Good Decision, pt.1

Posted on 25 Nov 2022 @ 10:36pm by Moon-Young Chung

Mission: M3 - Into the Deep
Location: New York City, Earth
Timeline: 10 weeks before M3 MD06
2724 words - 5.4 OF Standard Post Measure

Chung Moon-Young fled the Laurentian Seafood Bistro into the lamp-lit street. Urgently, she looked for a transport, a hovercraft, a transporter pad, a tube train station, but saw nothing. Turning to her left she began to jog down the street, her feet crunching the few remaining orange, red, and yellow leaves under foot. She took the first left at the next intersection, ran across the street, and immediately took the next right.

She was crying. Moon didn’t remember starting, but the back of her hand came away wet when she swiped it across her cheeks.

Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no. The thought circled in her mind, repeating over and over.

Finally, Several blocks away, Moon stopped and turned around. No one was following. Was that a good thing? Did she want him to follow? What if instead of turning left, he’d turned right and he missed her?

A wind blew down the street and she felt its chill. Her dark green wool coat was still looped over her arm; only the thin, long-sleeve ruffled white shirt and black pleated skirt were guarding her against the cold. She immediately threw on the coat and readjusted her long, raven-black hair over its collar.

Moon took a deep breath, brushed away the remaining tears. I don’t want to marry him. I don’t… Right? It was those plans that had scared her. He had the rest of their lives just sorted out for them. Sure, maybe there’d be an ambassadorship in there somewhere, but Rice foresaw a remaining life mostly spent on Earth. And she didn’t want that; she wanted the freedom to live vicariously.

Maybe she should call him? Talk to him about it? Was this worth ending everything?

A stronger inclination suddenly took hold from deep within; an urge that had been waiting for its moment. No. No. No. It was time to see what else life had to offer. She quickly got her bearings, raised her chin, and strode forward into the night.

Good decision, she thought.

.: [[Four Weeks Later]] :.

Sebastian Fitzpatrick looked as if he’d been chiseled out of granite by Michelangelo. Square jaw, lean rippling muscles barely hidden beneath a slim dark blue tuxedo, and a mop of curly yellow hair. He was the man of the moment: in one hand he clutched a golden statue, and in the other Moon’s hand. A crowd had gathered at the main entrance to the Gershwin Theater had to push through adoring melee trying to get his autograph or a quick sound bite for that evening’s news to their waiting hovercar.

It was award season, and tonight was the first of a string of nights where tiny statues would be handed out by a panel of people subjectively judging a performance. Sebastian’s ego reached new heights; Moon’s rose through association and her face wore a wide, toothy smile.

The party that evening – as it would be for every after party – was hosted by the king and queen of theater world on Earth: Henri and Madeline de la Croix at their apartment on the fortieth floor of Manhattan’s swankiest building. The entire structure was a shrine to late 23rd-Century Art Deco Revival. The de la Croix’s was the structure’s crowning achievement: gold and silver leaf covering angular motifs on the ceiling transformed into sweeping lines running down the wall. The brown hues of polished black walnut furniture reflected the lights that brightly lit each room.

Henri and Madeline, dressed in matching crushed green velvet (he in a suit, she in a gown that stopped a few inches short of the floor), hardly looked like a couple in their mid-90s. Although short, Henri stood with his sharp chin lifted so that he appeared to be looking down at those even taller than he. Snow white hair, parted down the right side and coifed to perfection, barely moved as he gesticulated wildly to greet a new guest. As a younger man he’d been a noted actor and director, but by then producing consumed most of his time.

Madeline towered over her husband. Elegant, steel gray hair was piled on top of her head into a complicated weave. Large silver earrings shaped like chimes dangled down to her shoulders. Piercing brown eyes examined every face with intent. Those eyes narrowed ever so slightly when Moon came into the apartment with Sebastian.

The party was purely from the industry and within seconds of crossing the threshold, they inundated Sebastian. Several people seemed intent on muscling Moon away, but she stuck close to Sebastian, at times throwing an elbow at the intruder.

“What will you do next, old boy?” Richard Butler, a prominent writer of, what he called, ‘holo-experiences’ and someone who looked not unlike a turtle, both in face and body, asked.

“I’ll be playing Henry for a few more performances. Then I have several intriguing offers. Include from Debowski. I can’t say too much, but it will be incredible…” Sebastian plastered on a sly grin.

“Debowski is a fool,” Henri announced, appearing in the knot of people as suddenly as if he’d grown from the floor. “He couldn’t direct a sock onto a foot and make it believable.”

“Come now, Debowski had the highest attended show in the West End!” Sebastian replied.

“It’s not about attendance, it’s about quality. He has no quality. It’s all action, action, action,” Henri countered. “The characters never have any depth! Now Mulenga or ch’Kolh there’s two talents you’d be lucky to work with.”

Sebastian snorted, “Please. They’ve never won anything.”

Henri snorted louder, “Winning an award doesn’t make you a genius.”

Moon’s smile had only grown. As juvenile as the conversation was, at that moment she felt like she was among giants. The last time she’d been to a de la Croix party, Rice and she had ended up sitting with Madeline alone in a corner talking about a Federation-Cardassian sponsored conference occurring that year to discuss the next twenty years of rebuilding.

A young red-haired woman, Moon recognized her as the Alice understudy from Henry V pushed her way between Moon and Sebastian. She laid her hand on his forearm interrupting the conversation. “Oh, Sebastian,” she cooed, “some of us are going to L’oeil du Monde after this. Will you come? Will you dance with me?”

Sebastian’s face split into an impish grin, “I would love to.” He looked at Moon and winked.

.: [[Three Weeks Later]] :.

“Debowski and I are in advanced discussions,” Sebastian declared to his gaggle of admirers. “The show is going to be spectacular. He’s already thinking that I’ll open it on Broadway and the West End at the same time. I don’t want to ruin the surprise, so that’s all I’ll say about it.”

Moon, standing outside the circle of people, but close enough to keep track of the conversation, drained her wine glass and sighed. Sebastian was cradling the third and most important golden award in the crook of his arm. It was the third de la Croix party in three weeks and she thought she could keep time by the order of events. She figured that some young actress would be arriving any moment – ah, here she is!

A young woman, this time auburn haired, pushed her way into the knot of people. “Oh, Sebastian,” she cooed temptingly.

Moon rolled her eyes, dropped the glass a nearby brown table, and looked for a quick escape. She spotted a side door that led onto the balcony and, thinking little of the cold or the fact that she wore a sheer dress, made a break for it.

The brisk night air shocked her and she tried keeping herself warm by hugging her arms close to her body. The clear night sky with its thousands of pinpricks of light was echoed by the light pouring through thousands of city windows below. She leaned on the metal rail and looked down into the streets below, a distant twenty stories away.

“I hope you’re not planning on jumping. It would ruin Henri’s party.”
Madeline’s rough, deep voice caused Moon to jump back from the railing in surprise. Her head swiveled to the left to discover the old woman wrapped in a thick woolen blanket sitting on one of two red rattan chairs at the far end of the balcony that stretched the length of the large apartment. “You scared me half to death. What are you doing out here?”

“What am I doing out here? At least I’m covered up. Here, sit.” The woman reached into a wicker basket half-concealed behind her chair and lifted out a matching green-blanket to the one she wore.

Moon quickly walked over to her, threw the blanket around her shoulders, and sat down. “Thank you. I needed a little air.”

“Yes. Those people do tend to suck up most of it, don’t they?” Madeline caught Moon’s surprised look out of the corner of her eye. “Don’t get me wrong, these are my people. When they talk about art the conversation is engaging. When they gossip about art it becomes banal. What do I care who’s dating who or what secret script they’re reading? Speaking of gossip, how goes it with Sebastian?”

“Eh.”

“Dump him and go find an empath. Every woman should have at least one empath lover in their lives. The way they read your thoughts and adjust immediately. Phenomenal.”

“Oh? Haven’t you and Henri been together fifty years?”

“Fifty-six,” Madeline said. “I had a life before then. I was married before then.”

“I never realized!” Moon exclaimed. “An empath? Or another bon vivant? Italian perhaps?”

Madeline laughed, “Italian? No, no, dear, no! No, no. Dan was an anthropologist from Alpha Centauri. He grew up on a farm. I met him when I worked with the Centaurian Shakespeare Festival.”

Moon tried to imagine Madeline, with her oversized earrings and bright red lipstick, married to an anthropologist, hay in his hair and mud on his coveralls. Once she started stripping away the glamor, however, a picture began to take shape. She could actually see Madeline, fierce and independent, on a farm.

“We lived for four years on a planet that had only achieved warp capabilities a couple decades before. He wanted to understand the transition from pre-warp to warp. For me, I was fascinated by the Wensosians' peculiar approach to theater. It wasn’t done on a stage, but in the streets of the cities. Audiences didn’t show up to a venue, the actors went to the audience. It was fascinating.”

“What happened?” Moon asked.

“With all of the medical wonders of the age, it’s easy to forget how fragile we really are. There was a virus that Federation doctors hadn’t detected. We both were infected. Dan died, they saved me.”

Madeline sat staring off into the city for a moment, before giving herself a good shake. She smiled her infectious grin and cocked her head toward the apartment, “That was a million lightyears from all of this.”

“I’m sorry,” Moon said.

“Pah! It’s been sixty-five years. I threw myself into my career, met Henri, became incredibly famous,” she smirked and then it faded. “A different life than I imagined when I was twenty-eight. A different man. Henri as I’m sure you know once had a bit of a wandering eye. As did I, for that matter, which is why I know about empaths. We’ve muddled through it all. As strange as it sounds, I do love the pompous ass. Sebastian is a younger version of Henri, I think. Though not as insightful. Nor as curious.”

Moon nodded her head. She’d come to that conclusion in just three weeks. Of course, not every male actor was a shallow cad, but she’d realized that the conversations with him would always revolve around this tiny acting world. Rice was probably in Paris at this very moment at a high-level meeting with the inner circle of the Federation bureaucratic elites.

“I always enjoyed your diplomat friend’s company at these parties. He added substance, a different flavor,” Madeline said. She eyed Moon in a way that made her wonder if the old woman was an empath.

“He did.”

“Didn’t end well, I take it?”

She meant to simply shrug, but before she knew what was happening, Moon was telling Madeline about the disastrous night at the Laurentian Seafood Bistro. Rice had discussed marriage with her before and, admittedly, she’d never deterred the conversation. Neither did she wholeheartedly plan with him. It just seemed so…

“Contrived,” Madeline said.

“Yeah. Exactly. Like our lives were from a script,” Moon said.

That night she decided to talk to him about it. The evening was progressing pretty normally; they discussed his work (at least the bits he could discuss) and they talked about the upcoming play and her trepidation over the costume choices the director had insisted on. Then, between the main course and dessert, and just as she was getting up the nerve to bring up her concerns, Rice suddenly dropped to one knee.

“Bad timing.”

“Yeah. I was shocked. I didn’t know what to do. I blurted, maybe shouted, ‘no,’ told him I couldn’t see myself ever marrying him. Then I ran out of the restaurant and haven’t talked to him since. I didn’t mean to end our relationship. But then I started thinking…”

“Hmm. Yes. I call it the ‘other side of the hill’ monologue: I know that one too well.”

Their conversation slipped into silence and it began to snow, a light sprinkling of snow in nearly invisible flakes. Through the glass behind them, the women could hear the rising tide of an argument about whether Debowski, Mulenga, or ch’Kohl was the better director. Henri was declaiming the qualities of ch’Kohl before ferociously attacking Debowski as a fraud and con artist. Moon didn’t find the conversation all that interesting.

She felt around in her dress’s pocket and pulled out her palm-sized PADD. Holding it up, she asked, “Do you mind?” Madeline shook her head. She might have despised gossiping about others, but also loved to be in the know.

“Computer,” Moon ordered her device, “Contact Maurice Rubens.”

With its flat, feminine voice the computer asked her to specify which of the nineteen ‘Maurice Rubens’ on Earth Moon wanted to contact.

“Maurice Z. Rubens.”

The computer announced in its authoritative tone, “There is no Maurice Z. Rubens on Earth.”

Moon shook her head. The device was on the fritz. Manually, she typed in the search criteria: his name, title, and department in the Department of the Exterior. Again, the computer told her there was no one by that name on Earth. Deciding that he must have taken the job with the President’s office, she tried that.

“There is no Maurice Z. Rubens on Earth.”

“Fine, you blasted disembodied voice. Find any Maurice Zilex Rubens.”

It took just a second, but this time the computer changed the answer.
“Maurice Zilex Rubens, Lieutenant Commander, Starfleet Diplomatic Corps. Assignment not yet public.”

“What!?” Moon shot up from the chair. The blanket fell from her shoulders into a puddle at her feet. “He rejoined Starfleet? He left without saying anything?”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, dear, but you did break up with him several weeks ago in a seafood restaurant.” Madeline pushed herself out of the other rattan chair, grabbing the fallen blanket as she stood, and draped it around Moon’s shoulders. “What are you going to do now?”

“I can still send him a message. We can have this conversation via holo-communicator. He’ll basically be in the room.”

“True,” Madeline said nodding, “you could do that.”

The two women stared at each other for a long moment, then Moon gave Madeline a sharp nod. “He’s going to hate this.”

“Who? Maurice?”

“No,” Moon said, “Computer, contact Chung Dae-Jung.”