that the engineer had felt the need to check his own book to make sure he’d actually penned them. Then he’d been obliged to “choke down some foam rubber posin' as roast Tandoori spoutbeast an' wash it down wit' a half-glass o' cat-piss white wine” while half the table hawk-eyed him to make sure his breathing wasn’t offending anyone.
Paget had the temerity to remind his friend that the Cajun was fully capable of rendering some truly eloquent examples of respiration and was promptly rebuked with a particularly pointed and malevolent sigh. Undeterred the Security guard had pointed out that there was a ship full of junior officers who would be overjoyed to have a chance to have their captain’s ear at a similar social situation and that the engineer should take advantage of the opportunity to improve the impression the senior staff had of him by making at least one positive observation any future gatherings he might be invited to attend.
“What?” the Cajun had asked. “You mean like I be positive that the Venusian Ambassador’s wife is the fattest, mos' sour-smellin' bitch to ever…”
There and then Jer had decided that, on second thought, it was probably best for N.C. to drink his wine as best he could and concentrate on breathing evenly.