Old Flames: P.S.
Posted on 12 Feb 2024 @ 11:28pm by Commander Calliope Zahn
Mission:
M4 - Falling Out
Location: Loki III, Amiral Madison Indri's Ranch
Timeline: Day 24 Morning - Following Old Flames: Liaisons
1688 words - 3.4 OF Standard Post Measure
Maddi had risen long before Gordon, leaving him to make his way off the ranch himself.
The night had been surprisingly chilly and they had pulled the extra quilt over themselves sometime in the night. But he seemed to have kicked it off as Loki baked the desert once again, only to find Maddi no longer beneath it. Gordon straightened the covers methodically and tucked everything in the way he knew Maddi preferred. Shuffling around the bed in his boxers gave him a chance to stretch, come awake a little, and observe the room. It was quite different in the harsh mid morning light streaming between the half turned window storm slats than it had been in the evening, dimly lit by the glow of a lantern. There was no power in the room, not in the walls, no installed lighting or devices, no switches or panels. The place was made of stone and mudded walls, and seemingly very little had been changed by Maddi’s acquisition of it. Most of her bedroom dressings were native made crafts and furnishings. He couldn’t help touching along the wall, seeking a hidden recess for a replicator but finding only a genuine crack in the plaster. He checked a drawer, wondering if she may have stored some padds, at least. All he discovered was her underwear.
There was nothing hidden in this room. No base of operations or secret tech and weapons stashes. Nothing tucked away besides her braziers. He closed the drawer and convinced himself not to go through the rest of the bureau. He’d asked for Maddi’s help and he wasn’t going to ruin the trust they had by clumsily attempting to find a computer core to steal away with.
He’d never been one for subversion anyway, and he would never risk losing Maddi’s faith over a misunderstanding as if he were using her to some ends.
So that was it. He would have to fabricate the information as Rubens had first suggested. Fabrication which he had little idea how to achieve convincingly and even if he did attain help with doing so, didn’t trust himself to maintain the deception of, or that it wouldn’t come around and bite them in the ass if it were figured out some time after. But the security of the Korinn homeworld, and maybe even this region of the Federation might rely on him selling the ruse.
It seemed like everything was riding on him turning this small opportunity Harshman was permitting into a fully operational two way partnership with the Romulan Republic, a state which the UFP wasn’t even supposed to acknowledge existed. He’d worked tougher miracles, Gordon reminded himself, thinking back to the treaty with the Cardassians he’d advised on and helped to draft. But at that he deflated as well. It had been a stopgap peace measure. Even if it had had its own amount of bloody fallout in new border contests and freedom fighter reactionary uprisings.
Nothing was perfect. Nothing was ever perfect.
Gordon grabbed a fresh set of clothing from his overnight bag under the window and started pulling on some pants. One leg at a time, like everyone else.
When he made his way out to the dining hall, he discovered Korin had saved him breakfast, seeing as he’d slept through the early morning call, and he enjoyed a plate of food both strangely familiar and just a little bit different. The salted siniki belly was basically really thick, chewy bacon. The eggs– surely they weren’t raptor eggs? – were folded into several thin layers, with some sort of berry relish that made them sweet and tangy. There was some variety of starchy tuber, shredded, seasoned and fried in oil served alongside as well. The coffee was klingon, betraying where the head chef drew the line on native substitutes in her diet.
As he ate at one end of the massive table, Gordon witnessed an Obsidian history lesson being conducted at the opposite end, led by the same grandfatherly Romulan gentleman who had been instructing yesterday. Half the children were paying him attention, the other half clearly not absorbing the lengthy recitation as their grandfatherly instructor named off the key tribes in the Rupathian mountains. He seemed to be trying to make them rhyme in a sort of sing-song mnemonic, then would wait for the children to repeat them back to him.
Blowing the steam off the top of his raqtejino, Gordon couldn’t help but wonder which of the star pupils might one day leverage these lessons in serving some kind of statesman or diplomatic role between Obsidian and the greater Federation. If relations on the planet resisted improvement, hopefully the tenuous state of things would hold together another decade or so, long enough for the newest star to rise. Maybe one who could carry the mantle set forth by the historically lauded David Rabin. Perhaps a whole generation of them, taught at kitchen tables like this one across the Kalaran co-ops and in Itonia, able to bridge the divide with the tribes and reestablish lost trust.
A little boy who wasn’t listening kicked the shin of one who was earning accolades for his perfect responses. Gordon recognized the warning glare the bigger boy shot the overactive younger one.
The instructor paused, lowering his own gaze and looking for an explanation of the disturbance.
“He kicked me.” The Obsidian boy pointed to the little romulan child.
“Is this true?” There was no response from the accused, whom Gordon supposed was going to plead the old reliable fifth amendment right to remain silent. “Have we any witnesses?”
A girl’s hand raised, eager to confirm, as she had also been victim to the swaying feet of the youngest and most inattentive pupil.
“So it is confirmed, you have been transgressed against. Would you care to exact the rule of reciprocity?” The old man said dully.
“No, sir. Not if he stops it.”
“Very good. Mister Raul shall maintain proper posture at the table or be excused to nursery. Now, repeat after me–”
Gordon marveled. If only it could remain as simple as sending unreasonable people back to nursery school when they couldn’t keep their mitts to themselves… He imagined the conference deliberation if they concluded in a settlement for the Pyrryx to collect a juicebox and take an afternoon nap until they were ready to stop genocide and slavery like civilized people.
But you couldn’t stop a bully who was bigger than anyone around him. Not if you didn’t form a strong front with the other kids.
Gordon returned his dishes and thanked the kitchen staff. “Better than the slop you used to serve me back during the war.” He told the battle scared Klingon.
“Gagh keeps up a warrior’s strength! You have a weak stomach,” Korin replied, stabbing him in the gut with a wooden spoon. “Puj burgh!”
“You know, if you hold your mouth open on your hoverbike rides, you might catch a few equally scrumptious flies.”
“toH? You like insects? Next time I will prepare you an Obsidian delicacy– fire roasted hikiri beetle!”
Gordon hoped she wasn’t serious. He’d eaten more than his fair share of exotic food over the years, but he was out of practice choking down worms and bugs and tentacles. He finished his mug and handed it to her as well. “At least the coffee was good.”
“QI'yaH hwan! No better raqtejino in the sector,” she confirmed proudly, clapping some flour from her hands. Korin slid him his overnight bag, kicking it across the floor. “Here, do not forget this.”
Gordon was uncertain why she had brought it out for him. “I would have remembered to collect it myself.”
“You are an easy guest, ‘Qo? I don’t even have to set you up in your own room!” Korin barked a laugh and winked. “Take your baggage and be off. I don’t want to get used to seeing you your face if you don’t plan on staying, old devil.” Korin knew Indri wasn’t going to say a peep about him, but she was nonetheless always glum for weeks after one of their flings and Korin was bracing for her friend’s sore feelings and pretending.
He put on his shades, shouldered the bag and headed for the door. “Thanks again.”
It was a long dusty ride back into town. He threw the bag into the empty passenger seat and tuned the radio back in to the local station just for something to listen to. Reflexively, he kept looking at the seat beside him, wishing Maddi had stayed in bed long enough for him to convince her to ride back to the station with him. Maybe even help him with their foreign relations problem. Maybe she was in Kalara already and he was driving towards her. Maybe she had some of her banking business there, getting the loans she needed for ransoms.
Gordon wondered why she couldn’t just order up some salt from a replicator somewhere and mint some replica coins. Apart from treaties, what was preventing it? He hadn’t gotten enough out of her to really understand any of it. Maybe that kid Rubens knew what was going on. He was the resident diplomatic officer, after all.
By the time he checked his rover back into the rental, paid his fee in latinum, and turned in the keys to the porter wearing desert robes, his shuttle pick up was cuing up nearby with other passengers bound for the station. He grabbed his bag through the passenger window, but noticed something sticking out of the side pocket. It was the top of an envelope.
Curious, Gordon plucked it out and unfolded the tucked in flap. There was one line of writing on the inside.
You didn’t get this from me. it said in familiar script.
He tilted the bottom-heavy envelope and an outdated old war era memory rod rolled into his hand.
