"Of Jewels and Valkyries"
Always acknowledge a fault frankly. This will throw those in authority off their guard and give you opportunity to commit more.
(Mark Twain)
[Observation lounge USS Potsdam, outskirts of the Betazed system]
“I thought they said ‘squadron’, Commander. Where’s the rest of it?”
“This would appear to be it, Admiral” the dark haired Vulcan looked out the window, then back at his PADD. “Designated ‘Jewel Three’, based out of Arandel. I believe I mentioned the Betazoids do not precisely adhere to..”
“Yes yes yes you did. But this is barely a flight and a half and just LOOK at that gaggle!”
Commander Sorak looked. “According to a Mister ‘Daddy Chicken’ Moshe, this is all they have, sir.”
“Daddy what?” Admiral von Bruegge was not having a good day. Training exercises could be anything from brilliant displays of tactics to utter disasters, but for THIS you had to invent an entirely new word. Out of the 24 brand new interceptors they had delivered to the Betazoids months ago, only 18 had pilots so far, and while the first squadron they had been training with earlier had performed admirably, von Bruegge thought it might be less of a headache to just station a bunch of Starfleet pilots here and be done with it. And speaking of headache…
“Daddy Chicken, sir” the Vulcan said, giving the Admiral one of those looks through which the amusement was absolutely not supposed to show, but did.
“Apparently a misunderstanding involving some Terran idiom.”
“Ach du liebe Zeit…”
“Sir?”
“Never mind, Sorak. Are we ready?” rubbing his temples, von Bruegge cast another weary look at the ragtag band of … something out there.
“Potsdam to Jewel Three leader, please acknowledge” the Commander touched a blue panel on the strategic display and was immediately answered by a cheerful voice “This is SnowFox. Go ahead, Potsdam”
“We are ready to commence the exercise. Please confirm you wish to train against a full squadron.”
“Confirmed.” The woman sounded strangely confident, given the state of her, for lack of a better term, squadron. “Unless you’re afraid we might bruise some egos. In that case, by all means, call your kids back to the nest.” “Very well,” the Vulcan’s brows seemed intent on climbing above his hairline “Red, Green and Blue leaders, proceed at your discretion. Potsdam out.”
As the Potsdam’s interceptors streamed past the starship and bore down on the Betazoids like hungry predators, the Admiral was not surprised to see them scramble. Two of them actually made a run for the outermost J-class planet in the system. He nodded to his adjutant “Tie us in, Sorak. And have medical stand by in case they manage to hurt themselves.”
“… watch your six there, Ford”
“No worries, grandma” the laughing voice of a young male made the Admiral shake his head, but Sorak suddenly looked rather thoughtful. The Betazoids’ behavior did not correspond with their attitude. Illogical, unless…
“You think I didn’t notice they’re trying to lure us into a little trap?” von Bruegge smirked at the Vulcan “and if I noticed, don’t you think…”
“Sir?”
“Yes, what?”
On the tactical display the two Betazoid interceptors appeared to be returning from behind the planet, but two of their four pursuers showed up damaged “it would seem the ‘little trap’ was a little successful, sir”
“Status, Wellington” the leader’s voice was suddenly all business-like
“In a minute, grandma”
“WrongWay?”
“Khrysaros got ‘em good, SnowFox but I’m kinda … HEY that was NOT nice!”
With hands clasped behind his back, Admiral von Bruegge looked at the ‘Furball’ of various dogfights outside the window. A second one of the Betazoids had just been ‘shot down’ and broke off. Astonishingly enough, they had somehow managed to disable two more opponents. But their home advantage would not help them much longer, from the look of things they were merely hanging on by sheer determination. He gave them three more minutes. At the most.
“Khrysaros, Commander?”
“The Betazoid designation for their outermost planet, sir. Apparently it has properties that are inconsequential to a starship but…” the Vulcan looked even more thoughtful, if such a thing was possible. Before he could ramble on about the precise nature of those properties, the Betazoids’ leader’s voice interrupted and von Bruegge sent a silent ‘thank you‘.
“NOW would be a good time, Wellington!”
‘Good time for what?’ the Admiral scanned for the interceptor with the bright green cow playing a harp painted on it. Strange sense of humor, these people. What did an ancient British Duke have to do with… there it was, performing a near perfect Herbst maneuver, while another interceptor with a … what? giant image of Einstein? painted on it shot down it’s pursuers. “They’re crazy!” he muttered “A flying circus, that’s what they are!”
“Sir, I must point out that the term ‘Flying Circus’ was also used in referring to the human ace Manfred von Richthofen and…’ “THANK you Sorak.” His headache sure wasn’t going to get any better.
“And NOW it is, SnowFox”
The Admiral had barely time to wonder what “it” was and why this Betazoid was speaking with an Irish accent, when the comm link was suddenly flooded with music. Very loud music.
“WHAT THE HE…”
“WAGNER, SIR!”
“WHAT? SHUT THAT … off. Thank you. What WAS that?”
“Wagner, sir.” Sorak absentmindedly rubbed his ear. “Ride of the Valkyries.”
“Yes, I know. I mean what… what?” The tactical display now showed more than half of their own fighters either shot down or disabled, and the three remaining Betazoids were suddenly not flying so clumsily any more. Still crazy, but there was method to the madness.
“It would seem, sir, that all comm channels are jammed. Ours and the interceptors. With Wagner, sir.” Sorak still looked a bit like a Vulcan who just had gotten hit behind the ears, but he was fussing over the comm panel with an almost admiring look on his face.
“What? But that means their own communications are out, too, right?”
“Unless they’re listening to the music, yes, sir. But I must point out, they ARE telepaths.”
“Oh, now THAT is… WHOA!” von Bruegge jumped as one of the interceptors, in hot pursuit of Red Three, made a high speed pass right in front of the windows, “That cocky SON of a …”
“Sir?”
“Sorak, I want that bouncing … pilot’s head on a platter, are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sorak assumed for the moment that the Admiral was speaking figuratively. And he decided that this might not be the time to point out, that the pilot in question was in fact a ‘daughter of a …’.
The animal painted on the offending interceptor’s hull had looked rather familiar to the Vulcan. “Get me communications back, Commander!”
But it was too late. The pilot designated “SnowFox” had drawn away three of the four remaining attackers and together with her wingman “Sehlat” disabled two, before the latter took a simulated hit that in a real scenario would have made her craft go up in a ball of flames. In the meantime, the one called “Ford” -‘interesting, what does an ancient Terran vehicle have to do with a glass of ale? And why would one paint an alcoholic beverage on …’- had disposed of the fourth. The lone ‘survivor’ of Potsdam’s interceptors fell prey to the Betazoids’ leader and the Admiral’s face had turned a quite disconcerting shade of red.
“Himmel Arsch und Zwirn!”
“Admiral?”
Werner von Bruegge wasn’t a man who lost his countenance in front of ANYone. But those Betazoids were sure pushing it, huddling together right back where they‘d started in something not even vaguely resembling a formation.
“Extend my congratulations to Jewel Three. And tell them if they EVER pull another number like that, I’ll either have to have a word with their superiors or draft them.”
"Earrach
Spring of 2398
[Arandel, Betazed]
He woke to the sun tickling his nose and his first reflex was to pull the blanket over his head. Way too early. WAY too…. blanket? There should be a blanket here somewhere… whoa.
Alright, so,… not dreaming. Warm sun. Arm hurt from pinching. Actually, some other parts of his body were complaining, too. Lots of parts.
Let’s see…
Yup, real.
His hand stopped just a few millimeters above the sleeping woman’s shoulder. The lass radiated heat like an oven, but somehow he was afraid if he touched her, she’d either wake up and smack him or he’d find out she wasn’t real after all. Okay, yea, the smacking was more likely.
Saints in Heaven.
His cautious moving about had succeeded in producing a mumble from her, and here she went claiming the last tiny bit of blanket.
“Hey.”
“Hmmmmmwhat.”
Definitely real. Definitely her.
“Good morning, luv. You think I could have that back… never mind.”
He chuckled when she tried to roll over and stretch at the same time, her soulful black eyes blinking sleepily.
“Hmmm never mind what? Dia duit ar maidin.”
“Nice cocoon you built for yourself there. That cold?”
The Fairy Queen in his bed made an unidentifiable sound, possibly something in between an amused huff and a yawn, and stretched some more.
Well, if that was how spirit folk ensnared you, someone had to re-write a few stories here and there.
His smile grew wider when he brushed some of the wild black curls away from her face and traced the contours of that pretty ear hidden underneath the mass of fragrant hair, prompting a swatting move from the sleepy woman.
“Mmmmffff”
“Come on, luv. You know how Moshe gets when people show up late.”
Some mumbled words in a lovely Vulcan accent which he couldn’t understand for the life of him followed that statement before she succeeded in pulling the silks over her head, making it clear to the universe at large that for the moment at least she was staying right here, thank you very much.
Not that he would have minded staying right here, too. Not at all.
In fact, if he could have his way he’d not leave this very spot for quite a bit.
Yea, and if space were made of oatmeal…
“Hey.” he whispered again.
“Fa-’afau sar-tak na’veh.”
“Unless that meant ‘Yes my love I’m getting up now’, forget it.”
Finally, she managed to turn around and peeked up at him, mischief sparkling in the depths of her eyes. “What if it meant that I’m not getting up because I have other plans?”
Oh DAMN.
“We both know it didn’t, luv.” And before she could make true on her threat (and more importantly, before he could jump at the chance of making her make it true), he dragged his sorry carcass out of bed, snatching the little Fairy Queen, blanket and all.
Whew.
He had half expected she’d get annoyed, possibly mop the floor with him or worse. But all she did was quirk that adorable brow at him and smile in a way that promised trouble. All kinds of trouble.
Through the thin fabric he could feel the contours of her body as she nestled against him and the beating of her heart, so much faster than his own.
“I think I’ll need a cold shower. Come to think of it, so do you, luv.”
“Oh?”
The jab to his ribs came quite unexpected and knocked the air out of him, resulting in the young woman to slide to her feet with the grace of a cat.
The silks she had wrapped herself in fluttered to the floor, but rather than push her attack, she winked and strode off, leaving a laughing human in the middle of the room.
“You are the devil.”
“A devil who despises cold water” came her reply over the sound of falling water, as steam began to billow through the door.
“Naturally.” he smirked and for just a moment, considered following his black haired beauty into the little sauna she had created, Moshe and everyone else be damned. Something told him she wouldn’t take unkindly to the idea…
Sighing and grinning at the same time, he looked over the mess that had once been his bedroom. Wow. So much for that nightstand… how the hell had they managed to break… ah, right.
That uniform was a bit on the disheveled side, too, so maybe he should find a new one… yes, definitely a new one. Chuckling quietly to himself, the young man with the ruffled hair tossed the ruined clothes and selected something more appropriate from the closet before making his way to the kitchen.
Sausages were off the menu, but pancakes sounded pretty good.
When she came strolling into his kitchen, her nose moving in appreciation, he almost laughed out loud. In the universal way of women all over the quadrant, the little half-Vulcan had ditched her uniform for the next best thing available, meaning one of his shirts. It might as well have been a dress, albeit a rather short one that displayed her long, slender legs in all their copper-toned glory. And still, for such a small woman her curves were lush and deep.
“An bhfuil ocras ort?” he smiled at her, expertly handling the pan while appreciating the view.
“Starving, actually.”
Wrapping one arm around her waist he pulled her closer, while she rose on her toes to snatch the piece of pancake from his fork.
“Greedy one.”
“Hm. Uttaberries?”
“And some terran maple syrup, courtesy of an old friend.”
“I didn’t know you can cook.”
“And I didn’t know Vulcans have a sweet tooth.”
That actually prompted a small melodious laugh, which in turn made his heart skip a beat “You don’t know the half of it.”
“I’m learning.” he mumbled as two warm arms reached around his neck, holding on tight, and then in one lightning fast move she was gone, having commandeered the plate with the food.
“Oh, am I learning.” he laughed. “Enjoy, luv. I’ll go see about that cold water.”
Or maybe a bucket with ice cubes. At least if there was to be a chance in hell they’d make it to work with no more than a few hours delay.
"Innocence" Part V
Spring of 2398
[City of Rixx - bar known as “Drunken Spaceman“]
Mr Brel stood by the large fireplace and let his gaze wander over his establishment and its guests. Funny how the world and the galaxy worked, really. But it was good to know that no matter where you went, there were a few constants that seemed true for everyone, be it methane breathing blobs of protoplasm or oxygen dependent bipeds. And one of those constants was, that if you put enough life-forms of any shape together in one place, interesting things were bound to happen.
The white-haired Betazoid was a happy man, for here in his ancestral home he had created an ideal place for all kinds of people to meet and he delighted in the inevitable stories unfolding before him every day.
He smiled a warm welcome to the group now bursting (there really was no better word for it) through the old wooden door, those exuberant young people were the delight of his evenings. Of course, to some they spelled ‘trouble’ ten miles against the wind, but Mr Brel was a firm believer that mischief was the rightful inheritance of youth. He had seen much in his 101 standard years, and therefore felt entitled to ‘cut slack’ to whomever he pleased. The group, still in their flight suits, waved and shouted in his direction and he acknowledged their friendly greetings by raising his glass of ale.
Chuckling quietly, he watched one of his granddaughters race behind the counter to bring out the first round of ales and coffee and remembered the day another story had started right here. Well, a multitude of them, actually, all entwined and flowing into one another, as stories usually do.
There had been young Miss Grax, wanting to hold her wedding not in the traditional shrine but right here, where she had met her Imzadi, a Terran with the worst accent Mr Brel had ever heard and an ability to match drinks with a Klingon.
Then there had been those same young people, stumbling in through his door, wet as - well as a bunch of people who got caught in one of Betazed’s rainstorms, Mr Brel couldn’t think of anything wetter than THAT - bringing the flowers and vines to decorate the rooms for that very wedding. He had built a fire for them, his grandchildren had raided their closets for some dry garments and finally, they had been sitting there, laughing and telling him of their adventures. Wrapped in blankets, with tea and brandy in their hands (on this occasion he had sort of ‘forgotten’ his promise not to serve the young half-Vulcan any alcohol, and pointedly ignored it when she’d tried to remind him), they had recovered quickly, thank the Four Deities, and only young Kolan had sneezed a bit for a few days.
Now there would be another wedding, right here, in just a few days, and Mr Brel couldn’t be happier. The young pilots gathered around Moshe had already managed to down the first round and Mr Brel felt it was time to exercise his privileges as host and join them for a moment. Waving to his grandchild, he moved towards their table, never failing to address his other patrons with a kind word or two as he passed them by. The galaxy out there might be cruel and unforgiving at times, inside these doors Mr Brel had created a refuge and he was determined to keep it so even if the rest of the universe should decide to go mad.
“It’s now officially a cultural event, Sehlat. Can’t argue with culture!” Mira tried to look serious but failed miserably.
“Cultural? A Theocondt race? You cannot POSSIBLY ...”
Sakarra almost choked on her coffee but Moshe jumped in, scratching thoughtfully behind his ear “You know, the Tellarite delegation DID ask whether the Betazed government would object if they adapted this custom, and…”
“Moshe, for crying out loud, it was an ACCIDENT!”
“Was it, Sehlat? I thought it was another one of your hare-brained ideas gone .. what’s the word?”
“Ruckus? Rumpus? TlhaQ?” Sirta offered.
“All out bonkers?” James smiled, carefully sliding an arm around a pouting Sakarra’s shoulders. Moshe considered for a moment and then nodded solemnly. “That one, yes.”
Sakarra poked James in the side, ignoring his quiet “oof” and eyed her mug suspiciously “There better not be anything but… oh hello Mr Brel”
The older Betazoid smiled at the group and pulled up a chair “How are the wedding plans coming along?”
“All set, Mr Brel, and thank you for letting us use your bar” Renn smiled, planting a kiss on Mira’s cheek “all we need to do is find some tame birds for the race. I doubt Mr Berx is going to let us borrow his again, considering they all had stomach aches for days…”
“Well, then you better inform the authorities and residents beforehand, son. I’m sure they’ll appreciate being in the middle of the party but some might object to having their gardens trampled, or worse, eaten.” “Good point, Mr Brel, good point” James said, rubbing his ribs “I don’t know what I was thinking when I taught her that song, anyways… do all Vulcans take stuff so literally?”
“Maybe this time you should try to find real donkeys” Mr Brel mused “Theocondts do seem to react funny to ale. And speaking of, are you quite alright?”
“Just a bear hug, Mr Brel, just a bear hug” James answered to general laughter. “You see…’
“James found out that Sehlat is adequately named” Moshe grinned.
“Considering that you guys bestowed that callsign upon me without bothering to look up what a Sehlat really is”
“It seemed fitting” Sirta commented “Vulcan Teddy Bear. Cute but a bit clumsy, constantly knocking over stuff, or rather, trees, …” Sakarra briefly considered what else one might do with a tree, like throwing parts of it after an Andorian, but thought better of it, nodding a thank you to the young woman who was handing her another coffee.
“When in fact,” James stated “it’s more like a cuddly grizzly-bobcat something with fangs. And if it hugs you, Saints help your ribs.”
Mr Brel nodded, having been host to so many aliens, he understood the reference “Bear and hug. Of course.” The young half-Vulcan looked more amused than irritated and Mr Brel considered the possibility… oh, he’d find out soon enough if his intuition was correct. Usually it was, but with this one it was sometimes hard to tell. He decided to get back to the matter at hand “About the flower arrangements…”
Good natured groans and laughter met his inquiry and the Betazoid smiled. He’d already taken care of it, of course. But to see young Mira smile and Renn wink in a knowing way… “To the bride and groom” he chuckled “and to the rains of Vathax, a ruined dress and a disastrous first date. May all calamities in our lives have such pleasant outcomes.”
[Three days later, in the gardens outside the “Drunken Spaceman]
The white haired Betazoid watched the wedding guests file into his garden and nodded approvingly to himself. This far everything seemed to go smoothly. Not that he expected it to remain that way, he knew his young pilots better than that. The hangers were already filled with a wide assortment of clothes and the cheerful mix of voices was a sure indicator that there were a good number of off-worlders present.
Mr Brel gave his grandchildren a few last minute instructions and then looked over to the Theocondts. The large flightless birds were honking excitedly in their makeshift corral while some laughing little ones fed them Uttaberries. Good thing there’d be no clothes to clean up later.
He had just finished placing his own shirt and trousers on a hanger, when the gong sounded and a hush fell over the guests.
Here came Renn and his parents, the mother making a really good show of trying to hold him back, and then Mira’s family, led by the Maid of Honor. Mr Brel noticed with a smile that he had never seen the young half-Vulcan with her hair unbraided. Her dark curls fell all the way down to her waist and gave her the appearance of some mischievous forest spirit, no matter how dignified she tried to look for the sake of the occasion. But her low voice was as resonant and musical as ever when she held out her hand to a positively glowing Mira “I summon you to the place of marriage.”
At least, Mr Brel thought, the young people got to finish their vows and all before the Theocondts got bored and decided that the flower arrangements were a buffet too delicious to ignore. And somehow they would get that stray one off the roof, too. What goes up…
"Innocence Drowned"
[Shores of the Alarmante Sea]
“The day that ‘Kara’s drunken donkey won the race at Dalaria… uh, wait”
“Lexie, that’s NOT how the song goes” Sakarra tried to put on a stern face but had to chuckle nonetheless.
“And who cares, exactly? The birds? The fish? Grandma? Your parents? What are they doing, anyways?” Olixinna Tyrax craned her neck and scanned the beach. There, two dunes away, were her mother, grandmother and uncle Rel in deep, silent conversation, but her Vulcan aunt was nowhere to be seen. Or sensed, for that matter. Shrugging, she turned back to her cousin who was watching a few more relatives walk along the shore.
‘You sense it, too. Don’t you.’
‘Don’t need to be a superb empath for that, Lexie’
The mood on the beach was indeed unusually subdued for a gathering of Betazoids, although some were making a valiant effort to lighten everyone’s spirits. First and foremost Olixinna, who probably even when faced with annihilation by a supernova would insist on throwing a party.
‘You bet I would. If fireworks are already in place, would be a shame to waste ‘em’
Sakarra shot her cousin an annoyed look, but the young Betazoid knew that ‘Kara wasn’t really angry at her for picking up the odd stray thought. Giggling, she sent a mental image of balloons, streamers, confetti, and people in utterly ridiculous hats counting down the time to the blast.
Despite herself, Sakarra had to smile "Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't."
“You better believe it” satisfied with her success in making her friend smile, Olixinna twirled her parasol thoughtfully. “I still don’t get it, ’Kara. Really, I don’t. Space is so awfully big, what exactly is there to fight over? I mean, I know that the Dominion are the party poopers of the galaxy but I’d expected better from a people who make such a good and strong ale. You’d think they got better things to do than..”
“I’m the wrong person to ask, Lexie” Sakarra interrupted. “Politics, especially interstellar, has never been my strong suit. And I’m not much of a philosopher either.”
But she could relate to Lexie’s sentiment at least. And of course, fussing and frowning was about as helpful as a bucket of water in a rainstorm. The best you could hope for was using the bucket as a hat, or in Lexie’s case as a drum to make some music and celebrate. Hooray. We’re drowning.
‘Sarcasm? Well, it’s a start!’ Olixinna giggled, effectively cutting off Sakarra’s train of thought. When her cousin didn’t reply but stared over towards the other dune, she turned her head and saw that auntie T’Sora had come back. In uniform. “Oh Deities, I thought she was on leave for another…”
“Obviously not.” Sakarra’s usually low and soft voice suddenly had a strange edge to it. Rel Tyrax had gotten up and waved towards his daughter to come along as he and his wife walked down towards the shore. Lexie just nodded and sighed.
As Sakarra caught up with her parents, she picked up the rest of a question directed from her father towards M’aih ‘…leave with the Sixth fleet? That bad?’
T’Sora simply nodded. Exhaling softly, Rel Tyrax wrapped an arm around his daughter and, picking up his little one’s anger and frustration, tried to console her with a gentle hug. But this time his efforts merely succeeded in toning down the inevitable outburst somewhat.
“Why? You’re not a soldier, M’aih!” she was on the road to furious, accelerating fast. “And don’t give me the ‘needs of the many’ or the ’I go where I’m sent’ speech!”
T’Sora’s face was like set in marble “What will you have me do, daughter?”
As usual, her mother’s unshakeable calm took the wind right out of Sakarra’s sails. But she wasn’t going to give up just like that.
Vulcan loyalty be damned, T’Sora COULD tell Starfleet to go and scr.. get lost. But Sakarra knew, she wouldn’t. If the universe was going to come apart around them, M’aih would stand her ground. Fine, so could she.
“They should welcome another fighter pilot. Starfleet or not. Take me with you, then!”
Even through her anger, she heard her father inhale sharply and felt a pang of regret, but she was rapidly approaching the point of ‘past caring’.
But T’Sora merely shook her head slowly “I think not, ko-kan.”
“WHY? James and Kolan got accepted easily enough!”
“Adun’a” Rel said softly, although reluctantly “she does have a right to…”
“Respect my wishes, daughter. And you as well, husband.”
There was a finality in M’aih’s tone of voice that Sakarra knew better than to argue with. So she wasn‘t going to try. With clenched fists and rage burning in her eyes, she was about to storm off and take matters into her own hands, when T’Sora lightly lifted her daughter’s chin, forcing the angry young woman to look straight into her eyes ‘Dakh'uh pthak, ko-kan. Nam-tor ri ret na'fan-kitok fa tu dakh pthak.’
Rel Tyrax did not know what else transpired between his two beloved Vulcans, but the little one’s fury seemed to subside and finally, she nodded in compliance. Unhappily, but resigned.
When his Adun’a held out her hand to him, Rel took it tenderly, intertwining his fingers with hers. Her ship was waiting, that much he knew.
“How soon?”
“Three point four hours”
“Ample time for a walk on the beach, then.”
Sakarra looked at her father, disbelieving. How could he be so casual, when..
“Who knows when I’ll have the pleasure of the two most beautiful women on Betazed being in my company again? I intend to make the most of it.”
If he was worried, or sad, he was hiding it even better than his wife.
“Come, little one. The breeze is sweet, the sun is warm. Let’s walk.”
T’Sora smiled. They walked.