The BLTS Archive - Star Trek: New Horizons
Episode 1: Return to Farpoint
by Sethos (unsknownscribler@hotpop.com)

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BLTS and the ASC/ASCEM(L) archives can archive away to their heart's
content Anyone else, please ask so I know where I can put links to on
my webpage.

Again, feedback always welcome 8)

build high for happiness

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Chapter 1
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The name of the place is Farpoint Station.

A port of call built upon a little world known to Federation science
as Deneb IV, a small city built to service the great starships that
would come to explore the unknown space beyond. But Farpoint's
wondrous beauty hid a dark secret, a base act of enslavement; the
Bandai, desperate for the chance to renew their culture that the
presence of the Federation would bring, had enslaved a sentient
entity, a giant shape-shifting coalescent that travelled the great
void between stars. Injured and seeking succor, it found only a
greedy and desperate people who captured it, who forced it to /become/
Farpoint. And no one else knew.

Well, not exactly.

The being's mate knew, and in knowing was determined to repay the
betrayal in full with Bandai blood. The omnipotent Q knew as well, but
their own peculiar politics saw them manipulate the crew of the newly
commissioned Enterprise - D into a position that would require them to
act. For better or for worse.

Fortunately the crew made the right choice. They were able to correct
the injustice inflicted by the Federation's erstwhile associates and
reunite the two entities. In the wake of it all, Q was smugly
insufferable, the Bandai left in disarray and the Federation
inordinately ticked off.

Had the determination to secure a foothold in the region been any less
strong, the Federation may well have abandoned Deneb IV to the mercy
of other powers.  Instead, Starfleet Command offered the chastised
Bandai a second chance: they would give them the workers and materials
needed to construct Farpoint Station for real, this time following the
blue prints that had been created to cover the deception.

Unsurprisingly, the offer was accepted by a grateful people with
little hesitation and much enthusiasm, and the required personnel and
equipment were duly packed off to begin construction.

All that was ten long years ago.

Long years during which people laboured to create once more the open
spaces, grand pillars, lush gardens, meandering concourses and
sweeping arches that had initially greeted the ships of the
Federation. Long years building not only a new city,  but also of
turning strange new technologies into something that, in
geosynchronous orbit above the city, would serve to shelter Farpoint
from the harsh stellar caress of Deneb itself.

At first, the Farpoint construction crew had been inspired by friendly
competition, by the desire to create something grand and lasting,
something they could point out to friends and family and descendants
and say "I was a part of that". Then came Wolf 359, the discovery of
the Dominion, rumours of malignant infiltration: those things had
bought fear, and an even greater desire to see what they had started
reach its conclusion...

Overhead, the heavy golden light of day recedes as the sun slinks
slowly beneath the horizon, the artificial illumination of the night
slowly coming to life as the sunlight leaves their photosensitive
receptors. Everywhere one can look, the station crew and their friends
are out, all heading for the common hall that sits at the heart of
Farpoint, beneath the great spire that projects upwards almost a
kilometre towards the supply station. They are dressed in all manner
of clothes, from all manner of cultures from all manner of planets.
Dressed to party, dressed for the hedonistic gathering that celebrates
the end of an era and their last chance to get together as a group
before many of them begin shipping out to an uncertain future. Three
days from now, the dignitaries arrive to make their little speeches
and conduct their little tours and make the just completed base all
nice and official.

Just in time for the ever more likely prospect of war.

Which makes for the opportunity for a very big party indeed.

Phaser arrays surround the borders of Farpoint, disguised - as much as
such things can be while remaining functional - as modernist art.
Shield generator grids are embedded in the roof surfaces of several
buildings, while the great Spire at the centre of Farpoint conceals
another array of phasers and two phototorp launchers - all of them
retrofitted into the blue prints in the wake of Wolf 359. There are
many complex and tongue-twisting specifications and terms to accompany
them, but all they do is sterilise the fact that these devices are the
sword and shield of this place against that which would rend its flesh
and spill its blood; inevitable concessions to fear and death.

As the night settles fully into place, some of these devices of death,
along with part of the small flotilla of shuttle craft stationed at
the base, are used by the station's engineers; not to destroy, not to
threaten, but instead to create a display of luminescent pyrotechnics,
star bursts and showers and cascades and streamers and briefly
existing nebula, all of a spectacular myriad of colours that are met
by great applause and good cheer. Even the grey aspects of the Bandai
seem brightened, and not merely from reflected light.

No one thinks about the devices that aren't being used for play, the
emplacements and satellites standing ready in case of attack.

The music that plays this night is an eclectic mix, much as the people
dancing to it are. There is no overt sense of formality or structure;
rather the atmosphere is freeform, revellers dancing or eating or
swimming or performing or engaging in more private efforts as they
choose or are tempted to. It is the chance to explore options that
might never offer themselves again.

A cocoa skinned woman sits in one of the parks near the Spire, a plate
of food by her side which she picks at in a desultory fashion. She
watches a pair of Bolians juggle flaming batons and wickedly sharp
knives between themselves without once loosing the big insane grins
they wear as the crowd ooh and ahh their appreciation. Like everyone
else, her apparel is casual, consisting of layers of velvet and satin
and lace in green and russet and gold and black, worn as skirts and
shawls and dresses and coats. Apart from the combadge tucked beneath
the folds of her clothes, the only other adornment she wears is the
earring on her delicately pointed ear that marks her as Bajoran as
much as the ridges on the bridge of her nose.

With a sigh, she stabs her fork down with enough force to drive the
tines through the plastic of her plate, discontent writ large upon her
face. She pulls off her combadge and checks the chronometer embedded
in the back of it, an action she has been repeating often this past
hour. She turns it over and over in her hands, thumb poised above it,
only to finally reattach it to her clothing. Picking up her plate she
gets to her feet and looks around, trying to decide what to do before
eventually heading further towards the station's hub,  pausing only
long enough to drop plate and contents into a matter reclamation unit.

She doesn't go very far before yet again removing her combadge,
weighing in her mind whether or not to use it. She's just made up her
mind when a young child, no older than four, runs into her legs hard
enough to topple her off-balance and against the wall of the walkway.
The child bounces onto her behind, where she sits for a moment looking
stunned.

"Geez, sorry Commander!" a young man exclaims as he kneels down next
to the child and picks her up. He possesses such incredibly blue eyes
and such impossibly handsome features that she feels a slight but
involuntary leap of her heart at the sight of him, a purely physical
reaction not helped by his tussled blonde hair or the sleeveless tunic
- open to the waist and held in place solely by a red sash - that
exposes the almost chiselled perfection of his bronzed torso; the rows
of crescent spots cascading down from his temples sign-posts him as a
Trill.

"Despite being a parent in three other life times, it still amazes me
the way they get away on you."

The commander smiles ruefully, hiding her mood, and picks up her
combadge. "It's alright," she answers then pauses, mind searching.
"You're Rhodry's husband, aren't you?" Putting the badge back on the
dress, she smiles again at father and daughter, helping him dust the
girl's turquoise playsuit off. "Looks like you've been using one of
the sail skiffs at the Cape." This last remark is directed at his
clothes, a pair of sandals and baggy trousers, both white, in addition
to his bone coloured top; all of which have the slight tang of salt
about them.

"Yes and yes," he answers, propping his daughter in one arm and
extending the other. "Sonji Dahl, and this is Clarina." With the two
of them side by side, there is no doubting that they are family.

"Have the two of you found out where Rhodry's next posting will be?"
she asks, shaking hands. "I hear some confirmations came through
early."

Sonji shakes his head. "He's hoping for Mars, though we wouldn't mind
Alpha Centauri either." She can hear it in his voice, the hope that it
won't be to a ship of war. "Anyhow, Rhodry's minding our place at the
panto, so we'd better rush, hadn't we sweetie?"

"Yes dadda," comes the answer, along with a tug at the commander's
sleeve. Another shared smile between the two adults as little fingers
are disentangled.

"Pass on my congratulations at his promotion, would you?" she asks as
the other two depart.

"Sure thing, Commander," comes the cheerful reply. She waits until she
is alone again before the humour flees her features, replaced by
something darker as she taps her combadge.

"Computer, any messages for Selwyn-Keri Mkaela?"

"Message bank is empty," the pseudo-female voice replies with
emotionless clarity.

"Damn," Mkaela mutters. "Computer, has Lieutenant Alex Keri-Selwyn
reviewed the messages I've sent?"

"Negative."

"Computer, location of Lieutenant Alex Keri-Selwyn."

"Working. Lieutenant Alex Keri-Selwyn is in residential unit
12-Gamma-5."

Mkaela smiles at this last answer as doubts answer themselves - Alex
always has been a fussy dresser and is doubtless taking the time after
a long shift to look just right. A little bounce in her step, she
hurries towards the Spire and the turbolifts there in, making a small
detour along the way to stop at a pavilion nestled between two
buildings, its Bandai occupant plying passers by with a variety of
local and imported spirits, both synthehol and the real thing.

Her cred stick is barely out long enough to pay for two crystal
goblets and the bottle of Bajoran spring wine to fill them before she
is off again, stopping a final time to snag a Terran flower called a
hibiscus and slip it behind her left ear, its orange petals in stark
contrast to her short indigo-black hair.

The Spire's turbolift seems to take far too long before the doors
open, revealing the corridor in which the quarters she shares with
Alex are located. Skipping, almost running, she reaches their door,
which opens with its characteristic hiss to admit her. There is a hint
of a smile on her lips as she waltzes in.

"Alex?" she calls, then pulls up short, bottle and goblets both
slipping from her fingers.

They break at the same moment as her heart.

---

Turquoise waves lap at the golden moss clinging to dark, water-rounded
rocks with a soft rhythm, a rhythm that comes from the two crescent
moons hanging in a rapidly lightening orange sky and the subtle forces
they exert on this seemingly idyllic world. A wind gently rustles the
silver leaves of the trees, coaxing a gentle tinkling sound from the
crystal wind chimes someone has strung amidst their branches. Between
the trees there is a path amidst the misty green grass, beaten into
being by many feet passing between the lake and the entrance of a cave
some hundred metres away.

"Nice programme," a man with shoulder-length dark blonde hair remarks
casually, strolling out of the cave. Hands thrust into the pockets of
his baggy orange pants, the top clasps of his mustard yellow shirt are
undone to reveal the beginnings of the sculptured musculature of his
chest. He smiles, blue eyes crinkling a little. "Then again, I was the
one who gave it to you."

"Cruk off Maddyn," Mkaela snaps, her back to the cave entrance. She is
perching atop a smallish boulder standing a little way out in the
shallow water, just far enough to leap onto from the shore, and
staring moodily at her reflection. It's obvious she's doing her best
not to let him see her cry. "How'd you find me anyway?"

"I'd say I guessed," he answers, toeing through the remains of her
combadge and the stone that killed it with a sandal-clad foot. It lies
only a few metres away from where his friend suffers. "But I'm a
Betazoid and we both know you're broadcasting loud enough a bulkhead
could home in on you." There is sorrow in his voice at the
inevitability of that truth and he hopes she hears it

"Cruk off," she says again. "I want to be alone." There's a sniffle
this time, a hand drawn hastily across her face. She doesn't look
around as he steps into the water. It feels pleasant lapping against
his ankles, slowly moving up his calves as he continues on.

It's hard, watching the woman he has come to know and care for these
past years trying to cope with a harsh and terrible pain, and not
knowing what to say to her. He can feel her holding on, though, feel
the way she's fighting back the grief and the anger and the
bewilderment. Particularly the bewilderment

"Mkaela..."

"They betrayed me, Madd," she replies, looking helplessly at her
hands, as if the remedy to her woes lies somehow locked within them.
"Alex and that /skerrit/ Daniel who was supposed to be my friend..."
She sniffs. "My friend!" The shout is punctuated by her fists striking
the stone upon which she sits, again and again, then drawing her now
bruised hands into her lap. "They didn't even have the decency to be
caught in the cruking act!"

"Then...?" he prompts, up to his knees and almost within touching
distance.

A sniff. "The bastards were asleep, Madd. Asleep!" She shakes her
head, bowed over her lap, voice trembling but refusing still to break.
"In /our/ bed, on those spidersilk sheets I brought for /our/ 5th
anniversary." His hand touches her and she shivers before finally
looking at him, wiping away a scattering of errant tears. "It's like
they didn't even care, that I was so unimportant I didn't even rate
the consideration of a pretence anymore." She looks away again, back
into the holographic distance.

"Finding them in the act would have been worse, surely?" he asks,
taking her hand. It's tempting to reach into her mind and find what
she wants him to say, but apart from the fact that she'd sense the
scan thanks to him teaching her how in the first place, it would be
wrong to do so. Her emotions, however, are another matter; even
screening out the world, he can still sense their raw intensity
battering at the barriers of his mind, finds little choice but to
respond to them, try to diminish them, not by telepathy but instead by
the far older means of simply being there.

Mkaela shakes her head, not resisting as Maddyn takes her hand and
softly strokes the back of it. "If they had been at it when I found
them, at least that would explain why Alex kept me waiting, because
those cuckolding bastards would at least have been lost in the throes
of their passion." She looks at him again, snarling with a fury he has
rarely seen in her. "But they were asleep, which means that they felt
safe, that there was nothing to worry about. That /I was nothing/ to
worry about!" A bitter snort. "They didn't even know I was there."

Again she looks away. "Why'd they do it to me, Madd?" she asks,pulling
her hand away and looking at it as she had before. "We were good
together, Alex and I. We had the occasional quarrel but all couples do
that. We were taking about children. We loved each other. I mean, the
sex was great - hell, it was mind-blowingly good, even if I do say so,
so I can't see any reason there why Alex would do this to me. And with
Daniel?!" She covers her face with her hands, a single sob wracking
her body. "The body language, the fact that they were sleeping, says
to me 'Mkaela, this isn't a last moment fling'. The two of them were
so comfortable together, draped over each other they could have been
cruking each other senseless since before we even married!"

Maddyn shrugs; what's done is done is his own philosophy, one that's
tended to avoid situations like these. So too has the inherent
difficulty of telepaths lying to telepaths, the reason he has kept his
really serious relationships for other Betazoids. "I assume it's over
between you two?"

"What do you think?" she snaps acidly, wiping at her eyes with the
palms of her hands. "How can I ever go back, feel comfortable, feel
safe, knowing that... knowing..."

"Knowing what Alex has done," Maddyn finishes for her as she
sniffle-sobs again.

"Yeah."

"I imagine you'll get the JAG office to draw up the papers tonight
then?"

"More than likely," she answers sadly. "Go and enjoy the party Maddyn.
I really do just want to be alone right now. I need to get my head
around this, around not having Alex as a fixture in my life anymore,
around what I want to do now."

"Sure," he says, patting her on the shoulder a couple of times.

Yet another sniffle, a little drier perhaps. "Thanks for being a
friend."

Answering with one of the few Bajoran benedictory phrases he knows,
Maddyn exits the holodeck despondently. The sounds of celebration,
aural and psychic alike, wash over him and he opens himself up to the
the joy of it all, letting his concern for Mkaela be pushed back by
everyone elses' good time. They've been friends for something
approaching six years, he and her, and he knows she'll pull through.
It's one on those certain things, like the way you can always count of
that dreadful human beverage root-beer making you violently ill after
even only half a glass.

Thoughts of taking Alex into hand surface briefly as he meanders
towards the sounds of the nearest celebration. He squishes them just
as quickly as they had arisen - any interference on his part will only
serve to make matters between the two even worse than they already
will be when Alex wake up and realises what has happened. Checking his
chronometer, he decides to find something potent to drink, something
real to kill a few hundred brain cells with.

Humans don't hold the monopoly on self-destructive pleasure and
momentary oblivion.

---

Many cultures reach a point where they recognise the benefits of
modularity and standardisation of design. Thus, enter any Starfleet
installation or vessel and things can be found in roughly the same
location: command and tactical positions to the rear, main operations
up front, support systems on the periphery. Farpoint, being for all
intents and purposes a Starfleet station, is no exception to this
principle.

Operations is a roughly circular chamber located at the base of the
Spire. A two tier layout, it has Mkaela's open-plan 'office' elevated
some five or so feet above the rest of the room so that she might have
a mostly uninterrupted view of her command. Forward of that is a pair
of crescent-shaped consoles abutting each other, from which the
station's tactical and primary systems management are monitored, with
the various ancillary systems accessible via the consoles in the rear
wall of the room, spreading out on either side of the flight of stairs
to the office. The front of the chamber, and a sizable chunk of empty
floor space, is dominated by a floor-to-ceiling view screen. The decor
is in various shades of pastel blue.

While it may resemble a starship's bridge, however, it doesn't have
quite the same sense of quiet efficiency. Though most of the people
here are Starfleet, a few Bandai sprinkled in amongst them, they seem
somehow more at ease than their star-bound counterparts. Perhaps it's
the fact that their environment is an open one: the absence of the
constant concern that a sudden hull breach might leak their life
support into the starry void seems to have created a more relaxed,
though still professional, attitude.

A second flight of stairs, at the rear of Mkaela's office, lead to a
door that superficially resembles any of the other three around the
chamber's periphery, but its isolation lends it a certain inherent
aura of importance. It is the swoosh of this door's opening that
declares Mkaela's entrance.

She stands framed in that portal for a moment, the early morning light
seeping in through the large window of the public reception area
beyond silhouetting her uniformed figure. A moment of silent
appraisal, of attuning herself, then she steps down into the quiet hum
and bustle of it all.

"Anything exciting?" she asks the duty officer from the previous
shift, one of the Bandai seconded to her staff by their Groppler,
Enkadu Zorn. The man, probably only in his late thirties but like all
his people, seeming somehow older and more worn, shakes his head as he
mounts the steps rising from the 'pit' to her office.

"All quiet."

"Actually, no," a voice contradicts him, drawing her attention.
"Commander, one of our outlying sensor platforms has just detected a
warpfield approaching the outer perimeter of the solar system," the
ensign at the tactical console calls out, his hands sweeping over the
panel, interrogating it with swift proficiency. "It's on a bearing of
245 mark 87, warp factor 5, on a course for us."

"One of ours, Rick?" Mkaela asks, sipping the gently steaming mug of
klah she's brought in with her. Around her, she can feel the entire
Ops crew tense subtly as they await the answer; just because the
approaching vessel is coming from Federation territory doesn't
necessarily mean it's friendly. With the number of ships that already
come through here and the increase in their number that the station's
official opening will bring, it's a reaction - a concession to reality
- that will all too soon begin to weigh.

"Federation warp signature," the ensign answers, relief writ large on
his dimpled face, a relief that allows everyone to breath again. For
some reason, the memory of him trying to score with her before
realising she was his boss springs to mind. "IFF transponder codes
read as the _Enterprise_."

"They're early," Mkaela sighs. "Typical." She takes another sip of her
drink, sets the cup down on her desk and collects her thoughts.
"Alright, call up the tank and give me an ETA."

'Calling up the tank'. It's an odd expression, one she has to train
people to recognise as her verbal shorthand for 'activate the view
screen's 3D imaging array and show me a tactical representation.' Its
etymology is not one she can easily recall, only that it's a phrase
she has picked up somewhere during the 60 years of her life so far.

A moment after her command is issued, motes of light begin to erupt
out of the view screen, resolving themselves into planets and moons
and satellites both natural and manufactured. A slowly rotating
Starfleet emblem represents the _Enterprise_, a dotted red line its
extrapolated trajectory towards the burnt sienna globe that is Deneb
IV.

"She's slowing to impulse now," Rick reports. "Final orbit estimated
in six hours."

"Okay, Lieutenant Reed, tell the reception crews to step on it -
they've got four hours." She nods to the Bandai and dismisses him
before dropping into her chair and activating the comms panel, fingers
brushing the speed-dial setting for the Groppler's office. Another
touch command and the wall to Ops slides closed with a muted hum.

Nominally in charge of the Farpoint project, Zorn is technically her
superior even though she's the ultimate authority of the station
itself. The power relationships of protectorates and 'colonial'
installations with pre-Membership planets is always a murky area and
one she as a rule prefers to leave in the hands of diplomats. The fact
that he's so keen for his planet to achieve Membership does tend to
help things. At times though, it lends him a certain... obsequiousness
of character that can put her nerves on edge; given the situation with
Alex, Mkaela hopes that this isn't going to be one of those times.

"Kula, Commander," Zorn's voice fills the room as he issues the ritual
morning salutation of his people. He sounds his normal spry self at
any rate.

"Kula, Groppler," she answers, looking up at one of the audio pickups
located in the roof. "It looks like the _Enterprise_ has decided to
show up early. She'll be in orbit in six standard hours."

"Is anything wrong?"

"I doubt it," she chuckles. "Probably just been playing with the
performance ratios of theer engines. From what I hear, their Engineer
is pretty talented." \\More like the Fleet's new flagship was just
showing off,\\ she thinks privately.

Zorn makes a hrmphing sound, followed by the sounds of a computer
terminal being accessed. "My people won't be ready for the ceremony
for at least nine standard hours. This really is most inconvenient."

"Just because they're early doesn't mean the official functions have
to be," she declares after a moment's pause. "They gave us a schedule,
so we might as well stick to it."

"Are you sure they won't be upset?" The concern in his voice even
sounds genuine. \\As if,\\ she muses, \\the Federation would just
peremptorily close the facility they've been pumping billions of
credits and a decade's work into simply because some stupid
dignitaries had to make their own entertainment for a night.\\

"We'll ask them to hold a ship-board reception so they can show off
the new flagship," is her blithe answer. "Something low key: drinks, a
few nibbly things..." \\That's Alex talking there,\\ she realises with
a start.

"Very well then, Commander, I shall leave such remonstrations and
arrangements in your capable hands. Until this afternoon, kula."

"Kula." The connection breaks with a bleep.

Six hours. Six hours until the beginning of the end. Only a while
before she'd been dreading this moment, of where the future might lead
the two of them, but with Alex out of her life anywhere is better then
the place their marriage died. Anywhere at all.

Idly Mkaela calls up the flight plans of the various starships
currently in orbit or scheduled to arrive within the next week. Dates,
destinations, mission profiles. Alex being on the _Coronado_
automatically rules that particular ship out of her calculations,
calculations that soon include every ship not only in Farpoint's
sector but across the entire Federation, plotting a course in 4D
projections in the air above her desk to the other side of the
quadrant and eventually home. To Bajor.

Forty years is a long time to be away.

---

Necessity has dictated that Starfleet be the Federation's military
arm, but it has always been more than just a standing army. So much
more.

The _Galaxy_ class starship was perhaps the ultimate expression of all
Starfleet has aspired to be. True, having civilians - families, people
who hadn't sworn to lay down their lives in the execution of their
duties should the need ever arise - on board was a dangerous thing to
do, their presence weighing on the vessel's captain with every
potentially fatal tactical command that had to be made, but their
presence served to turn one ship into a /community/. Yes, the captains
hated the burden of being responsible for the families of the crew as
well as the crew themselves, but it was a burden the ship's creators
hoped would force a search for less violent solutions.

And now though smaller than she had been, though no longer a _Galaxy_
class vessel, this new _Enterprise_ still possesses that sense of
/community/. It has schools and theatres and communal lounges and
replimats and galleries. It has the teachers and students and actors
and people and artists to fill them, to make them more than just
rooms, to make these places alive and vital.

\\Or so goes the PR,\\ Deanna Troi thinks to herself as she looks
around the empty forward lounge before sparing a look for Will. "Think
we'll have an unwelcome visitor?" she asks.

"You can never tell with him," Will shrugs fatalisticaly, or at least
she pictures him doing so, hunkered down as he is behind the bar.
"He's apparently visited Farpoint a few times over the years since we
were there, but no one in Starfleet has heard from him or his kind for
the last 13 months."

"Almost seems inevitable then, doesn't it?" she sighs. "I hate having
to organize these damn shipboard receptions."

"Look at this way, Deanna," Will chuckles upon standing. "We have
first access to the wet bar, and from what I can tell there's quite a
bit of real stuff here. Looks like Guinan left us quite the going away
present before she took off wherever it was."

"You lush, you," she scolds playfully,  pulling up one of the
barstools. "I don't see why Starfleet didn't give us the people to run
this place while she's away. What have you got down there anyway?"

"Some contract or something with the El Aurian's," Will shrugs,
putting 2 glasses on the illuminated bartop. "The captain was rather
vague about it, but I believe we're due to collect them in the next
week or two."

"Better late than never I guess," she answers. "What have you found
for us?"

"The obligatory saurian brandy, something mauve that smells like your
old clythla bushes back on Betazed, elderberry wine, a bottle of Wee
Bairns according to what's left of the label, Deltai ice," he reads
off. "Everything else seems to be Ferengi juice. Or hasn't been opened
yet."

"Cthdozi," Deanna says, pointing to the mauve liquid, a shade that
might be described as radioactively luminescent. "I remember getting
very drunk on that after my mother gave me /the/ Talk." She smiles,
signalling that he should pour the stuff.

"The Talk?"

"/The/ Talk," she corrects the emphasis. "Sex."

"Ahhh. /That/ Talk," he chuckles.

"She was very explicit."

"I can imagine," Will answers, handing her the glass. "Why did you get
drunk?"

"She was, um, recalling the times she and my father..."

"Ah. Cheers."

"Ieluti."

Their glasses clink with the particular note of Terran leaded crystal.
\\Definitely onto the good stuff,\\ she reflects, sipping the liqueur.

"I've never looked at a watermelon in the same way ever since."

Perhaps wisely, Will says nothing. "So, any ideas? I thought perhaps
we could start things off with a tour o-"

"Imzadi, you're a wonderful man, but a tour?" Deanna tries to put as
much pained boredom into that last word as she possibly can. "I can't
think of anything more boring!"

"What's wrong with a tour?" Will shoots back defensively, topping up
both glasses. "There's always the 'gee-whiz' factor of a new ship that
attracts people."

"Will," she sighs exasperatedly. "When you get down to it, one
Federation starship is much like another. It's the people, not the
warp core or the go faster stripes-"

"'Go faster stripes'?" he enquiries.

"Archaic earth term," comes the explanation, followed by another
drink. "Point is, the Starfleet people would have seen it all before,
and the Bandai would say a broken... a broken door was high art if
they thought it would get them into the Federation any faster."

"Not the most diplomatic way to put it," Will muses, sipping his drink
thoughtfully. "Alright, no tour then." He shrugs in a mellow kind of
way."What about a band?"

"I think Ensign Tomel might be interested. He and some other junior
officers were - what do they call it - in one of the theatres a few
nights ago."

"Jamming," he supplies, refilling her glass again.

"Such an odd word," Deanna reflects, swirling her finger in the
slightly viscous fluid, licking it clean. Then suddenly she looks up
at her friend, her fellow officer, her ex-lover. "Do you think we'll
get crukked while we're here?"

An eyebrow hovers upwards, a look of bemused surprise accompanying it.
"Perhaps," he answers, half draining his glass, taking a deep breath
immediately after. "Wow."

A girlish giggle. "You look like your brain exploded."

"Now I see why you drank this stuff after that talk," he grins,
looking at the bottle, then sighing a little. "I think we're in the
prelude to something, Deanna. I don't know why, I most definitely
don't know what, but my gut tells me something troublesome is about to
come over the horizon."

"I thought I was the one who sensed things," she smiles, touching his
hand, trying to lighten his sudden sombreness.

Shrugging, Will places his other hand over hers and squeezes back.
"Call it First Officer's intuition," he says. "Nothing for it but
wait. Anyhow, about the food..."

---

Sunlight the colour of clover honey bathes the buildings, the parks,
and the gardens of Farpoint, a syrup of light in contrast to the
brilliance beyond the umbra and the penumbra created by the platform
in orbit over the city.

Neither the light nor the object causing it had been part of the
original blueprints of Farpoint. Even the revisions made by the
Starfleet engineering corps before construction began were lacking
what has become an integral part of the spaceport city.

No one knows /exactly/ where it came from.

It had come the day Mkaela had taken command of Farpoint, tumbling in
slowly from above the plane of the ecliptic from the great void
between galaxies: an ancient artifact of alien science and alien
purpose. And it had been on a trajectory terminating smack bang in the
middle of the planet's only inhabited city. Phasers couldn't cut it,
gravitons had just slid off it, and photon torpedoes - already a week
overdue - would have still been twenty light years away by the time
there was a ground zero.

With no other options open to them, Mkaela took a team - people as
unknowing and unsure of her as she had been of them - and desperately
gimmicked a way inside. Faced with ancient security programmes that
threatened them at each step, they managed to decipher its operating
systems and park it in high orbit above the planet. The usual
last-minute, seat-of-the-pants stunt from Miracles-Are-Us, Maddyn had
called it.

Only later had Mkaela and Zorn conspired to keep the alien station
above Deneb IV and Farpoint itself; she'd persuaded Zorn to claim it
as Bandai property when the Federation's starships had arrived to take
the alien platform away for study. Oh, how the Admiralty had fumed and
fussed and blustered at that - until she gave them the simple solution
of assigning the science teams to Farpoint. It was a solution that
gave the planet the commerce it craved, removed the problems of moving
the artifact, stopped the Federation's enemies from getting too close,
and kept it handy in the event the original owners ever came looking
for  their property.

The fact that Mkaela had fallen head over heels in love with the
taskforce's second in command - one Alex Selwyn - had, of course,
absolutely nothing to do with her scheme.

\\Alex again\\, she sighs, turning away from the vista of the city to
face the inside of her temporary quarters once more.

Even though the sunlight filtering through the strangely translucent
bioskin of the station above serves only to remind her of Alex, of the
pain burning deep inside, she still finds it incredibly beautiful.
This place, however... It looks so... sparse, so... generic, so... so
utterly without soul.

Here, there is nothing to speak of love, of life, or of the past.
Here, there are none of those little alterations that turn places such
as these into homes. Here, there is only a shoulder bag and two
shipping crates full of everything she owns. After everything, to have
only this... These few things, and memories of love forever tainted by
betrayal...

It just doesn't seem at all worth it.

"Computer, darken windows seventy percent," she orders. "Decrease
lighting to twenty five percent. Direct all non-priority operations
calls to my message bank."

"Working," it responds in a voice of eternal calm.

Something like dusk descends throughout the room as Mkaela pulls her
new combadge off and, looking at the chronometer in the back of it,
rests the device on the table next to her earring. So few people these
days understand her desire, her need, to /look/ at the time instead of
just asking the nearest voice link for it. Alex had understood her
visual nature so very well...

"You'll get over it," she says quietly to herself. "You got over the
others, you'll get over this." The tremble in her voice threatens to
make a liar of her. A deep breath to calm herself, a second for good
measure. Then she goes on.

"Computer, time to _Enterprise_ ETA?"

"Thirty-one minutes, twenty-nine seconds."

Nodding to herself, Mkaela strips off her uniform for the last time.
She folds it neatly from force of habit, straightening all the
creases, giving it a last brush down. Of the many she's worn, this one
has been her favourite, but with the coming of the _Enterprise_ it's
time has finally expired. Resting her underthings upon the folded
uniform, she carries the clothes into the bathroom, an ancient melody
on her lips.

She is greeted by the purple-orange light of a hundred chelbeh candles
reflecting off the tropical stillness of the bath water, and the spicy
scent of ritual herbs that have been infusing within that stillness
for the past hour. Breathing deeply, Mkaela stands upon the threshold
for a minute, letting the smells and the warmth flow over her and into
her, still humming that melody.

Carefully she places her clothes on the ground and steps over them,
reaching for the simple wooden flask sitting upon the vanity unit. The
action is reflected in the mirror that acts as ritual observer in this
ancient rite of her people. Kissing the flask, tasting fleetingly the
faint bitterness of the wood, she empties its contents onto the
clothes. When the final drop of oil has fallen, she drops the flask
too; it strikes the material with a small, wet exhalation of sound.

"Prophets, hear my prayers," she calls out, her voice almost too loud
for the quietness around her as she looks towards the distant world of
her birth. Or at least where the computer has told her it is. "What
is, is. What will be, will be." Carefully, she picks up the nearest
candle. "Bear witness as I offer you my past in hopes of a new
future."

Moving backwards, she drops the candle. The flame almost vanishes
before it touches the potent vapours of the kahiba oil, and with a
great exhalation erupts in a magnificent burst of flickering magenta.
Leaving the clothes to burn, Mkaela turns and steps into the water.
Once again she luxuriates in the sensations involved in this for a
moment before she continues.

The water laps gently at her thighs as she slowly kneels, the ripples
of that movement making the reflections upon the water's surface dance
like dervishes. "Prophets, watch over me as I wash away the stains of
my journey in preparation for the new road I take." The water she
collects in her hands is dark with the herbs required for the ritual,
herbs which make her skin tingle wherever the water touches.

In silence, she bathes herself. The temptation to remain here, to
succumb to the simple pleasure of warm water cascading down her body,
is strong. But she resists, ducking her head beneath the surface and
keeping it there for as long as she can easily manage, curling herself
into a ball so that she is completely submerged.

Time seems to slow in the wombish embrace of the water, this warm
darkness she does not open her eyes to alleviate. Instead, she focuses
that darkness inwards, letting her conscious awareness of her life and
her sense of self dissipate as the pressure against her lungs builds.

\\Breathe,\\ some dark little part of her psyche whispers. \\Let it
in. End the pain.\\ Part of her soul wants to listen it.

\\No.\\

\\You know you want to.\\

\\NO.\\

\\End the suffering with one final burst of pain.\\

\\NO!\\

There is a ringing in her ears as she erupts from the water, splashing
hard enough to douse a good score of the candles nearest her. Panting,
she slumps forward, resting her head upon her arms upon the edge of
the bath.

"Cruk it," she sighs softly to herself. "That's three for three."

The ringing resolves itself into the irritating chirrup of her
combadge repeatedly begging for her attention. She ignores it, pulling
herself out of the water reluctantly. Keeping to the ritual, she
carefully sluices herself dry with a special cloth set aside for just
this purpose. In low tones, she utters a prayer of thanks to the
Prophets for watching over her, wringing the cloth out over the
smouldering remains of her uniform, dousing whatever embers might be
lingering. Hair still damp, she blows out the candles still alight
before finally moving into the living area.

Only now does a sense of urgency inform her movements as she answers
the incoming call, irritated but not letting it show.

"This is Keri. Go."

"Commander, we were getting worried," the voice on the other end
declares. "I know you asked not to be interrupted, but you also told
us to notify you when the _Enterprise_ entered final orbit."

\\Groan.\\ "Can't that ship ever be on time?" she asks, looking at the
back of her combadge. "They're ten minutes early!" Mkaela is aware of
the petulance in her tone, and quite simply doesn't care. "Zane
handled all the pleasantries?"

"Affirmative ma'am. Captain Picard awaits your communication at your
convenience."

\\Damn right!\\ she thinks irritably. "Thank you Lieutenant. Keri
out."

Putting her earring back on, she moves across to her shoulder bag and
pulls it open. Within rests the latest iteration of the Starfleet
uniform, black and grey with a divisional colour tunic. It seems and
feels more sombre, more weighty, than the red shouldered one she has
just burnt in votive offering. It's why she's resisted wearing it
until now, until there was no choice.

A little over two minutes later, Mkaela is dressed and out of her
quarters, running perfunctory fingers through the practical shortness
of her hair as she walks briskly towards the turbolift. The
_Enterprise_ may have broken protocol and been early, but it doesn't
mean she can keep its captain waiting forever.

Unfortunately.

Arriving in Ops, she again closes her office before placing the call
to the _Enterprise_, composing herself in the time it takes the
windowed wall-panels to complete their movement.

"Ah, Commander Keri," Picard begins only a beat after his face appears
on her desk screen. From what she can make out from the tight focus of
the image, he appears to be in his ready room rather than on the
bridge. A light twitch of his left eye is the only indication that he
has noticed her appearance but is refraining from making comment.

"Captain Picard," she answers, keeping her tone formal, her expression
light. "I trust nothing untimely has happened since we spoke this
morning?"

If he notices the slight emphasis she places on 'untimely' he doesn't
react to it. "Not at all, Commander," he smiles back. "I've scheduled
that reception you suggested for nineteen-thirty hours local time. I
trust that doesn't pose any inconvenience for you, or your people?"

"Not at all," she smiles.

"Excellent. I shall see you then." For a moment he looks away, then
back to her. "Good day Commander."

"Captain," she acknowledges. The smile drops the moment the screen
blanks. Like Zorn, there's something about Picard that sets her on
edge. But it's an effect very different to the one the Groppler
creates. Oh, /very/ different indeed.

Zorn's isn't the face that appears in her night terrors, pale and
immobile behind a laserscope as it orchestrates the death of tens of
thousands of people. Oh, the bitterly twisted irony that the man who
had let it be known how much he hated having families aboard starships
should have been the one responsible for the slaughter of so many of
them! She'd lost friends at Wolf 359, but Alex had lost everyone
except her. She smiles grimly to herself, slamming shut the desk
screen. //Oh well, she reflects, it's not like I've got to deal with
any of them for much longer.//

Leaning back as far as her chair will let her, Mkaela grins at that
thought, her dark mood lifted before it can settle in. To be
responsible solely for herself again... Oh, the freedom implied in
that simple phrase! No orders to give, none to follow, no worrying
about the well-being of the people under her command. Just...

Just...

Just.

Time to do something about Alex. Once and for all.

---

Even in a world of matter transmission, there is still need for the
ubiquitous vehicle that is the shuttle craft.

Farpoint's eight shuttle pads can be found on the edge of the city at
each of the traditional cardinal points. It's a safety thing: a
shuttle crashing or exploding here will risk fewer lives than if such
a calamity were to take place in the heart of the city.

The southern-most of these pads is currently the only one in use as
the sun sinks beneath the eastern horizon. A handful of ground crew,
illuminated by the actinic glare of the pad's stadium lighting and the
strobing of the visual beacons built into the fusion-formed tarmac,
busy themselves flight checking a small shuttle pod. The name _Mariel_
is written upon the shuttlepod's snub-nosed prow.

"Thanks for the lift," Maddyn says as he emerges from the base of the
pad's control tower and the complex buried beneath it.

"I need to keep my hand in," Mkaela answers from behind him with a
little shrug.

"Yeah, right," he snorts good naturedly, giving his slightly taller
friend a companion-able hug as she draws next to him. "You fly any
hance you can get."

"So do you," she replies archly, the big grin that he's been missing
for the past two days finally making a return. He's tempted to suspect
it's a little too soon, that her characteristic slow burn has been and
gone far too quickly. The subtle probe of surface emotions, a
humming-bird quick taste of her ambient mental aura, however fails to
confirm it.

Still...

"You know why," he scolds as the techs acknowledge their presence with
various curt body motions. "It's why I've always been a ground
pounder."

"She's ready to go, Commander," the Cthonian in charge of the ground
crew reports. As always, the slitherish scuttling whisper of the
tentacled being's native language - subtly audible beneath both the
translation and anti-noise field generated by its combadge - makes his
nerve endings crawl in unpleasant ways. He's even heard that despite
their mutual non-Euclidian paradigms, Cthonians make even the likewise
encounter-suited Meduseans uneasy.

\\At least they don't make you go insane,\\ he muses gratefully as he
watches Mkaela dismiss the techs, then settle into the pod's pilot
chair. Giving himself a little shake, he slips in beside her.

"Sealing hatches," she announces, as much to him as to the voice-link
open to the control tower. "Board checks as green."

"Affirmative, shuttle pod _Mariel_," the man at the other end of the
voice-link answers. "Our screens show you locked up and green." He
sounds perhaps as old as thirty,  but it's always hard to tell.

"Confirm flight plan uplink to _Enterprise_," she orders, leaning over
him to hit a button. Then a whispered aside: "You should learn to
fly."

"I prefer being chauffeured," Maddyn answers with a rakish grin,
opening his grey shouldered jacket. Mkaela rolls her eyes.

"Uplink conformed," the tower answers. "MetSat's picking up a storm
front developing off the Cape of Bright Hope, but you shouldn't have
to worry about it until you return."

"Acknowledged," she says, a soft thrum spreading through the
shuttlepod to the accompaniment of a bass line rumble that quickly
drops below the subsonic. "Engine core shows green. Initiating
anti-grav thrusters." There's a slight lurch as the pod begins to
rise.

"We show you green," the tower tells them. "Reaching impulse ignition
point in eight seconds. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. You
are cleared for impulse ignition."

"Impulse engines engaged," she reports, the thrum becoming slightly
more noticeable until Mkaela adjusts the IDF settings a notch.  "See
you later on, Control."

"Safe skies, Commander."

Maddyn peers out the cockpit window as the shuttle pod banks away from
Farpoint to face the oncoming night.

"It's just occurred to me that you've never explained why you don't
like transporters," Mkaela remarks conversationally, but in that
particular tone that means she's been thinking about the subject quite
a while. The darkness outside grows more intense as they head further
to the south-west. Mkaela's flight plan, using the planet's spin to
help break orbit, will take longer than a direct ascent but be more
fuel efficient. Or so she tells him.

"You'd be surprised at the number of Starfleet medical personnel who
don't," he answers back. \\Six years and she's never /really/ asked
me.\\ "Surely I must have?"

"No," she shakes her head. "You've just fobbed me off with not liking
the idea of being disassembled and reassembled atom by atom." She
turns to face him. "I've never really asked you before because we each
respect the other's privacy and because when there's a life to be
saved you've never hesitated to be the first one onto the pad if we've
had to beam out.

"But I'm leaving tomorrow night, Madd. And if things go the way they
look, I might well end up on the front line of a very ugly war and we
might never see each other again." She sighs softly. "I have only the
barest traces of psionic talent because of my father. Traces you," and
here she takes his hand and squeezes it fondly, "helped me to develop.
But I don't need them to know there's more behind it than what you've
told me."

Maddyn's sigh matches her own, but he smiles and squeezes back.
"Transporters and I have a bad history," he explains as his friend
makes a small adjustment to their flight path, riding the edge of a
large pocket of air turbulence so that it barely shivers their vessel.

"Have you ever seen what happens when matter transmission goes
wrong?"he asks. She shakes her head. "They use a holodeck to show it
to you when you do your medical training. Every single possible
malfunction." Maddyn closes his eyes at the memory of it. "It's worse
than when they show you the cadavers, because dead bodies are at least
identifiable as bodies. It's the most fervent wish of any doctor never
to have to see that sort of disaster for real." Another brief pause.
"I've seen it twice."

"I'm sorry," Mkaela says, touching his shoulder. He can feel her
reaction too, the myriad different emotions his story stirs in her,
the scattered memories they bring bobbing briefly to the surface.

It's times like these he envies those who live in mental silence.

"So, that's the new _Enterprise_ is it?" he asks suddenly, breaking
the mood. Ahead of them, he can make out the shape of a starship
hard-docked to the alien platform above the city.

"Oh, yes," Mkaela answers him, returning her attentions to the control
board. The moment is gone, and they both know without saying that it
will most likely not be spoken of again between them. He opens up a
display window on the systems control panel and magnifies the ship for
them both to look at.

"It's a nice enough looking ship I guess," she shrugs after tracing
the lines of the ship with a finger, as if trying to ignite a memory
without quite realising it. "Reminds me of the old _Excelsiors_ in a
way."

"I've been itching to see the med bay designs for this class," he
mock-confides to her. "I hear they're even better than what I'm
running with. Given a starship's limitations, of course."

"Oh, of course," she grins.

"Hrmm. I wonder if they've organised a tour."

---

Image: Ten Forward and the reception within. Starfleet officers,
Federation dignitaries, Bandai notables. All chatting. All drinking...

Light flares brightly white. Darkness.

Image: Ten Forward and the reception within. Everyone turning as she
and Maddyn are escorted inside by an Andorian ensign. Everyone nodding
as they are introduced to the people they don't know...

Light flares brightly white. Darkness.

Image: Ten Forward and the reception within. Fake smile as Locu- No,
as /Picard/ steers her towards the dignitaries. A human ensign with
green hair approaching with a tray of drinks...

A babble of sound begins to play as a soundtrack to... Darkness.

Image: Ten Forward and the reception within. Syrupy
bitter-sweetness filling her mouth and sliding down her throat. The
inhomidiness of the Saurian ambassador's face as shi blinks hir huge
yellow eyes in greeting...

Babble underscored by a liquid roaring that ebbs and flows. Darkness.

Image: Ten Forward and the reception within. Her fingers spasming
open. Her glass frozen in that moment before freefall. Someone's cry
of alarm. Hers...

Sudden blinding pain turning the darkness blood green. Silence.

Image: Ten Forward and the reception within. The sound of
shattering glass. Pain. Intense, incredible pain, as she falls...

/Everything/ returns, tearing away the darkness and the silence.

Image: Ten Forward and the reception within. Everything goes numb. All
sensation leaches away. The face of a Celestine wreathed in the holy
fire of the Temple of the Prophets. Darkness....

Mkaela sits upright with a strangled cry of terror, lungs fighting
that exhalation of sound as they suck in the overly scrubbed starship
air as though it is the purest elixir. It's a purely autonomic
response that doubles her over barely a second later, coughing
harshly.

Two pairs of hands, strong in that special manner that only a doctor's
can be, find places to support her as the coughing fit passes. She
waves them away then, making them leave her bent double and draped
over her knees as she regains her breath. All she remembers from the
brief instant her eyes were open is an intense blur of light.

"What happened?" she finally asks, eyes still closed but aware that
she is most likely in the _Enterprise_'s medlab. "I died, didn't I?"

"Yes," two voices reply together in that way that means they didn't
mean to. One male, one female. One Maddyn's, the other she again
guesses belongs to the _Enterprise_. The last member of the ship's
command crew that she was to have been introduced to after the
dignitaries.

"It's her infirmary, Madd," Mkaela scolds, curtailing the clash of
medical egos before they can start staking their claim over her.
Taking one last deep breath before leaning back and discovering
someone has raised the biobed to turn it into a seat. She doesn't
complain; skirting so close to death twice in the same day would take
it out of a Vulcan.

And she's no Vulcan.

"Thank you," the woman says, sounding bemused as she reaches in to
remove the little devices attached to Mkaela forehead and above her
heart. It's then that she realises that her jacket has been opened and
pulled almost halfway down her arms; still feeling weak, Mkaela leaves
it where it is.

"So?" Mkaela prompts, opening the first crack in her eyelids, allowing
her eyes to adjust to the brightness of light endemic to Starfleet
medlabs everywhere. Her returning sense of smell picks up the faint
traces of the doctor's perfume, something that reminds her of the
terlili groves back on Bajor.

"You suffered a massive anaphylactic shock," the woman explains.
"Whatever it was you were drinking-"

"Cthdozi," Maddyn interrupts. "It's a Betazoid liqueur." Mkaela opens
her eyes a little more as he speaks, making out the whiteness of the
curved walls and the shapes of the biobeds erected in front of them.

"Hmmm," the woman replies. "Well, it would appear that you have a
hyperallergic reaction to something in this cthdozi." She says out the
word slowly, getting the alien sounds of it correct. "I've got Ogowa
running the tests to determine exactly what. If it'd been synthehol,
there wouldn't have been a problem."

"So I'll live?" Mkaela jokes, opening her eyes all the way.

She looks into the face of a Celestine, one of those who have ascended
to live with the Prophets in their celestial temple. The Celestine
that was there when she died. The one whom, it would seem, had bought
her back.

"Provided you steer clear of cthdozi," the red head smiles. As she
turns away to tap her her combadge, Mkaela is suddenly grateful for
the darkness of her skin: any lighter and the sudden surge of green to
her cheeks would be painfully, embarrassingly, obvious.

\\Oh, be still my heart!\\

"Crusher to Picard."

Deep inside, Mkaela feels the desire to stroke aside the long strand
of flame red hair that brushes against the doctor's cheek and kiss the
soft skin that hair touches...

"Picard here," the captain's voice, laced with concern - for what she
cannot say -  fills the almost empty chamber. "Is the Commander
alright?"

...And from her cheek, to move her lips upwards to kiss the lids of
this Celestine's eyes, this incredible beauty with the discordantly
violent name.

"She's fine, Captain," Crusher answers, her voice matching the very
genuine smile of relief touching her lips. "It was simply a bad
allergic reaction to a something she drank."

\\Down girl,\\ Maddyn's mind-voice whispers, humour and caution both
lacing the mental communion.

\\You know what red-heads do to me,\\ she thinks back, knowing that
her friend will be reading her enough to pick it up. \\She's
beautiful, Madd. She saved my life.\\

"What's her condition?" Picard's voice returns. "Everyone here is
understandably concerned."

\\Exactly,\\ Maddyn points out.\\ You're grateful, you're getting over
a painful div-\\

\\Exactly!\\ she thinks, shooting Maddyn a brief glare to accompany
her pointed reply. \\I'm over moping about Alex, about the hurt and
the sadness and everything else. All I want to have is a little bit of
fun, Madd, before I go. And I want to have it with her.\\

"Jean Luc, I'd like to keep her here for observation," Crusher informs
all of them, turning to Mkalea and Maddyn as she says this. "She
should be on her feet again in a few hours."

"Thank you, Doctor Crusher, I'll pass on the good news. Picard out."

Mkaela wonders if she's the only one to catch the subtle emphasis that
Picard places on Crusher's position.

"Doctor Blaen, I can't thank you enough for getting me Commander
Keri's biodata," Crusher smiles. Turning to Mkaela, she admits: "I've
never seen biology quite like yours before. And I've come across my
share of cross-species progeny."

"There were only three of us when the Cardassians invaded," she sighs,
a genuine regret. "Fighting and evacuation separated us: as far as I
know, I'm the last."

"That's terrible," Crusher says, sitting on the edge of Mkaela's bed.
"I know a little of what it's like to be alone, with the prospect of
there being nobody else besides, with no one to remember you."

She sounds so lonely describing this, describing the very things that
haunt Mkaela herself sometimes when the world is dark and silent, that
she reaches out to comfort Crusher without really thinking about it.

"How?" she asks, feeling the softness of the other woman's skin
against her palm, closing her fingers about those that must have saved
so many lives. Lives that now include her own.

"It was an accident," explains Crusher. "I was caught up in a pocket
universe created by one of my son's warp experiments." Her features
cloud as she recalls the experience. "It all seemed normal at first,
then people started disappearing. Utterly. No one else had any
memories of them, even if they'd only just been talking to them. I was
the only one who noticed, because I wasn't native to the pocket
dimension. It was so terrifying, I thought I was going mad." She
shivers a little, and Mkaela squeezes her hand again.

She's a little surprised, a little thrilled, when the squeeze is
absently returned.

"Eventually, it came down to just the _Enterprise_ and me as the
universe I was in collapsed. I almost went with it before I realised
that the vortexes I thought were stealing the crew were actually Wes
trying to save me."

The melancholy evaporates - shaken off like so much travel dust - with
the memory of her friends saving her, and the celestial warmth of her
smile returns. "So, every so often, I check up with the family and
friends I don't talk to as much as I might like. And Wes drops by
occasionally, when he's not out hopping galaxies."

"Doctor, do you mind if Mkaela and I have a word alone?" Maddyn says,
grabbing the conversation before Mkaela can do or say anything more.
She avoids looking at him, knowing she'll only glare.

"Sure," she smiles, getting to her feet. "I'll just chase up Alyssa
for those test results."

"Madd, stop riding me!" Mkaela snaps in irritation the second the
doors close behind Crusher and her shapely behind.

"Whoa!" Maddyn holds up his hands. "I'm just making a graceful exit."
He flashes her a smile, hands moving to tug her jacket back up her
arms. "I happen to know when I can't win."

"You're making a point?" she asks, still irritable as she bats away
his hands and removes her jacket all together.

"Well," he says, leaning in and adopting his best conspiratorial
gossip expression. "I was talking to the ships's counsellor - the
Deanna Troi that Picard introduced you to just before your little turn
- after the _Enterprise_ entered orbit. She's Fifth House, I'm Ninth,
so our families know each other, you see. And according to her,
there's something of an off-again on-again thing between Captain
Picard and your heavenly angel."

Scrutinising her friend's face as she pins her combadge to her shirt,
Mkaela pointedly asks, "And she just volunteered this information?"
The hint of a smile on her lips, though, belies her dubiousness:
Maddyn has the most remarkable ability to get information out of
people.

"Actually, yes. We Betazoids love finding out about relationships." He
chuckles. "You might even call it an obligation, when you belong to
one of the royal Houses." He grins triumphantly. "It slipped out when
I was asking if there were anyone she knew interested in a fling
amongst the ship's upper echelons."

"Like I didn't already know," she rolls her eyes, offering a small
smile. "Go and enjoy the reception, Madd. I'm sure I saw some good
looking bloke with a beard making eyes in your direction before I
passed out."

"I'll bet," he grins, rubbing his hands together. "You've got to
admit, I /am/ ravishingly good looking for my age."

Mkaela pokes her friend in the belly. "Then go get ravished. I'll be
fine."

"I know you will," he says, hugging her fondly. It's times like this,
when she really needs him, that she is glad that they've never let sex
interfere with their friendship. His lips are warm against the skin
just above her ridges when he kisses her good night. "I'll see you
tomorrow."

"Go!" she orders good naturedly, pushing him away towards the
door."And that's an order, Doctor Blaen."

"Yes Ma'am!" he salutes humorously before slipping outside.

Mkaela yawns a little. Maddyn's a good sort, even if he is prone to
dipping his oar in a little too much because he cares. At least, he
knows when to back off.

She hopes.

---

Beverly looks about the compact space of the transporter room and
finds herself wishing for the congenial features and boyish smile of
Miles O'Brien instead of the placid features of the young Vulcan
currently standing at the controls. He'd always been good for a game
of darts now and then, a game she'd learnt from Jack back when they
were courting each other.

"Will you be beaming down alone, Commander?" he asks, only half
looking up from the diagnostic he seems to be running. Even then, his
dark eyes seem to evaluate her with a disconcerting thoroughness.

"I'm waiting for Counsellor Troi," she answers, an automatic
semi-smile accompanying her words.

The ensign nods, not an iota of movement from the dark cap that is his
hair.

\\I wonder what all the transporter chiefs do when no one is beaming
around?\\ she wonders, glancing at the chronometer. \\I must ask Data
when I see him next.\\

Deanna skips in just then, looking particularly well groomed. Flashing
a casual smile at the ensign, she turns to Beverly. "Ready?"

"Long ago," she answers back, leading the way to the platform. "Let me
guess: Bon Mott's?"

"How'd you guess?"

Beverly tuts in mock reproach. "You always look this way when you go
there."

"Destination?" the ensign asks. Beverly fancies she can imagine  the
slightest hint of rebuke at their conversation. \\Stop stereotyping,\\
she tells herself.

"Anu'zbra Court," Deanna answers for her.

"Energizing."

That familiar tingle takes hold of her, travelling inwards towards her
core as the world becomes a chaotic swirl of colours moving to the
sound of quantum harmonics. It lasts an eternity of seconds, then
vanishes, leaving the two of them standing in the middle of a plaza.

"It doesn't look any different," Beverly remarks in quiet surprise,
looking around at the curving white architecture, the lush gardens,
and the people moving amongst them all. "Look, I think that's even the
same merchant that sold me the cloth I made that dress you liked so
much from."

Deanna nods, shielding her eyes from the morning sun peeking over the
western horizon. "I never had a chance to look around the original,"
she answers with a little shrug that might almost be described as
envious. "At least, not the way you did."

Beverly looks around, only half listening as she gets her bearings
from a map ten years old and purely in her mind. "If I remember
correctly, there's a little Enebrian cafe about five minutes walk that
way." She points north.

The two women set off down the plaza. However it takes considerably
longer than five minutes to reach the cafe, as they stop to look in
the window of each shop they pass by, gawking amiably at all the
pretty things and laughing at the odd ones. When they do reach the
cafe, they sit at one of its round tables and peruse the menu that can
be projected into the air between them.

"So, Beverly, are you going to tell me what happened?" Deanna asks
after the waiter takes their order to the kitchen. "I've sensed it
bubbling away at the back of your mind since before we beamed down."

"Well," the doctor answers, drawing out the word. "The men in our
lives - Will and Jean Luc. They're not exactly /the/ men in our lives,
are they?"

Deanna cocks her head a little. "How so?"

"Um. Well. It's a little hard to explain." Beverly ponders a moment,
trying to find the words she needs. "We have feelings for them, and
they have feelings for us in return. We're all of us free agents, but
we know that deep down we want them and we hope they want us in the
same way."

"You've got me so far."

"You remember when Jean Luc and I were kidnapped and had those things
attached to us?"

Deanna nods. "And you knew what the other was thinking?"

"Yes. We drifted apart after that because we were afraid of those
feelings we had, and that the other knew how intense they were. But
then, shortly before Will crashed the _Enterprise_ - D..." There's a
little smile, the trace of a fond memory, tugging at the corner of her
mouth. "We came... to an understanding. Things /deepened/ between us.
We grew closer than we'd ever been." And then, the smile turns
downwards. "But then, after his family died, Jean Luc grew more
distant. It's like with you and Will: it... things between he and I
ebb and flow. And we never seem able to quite match the other's tide."

Another understanding nod on Deanna's part. She leans ever so slightly
closer.

"It's beginning to wear on me, Deanna," Beverly sighs. "And I'm afraid
to ask him one way or another in case it's 'No'. I'm feeling like I
did just before I met Odan, or that anaphasic 'ghost' Ronin."

The waiter returns then, laden with all manner of scrumptious things,
two of which are for them. For Deanna there's, predictably, something
made with chocolate and chocolate-analogues from 7 different worlds
that is inexplicably called a 'genesis' - perhaps it loses something
in the translation. Beverly is presented with a wedge of orange cake
smothered in a thick redberry sauce and encrusted with flakes of
almond. Both portions are big enough to be considered main meals: one
of the reasons Beverly swears by the hospitality of the Enebrians.

Conversation stops for a little while. Food this good, after all, is
so difficult to talk around without ruining the experience. Eventually
though, the women do once more find the desire to speak of more
mundane things.

"So, you're afraid of your history," Deanna sums up her friend's
feelings with practised skill. She sucks a stray tendril of
chocolately goo from a finger as she makes the various deductions
permitted by Beverly's affirmative nod. "Which means you've met
someone you're feeling attracted to. And given the events of last
night, I think it's safe to assume that her name is Mkaela."

"Am I that obvious?" Beverly asks, feeling herself blush ever so
slightly. \\Discretion is obviously not one of my fortes.\\

"I could say yes," her dark haired friend smiles ever so wickedly.
"But the truth is that after he left the infirmary last night, Doctor
Blaen and I traded relationship histories for you and Commander Keri."

"Deanna!" Beverly exclaims, mortified and embarrassed. "I can't
believe you did that!"

"Force of habit," Deanna answers apologetically. "Betazoids can't stop
themselves finding out about relationships and helping them along,
especially when we're living in close pathic proximity to them; I
mean, you've met my mother." The face she makes when mentioning the
current holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx brings an involuntary
smile to Beverly's face. "He's genuinely concerned for Mkaela. They've
been friends ever since she arrived here and he doesn't want her to
get hurt."

"That's still no reason for you to go telling him about the disaster
that's been my love life post-Jack!" Beverly protests, shaking her
spoon at her friend irritably.

"At least you know the attraction's mutual," Deanna offers, stuffing a
piece of genesis into her mouth to momentarily forestall any more
talk.

Beverly finds herself halted in mid-tirade by the Betazoid's words.
She turns the notion over in her head for a moment, tasting it,
sniffing for possibilities. "Mutual?"

"Uhuh," Deanna mumbles stickily, waving her fingers in that vaguely
circular manner some people do without quite realising it when they're
trying to force what's in their mouth into their stomach so they can
speak sooner. "She's just come out of a divorce and is looking for a
little bit of fun, and Maddyn was worried that you might totally brush
her off, or else fall utterly and totally in love with her."

Finding herself again unsure of what to say, she follows Deanna's
tactic and takes a big bite of her cake.

It doesn't quite work.

"I mean, you're looking for a break from this off-again, on-again
thing with the Captain but you don't want to get into a relationship.
Commander Keri's looking for something fun before she leaves for
Bajor. You both like each other /that/ way." Deanna leans in again,
the  perfect confidante, the personification of the devil and angel
perching on Bev's shoulders. "It's perfect. Something for both of you,
with no guilt or strings attached. Of course, it's not everyone who
can pull off a one night stand..."

Beverly hits her square between the eyes with a flaked almond.

---

"Commander," a rather generic looking human ensign calls out for
Mkaela's attention. Given that she has only paperwork - funny how such
an arcane expression manages to so well sum up the banality of the
task - to occupy her when the call is uttered, her attention is easily
snared.

"Yes, Ensign Smith?" she asks him, trying not to sound too interested
in whatever it is he's reporting. Anything to remove her attention
from the tendrils of bureaucracy infecting her office is readily
welcome.

"The _Destiny_ has just sent us notification that she's just been
delayed by a technical matter and won't be arriving here until
tomorrow  afternoon." He manages to look slightly apologetic for the
inconvenience he thinks this is going to cause her.

Mkaela shrugs, privately just a little bit glad at the news; it means
she has a little more time to play with Beverly Crusher, to indulge in
something beyond the 'If you have a minute...' lack of time and the
previous night's flirting had seen her contemplating.

"Send them an acknowledgement and ask Captain !Xia," - she feels a
brief satisfaction at /finally/ getting the pronunciation of his name
right - "to keep us posted on their status." She can tell he expected
less equanimity, and smiles softly, privately, at him when he turns
his
back to her.

"Aye Ma'am."

Mkaela returns her attention to the various PADDS strewn across her
desk and the dulling array of status reports, requisitions, schedules
and briefings they contain. It takes the rest of the hour, but
finally, her thumb print authorises the final one.

\\And after tonight, it'll be /months/ before I have to look at
another one!\\ she thinks triumphantly, stacking them neatly for her
yeoman to collect later. "Lieutenant Reed," she calls, moving towards
the centre of the room.

"Commander?" her aide de camp responds, looking up from his Systems
Management console, newly pink hair clashing with his gold shirt and
hazel eyes.

"You have the thingy." It's a joke between the two of them, and the
rest of Ops by extension. When she first took command here, she'd been
unsure exactly how to refer to Ops - words like 'conn' and 'bridge'
just weren't right - and Reed had cheekily offered 'thingy' as an
option. The young Australian's suggestion had stuck all these years.

"Yes Commander."

"Unless something important happens, I'll see you at the ceremony this
afternoon."

And with that, she departs Ops for what is probably the last time. It
feels /really/ good.

Her actual long service leave is going to feel even better.

As soon as she leaves the Spire and emerges into the early morning,
Mkaela makes her way to the nearest supply depot and requisitions a
bicycle for herself. A design found in its essence on just about every
member world of the Federation, it is probably not the most efficient
means of moving any great distance within Farpoint or its
immediate vicinity, but it is the most enjoyable.

Perhaps half her day is spent moving from location to location,
ensuring that everything she is co-ordinating for the ceremony is in
order and ready to go. And in so doing, Mkaela takes the chance to say
good-bye to Farpoint a little bit at a time.

Her running into Beverly comes as a complete surprise. It is, after
all, only reasonable to expect that someone standing behind verdantly
blue topiary won't jut out their arm to point at something at the
exact moment that someone is riding past said decorative bush.
Mkaela's peripheral vision registers the familiar red hair at the same
instant she feels the cartilage in her nose fracture.

Beverly and Troi look at her, frozen for a moment in utter surprise as
their minds register the situation unfolding before them. Mkaela's
eyes chance to meet those of her Celestine as the bicycle  departs
from her grasp, the dark shape of it rearing upwards as physics
becomes involved in the situation. She sees her own surprise reflected
in them, or perhaps she only hopes she does.

"Oh cruk!"

The exclamation comes at the precise moment her back strikes the
pavement, the impact forcing her eyes closed as she crooks her head
forward in a desperate attempt to avoid hitting it. She has no idea if
it is her or someone else who utters it.

"Mkaela!?" Beverly cries out, dismay on her face, alarm in her voice.
She kneels by Mkaela's side, and reaches for a tricorder that isn't
there. "Are you alright? I can't believe I did that!"

Mkaela carefully touches her nose, wincing at the ribbons of pain that
crawl over her face, the tips of her fingers green with her blood.

"We can't keep meeting like this," Mkaela answers with a grin that
turns into a grimace of discomfort, a rivulet of blood running down
her cheek.

"Crusher to _Enterprise_," Crusher says, looking satisfyingly
mortified but discomfortingly distressed. "Two to beam directly to
sickbay."

The tingle of a transporter beam suffuses her several heartbeats
later, quite alarmingly making her want to sneeze. She fights the
impulse down, and jumps on it, and then she's in the _Enterprise_
infirmary, sitting on a biobed with a tissue regenerator blinking and
whirring in extreme proximity.

\\This had /so/ better be worth it,\\ she thinks to herself, as the
nurse brushes something medical across her bloody face the moment the
regenerator has done its work, leaving it tingling and clean. The same
thing is passed across her hand.

"Will I live?" she asks, fingers once more investigating her nose,
discovering only a mild sensation of warmth that quickly fades.

"As long as I'm not around to do something as stupid and
unthinking as that," Beverly answers her apologetically, almost but
not quite wringing her hands. "I'm a doctor, for goodness sake. I-"

Reaching out, she stands and presses her fingers against Beverly's
lips in a single fluid motion. "Have dinner with me? Tonight."

\\Please, Prophets, even if it's just guilt - and I pray it is
not...\\

She feels her Celestine's lips twitch beneath her finger tips in
something that is either speech forestalled or else the tremulous
prelude to a kiss. She pulls her fingers away, but unconsciously keeps
that hand near her heart. "It'll make me feel better..."

\\...please let her say yes.\\

"Um, okay. Dinner. Yes." The words tumble over each other in their
haste to be uttered, tugging along after them a little flash of a
smile that Mkaela instantly returns.

"How does 2100 local time sound?"

"That'll only give us an hour to get ready, won't it?" Beverly asks
back, gesturing for Mkaela to follow her into her office.

"I know," Mkaela says a little apologetically. "But I've got this
ceremony to finish looking after, and the _Enterprise_ is leaving at
noon, and I'm hitching a ride with the _Destiny_ tomorrow
afternoon..."

The door closes behind them, the window looking out onto the rest of
the infirmary automatically polarising to form a semi-opaque two way
mirror.

"...And you want us to spend as much time together as possible,"
Beverly finishes the explanation, perching on the edge of her desk
next to where Mkaela similarly seats herself. There is an emotion in
her expression that Mkaela can't quite read.

"Yeah," Mkaela nods, her cheeks greening ever so very slightly. "I'm
sorry. It's just that... I'm not in love with you or anything, it's
just that I /really/ fancy you, Beverly. I know Madd says it's because
I'm just divorced and you saved my life, but every time I look at you,
my ovaries feel like they're doing little leaps inside of me."

\\Why'd I go do a /stupid/ thing like that and blurt it all out?!?\\
she castigates herself, keeping the horror she feels from showing on
her face. Stupid, stupid woman.

"Comman- Mkaela," her Celestine answers after a moment and a deep
breath. "I'm... Um..."

A little internal sigh, one of regret and disappointment. "Look,
Beverly, I'm sorry. I've offended you. I shouldn't have said what-"

A gentle hand upon her arm halts Mkaela's attempt to depart before it
is even properly begun. "Please, Mkaela, stay."

Mkaela looks at Beverly again, a tiny flutter of hope in her heart.

"I'm not offended," her Celestine smiles encouragingly. "I'm just a
little anxious because mine are making those same little leaps when
I'm around you." Her hand slips down Mkaela's arm and finds her hand.
Their fingers caress softly, just a hummingbird gentle touch, but it
makes a little tingle of anticipation and desire course through her.

"I don't mean to make you anxious," she half-whispers, suddenly very
aware of all those little cues and sensations that she picks up from
the flame-haired woman she desires so, signals at once so inherently
familiar and so intrinsically alien.

"It's not you, Mkaela," Beverly responds in that same half-whisper,
Mkaela's hand now resting fully in hers. "It's what you want. What
/we/ want. I don't know if I can give free reign to just my sex and
not my heart. It's not something I've ever done before. It's not
something I've wanted to do before."

A little shyly, Mkaela shifts so that Beverly's hand is in one of
hers, the other tracing the lines and furrows in her Celestine's palm.
"Honestly, Beverly, I'll be content just to eat at the same table and
enjoy your company while I can. If something happens, it happens..."

"And if it doesn't, then at least we've had a nice meal together,"
Beverly nods, delicately reclaiming her hand as she again finishes
Mkaela's sentence. "I used to think that way at the Academy sometimes,
but that was as far as I could take it..." She shrugs, the note of
regret vanishing to make way for one of trepidatious optimism.
"Perhaps tonight will be different. I just can't promise it."

"It's okay. So, 2100, outside your quarters?" Mkaela asks, standing.

"And don't be late!"

---

The fireworks three days before had been just the test run, and they
had indeed been spectacular. Tonight, as the culmination to hours of
speechmaking and celebratory showmanship, they are magnificent.

It starts with a single mote of light falling groundwards from the
centre of the alien platform as lazily as might the first snowflake of
winter, a mote that is met by an identical one floating upwards from
the very pinnacle of the Spire. For the briefest of moments, everyone
can see them touch.

And then they are gone, replaced by an expanding web of glittering
white that arcs gracefully downwards. The web cascades for a few,
undisturbed seconds, before columns of light erupt from the city's
edge, shimmering in every conceivable colour, starbursts exploding
from within, spreading out over the city...

Even though he had been awed by the trial run at the party, and still
finds the carefully choreographed pyrotechnics stirringly beautiful,
Maddyn departs his place at the official stand almost as soon as the
fireworks begin, the new pip signifying his full Commandership now
adding its own weight to the collar of his uniform.

\\Commander Maddyn Blaen\\, he smiles to himself, seeking out the
relative quiet of his infirmary. \\I /do/ like the sound of that.\\

\\So did I, when I got my pip,\\ Deanna Troi remarks from where she is
standing in a doorway, looking suspiciously like she's been laying in
wait for him - which she has. \\Sometimes, though, it's not worth the
extra paperwork that comes with it.\\

\\Try running a department for paperwork,\\ Maddyn brushes the
complaint aside affably. \\Oh that's right, you do.\\

Overhead thousands of tiny red glowballs form a lacy pattern of
interlocking knots, the traditional Bandai sigil of beneficence.

\\Beverly and Commander Keri are meeting for dinner in about half an
hour,\\ Troi says as the doors to the medical complex slide open.

\\Hmmm, yes, so Mkaela was saying. Wouldn't say where they were going
though.\\ He feels slightly miffed on this point. If she can tell him
about the other 'event' of the day, she can tell him her plans for her
little assignation with Doctor Crusher. After all, he /has/ had a hand
in it having reached that point. Some people just have no gratitude.

\\Well, I don't think Beverly knows either,\\ Troi shrugs as the duty
nurse nods to the pair of them. \\But she was feeling both nervous and
excited when I left her. Giddy as a school boy, as mother would say.\\

With a flourish, Maddyn ushers his co-conspirator into his office and
closes the door. "Mkaela was obsessing about what to wear when I spoke
to her before the ceremony," he continues the conversation verbally
now that they are secluded; a race as open as their own knows well the
value of privacy, especially when discussing the lives and loves of
others.

"So was Beverly," Troi confides, both of them dropping into a chair
either side of his desk. "We were almost late for the ceremony, she
took so long. It's always so amusing...

"...when it isn't you," Maddyn chuckles, familiar with the old saying.
"At least we don't have to worry about all that matrimonial wear the
other races go on about."

"But some of it /is/ so pretty," she chides him good naturedly. "If
she weren't such a traditionalist, I know my mother wouldn't mind
wearing something to her wedding. Just once." She makes a little
gesture with thumb and forefinger, indicating the chance of such a
thing actually happening.

He makes an even smaller one. "My family would all have seizures if I
did anything like that." He snickers at a thought. "Hell, the idea of
marrying outside the species is enough to make them take a
restorative. In a barrel-sized dose. Each."

"No wonder they haven't been speaking to mother recently."

"Didn't she just marry one of those awful Founder things?"

"I've met Odo," she nods. "He's actually aligned with the Bajorans. He
/is/ a little reserved, but deep within his protoplasm, there beats a
heart of goo."

Maddyn's laugh emerges as a snort, mostly because he was trying to
hold it back and failed. "That's /awful/!" he protests to her
gleefully amused expression.

"I know," she says with an evil little grin. "Now that Data can handle
humour, he's constantly trying things like that out on us." A sigh. "I
do hope things go well for them tonight."

"As do I," he agrees, expression sobering a little. "If they can
create even just a little happiness between themselves, the universe
will be the better for it. Goodness knows, with the way things are
looking with us and the Klingons and the Cardassians and the Dominion,
we can use all the happiness we can get."

"Universal harmony through the judicious application and enjoyment of
sex?" Deanna raises an eyebrow.

"It's a theory that has its good points," he smiles lazily at her.
\\Damn, it feels good to kick back and chew the fat with a fellow
Betazoid very now and again.\\ "Especially for the people doing the
'negotiating'."

"I wouldn't fancy negotiating with the Borg, would you?" She makes an
attempt to mimic the soulless tones of the cybernetic race. "We are
the Borg. You will be crukked. Resistance is futile."

"But highly enjoyable, given the right partner."

"Flirt," she accuses without malice, a lazy smile of her own.

"I try my best," he smirks a little immodestly.

"We've got the rest of the night," she points out casually, fixing his
gaze with her own. "How about trying a little harder?"

---

"No. Not that. Nope. Uh-uh. Cruk, where the hell is it!"

The spartan soullessness of Mkaela's room has been temporarily
dispelled. Not by furnishings, or pictures or momentos or art, or even
the half-used candles clogging the bathroom. Yet, someone can now take
a single glance through the doors and realise: someone lives here.

Clothes are strewn everywhere, flung hither and thither by the
tempestuous storm that is Mkaela preparing for a date. Dresses,
skirts, slacks, tops: every single wearable in her possession is held
up for scrutiny and ruthlessly evaluated before being tossed aside and
the
search continued.

And though it takes her longer than she has anticipated, she does
manage to settle on an outfit: a short sleeved satin dress in
mid-summer green that reaches to just above her knees underneath a
sleeveless coat loosely crocheted in pale russet velvet that she
buttons twice over her breasts in the style of her home province. She
plays with it a little, getting it to sit /just/ so on her hips, the
hem brushing against the back of her calves. A pair of flat soled
sandals of bronze leather completes the ensemble.

"Computer. Time," she calls out, hurriedly cleaning up the sartorial
explosion and folding them away from whence they came.

"The time is 2049 hours."

\\Bugger, I'm going to be late!\\ she curses inwardly. She just stuffs
the clothes away and jams the lids down on the boxes before grabbing
her mother's shawl and draping it over the back of the lounge. A
careful tug to position it properly, then she scurries into the
bathroom and returns with a small basket. With the same eye for
detail, she positions some of the candles from her ritual the day
before to best
effect.

"Computer. Are the amended fire protocols for this room still
operating?"

"Affirmative."

"Goooood," she breathes. No suppression forcefields when she lights
the damn things, should she chance to bring Beverly back here.

"Computer. Time."

"The time is 2053 hours."

A final delay to once more check her appearance in the mirror, then
she taps her combadge where it sits obscured beneath her coat.
"Commander Keri to _Enterprise_, Transporter Room Three. One to beam
up, please."

"Beam out in five seconds, Commander," the man on the other end of the
channel replies. A brief memory of Alex, and she recognises the
transporter chief's accent as being Canadian.

Just in time, she remembers that she's forgotten something. She lunges
for the table, her fingers wrapping around the gift a moment before
the glimmering caress of the transporter beam takes unshakable hold of
her.

\\Oh bugger...\\

The transporter dais is irritatingly solid when she drops onto it,
twisting in the second before impact to avoid crushing her delicate
prize. Ignoring the rather surprised expression on the transporter
chief's broad and innocent features, Mkaela takes stock and discovers
the only damage is to her ego.

\\It's been a rotten 29 hours,\\ she scowls to herself, accepting the
young human's assisting hand to regain her footing.

"Are you alright, Commander?"

"Nothing to worry about, Lieutenant," she answers back, resisting the
sudden and inexplicable urge to pat his honey brown curls. No, not
inexplicable - her father had always done that to her when she used to
help him, back in the innocence of her childhood. "Just last minute
nerves."

"If you say so, Commander." He sounds a little dubious, but she lets
it pass.

"Turbolift?" she asks, favouring his concern with a smile now she has
regained her composure. The incongruity of that expression with her
pseudo-Vulcan appearance only throws him even more. Evil girl, she
chuckles inwardly: it's an effect she enjoys having on others when it
occurs.

"Out the door, turn right, end of corridor."

"Thank you kindly," she calls back over her shoulder, already exiting
with alacrity. The lift takes too long to arrive and, despite moving
on maxtrack, a subjective eternity to reach its destination but
somehow she's at Beverly's door and pressing the entry chime on the
very
stroke of 2100.

A few moments later, the door parts to reveal a golden vision that
quite takes her breath away. Without the anonymising influence of her
uniform, Beverly is possessed of a subtle voluptuousness that the pale
gold silk of her tube dress displays to the doctor's advantage. A
little splash of gold cascades from each ear, matching the pale lemon
of her lips. Even her hair matches, a pastel gold supplanting its
normally fiery red hue bar for the very tips.

Mkaela simply says "Wow."

"You like?" Beverly asks, turning on the slight heels of her sandals
to model for her date.

"Very," she answers, holding out the silver flowers she had almost
forgotten. "They're a native flower called a khecheba."

"How sweet of you," Beverly beams, taking a sniff. "They look like my
roses," she says after a moment. "But their scent is stronger and
drier."

"Roses?" asks Mkaela, following Beverly into her quarters as the
younger woman takes another sniff and feels the texture of the
khechebas' pallid sienna leaves.

"These," she explains, ushering her into the bed chamber and pointing
to the red- and white-headed flowers growing on a stand opposite the
foot of her bed, leaving Mkaela to examine them while she replicates a
vase for the khechebas. "They're a Terran flower I've loved ever since
I was a little girl."

"Parallel evolution, perhaps?" Mkaela suggests. "Or pan-galactic
gardeners?"

"Anything's possible. Shall we go?"

"Let's. I'll show you where those flowers come from."

Their walk to the transporter room is a sedate one, despite the
nervousness both women feel. Their mutual decision against linking
arms or holding onto one another has left their hands free to subtly
fidget and convey their inner feelings. What small conversation does
pass between the two is concerned strictly with the minutia of the
day, thoughts on the opening ceremony, reaction to the fireworks.

"So, where exactly are we going?" Beverly finally asks when they exit
the turbolift.

"Cape Zaru, Bel'Chesa." The expectant look on Beverly's face prompts a
further explanation. "Bel'Chesa is the planet's largest  southern
landmass, and Cape Zaru is a small town on its western coast line.
There's a mineral in the sand that glows and shimmers when the dawn
light strikes it at just the right angle, and I swear Beverly, it's
one of the most glorious things you'll ever see."

"Sounds wonderful," Beverly beams back, leading the way into the
transporter room. While the doctor heads to the dais, Mkaela scoots
over to the controls and with lightning fingers enters the destination
coordinates. Beverly gives the command to energise as soon as Mkaela
joins her.

Moments later they're standing in the centre of an ornamental khecheba
grove, the sky above them dark and sprinkled with myriad sparkling
motes of light. Touching Beverly's hand, she leads the way out of the
grove, while explaining that viewed from above, the bushes and the
spaces between them have been carefully arranged to resemble a
khecheba blossom.

Leaving the grove, they enter the park surrounding it. Having spent so
long on Deneb, Beverly's surprise at the colour of the native foliage
takes her somewhat by surprise.

"It's all so red!"

"Evaran's equivalent to chlorophyll was evolved under a different type
of sun to that of many other worlds." \\All those cues, so familiar
and alien,\\ she thinks again. "Red and orange absorb the most solar
energy here. Actually, the Bandai had a rather similar reaction to
yours to all the greenery we offworlders are so fond of, even back
when Farpoint was a charade."

"'Evaran'?"

"It's the Bandai name for this planet. According to Zorn, it's some
ancient word from an almost forgotten dialect that means 'home
stone'."

Batsong penetrates the conversation slightly as they pass through the
ring of trees that skirt the park's edge. The leaves rustle in
response to the small creatures' movements, and there is the
occasional flapping of wings.

"Ahh. You know, the original Farpoint had all of that 'off-world
greenery'," Beverly points out with a doctor's natural attention to
detail.

Exiting the park, the two become aware of the faint sound of waves
breaking in the distance.

"Zorn and his people did a lot of research on the Federation after
first contact was made,' she grins, rolling her eyes a little at
Zorn's earnestness, a trait no longer having to deal with the man
makes endearing and even admirable. "The Bandai really did want the
growth our presence, as allies and trading partners, would afford them
so they designed Farpoint to be as Federation-friendly as possible.
And having that alien able to know what people wanted and then be able
to create it, trapped only made things easier for them."

"I see," Beverly nods, looking around. "When I was here last time, the
planet was so harsh, and the Bandai lived only in the old city next to
where the creature had landed. When I see what you and your people
have done in just ten years, the way you've made this place so much
more hospitable... It amazes me."

"It's like I told you in the infirmary that first time we met: the
Bandai couldn't have been more helpful or committed in working with us
to build what we have, reclaim what we have. It's going to take
several generations, but with ecosphere regeneration settlements like
this one along with all the weather control tech we're using, they'll
help make their planet thrive again."

The sounds of the sea are louder now, and for the first time they are
accompanied by the faint scent of salt air.

Beverly touches Mkaela's shoulder, a little frown marring the beauty
of her features. "You seem a little disappointed, despite having
helped achieve so much."

Mkaela shakes her head, taking Beverly's hand and kissing softly the
slightly curled fingers. "I'm just feeling emotional and nostalgic
because I'm leaving friends and familiar places behind. You know, they
way you told me you felt after the _Enterprise_ went kablam."

Her date answers with an understanding nod.

---

To Beverly, the Cape Zaru settlement is small even by the standards of
a starship's crew. The street down which the two of them wander almost
entirely on their own is also the town's only street, running from the
edge of the town and circling around the park. The buildings on either
side are built in what she understands to be the traditional long and
narrow architectural style of the Bandai - a style Federation
architects dub 'terrace'. There's a general supply depot, a school, a
small number of communal recreational establishments, and a surgery
scattered amongst the half-hundred or so homes that have been
established here.

It is into one of these communal establishments, larger than any of
the other buildings, that Mkaela leads her. An incredibly striking
young Bandai man leads them down a flight of stairs and out onto a
balcony carved into the face of the small bluff on which the
settlement has been built. With a nod and a charming smile, he hands
each of them a slim and much ornamented menu PADD before disappearing
back up the stairs.

They spend the five minutes until he returns deciding on what to
order, with Mkaela offering Beverly her advice and experience on the
local cuisine; although Beverly had spent a few days at the original
Farpoint prior to the _Enterprise_'s arrival, both she and Wesley had
rather unadventurously stuck to familiar fare. Conversation doesn't
begin until the waiter vanishes up the stairs for a second time.

"I notice we're alone down here," she ventures, gesturing to the empty
balcony with its four unoccupied tables. "Everyone else seems to be
upstairs."

"Nothing to do with me," Mkaela answers her unspoken suspicions with a
cheerful grin. "Well, not really - it's only a couple of hours away
from dawn here. But it is romantic in a way: just you and me and the
gentle sound of the sea."

Beverly just answers that with a small smile, still feeling a little
anxious about her night out with Mkaela and the attraction she feels
towards the beautiful half-Bajoran, an attraction she knows to be more
than reciprocated. \\Am I being unfaithful to Jean Luc? Is there
anything between us to be unfaithful to? What is it about her that
makes part of me want to sleep with her and part of me want to hide in
my office and ignore that other part? Why haven't I been able to
decide if I want to do this or not?\\

Mkaela, apparently unaware of Beverly's jumbled thoughts, looks out
over the sea, its surface dark and sprinkled with shimmering motes of
diffracted starlight. Seeing the dark- skinned woman in profile
highlights the little crinkles on the bridge of her nose, once more
rousing the half forgotten daydreams of what it might feel like to
have those ridges dragged across her nipples, or that most delicate
nubbin between...

She stamps her mental foot down furiously, stopping herself before
that particular train of thought can cause a betraying blush. \\I am
/not/ going to embarrass myself like that in front of her!\\

\\Would it be an embarrassment?\\ a darkly seductive voice asks from
down near her hind-brain, seated amidst her most ancient and primal
drives. \\That's why you came here, isn't it? To share your bodies
with each other...\\

\\No, I came here to... to...\\

\\To prove you can exist beyond Jean Luc's sphere of influence,
perhaps? To prove to yourself and any one else whose business it isn't
that you have as much right as he or Will or Deanna or Data to have
fun with someone...?\\

"So, tell me more about Tycho City and your house next to Lake
Armstrong?" Mkaela prompts casually, her question coming as the waiter
returns with two narrow and fluted glasses and a thermal unit holding
a chilled bottle of some local wine recommended by her date. He pours
them each half a glass before retreating back up the stairs again with
the promise that meals will be ready momentarily.

"You make it sound so grand," Beverly answers, taking a sip. It has a
certain very dry quality to it which doesn't overly surprise her, but
the taste is not at all unpleasant. "It's like being on any other
planet, except for the fact that the life support systems were as much
artificial as they were natural, and when the solar filters glitched,
as they do sometimes being only machines, it could get quite hot."

Nodding, Mkaela sips her own drink, resting back in her chair a
little. "I'm actually a little afraid of being posted to a starship
again," she confides, catching Beverly's gaze.

"Why?"

"I've spent six years running around planet-side, and if things get
too much, I can always just go outside and take a deep breath." She
shrugs her concern away. "I just think it's going to take me a little
while to get out of that reflex."

Beverly makes a gesture of understanding. "The air on a starship
always tastes a little artificial. You get used to it, but then every
time you go planet-side, you remember."

"Exactly." That they think along similar lines makes Mkaela smile, or
so Beverly assumes.

"I felt like that a little after running Starfleet Medical then
returning to the _Enterprise_. It passes."

"I'm sure it will."

"Ah, here comes our food."

As with Deanna earlier in the day, conversation lags while they eat
even though Mkaela keeps their banter going with remarkable skill.
They never once mention sex or the future beyond this meal.

But for Beverly at least, what may come is very much at the forefront
of her mind. For every rationalisation and logical reason she can
summon against spending the night with Mkaela, the little voice
lurking near her hindbrain finds a counter argument that erodes her
resolve. Neither reason or desire, however, can answer the question at
the very heart of her dilemma: what will she regret more?

Sleeping with Mkaela, or sleeping alone?

Half an hour later, it's a question she still has no answer to by the
time they leave. And Mkaela's expectant silence as the two of them
make their way down to the beach makes it an answer she desperately
needs for both their sakes.

"It'll be dawn here in a little while," Mkaela offers as they perch on
a rock and remove their shoes. "You'll love the view when the sun
hits."

The sand squedges pleasantly between her toes as they begin to amble
along the beach.

"You've shown me a wonderful evening," Beverly remarks after a little
while, the sound of the ocean a soft wash of  background noise. "I'm
not sure how I would have handled this if I was in your place."

\\Thank goodness I didn't say 'infatuation'. That would have made this
all sound so tawdry and cheap.\\

"If you were in my place, you wouldn't be able to see the beach light
up," Mkaela jokes softly. Despite her inner confusion, Beverly finds
herself chuckling along with her; she probably would have taken Mkaela
to a holodeck instead of here.

It feels good to laugh this way; free and easy

"Jack and I made love on a beach once," Beverly confides. "We'd seen
it in holovids, and read it in some books I inherited from my
grandmother."

"What was it like?" Mkaela asks, cocking her head a little.

"It was very romantic to begin with, very passionate. But it's amazing
where sand can end up, and how it can kill a mood." A smile summoned
by fond memory touches her lips as she looks out over the sea, the
pale streaks of the predawn touching the horizon. "But we were very
glad we did it, none the less."

"Fantasies can be like that," Mkaela agrees affably, and Beverly finds
herself wondering if the half-Bajoran has ever played poker. "There's
always the possibility that it'll never work out quite the way you
expect it to."

"But you never know unless you try," Beverly concludes softly, and in
so saying finds the resolution she has been seeking so ardently.

It's the sound of Beverly's shoes dropping onto the sand that summons
Mkaela's attention from where the dark skinned woman walks a half-step
ahead of her. She turns, a hopeful little expression in her eyes as
Beverly reaches out to touch her hand, take it into her own.

A second pair of shoes strikes the sand as their other hands meet and
the fingers entwine. The distance between them is filled with a
pregnant look as all the world goes away and there is a moment of
silence filled with the beating of their hearts and the small sounds
of their breathing.

The first rays of the sun crest the horizon.

Their first kiss is chaste, a shy little caress of the lips.

Beneath their feet, a ripple of light passes across the surface of the
sand, running upwards from the surf.

Beverly's eyelids flutter closed as she looses herself to the
sensation of that second kiss, the softness of another woman's lips
teasing her own open and the mingling of their breath.

Myriad colours skitter across the surface of the sand, shimmering and
sparkling, a silent crescendo of light that envelops them both.

Mkaela and Beverly are for the moment too lost in one another to care.

---

Morning's pale golden light pours through the windows of Mkaela's
room, bathing her and Beverly in its warm embrace as they lay naked
upon her very dishevelled bed, their bodies lazily entwined.

"No regrets?" Mkaela asks softly, languidly stroking her fingers
through Beverly's hair. As much as the sex itself, she has always
enjoyed this part. The part where, having shared bodies, you share a
single space and the quiet pleasure of mutual touch.

"None," her lover replies, head resting on Mkaela's shoulder as she
draws slow little circles around Mkaela's navel with a damp fingertip.
The tiny tiny little hairs there twitch in response to her touch.

"Good," Mkaela nods, her fingers moving to caress the rim of Beverly's
ear the way she likes her own to be touched. "The last thing I could
ever desire would be your regret."

"Am I everything you desired?" asks Beverly in turn, making a little
sound of pleasure as Mkaela's fingers goes to work, caressing and
exciting.

"Ooh, yeah," she nods, memories of the previous hours making her
smile. "It was like I had my own private Risa. I think we both really
needed this."

Beverly's hand drops lower, fingers skittering dangerously through the
dark curls. "I haven't felt this... this contented in a long time."

"Good sex does that," Mkaela grins, the hand resting against her
Celestine's back stirring slightly, making its own downwards journey.

"Brazen hussy," Beverly scolds affectionately, in no way
disagreeing with her.

"I'm not the one with her hand between another woman's legs," she
retorts with pseudo-Vulcan logic.

"No. You're just the one who's letting me do it."

The kiss Beverly gives her leads to a second, and then a third and a
fourth, each more passionate and hungry than the last. Soon, the
tendrils of lust and desire have spread themselves from the fire
burning in her belly and engulf her as the two of them engage in
another deliciously thorough exercise in love-making, each seeking to
sate in the other a desire that they only inflame.

Eventually, their tryst does come to its unwanted end as the realities
of the universe, in the form of Beverly's ever approaching departure
time, intrude upon their hedonism. And as her body - still aquiver -
luxuriates in the cessation of their love making as much as it had
thrilled during it, Mkaela finds herself longing for her Celestine to
stay.

Rather than giving voice to that desire, she contents herself instead
with watching her lover shower. There is something soothing and
comforting about watching the quietly steaming water wash over
Beverly's body, about watching the way it darkens her hair and
cascades over her shoulders, down her back, between the soft
perfection of her breasts and across her belly, rivulets streaming
down her legs. The temptation to join her, to take two handfuls of gel
and clean her only to get her hot and sticky again, is so strong that
Mkaela bites her bottom lip almost hard enough to draw blood.

When it is Mkaela's turn to shower, she takes care to ensure that
should Beverly be observing her, she'll find the experience as
pleasurable as Mkaela had. And while giving herself to the enveloping
embrace and simple sensuality of the water, she finds herself
examining how she feels towards her Celestine. It's not love, of that
she is sure; having loved and lost three times in her life, that
particular crazy joy ride of emotions and hormones is one with which
she is intimately familiar. Yet, it's something more than simple lust.

\\I have no trouble with you leaving, my beautiful Celestine. The fact
that we may never meet again, while disappointing, does not greatly
trouble me nor wrack my soul with grief. I don't want to spend my life
with you the way I did with Alex or Elail or Talayn. So why don't I
want this to end? Is it just because you are a fantasy made incarnate
beyond all my hopes, or is it something else entirely that I have no
words for?\\

When she ambles into the living room, Mkaela is pleasantly surprised
to discover that, like herself, Beverly is still clad in the fluffy
white softness of a bath robe. Walking up to where her lover stands
looking out over Farpoint's north-western expanse, she wraps her arms
lazily around Beverly's waist and kisses her  chastely on the side of
the neck beneath her gathered-up hair.

"How long until you have to report back to the _Enterprise_?"

"A little under an hour."

"Time enough for breakfast."

"Mmmm- Oh, hell!" The look of dreamy content on Beverly's face
suddenly devolves into one of consternation.

"What?" Mkaela asks as she feels Beverly's body tense.
Instinctively, she relaxes her embrace.

"I forgot to cancel breakfast with Jean Luc!" Beverly exclaims,
consternation becoming mortification. "Where's your comscreen?"

"Um, over there." Mkaela follows close behind as Beverly scurries over
and places a call to the the _Enterprise_ and her captain. "How long
ago were you meant to meet him?"

"An hour," Beverly answers, making little adjustments to her robe that
just happen to show a little more of her cleavage. "I'm surprised he
hasn't called to see where I am."

"We deactivated our combadges, remember?" chuckles Mkaela, sitting
down on the couch next to Beverly as the image of the Federation seal
disappears from the screen to be replaced by one of Picard in his
ready room. Unlike them he is, of course, in uniform.

"Ah Beverly, there you are," he says, the intimacy in his tone
revealing that Mkaela is outside the range of the visual pickup. "I
was about to send Lieutenant Hawk with an away team to look for you."
It's only now that his voice is lacking that natural and instinctive
arrogance of command that Mkaela realises how much like her maternal
uncle he sounds.

"I /am/ sorry, Jean Luc," Beverly gushes. "I meant to tell you that
breakfast this morning was going to have to be cancelled, but I guess
because I wasn't sure if I'd be back last night or not, it slipped my
mind."

"Ah yes," he nods in an understanding sort of way, though there is
something about his manner that says he is a little intrigued about
his chief medical officer's activities. "You'll have to tell me what
you've been up to when you get back."

"Your wrist," Mkaela whispers impishly, grinning as Beverly's cheeks
flush slightly but noticeably.

"Is anything the matter?" Picard asks, leaning forward ever so
slightly.

"Mkaela was just making a joke," Beverly answers, turning the screen -
and thus the visual pickup - slightly so that he can see Mkaela
sitting next to her. There is a momentary twitch of an eye as he takes
in the scene, including the unintentional love bite /just/ peeping out
from beneath Mkaela's robe.

"Ah, I see," he says, that undercurrent of curiosity in his manner
becoming something a little different. "Well. Doctor, I'll see you
back onboard at eleven hundred."

"Alright, Jean Luc. Thank you for being so understanding."

"Think nothing of it," he shrugs the comment aside. "Good day,
Commander Keri."

"Kula," Mkaela waves as he breaks the connection. Chuckling, she
reaches out and deactivates the comms unit. "I think he's an eensy bit
jealous."

Beverly answers, "We just caught him off guard," in his defence, but
the half-smile touching her lips is an admission she's happy for
Mkaela to be right.

"I haven't made things difficult for you have I?"

"Not at all," Beverly reassures. "He'll be a bit out of joint for a
day or two, then everything will be the same again." She smiles
hopefully. "Who knows, it might even prod him in the right direction.
But regardless of all that, I've had the most wonderful time and I'll
always be grateful to you for it."

"Then you can buy breakfast."

Beverly's dress is packed into a little carry bag while her lacy
underthings are run through the autovalet. And then they splurge a
little, using Mkaela's left over replicator credits to make themselves
something to wear, nibbling desultorily on the full English breakfast
Beverly has called into existence. It's a nice way to wind things
down.

By all accounts the more elegant of the two women, Beverly continues
her metallic theme with a silver ensemble made from Bolian silk. It
consists of a trimmed tunic covered with embroidered jacquard flowers,
worn over a pair of shimmery slacks that taper from her hips to her
ankles in away reminiscent of a time-exposed picture of a waterfall.
Her sandals from the previous night serve to add a splash of
contrasting colour.

On the other hand, Mkaela finds herself drawn to a simple calf-length
cotton dress with spaghetti shoulder straps that have a tendency to
slip down one shoulder. Shot through with an intricate and random web
of arctic blue from the tie-dying, there's just something about the
way the electric brightness of it looks against the darkness of her
skin that pleases both women. Beverly suggests the pair of
greco-romanesque sandals in a matching leather that complete the
outfit.

"Clothes horse," they giggle at each other as the replicator churns
out their clothes.

They dress together, their last opportunity to see one another naked
and unobscured by either the night or running water. So it comes only
as a slight surprise when, just as Mkaela is about to slip on the lacy
black camisole that is one of the few things from Alex she /has/ kept,
she feels Beverly's hand touch her left shoulder blade. And although
the contact sends a small shiver running through her, Mkaela's only
response to the gentle curiosity of that touch is a questioning glance
over her shoulder. Even though she knows exactly what her lover is
looking at, she wants Beverly to ask.

A finger traces the complex geometric pattern that has been tattooed
there with a reddish gold ink. "What does this represent? It looks...
familiar... somehow."

"It's my family mark," she answers. "Normally it's applied with a
brand shortly after birth, but my mother wouldn't allow my father to
do it because they agreed I'd be raised as a Bajoran." Beverly nods as
she listens, her fingers so very gentle. "I loved my father very much,
and despite leaving ch'Rihan because he disagreed with the direction
the new Praetor was taking the empire, he was proud of who he was.
When those bastard Cardassians killed him, I had the tattoo done to
keep and honour his memory."

Realisation illuminates Beverly's face as Mkaela turns to face her,
the camisole dropping into place to partially hide the tattoo.  "Of
course, that Romulan at Galordon Core." She seems proud at having
remembered, and in that brief glow of self congratulation at her
cleverness, she doesn't notice Mkaela's expression at the word
'Romulan'. "He had a scar similar to that when I examined him, and
I..."

Finally noticing, her cheeks redden. "Oh, I'm sorry Mkaela. The name
just slipped out..."

Mkaela shakes her head, touching Beverly's lips followed by her cheek.
"It's not your fault for forgetting, sweetling. You and everyone else
have been calling us... calling them 'Romulans' for so long it's
automatic. But my father's people /are/ the Rihannsu, and being half
Rihannha it grates when I hear people use that Federation name for
them."

With that she leans forward and kisses Beverly, a tender kiss to take
away any sting her words may have held for she does not wish their
parting to be bitter or tainted if she can help it. She loves it when
Beverly responds in kind, understanding it for the final intimate
farewell they can make one another.

Sharing a lingering smile, they finish dressing.

---

Maddyn looks up from the PADD he's perusing at the sound of the
transporter room doors opening.

Surprised to discover him sitting in the control booth, Mkaela and
Doctor Crusher look back. Both of them look quite stunning, and he
says as much with an amiable smile. He notices Crusher has a small bag
slung over one shoulder, possibly containing clothes from the way it
hangs, and he feels is curiosity being piqued.

"Madd, what are you doing here?"

"I was just saying toodles to Deanna, and I thought I'd stick around
in case you showed up," he explains. "She was going to stay, but she
has an appointment she would have been late for if she had."

"I see," both women answer together without meaning to. They glance at
each other and giggle.

"Oh well, since you're here you might as well let the _Enterprise_
know Beverly's coming aboard," Mkaela tells him, walking with Beverly
to the edge of the dais then watching her mount it.

There is the brief electronic scuttle of a communications link being
established; he could do it purely by data upload, but he's always
preferred talking to people rather than machines. One of the reasons
he became a doctor and not an engineer. "Farpoint to _Enterprise_,
Operations. I have Doctor Crusher waiting to beam aboard."

"When every so often comes around, remember me?" Mkaela asks, almost
quite enough not to be heard.

"This is the _Enterprise_," the smooth-voiced fellow at the ship's
system operations console answers. "Transporter Room One is standing
by."

"I will," Crusher promises.

"Energising."

A hum of quantum mechanics and a swirl of starstuff, then she is gone.

"Transport complete," the nameless voice on the _Enterprise_ reports a
few moments later.

"Farpoint out," Maddyn acknowledges, breaking the connection. Picking
up the PADD, he slips it inside his uniform vest before joining his
friend.

"Just as well you know how to use one of those things," she nods
towards the control console.

"Know your enemy," he grins back as they leave the room, the real
transporter chief passing them as she heads back to the station Maddyn
had dismissed her from only ten minutes before. "So, how was it?"

For no reason that he can think of, Mkaela answers him with a
cartwheel.

"That good, huh?" he remarks, chuckling as her exuberance.

"Even better," she smiles, steering them out of the Spire and on to
one of the concourses. "It was glorious. It was marvellous. It was
fun."

"I haven't seen you this happy for a while."

"I haven't been," she agrees, stopping at a street vendor to buy them
both a glozztwost. They continue on, alternately licking and nibbling
at the confectionery. "So, what was the _Enterprise_'s counsellor
doing in your company?"

"When we weren't conspiring to get your and Crusher together?" he asks
innocently. It earns him a playful punch in the arm.

"I still don't know whether to hug you or spank you about that," she
mock scolds.

"Relationship meddling is an occupational hazard of knowing a member
of one of the Betazoid Houses," he shrugs, not in any way bothered by
his actions. "Besides, it worked."

"Lucky for you. But seriously, what were you two up to last night?"

"Weeeellllllllllllll," he draws out the word. "As you know, we
Betazoids tend to be receptive to the unique emotional 'frequencies'
of our friends..."

"You were eavesdropping on us?!"

"Not intentionally," he holds up his hands in a gesture of warding,
the sudden look in her eyes making him wary. "First, it's not
something we can really help - which is one of the reasons we tend to
play match maker and counsellor, because we live with the echoes of
our friends' emotions. And anyway, we were a little 'occupied'
ourselves for most of the night."

"Madd, you studmuffin you," she chuckles with just a hint of salacious
good humour, ruffling his hair affectionately.

"Well, yes," he grins immodestly. "But it was partly your fault, you
and Crusher. The emotional broadcasts we were picking up on fuelled a
certain mutual attraction."

"Excuses, excuses," she waves his explanation away good naturedly.

---

They spend the next few hours just meandering around the centre of
Farpoint, passing through various parks and plazas and malls as they
fill each other in on the more interesting points of events that have
occurred since they last saw each other at the ceremony. Of the most
intimate occurrences they speak little and then in mostly general
terms; how can words fully capture the essence of those experiences
without somehow diminishing them? But they share the emotions, playing
like a piece of jazz full of riffs and crescendos and rhythms and
improvisations.

And it's in moments like those that Maddyn is glad he is a telepath.

Twice Mkaela's communicator interrupts them: Ops notifying her first
of the _Enterprise_'s departure, then the arrival of the _Destiny_
with a cargo of eco-regeneration supplies for the next satellite
settlement.

In that same desultory manner with which they have spent most of the
day, the two of them return to Mkaela's quarters, munching on
something called a yeeros by humans but which is unsurprisingly
native, in some form, to most of the worlds known to the Federation.
This they do in silence, for they have said everything to each other
that there is to be said except those final things that are saved for
the very last.

"So this is it," Maddyn says as they enter her living area. It looks
essentially unchanged from when he helped her move in those few days
ago, even down to the way the packing crates are placed next to each
other. There is, however, the faint scent of sex and... candy?...
lingering in the air.

"Yeah," she answers, a slight catch in her voice. "Prophets, it's
going to be hard to get used to the fact you won't be with me anymore.
That we might never see each other again."

"There's always the subspace net," he says lightly, feeling that same
catch. Mkaela has been friend and confidant and student, all to him,
and he's going to feel the presence of a Mkaela-shaped hole in his
life for some time.

"That's not the same!" she protests. "I can't share a hug over the
net. I can't cry on your shoulder."

"Yeah. I know." He reaches out and hugs her so very tightly against
him, feeling her return the embrace as if this simple action can say
more than words or thoughts. And in a way, it does.

"Commander Keri to _Destiny_," she announces,  pulling away and
hitting her combadge. "Ready for beam out."

"Beam out in five seconds."

"When every so often comes around, remember me?" he asks, almost quite
enough not to be heard. They both smile.

"I will," she promises.

"Energising."

A hum of quantum mechanics and a swirl of starstuff, then she and her
things are gone.

---

The End