"Present Positions"
by Ensign Cristobel Sefton

Location: Habitat Ring, Deep Space 9
Stardate: 57907.26, 04h26

***

Cristobel's sense memory told him that he was back at Starfleet Academy.

He was lying on his side in a bed with a person snuggled against his back. It certainly wasn't Corran; the arms around him were too muscular, the stomach pressed against his lower back wasn't quite firm enough, and the legs entwined with his own were covered in soft hairs. If the particular sounds of the man's dreams hadn't given it away to Cris, the pleasant scent would have. Cris was in bed with Sebarr Tuc.

Feeling a gnawing sense of dread roil through him, Cristobel slipped out of the bed and watched Tuc for any sign of wakefulness. Tuc simply rolled onto his back, and continued his slow steady breaths of sleep.

Cristobel knew that his dread had nothing to do with Corran. Even if Corran had been on Deep Space 9, even if Corran had been at Cris' side when he'd met Tuc, even if Corran had been with Cris when he'd had dinner with Tuc, Cristobel was certain that he would have woken up here, with Tuc, all the same. For Cristobel, sex was simply a form of communication, and therefore, not a source of crisis. From the start of their relationship, Cristobel and Corran had been comfortable with occasionally having sex with other people, while remaining faithful. It was a concept most non-telepaths didn't understand, but it worked for them.

By the time Cristobel had pulled on a black pair of trousers from the floor (which turned out to be too long for him), he knew his dread was solely about Tuc. Initially, the dread didn't make sense to Cris. Their relationship history allowed Cris to relax and communicate with Tuc more comfortably than with most people, and their sexual history gave Tuc intimate knowledge of what exactly could make Cris squirm and whimper.

As Cristobel was fondly remembering the night they'd experienced, while he tugged on his indigo tunic, he finally saw the pattern that his subconscious had figured out back on the Promenade, which had caused him to run. Every time he had started a new relationship with Tuc (except for the first time), it had been a result of what were supposed to have been one-night casual hook-ups with an ex. It seemed easier to fall for Tuc every time, since he'd already fallen most of the way so many times before. And yet they were doomed. They couldn't seem to be friends without coupling, and they were always doomed as a couple. After Corran's illness, Cristobel simply couldn't do doomed.

Satisfied that a wrinkled indigo tunic, too-long black trousers and two black left boots were clothing enough to not be arrested by Security, Cristobel walked out of Tuc's bedroom and headed for the corridor.

The sound of the door closing behind Cris awoke Tuc. The Bajoran let out a soft gasp, and immediately started reaching out in the darkness for Cristobel. "Tobe? Are you there?" he asked the empty room. "Tobe?"

Tuc received no reply for half a minute; he lay in bed in utter silence, listening for any sign that Cristobel had not walked right out of his quarters. When he didn't hear any, he grabbed the pillow Cris had been using, cradled it against his chest, and rolled onto his side, with his back to the door. The door then slid open, to allow Cristobel's re-entry. He came into Tuc's bedroom wearing nothing and bearing a bowl of dark liquid. Squinting to see Cristobel in the darkness, Tuc sat up and rested his back against the headboard, as Cris crawled onto the bed. While Cris held out the bowl, Tuc dipped in a pinky finger and swirled it around, finding the liquid to be warm and just barely thicker than water. Raising his eyebrows, Tuc commented, "Betazoids have an unusual style of cereal."

"It's chocolate sauce..." Cristobel corrected him smirkingly. He dipped a thumb into the sauce and pressed it to Tuc's lower lip. As Tuc's lips encircled Cris' thumb, Cris used his other thumb to smear a thick line of chocolate sauce down Tuc's chin, neck and bare chest.

"...The breakfast of champions."

---

"In Search of Redemption"
By Ensign Sanat Vijay - Flight Controller

Location: Damocles Sector, USS Kiska
Stardate: 57907.26 09h00

***

A few stars flashed close by as they passed within a safe distance of the Tarantula Nebula on their port side. Sanat watched with a mild fascination, its undulating greenish-white coloring said to be a birthplace for stars. Many stars. He let his eyes study its spidery filaments as the Kiska gradually passed by on its way to DS9. While his interests didn't lie in the vagaries of the universe so much as being able to explore its vastness and uniqueness, the helmsmen regarded it with a quiet composure, possibly to be perceived as scientific interest by an uninitiated onlooker.

But his true passion lay in flying amongst the stars, not studying them. The ensign blinked as the only tangible thing to break the monotony in over two hours slipped away into the deepest, darkest depths of space. As boredom began to slip back into his unoccupied mind once more, a voice to Vijay's right drew the man's attention away from the nothingness outside.

"So. Going to Deep Space Nine, huh?"

Vijay turned away from the view port to regard the pilot for his journey to DS9. The Lieutenant, a dark blue Bolian, had a smile on his face that made Sanat want to throw up from the falsity it represented. True, the man was only trying to pass time with the usual pleasantries; however, it was going to be a long, long three-day trip at this level of banal conversation.

He managed a tight-lipped smile. "Yes." A few moments passed by before Sanat added out of sheer politeness, "Fly this route often?" It was a struggle, but the ensign held onto his fake grin.

The Bolian warmed to the inquiry immediately. "Why yes. In fact I just passed by here...."

The gambit seemed to work and Sanat let his false facial expression melt away as Lieutenant Drum yammered away about traveling this sector with relish. With luck, the pilot would talk for another two or three uninterrupted hours before running out of steam. He could go back to thinking about nothing... No, that wouldn't do. Would it now?

Remembering an old lesson taught by both his mother and father, Vijay took out a PADD from his maroon duffel. Wistfully, Sanat could faintly see his father saying, "You never waste time, Son. Never. There is always something you can learn in those times when duty allows." Almost as clearly, he could see his mother quietly shake her head in agreement. That was about as emotional as she got...except those brief periods of Pon Farr when of course she became as rational as a lunatic might be before 10 CCs of dysprosium sulfate.

To make sure his blue companion kept talking, he made eye contact for a brief second, just to keep up appearances before turning on the small electronic notebook. The device went right back to where he was reading prior to boarding the shuttle; it defaulted to the chapter on deserts and how they shaped avian history on Deltas IV.

Deserts... Hhe thought about home as well as what had been lost when the Dominion swept through the Badlands burning, looting, pillaging their way back to the Gamma Quadrant. If history had anything to say in such events, it would highlight a key fact that this region contributed virtually nothing to the UFP's cause during the conflict. Perhaps it made for an excellent staging area for attacking the dark alliance's assembly areas and key support installations, but to Sanat's knowledge, no such forward bases had ever been established. Starfleet simply lacked the resources at the time to carry out such a tactic.

Not that he possessed extensive knowledge of 'fleet war plans in that sector, or any hidden operations, black or otherwise that might have been carried out there...but, the whole purpose of their purge didn't make any sense. Neither did his parents' reaction to the impromptu rescue mission to save them and as many could be crammed into the purloined Danube class runabout.

All things considered, their emotional tirade was a stark contrast to the normally calm, staid, and maybe even somewhat logical couple comprised of one human male and one Vulcan female. He lightly grinned to himself...his toothy smile didn't draw any comment from the lieutenant still chattering away about some wild Klingon party aboard DS9.

His parents represented the proverbial odd couple. Although there were reasons why his father was mated to the right type of woman for his temperament.

Sanat thought about his father for the first time since the rescue. Amir Vijay, progenitor, role model, even now, a doddering cripple, but still a man. A man that many a fellow human being had called an uncaring, unfeeling, cold-hearted son of bitch...and they were right to some degree. Amir had been a tough star ship captain, but it paid off in the early stages of the war. That was before the USS Palomino was taken to the cleaners as it were.

Wrung out as if a giant wringer had clamped onto the hull and simply rolled over the aging vessel as it was jumped by three Breen heavy cruisers and their massed disrupter fire; his crew's unwavering discipline and Amir's tactical savvy was all that saved the day for everyone aboard the 'Pony as it was called back then. Sanat's father lost most of one leg and all of the other during the vicious fight. That's when the changes began. Faced with frailty, and most of all, mortality upon medical retirement from active service, Amir could no longer be the rough, uncaring man he once was.

His right eye watered a little as the man he so revered, and to some degree patterned himself after, became sodden with self-pity. It'd been a hard thing to witness as they flew away from Ioterthe`, a planet to soon to be ransacked by the Dominion and its Breen allies. Their home for many years and a place his heart was fond of. Sanat let his feelings for both his father and the desert world run unchecked for a few seconds. A sudden noise almost made him jump as it echoed through the flight cabin.

Lieutenant Drum laughed abruptly. "And you should've seen the expression on their faces! It was hilarious!"

Sanat gave the boisterous pilot a small chuckle to cover his intense personal reflections about Amir and Ioterthe`. A semblance of logic asserted itself temporarily as Drum continued to laugh heartily. Vijay managed to stifle any facial expression besides that of outward calm. It was one of the few lessons from his mother that he used frequently.

The ensign thought about Lok, his mother; a Vulcan woman who applied logic as a butcher might pare a select piece of meat...with finesse and without hesitation. She stood as a veritable fountain of strength in these uncertain times. But then, his mother was about as Vulcan as Serek himself could ever be and Sanat could not be. She had not been pleased with his lack of logic when 'borrowing' the Kennedy's shuttle to attempt a rescue. Her face held the biggest scowl he thought he'd ever seen on the face of a Vulcan, any Vulcan.

She accused him of recklessness, sloppy reasoning, and a few dozen other transgressions concerning his faulty application of logic...or the lack thereof. The older Vulcan woman was in a tizzy...well, as Vulcans go anyway. His mother's tirade lasted a little over 20 minutes, and all of it supposedly based on logic.

Sanat's brain launched into a small tantrum of its own. Logic. Bah! Since when was Lok's decision to marry Amir based on logic? Or the fact that she insisted that the Vijay family stay put on a world in full danger of annihilation? Despite warnings to evacuate? To leave while they still had time?

He snorted to himself. Where were her methodical and scientific thought processes then? Eh? Logic! Just Vulcan claptrap to cover their inability to manage feelings effectively! The ensign let his anger stew a moment further. And to believe I almost fell for it... logic... Fool's Gold! Life is too short to spend every waking minute striving for emotional control, for perfection.

A feeling, call it a sensation, from his right side suggested the pilot was staring at him. He turned and regarded Lieutenant Drum. His voice was terse, "You were saying?"

"Well I was saying how lucky you were to be assigned to the Sulu."

It was obvious to him that an answer was expected. Vijay forced a little smile. "Yes. I believe so." Inside he knew it was a chance for change. His mildly annoyed brain asked, What are you looking for, Sanat Vijay? Redemption? But he didn't rebut its question.

The Bolian grinned back. "Say. Did I ever tell you about my first tour on the Turlock?"

Good. He is starting again, his mind quipped sarcastically. Trying to look fascinated, Sanat said, "No. Was it interesting?"

"Was it interesting?! You've never heard of what happened to the USS Turlock?!"

The human-Vulcan barely got a chance to shake his head no before his companion entered into a very one-sided conversation again.

"We were in the Malden Nebula when it happened...."

Sanat was more careful this time. The ensign let his talkative pilot proceed without interruption and even paid close attention for a few minutes just to make sure Drum wouldn't stop his dialog suddenly.

After 10 minutes had gone by and the lieutenant seemed to be quite content to hear his own voice, Vijay quietly slipped back into his own self-examination. He could see her face now. It was still scowling, wrinkled up in an expression of barely contained distaste. "What were you thinking son? Why are you doing this?"

The man tried to explain, but to no avail.

"Do you realize what they will do to you when you return? They'll court martial you for...for stealing a Starfleet ship. Most illogical, Sanat, and unworthy of your talents." He grimaced as she finished. True to form, Lok had used the strongest words at the end of her speech.

The words stung. Maybe it was the context of what she said that made it hurt. It didn't matter now. They were part of the past; still he could not so easily dismiss her reasoned judgment. His mother held a rather impressive list of accomplishments in the field of biology.

Vijay gave her accusations a quick analysis, for the umpteenth time.

Yes, it could be said that his plan lacked a certain amount of foresight, but since when does time always allow for logical decision-making? Especially given the end result...death. It was possible that Lok could have been enslaved (A truly viable alternative? Hardly.), but Amir would have surely been put to death because of his lack of usefulness...even as a retired ship's captain, a retired Starfleet ship's captain to boot. The Dominion was not exactly known for its charity work for other species.

Sanat frowned. Why should his attempt to save his parents from this evident situation have been a problem? Surely, there would be Hell to pay when he got back to the Kennedy, but they would be safe...isn't that all that mattered anyway?

His musing was interrupted when Drum announced, "I'm thirsty! Care for some iced Delton Tea?"

He dipped his head curtly to indicate yes. Sanat let his eyes follow the Bolian back to the cabin replicator. While his blue chauffeur programmed the food matter-producing device, Vijay shook his head quietly. It was going to be a long three days....

---

"Someday, Someway"
By: Dr. Corran Quezith
Capt. Matthew Salinger

Location: Achicarian Medical Institute
Stardate: 57907.26, 11h00

***

The turn of the century was near (maybe not so much, 20 years, but it was close), at least for humanity. For his people, it had already happened, and with it had come a nightmare. The new future was coming quickly, but apparently even that future had some setbacks, especially his own future, Corran's future.

He sighed gently as he let go of his forehead and set his hands down on his knees. His legs were crossed as he sat on the floor of the isolation chamber, but his temples, hands, and eyes shifted between colors much like those visible in puddles of oil. He seemed to be relaxed regardless of this bizarre state of existence.

His breathing slowed.

Now, unlock yourself and allow that which surrounds you to appear.

The warm glow of his telepathic membranes died down, and suddenly Corran was aware of currents that passed through him and around him, beyond him. All of it was confined within the isolation room, but they existed, they were there. And there was a hint of something existing under it all, something nor he nor could the most powerful telepaths from his world breach into. He had tried, simply out of curiosity, and had been sent to a hospital for treatment. Apparently, some things were not meant to be seen, yet.

Soon he began to feel a vibe from the different currents. There were no objects in the room, so they could not be felt, and the walls projected the field that sealed him away from the minds of Achicar Prime. He touched the currents, reaching out with invisible fingers and tapping them. The currents glowed, then shifted course as if in response to him. Moving his hand physically caused the currents to shift as well. This was a sterile room, but even sterile rooms had something in them. Air.

All worlds are composed of such things, of currents, of auras, of waves, of manipulations, of all things from the physical world and beyond. Even in the depths of space there is existence. Even that which is invisible and beyond our own realm can be felt and touched, with training, but this is part of our ways, part of our knowledge, something secret, something to be protected.

Why secret? Corran shifted his head slightly as he asked the question.

Because even we do not fully comprehend these things, because others might seek out these secrets, these things, and how they all bind together, for means that might destroy us all.

Can other telepathic races from the Federation see these things? It was hard to not ask, hard to not wonder. The Federation had made his curiosity grow even further, his want for knowledge growing beyond him. The only problem was, that that had all been compromised by falling ill. Thankfully, his people had been able to heal him, and then train him. The medical treatment had expanded his telepathic abilities unexpectedly. He'd in part become their guinea pig.

We are performing studies to that end, but results thus far would suggest they do not.

Corran accepted the answer and remained quiet for a while, simply taking note of the currents around him for a short time, then allowing himself to simply relax into them. Concentration became a state of enlightenment. Usually, the result was him awakening on the floor of the isolation chamber, curled up into a fetal position, sleeping. It refreshed him more than anything else. It was much like listening to the gentlest orchestra.

He stretched out on the floor, and then stifled a yawn as he awakened fully. He looked around himself at the isolation chamber, wondering if he would ever be released from them or not, only to find his thoughts interrupted by the door opening and his counselor stepping through.

"We were able to establish a connection with the USS Sulu, but it will be some time before visual and audio caption is ready."

"That's fine. I want to go outdoors for a little while." He walked out of the chamber with the counselor. Outside, Corran's mind was immediately bombarded with the thoughts, emotions, and minds of those near the institute, soon after the city, the planet, and everything in orbit. He was used to the abrupt change now, it'd been weeks of the same, and now it didn't tire him or overwhelm him. He was back to his old self in those regards.

Okay, so not all the way.

"How long will it be before we recuperate the entire population?"

That was something he hadn't been able to ask about before. With his having spent this time fine-tuning his telepathy and recuperating from the operation, he'd had his hands full. Now he wanted to know everything there was to know about his homeworld's recuperation efforts.

"It will still be some time. The incubators are at full capacity, but reintegrating the few consciousness that were rescued from the databanks is taking time. There won't be enough in any case, not even with the full compliment of all the generational cruisers will we be able to recuperate fully."

There was a generalized sadness on the homeworld about that matter specifically. Billions had died, and their great community had been shattered beyond immediate repair. The survivors had come together soundly, and had been working for two years now to rebuild everything. They had a green and blue world once more, a reestablished ecology, clean air, and only a few ruins that had survived the orbital bombardment that were still being brought back to stance.

Both neared the exit onto one of the many terraces of the institute's tower in the central area of the capital city, but Corran stopped and reached a hand to the counselor. They shared thoughts, and the counselor finally left Corran. Corran walked out alone onto the terrace, held up by a platform between the Medical Institute and the central governing complex. There were dozens of people upon it, walking across pathways, sitting at benches, admiring the gardens grown on this one terrace in particular, there were even cafés across the platform.

Corran walked towards the handrails that protected the sides of the platform. Upon reaching them he sat at an empty bench in front of them, and gazed down on the floating capital city and all its artistic and technical magnificence. Below him and the great towers lay a great city, covered by nature that only augmented its beauty. It had been rebuilt first, before all other cities and lands, and now stood as a testament to their surviving will.

No one would ever suppress the Achicarians again.

"This is the right time. Once in a lifetime. This is the right time."

His thoughts and pride for his people were interrupted by hearing music near him. His brow furrowed as he recognized the language as being English, a human language, and certainly not one to be heard here. He turned his head and was greeted by a smile from a young woman, easily in her 30s, which was walking over to his bench while singing a tune.

He smiled in return, and pathed to her, Are you one of the Federation's helpers, or a colonist?

She blinked at having heard him in her mind, still not used to being spoken to that way by the Achicarians. It seemed a common trait on their world, which was possibly why she liked their world so much. For a human, it was incredibly peaceful. You never really heard crowded, overlapping voices, like you would in a restaurant anywhere in the Federation, and nonetheless there was a sense of well-being and happiness that she could just feel.

"Umm, I'm here to analyze potential locations for a Federation colony. Do you mind if I join you?" She gestured towards the empty space on the bench.

Corran shook his head. Not at all. So how is the analysis coming along?

The woman tossed her hair back after sitting down, and looked out at the stretches of the floating capital city before she answered the handsome Achicarian that was apparently a patient of the Medical Institute.

"I wish I could say it's going well, but your people have some fairly strict rules regarding setting down on the planet, more so after you recuperated from the disaster. It's as if you're expecting us to establish our colony on a floating platform like this one."

They probably are. Corran chuckled at the prospect of the Federation colonists building their own platform and constructing their city on it. He knew they could do it, but after having been to Earth, it seemed almost silly that they would even bother with one. He smiled at the woman and stretched his hand out to her in greeting. "I'm Doctor Corran Quezith, civilian attaché from my government to Starfleet."

"Oh, so you can talk!" she said it cheerily, pleasantly surprised at having run into someone that had learned her language for once. She shook his hand eagerly. "I'm Doctor Margaret Warner, and I've actually heard of you. You were amongst the group first sent to the Federation, right?" Her brow furrowed inquisitively.

He nodded a few times. Yes, I was. He secretly hoped she wouldn't ask what he was doing back on Achicar so soon, but he could already see the question coming, literally.

"What brought you back home?"

"I fell ill with something that couldn't be treated appropriately back in Federation Space. Your medical field hasn't developed the medical equipment or treatments for ailments that my people can sometimes suffer. and actually, in my case in particular, I reopened an old chapter in telepathic ailments." He chuckled as he splayed himself exaggeratedly as if seeing more of him would show her what he was talking about.

She frowned. "That's not good. Are you alright?"

He smirked at her seriousness, but dropped his arms both over the armrest and the backrest. "Yes, I should complete treatment sooner or later, and don't worry, it's better it happened now rather than when there would be more of us out there. Turns out we have to keep our telepathy open completely rather than inhibit our ability. I atrophied my brain and the damage was extending. Though, they're trying to find out exactly how it is the damage was spreading in the first place."

Now Margaret's face showed keen interest. Though her specialty was planetology, she'd always been curious about all things. She moved closer to Corran as she asked more questions. "That implies your people wouldn't be able to survive in a non-telepathic environment, then? From what I've read, your people are born with telepathic abilities that need to be fine tuned, but even if they're not, your people live with a basic sense of telepathy." She leaned forward thoughtfully, glancing around at nothing in particular. "Your people developed telepathy as a consequence of several natural disasters that forced you into deep protected caves and underground natural reservoirs. Over time language and writing were nearly replaced by telepathy or empathy."

She was on her feet, walking forward towards the railing as she prepared to continue her speech, her questions, her scientific investigations and presentation of hypothesis.

Corran waved a hand at her and stopped her. "I'll make sure you're invited into the research group looking into this, but please...stop." He smiled charmingly, hoping she wouldn't continue. He'd been the recent victim to the new problem, and though as a scientist he did want to know what had happened to him, as a person he just wanted to be well and continue with his life.

"Oh. I'm sorry." She raised a hand towards her mouth, but then walked forward and reached out to his shoulder. "Sometimes I just can't stop myself. I just hope your people will be fine."

"Well, the countermeasure they're presenting for now is to dispatch pairs or groups of people together, wherever they might go, so they can have their own little community that should keep this from happening. I'll be the guinea pig though."

Margaret squeezed his shoulder, but returned to the railing and leaned against it as their conversation continued.

"Do you think you'll be alright?"

That was the question, wasn't it? Corran had failed to adapt once, and he could end up failing a second time. It had worried him, but the collective minds of his people had calmed and soothed him continuously. On his homeworld he was more at peace than anywhere else. It made him wonder over and over how it was non-telepathic races held their balances without crumbling apart.

"I will, I have to. This can't be the end of individuality for my people. I love us as a whole, but." He looked at her almost desperately. "There's something vital about the individual. When I was out there on my own, Doctor, it was like discovering a whole new world within me. My talents were highlighted; I was strongly appreciated as an individual."

"But don't they appreciate you here the same way?" Her brow furrowed at the suggestion that the Achicarians were merely the humane version of the Borg.

Unfortunately, Corran picked up on that and a mild degree of irritation came through his voice. "Never like the Borg, and it's not that they don't appreciate me here, it's just that." He tried to find some way to explain it, but in his inability to do so he stood up and walked over to the railing as well, his arms opening expansively towards the city below them.

"Here I am part of a great organism, where everyone is interconnected. We have our individual lives and talents, but in reality it might be simple and easy to find someone like me or better than me in the crowd if another Achicarian looked hard enough. Out there in your Federation your people struggle with showing their abilities, they struggle with fending off apathy, and stress, and being shy. So many of the races in the Federation are so afraid of standing up for themselves as individuals. That's why charismatic people are regarded so highly; why people publishing papers that may in fact be mediocre in comparison to someone else's, become famous."

He looked over to the Doctor as she held the back of her head, fingers meshed into her brown hair as she thought about what he'd said. It made sense to her, she had a general image of it all in her mind, but her eyes seemed to grow brighter with each instant that she was allowed to think about the matter further.

"We must seem primitive to you, with our verbal communications and text and...well, our basic organizational skills that're instilled by training and education?"

"Never!" Corran shook his head three times as he took her free hand and squeezed it in his own. "We've learned that every intelligent race we have met has managed to develop their own coordination skills, their own. symbiotic relation with each other. Humans for example can't live alone, a human living alone, isolated from his or her society, goes insane. It's likely this human will commit suicide or develop psychological conditions where they invent their company, imaginary friends for example. Klingons wouldn't react differently, they might even be more volatile and more prone to performing a ritual suicide since there would be no one to challenge and no honor in surviving a great solitude from which he might never escape. A trill is symbiotic in nature."

This was a subject he was passionate about. Corran had accepted going to the Federation in the first place because of the chance to study dozens, even hundreds of alien sentient species. All of them were different, even if in some ways most of the humanoid races shared a common emotional root. He lived to discover their intricacies though, both in more material sciences as well as in 'humanistic' sciences.

Corran, we now have full range communications with the Sulu.

He smiled at Margaret and spoke with her only a few more minutes, and then finally left her to enjoy the scenery while he went into the Institute to find a terminal to talk to Captain.

***Terminal***

"Communications opened." The computer terminal was a Starfleet one, and Corran sat before it anxiously. He wanted to talk to the Captain urgently, wanting to tell him he would be returning soon, as soon as the Delphin could return for him and take him to the Sulu in any case. His treatment was nearly complete.

Captain Matthew T. Salinger looked up from the padd he'd been reviewing and smiled. "Corran," he said with a wide grin. "It's so good to see you again. How is everything?"

Corran grinned warmly. "Better than I would've thought. I'm on my way to a full recovery. But how're things over there?"

"Things are good," Matt explained. "I've nearly made a full recovery, and...and life is going well. We're en route to Deep Space Nine."

"A full recovery?" Corran's brow furrowed at hearing that Matt had been hurt at all. He hadn't known anything about the Sulu and its crew ever since he'd come to the Institute!

"There was an incident on Risa. One of the factions in the negotiations I was mediating decided they didn't like my style. Thankfully the crew reacted quickly, and I'm still here to tell the story."

"Hmmm, now we know why Captains don't go on away missions." Corran teased Matt good-naturedly, but then proceeded onto what this was about. "Umm, Matt, I previously sent a letter that kind of suggested I wouldn't be returning, I don't know if it reached you or not, but I'd like to come back."

"Will you be able to catch up to us in time?" Matt asked. "We're heading into the Gamma Quadrant and won't be back for six months."

Now that was one way to put a damper on things. He swallowed hard, wondering if this might be a sign to just give up and stay home. "The Delphin's returning to Achicar Prime in the next few days. I think they might be able to get me to the Sulu. but I don't know." He frowned thoughtfully. What could he do?

"How long will it take for the ship to reach us?"

"I have no idea, it could be minutes, hours, days, weeks." The problem with the Delphin was the unstable nature of its warp drive. He looked down thoughtfully, then looked up at the Captain. "How long would I have to get there?"

"We'll be departing in about a week," Matt answered.

"I'd be cutting it really close." Corran said it more to himself than to the Captain. He was pondering getting in touch with the Delphin to ask a favor of Captain Adair, but also wondering why he wanted to get back to the Sulu specifically. It occurred to him that it was because of Cristobel, but he hadn't come straight back to mind right away. It was probably because of the therapy.

He blinked a few times as he came back to the world and looked at Matt. "I'll do what I can to be there before the ship leaves, but can I still return? And how far are you from Deep Space Nine?"

"We have room for you," Matt said. "We haven't filled your slot in the science roster yet. And, we're two days out from Deep Space Nine."

Now he was pleasantly surprised! "The arboretum's still there!?"

"It is, and seeing plenty of traffic."

Corran smiled warmly, almost grinning. "Are the automated systems taking good care of it on their own?" He was asking both to see if he'd done a good job, as well as because he wanted to return to the ship in another capacity.

"They are," Matt answered. "And, Ensign Rax has been pitching in when the eye of a botanist is needed."

He pursed his lips thoughtfully as he put together what he wanted to say, realizing his emotions might throw off his speech. "I'd like to return to handle the arboretum again, but I wanted to know if it would be possible for me to return to medicine. I've been practicing here back home to get into the swing of things, and training with everything that the Delphin and M'lira gave me..."

Matt thought about it for a long moment and finally nodded. "We could bring you back in a training capacity," he said. "You could continue training under the medical department, as well as with holodeck training programs, until Starfleet Medical can certify you."

Thank the creator. He smiled at the Captain again, very thankful for all of these opportunities...supposing he could return to the Sulu in time, of course. "That would be great. I promise I won't let you down, Matt. As a member of your crew or as a friend."

Matt smiled. "It'll be good to see you again, Corran. Keep in contact with me...if we need to we can delay a day or so to wait for you."

"You'd better! Someone's got to tease the Captain and be able to get away with it." A sneaky little grin appeared over his features and his eyes flashed to a bright blue tone.

Matt chuckled. "Well, between you and Xayella, I'm quite certain I'll never get above myself. So, how is life at home?"

He let the heartiness survive inside him for a moment before responding in a somewhat somber tone, "I wish I could say things here are wonderful. It's good to be home, amongst my people, but it will be some time before as a race, a Community, we feel like everything is right again." He looked off to the side for a moment, then tapped a few commands into the station that transmitted data on Achicar Prime (mainly images, recordings, of the entire planet, close-up and from orbit), to the Captain's console.

"It's beautiful, Matt, I wish all of you could see this. You know what I mean, I showed you, but if you could just be here." He sighed lightly. "Anyway, we're all surviving, getting through each problem coming and gone."

"Someday, perhaps I will get to visit," Matt said. "I would truly like to see it for myself, to experience it."

"Honeymoon, Matt, honeymoon." More teasing, of course.

Matt gave a sly grin. "You never know..."

The two of them shared a laugh, but Matt did turn a little red at the prospect. It was good to talk to someone from the Federation again, not just Margaret, but Matt especially. Things would turn out well.

"You'll owe me some lunch soon as I get back."

"Lunch it is," Matt said with a grin.

---

"Missing the Point"
by Ensign Mason Farrell - Operations Officer
and Crewman 1st Class Shyla Lynn Moreau - Astrometrics Technician

Location: USS Sulu, Operations Office
Stardate: 57907.26, 21h31

***

It shamed her to think it but Shyla Moreau had lost a bit of focus and it needed to stop before it got worse.

While Ethan's final words to her had their intended effect, she gradually grew a little resentful of the method in which they were delivered. Exchanging those sentiments with Storm was something she had fantasized about for nearly two years but she had never envisioned a scenario like the one in the shuttlebay that morning. Yes, there had been a certain understated romanticism to the event; she just wished he had told her in the runabout so she could have flown into his arms and stayed there. At the very least, she would have liked for him to hear her words back.

To make matters worse, the Jemison had been advised to observe subspace silence almost immediately upon leaving the Sulu. The various routes to sector 11-G were well-traveled and mostly safe but there had been some minor attempts at piracy the last few weeks and a small ship like the Jemison needed to be extra careful. Critical communications were acceptable but Starfleet just didn't view the ravings of a lovesick girl to be all that important. To her, nothing else seemed a higher priority and her inability to talk to the man she loved sent her spiraling into a rare funk the last couple days on Risa.

However, once the ship broke orbit, Shyla made a concerted effort to leave her morbid self-absorption behind with the pleasure planet. By the time the Sulu was a little less than a day and a half out, Shyla had already committed herself to a fresh perspective and after working nearly a double shift in Astrometrics, had already made several decisions how she would merge her new life with her old. Shyla knew a good part of it would involve getting back to her familiar routine. And for that, she would need help.

***

The Ops office doors opened, and a near-frantic guitar/banjo melody came skipping into the corridor:

"Well, I'm running down the road / Tryin' to loosen my load / I've got seven women on my mind, / Four that wanna own me, / Two that wanna stone me, / One says she's a friend of mine."

Mason Farrell sat behind the desk, bobbing his head and drumming on the desk, singing along as Shyla stuck her head into the office. The music was so loud that as it wafted past her, Shyla imagined that it could be seen by the naked eye. Certainly, Ensign Farrell himself was a bit hard to miss - he was drumming his hands on the console so enthusiastically that she feared he might separate the individual data crystals in the display panel membrane.

Shyla stepped fully inside and approached Farrell from behind. She clutched her PADD to her chest and cleared her throat. "Ensign Farrell?" she called out, far too timidly.

Accompanied by the music, he answered:

"Take It easy, take it easy / Don't let the sound of your own wheels / Drive you crazy / Lighten up while you still can / Don't even try to understand / Just find a place to make your stand / And take it easy."

"Ensign Farrell?" she said again, slightly louder. She hated to interrupt him.

He flinched at the sound of a voice, and quickly dialed down the volume, looking sheepish as he turned.

"Crewman Moreau," he said, a little nervously. "I'm" --he nodded, searching for a word-- "really embarrassed." He laughed then. "What brings you up from the depths of the science pits?" His accent was clearly Texas, slow and deep, but not lazymouthed.

"I emerge now and then, sir," she answered with a clear laugh. She had met Ensign Farrell only once before but considering the performance she'd just witnessed, she felt comfortable dropping at least some of the protocol. She leaned in and whispered her secret: "You know, if I see my shadow, it means there's six more weeks of winter, sir."

He gave a genuine chuckle. "What can I do for you?"

"You can start by telling me where you're from, sir. I mean, I can hear West Texas but where exactly?"

His eyebrows rose at the question. She had a nice voice, with just enough of a lilt to give her away. "McNary. Near El Paso on the Rio Grande. You? Louz'ana?" he got the lazy drawl just right.

Moreau seemed to get a bit shy all of the sudden and her cheeks flushed pink. "I didn't think anyone could tell, sir. Is it that noticeable?"

"Only to another southerner," he laughed. "And I use the term loosely. Thompson down in engineering takes every opportunity to label me a Texan, rather than a southerner. But that's his prerogative." His accent grew more pronounced as he talked. "A true gentleman doesn't quibble about such minutiae.

"But enough of that," he waved the subject away. "What can I do for you, ma'am?"

Shyla blushed a bit at being called 'ma'am'...certainly that didn't happen every day. However, with her blush came the strange recollection of the rumors surrounding Farrell. Certainly, she didn't know anymore than what Ethan had told her but she found herself imagining that the "ma'am" was not courtesy but only a slick bit of charm the officer used on female personnel. Apparently, 'Operations' was a particularly telling choice of department.

"I've been taking courses over the Subspace Network for the last year, sir." Shyla produced her PADD and waved it at him, trying to put the rumors from her mind. "Mostly, they're conducted in real time with an instructor on hand but I realized once we go through the wormhole, I'm going to have to continue them in correspondence. For that, I need a superior officer to sign off on my work. Ops officers are the approved technical course administrators for the Academy."

Farrell regarded the girl intently while she spoke, for a girl she was. He wouldn't have put her age much above 20, if at all. She carried about her the unconscious sexuality that most women just coming truly of age have, and he couldn't help but take her in as she talked. Long brown hair, warm eyes, and marvelous curves even in her uniform coveralls. She was good-looking to be sure, but also projected the innocence that only came of youth. Perhaps it was that innocence that made her so direct and well spoken. She was clearly intelligent. Good looks and intelligence; it was a deeply attractive combination. It made him think of Ainsley.

"Okay, so you'd like me to sign your work along once we hit the Gamma Quadrant?" he asked, having barely listened as he wrestled with his perception.

Shyla bobbed her head silently, aware of his wandering eyes and the strange dreamy look on his face while he asked his question. She was starting to think this was a bad idea but felt compelled to clarify: "It's not going to be all fun and games, sir. Some of the testing may require your supervision for several hours and that's in addition to our normal shift schedules. I just didn't want to commit Ops or you to such an endeavor without checking first. We could be quite busy in the GQ."

"Well, there's always downtime for that kind of thing," Farrell shrugged. "I'd be happy to work with you, and if not me, I'll volunteer other members of the Ops staff for you," he winked conspiratorially.

Her cheeks flushed pink at the wink but she tried to soldier on, giggling nervously. "Well, don't commit the whole staff just yet, sir. If we get to where we're going and it's not feasible, we can drop it. I have time." The last sentence wasn't strictly true but it didn't show on her face.

"I'd never give up on you," Farrell shook his head facetiously, smiling warmly at her. Her giggling smile reminded him of Ainsley. He reminded himself to focus, and tried to school what was undoubtedly a dreamy expression off his face. "Just let me know when you need a hand. I'll see you get one."

Okay, it wasn't exactly innuendo but something in the way Mason said it kept the flush in her cheeks and had her counting the wink and the slightest of suggestive comments against him. Farrell had done nothing really improper - he'd been a perfect gentleman - but he was looking at her intently, and when she had smiled at him he'd looked right into her eyes, and she'd seen more than just a friendly co-worker. Shyla fretted that maybe he wasn't the person to fulfill this request. For the first time in her life, she wished she paid more attention to rumors.

"Thank you, sir," she said, keeping her smile up anyway. "I really do appreciate the help and I'll get started setting up the instruction schedule."

"No time like the present," Farrell grinned. "As you can tell," he drummed the desk for a second, "I don't have too much going on right at this moment. Let's see what you've got." He motioned for her to come closer, she thought. She froze for a moment before realizing he was motioning for her padd.

Flushing again, she passed it over and he accepted it with no immediate commentary about the hesitation. As he studied the information, Shyla let her eyes drift over the office in a desperate search for some distraction.

"Neutrino Dynamics?" Farrell shook his head and made a sound like he'd just eaten something that didn't agree with him. "Tachyon Asymmetries? Mercy, girl," he said with a wry frown and a snicker.

Somehow Shyla managed to look even more uncomfortable. She shifted in her spot and folded her arms low in front of her.

He continued down the list. "Okay, here's something I might actually be able to help with beyond basic proctoring. 'Communications and Team-Building.' I've always been a sucker for team-building," Farrell grinned.

"Look, sir," Shyla said, about as sternly as she could manage and in a fashion that suggested she was listening to another conversation. "I have a boyfriend."

Farrell's grin faded. He looked perplexed. He cleared his throat. "Okay," he said, nodding. "Um," he waved a hand absently. "Is he, uh, also taking these courses, then?" he asked slowly.

The pink in her cheeks went full crimson. "No, sir," she said, looking down at her boots. Embarrassed, she held out her hand for her PADD and didn't look at him. "I'll talk to Lieutenant Sam about proctoring the courses for me. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

Farrell briefly reviewed the conversation in his mind. She played the 'boyfriend' card; had he been flirting? He hadn't thought so. Of course, he'd thought about flirting, certainly. But then she'd reminded him of Ainsley, and that had been that. Unless he'd been letting thoughts about Ainsley color his actions and she'd misread the whole thing. She was very young, after all.

"Sit down, crewman," he said gently, retaining the padd.

"I prefer to stand, sir," Shyla said, dropping her outstretched arm. She still avoided looking directly at him.

"I apologize if I've misled you in some way. You came in here for help. I'm agreeing to help you. That's all." He made a horizontal gesture with his hands, a motion of finality.

"Understood, sir," Shyla said, a little unconvinced by Farrell's backpedaling but trying to keep her tone civil. "May I have my PADD back, please?"

Farrell gave a short barking laugh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Who told you?" he asked, smiling wanly.

"Who told me what, sir?"

"Who told you I was a vicious womanizer?"

Shyla raised her chin a little. "Does that really matter, sir?" she asked, coming within a micron of telling him. However, even if she had heard it from Amy Reese instead of Ethan, she would have kept that information to herself. She could handle this.

Farrell set the PADD on his desk, but rested his hand on it to keep it from being snatched. "People with boring lives spread rumors to make themselves feel important. You," he tapped a finger nonchalantly on the PADD, "have other things to do. Better things to do. Sit down."

Shyla bent over, moved the offered seat a good half-meter away from Farrell, and sank into it with her arms folded. She looked directly at him for the first time in a full minute.

"See, here's my problem here," Farrell said. His smile had not returned. "You're going to walk out the door thinking one of two things right now. Either I was coming on to you and you're repulsed by it, or you misread me and you're embarrassed. Neither option is good, because in both cases you spend the rest of the day going over and over this conversation trying to figure out where it went wrong. Unacceptable," he said flatly. "Agreed?"

"Agreed, sir," she said, keeping her arms folded.

"Well said," Farrell's smile started to creep back. "So let me suggest a third option. Let's see if we can't think together about where this conversation went wrong, and figure it out together, and then we can both walk away without malice or hurt feelings. Fair enough?"

"Aye, sir," Shyla affirmed, sounding a little less defensive. His suggestions were making sense but she was suspicious that Farrell was only attempting to cover his mistake with a bit of folksy charm. If that were the case, she was determined not to fall for it.

"Good," he said with a nod. He thought for a moment before speaking. "The way I see it, there are a few big factors operating here that probably contributed to you being uncomfortable. I'll start running through my list, and you jump in any time."

List? Shyla thought, looking at him skeptically.

"First," he held up a finger, "I've got a reputation for being a bit of a ladies' man on board. How I got that reputation, and how I don't deserve it, are topics left for another time, and don't matter right now anyway. The reputation I have is the reputation I work with, unfounded or not. Either way, you knew I had this reputation, and so were probably a little bit predisposed to view me through that prism."

"I'm not saying you're judgmental," he said quickly. She had looked offended. "It's human nature."

Shyla just continued to sit there with her same skeptical look. Ensign Farrell was getting it wrong right out of the gate but there was no reason to correct him. Yet.

"Second," another finger joined the first one, "I went on one of the best dates of my life a few nights ago, and a part of me's still thinking about it. So that may have come through and colored what I said during our conversation. For that, I apologize. You came to me in good faith, and I should have given you my complete attention."

She nodded silently at that. It was a little better and sounded mostly sincere but his manner of communicating seemed laced with a fair amount of condescension. She had to occasionally put up with it from commissioned officers but today she had little tolerance for it. She could feel color flushing into her cheeks.

"As for you, you're young and, speaking solely as a platonic co-worker, attractive. I'd say you must get hit on all the time, and so you're a little sensitive to it. But, your reputation doesn't bear that out," he smiled. "Word around the replicator is that you tend to not even notice romantic advances. And this leads me to wonder why you'd have cared about my reputation and why you'd have noticed if I was acting a little dreamy during our conversation. So I have to wonder: He's your first real boyfriend, isn't he?"

"Begging your pardon, sir," Shyla said, getting instantaneously annoyed and back on her feet. "But I don't see what that has to do with this. For the record, I generally don't care about the rumors 'around the replicator' about you, me, or anyone else. In fact, I didn't even remember your reputation until I came in here and got a taste of your innuendo. Now, if you insist that it's all innocent and nothing was meant by it, then I have to accept that but please allow me to respectfully point out to you that if you have this reputation, your behavior is going to be held to a different standard." Her face was red and her eyes were hot. "And it doesn't really matter if it's unfounded and it doesn't really matter if it's fair and it definitely doesn't matter how many boyfriends I've had. Sir."

Shyla thrust her hand out once again. "I would like my PADD and I would like to be dismissed, sir. Please."

Well, that was that, Farrell thought. No fixing it now. No fix, but a good deal of food for thought. He took his hand off her PADD and slid it a half-length toward her.

"Let me--" He stopped what he was about to say, then shook his head.

"Dismissed," he shrugged.

Without a look at him, Shyla snatched her PADD and walked quickly towards the door.

"Crewman," he called as she was halfway out the door.

"Aye, sir?" she answered without turning around.

"I will help you with your courses. If you'll have me."

Shyla continued to stand half out of the Ops office with her head bowed towards the deck. "We'll see, sir," she said quietly before she took a step and was gone.

He watched the door slide closed, and threw a PADD of his own at it. "Different standard," he muttered, his jaw clenched and nostrils flaring. Turning back to his console, he keyed the screen to see what was left on his tasklist, and realized it was on the PADD he'd just thrown.

"Women." He stood and collected the PADD, glancing it over for damage. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "She's young and stupid. No idea what she's talking about," he whispered. "She's just a girl," he said to himself absently.

Just a girl. A girl taking courses in Tachyon Asymmetries. Reese was just a girl, too, and Mason would have laid odds she didn't even know what a tachyon was. Opening his eyes, he could feel his mind start to turn as he stood there with the PADD. Crewman Moreau was a subject that needed scrutiny.

---

"Midnight Margueritas"
By: Ensign Ainsley Chambers; Counselor
Ensign Mason Farrell; Operations Officer
Petty Officer Third Class Luis Espinoza; Gamma Shift Cook [NPC]
Crewman Second Class Jennifer Hamilton; Bridge Watch [NPC]
Crewman Second Class Leilani Pfeiffer; Lounge Waitress [NPC]

Location: USS Sulu, Ops Office, Lounge
Stardate: 57907.26 23h55

***

Mason was just wrapping up the day's tasklist and starting the end-of-cycle reporting functions when the doors slid open again.

Ainsley was able to look at Mason for a couple moments before he looked up and saw her. She noticed that he looked like he'd had a rough shift, like something had irked him and he was in the process of getting over it.

When he looked up and noticed her she said, "Hey, you."

He brightened noticeably. "Hey there," he said, then exhaled. "Are you ever a sight for sore eyes. Come in and have a seat. I'll be done here in about a minute."

Ainsley took the chair nearest to him and sat, studying him closely as she did so. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Good question," Mason answered. He tapped his communicator, transferred shift function to Sanchez on the bridge, and stood. "Willing to be seen with me in public?" he smiled. It was genuine, but tired.

"Of course," she answered. "Why wouldn't I be?" She was honestly confused by his question.

"And brave, too," he said, his smile gaining some energy. "Come on. I want to introduce you to a bit of an underground tradition certain Ops officers share."

***

Espinoza nodded as he hit the blender button, his face showing his appreciation of the age-old noise.

"That's right, baby," he purred to his ancient Hamilton-Beach, his accent distinctly Latin. "You got what the people need."

Crewman Pfeiffer already had a number of wide mouthed, shallow bottomed goblets set up, and was replicating a broad dish of salt when Mason and Ainsley entered.

"What's the word, boss?" Espinoza called.

"Set 'em up," Mason intoned.

Espinoza chuckled mischievously and poured.

Mason accepted his marguerita and continued telling his story to Ainsley. "So I finish explaining why I think the conversation went wrong, and she absolutely flies off the handle, and it's 'no, you're wrong,' and 'you don't know what you're talking about,' and 'give me back my PADD,' and 'may I be dismissed please?' What could I do?"

"What could you do," Espinoza echoed theatrically from behind the bar with a shrug.

"What could I do?" Farrell asked again, knocking twice on the bar to acknowledge Espinoza's support. "I gave her back her PADD and dismissed her. What else could I have done?" he paused to sip his drink.

Ainsley grinned and took the marguerita that was offered to her. "Maybe you could have told her that you were sorry, that she had misunderstood you, and then left the counselling to the counsellors." She grinned more. "Really Mason, you must have known what you were getting yourself into when you tried to analyze what a woman had been thinking."

"Were you being an idiot again, sir?" Crewman Hamilton asked, just arriving. She exchanged a knowing look with Espinoza and accepted a glass.

"I guess," Mason shrugged. "What is it with women, anyway?" he murmured, taking another sip.

"Women just don't know what they want," Espinoza said, helping Pfeiffer set up a tray of margueritas for a table across the room. "No offense, ma'am," he said to Ainsley. Pfeiffer gave him an exasperated look; apparently she'd heard all this before.

"That is so old," Ainsley responded, but with a smile, watching the exchanges between them with interest.

"The counselor's right. This is the 24th century," Hamilton said. "I think women know what they want nowadays."

"Oh yeah?" Espinoza was nonplused by Hamilton's assertion. "What do you want, then?"

"As far as what?" Hamilton shrugged.

"Madre de Dios!" Espinoza threw his hands in the air. "See, this is what I mean," he indicated Hamilton while talking to Mason and Ainsley. "Women swear up and down they know exactly what they want, but when you actually ask," he indicated Hamilton again, "they got no answer. Women don't know what they want."

Ainsley just grinned more. "We're not the only ones," she answered. "In my profession I've seen a lot of men who don't know what they want either."

"I know what I want," Espinoza said. Hamilton made a dismissive noise, sort of a sighing grunt.

"Wait a minute. Espinoza, are you saying you know what women want?" Farrell asked over the rim of his glass, mildly interested.

"Yeah, I know," Espinoza said, wiping down the counter.

Hamilton looked at Mason, who looked at Ainsley, and then back to Espinoza.

"So what is it?" Mason asked.

"What is what?"

"What do women want?" Hamilton mocked.

"Oh, that," Espinoza shrugged. "They want a challenge."

"Come again?" Mason asked, finishing his drink.

"A challenge," Espinoza repeated. "Women don't want to be pampered all the time. They don't want a guy who's gonna do everything for them. Women want to do some chasing."

"Are you serious?" Mason was incredulous.

"Absolutely, sir," Espinoza shrugged and set Mason up another glass.

Mason looked at him sideways. "I don't buy it," he said. "Let's ask the experts. Crewman?" he glanced at Hamilton. "Counselor?" a look at Ainsley. "What do you two think of mister Espinoza's idea here?"

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," Hamilton said, taking a swallow of her drink.

Ainsley grinned at Hamilton and then looked at Mason and Espinoza. "Some women like the challenge, especially in this day and age." She shrugged, "But I think most of us want more stability then that. A challenge usually means someone's playing hard to get, and that can get old real fast."

"Any woman will tell you it's tough to keep any guy interested past the sex," Hamilton said, looking to Ainsley for support. "If women had to chase men, nobody'd ever stay together."

Ainsley smiled her encouragement to Hamilton and then glanced over at Mason, wondering what he was thinking of the discussion. He was drinking thoughtfully.

"Oh, I'm not sayin' it has to be a big thing," Espinoza said, slinging his bar towel over his shoulder, "I'm just sayin' that a man who doesn't challenge his lady every now and then, he's gonna lose her. If he gets too predictable or starts just giving her stuff for nothin', she'll get bored or angry and take off."

"Ask any guy who's been dropped by his lady," Espinoza lectured. "What's the first thing he wonders about? This is gamma shift, so these sorts of guys come in here all the time. They sit right here at the bar, drink, and say over and over 'I don't get it!'," Espinoza's voice mocked a whining mope. "'I gave her everything she wanted!' Feh. Women don't want everything given to 'em. They won't ever admit it, though. No offense, ma'am," he nodded to Ainsley again.

"None taken," Ainsley responded. She was having too much fun listening to the conversation to take any offense from anything.

"So by this reasoning," Mason accepted Espinoza's offered refill, "if I, say, tried to explain to a woman why we weren't getting along, she wouldn't like it?"

Espinoza nodded, but Hamilton cut him off.

"Is this hypothetical situation two-way?"

"What do you mean?" Mason asked.

"I mean did you do all the talking like usual," Hamilton dropped all pretense, "or did you actually let her speak?"

"She could have jumped in any time," Mason said defensively.

Espinoza gave Ainsley a wink and nodded toward Mason. "You hang out with this guy?"

Ainsley grinned. "Sometimes." She glanced over at Mason. "He just needs a little cleaning up and he'll be fine."

Espinoza chuckled. He pushed the start button on his sanitizer, and frowned when nothing happened.

"Oh, sir," Hamilton said to Mason, disappointed. "Women hate that! They hate it when the guy does all the talking."

"That ain't true," Espinoza grunted, pulling the sanitizer out from the wall a bit.

"What do you mean it's not true?" Hamilton demanded. Mason looked at Ainsley inquisitively.

Ainsley grinned at him and rolled her eyes slightly. It was the age old argument.

"I mean it's wrong," Espinoza said. "Women don't care if a guy talks a lot or not. What they hate is when guys try and actually fix a problem. Women thrive on their troubles."

"Guys shouldn't try and fix women's problems?" Mason asked, skeptical again.

"Nope," Espinoza said with finality, leaning over the top of the sanitizer to look behind it. "Women don't want to have their problems fixed. They just want to have them talked about. They can fix their own problems if they think about it, but they've got to talk their way to the solution. They don't care if their men are talking or not, as long as the guys are listening."

Pfeiffer came to the bar with a couple of empty pitchers on a tray. Espinoza left the sanitizer and refilled a marguerita pitcher and set it on a tray for Pfeiffer, who whisked it off to a table. He bent over around the sanitizer then, checking its conduit connection. "It's a pretty sweet deal, really. You don't even really have to listen. Just look at 'em and say 'uh-huh' every now and then. They'll talk themselves to their own solution, and then" --his chuckle was muffled behind the machine-- "they'll thank you for 'being there' for them."

"You're a pig, Luis," Hamilton smirked.

"Anybody ever tell you you've got a nice butt, Espinoza?" Farrell asked, giving Hamilton a look she knew and understood.

"All the time," Espinoza laughed, his head still behind the sanitizer. "Yeah, the ladies--" He hesitated, then straightened and turned, his tone ominous. "Hey, take it easy, cabron."

"It is a nice butt," Hamilton remarked, making a show of looking. "Your thoughts, Counselor?"

Ainsley threw Mason a pained look and then decided to play along. "Well." She grinned at Hamilton. "As long as we're discussing butts. Mason, I think you should turn around."

Mason gave Ainsley a slow and impressed smile, and stood from his stool. Turning, he gestured theatrically at his posterior for the two women while regarding them both over his shoulder.

"I don't know," Hamilton said. "You've got a pretty nice one, sir, but Espinoza." She made a purring noise deep in her throat.

Ainsley giggled then. "I hate to disagree with my fellow lady here, but I think Mason's is a little firmer looking. Not saggy at all." She winked at Espinoza then. "No offense."

Espinoza chuckled. "Are you guys blind? Lieutenant Tagliesh came in and calibrated an instrument on my butt just this morning. She's using it as the baseline for all other butts onboard. It's perfect, man." he said, giving it a pat and wagging it.

"I'd like to calibrate my instrument on it," Farrell winked.

"Hey," Espinoza growled suspiciously, pointing a warning finger.

"I don't think he's going for it, sir," Hamilton deadpanned.

"Damn," Farrell said, snapping his fingers theatrically as he sat again. "I am losing my touch."

"As long as you ain't touching me," Espinoza said.

"C'mon, Luis," ribbed Hamilton. "I like men. The Counselor here likes men. You might, too."

"Yeah, I might put you off women for good," Farrell smirked.

Espinoza laughed and waved a hand at Hamilton. "Nah, Jenny's gonna put me off women. You?" He nodded at Farrell. "You just nasty, cabron. Why you hang out with this guy, Counselor?" he asked theatrically. Farrell raised his glass in salute.

"He keeps me entertained," Ainsley responded. "Oh, and of course, his cute, firm butt."

All four shared the laugh.

---