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framlingemTitle: Dynamite With a Laser Beam
Artist: The brilliant![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
korilian!
Author:framlingem
Rating (both art/fic): PG--13
Genre/Pairing: Gen
Word Count: 7 688
Warnings: Mentions a past rape. Some violence. Scantily-clad (or unclad) women.
Fic Summary: History, duplicity, and treachery as Starfleet sends Gaila and Uhura on an undercover mission to the world of Gaila's adolescence.
Part One
It takes two days for the engineers to be satisfied that the shuttle won't lead back to the Starfleet. By that time, Enterprise is close enough to Orion that they're within the shuttle's range. The senior staff see them off, and the hours to Orion are uneventful. There's not much conversation. Gaila is immersed in her own thoughts, and Uhura is practicing her Orion and checking repeatedly to make sure she's still green. It still startles her every time she looks in a mirror.
***
They land roughly at the capital city's spaceport, appropriate for two women who've stolen a spaceship and aren't entirely sure how to fly it. Before exiting, Gaila turns to Uhura.
“Don't flinch,” she says.
They stumble out, carrying a bag each and are immediately surrounded by armed guards, demanding to know their identities and ownership.
Gaila straightens her spine and lifts her chin. “This one is Gaila,” she says, in the formal mode and cadences expected of an Orion woman addressing a man. “This one belongs to Prince Lonat-Sor. This one was stolen many years ago, and has finally escaped to do the duty this one longs to do.”
The guard in charge raises his eyebrows. “I remember you. You danced at the Festival of Daylight.”
“Yes.”
He looks to Uhura. “You. You, I don't recognize. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“This one is Ura.” Uhura speaks slowly, deliberately, concentrating on each syllable. “This one was not born here. This one wished to follow Gaila, and do the duty that is expected of her.”
A young guard is rummaging through their bags, and extracts an unmarked bottle of dye. He tosses it to the captain, who undoes the lid and sniffs.
“What's this?”
Uhura's pulse speeds up, but Gaila has an answer. “It is a lotion. Here, feel how soft her skin is.”
When Gaila takes the guard's hand and moves it it roughly across Uhura's bare throat, Uhura does not flinch.
***
The guard pushes Uhura in before she's ready, and she's through the door, and it is not at all what she expected, despite Gaila's descriptions. When she was young, her grandmother had told her stories; Anansi stories and Perrault fairy tales and stories of Baba Yaga in the woods, and this, this should have been like Arabian Nights. She'd anticipated being barely able to breathe for perfumes and stifling heat; she'd expected diaphanous gauze hanging from the ceilings, a floor invisible beneath rugs and cushions. The women should have been lounging about looking appealing. Granted, there are giant wardrobes covering one wall, and mirrors covering another, but the floor is uncluttered, highly polished hardwood, the air contains nothing so much as the unmistakeable tang of some cleaning product, with hints of old sweat, and the women are, for the most part, dressed in a pretty close analogue to her cadet PT gear.
The women who aren't wearing practical clothing are naked, but they're hardly lounging around decoratively. Instead, they're clustered around an older woman who is having them flex muscles in order, alternately barking commands and demonstrating a stance, a pose. She's tall and elegant, still trim and athletic despite no longer being precisely young.
Beside Uhura, Gaila makes a small, quiet noise. When Uhura looks at her, she looks younger than she did when they started at the academy - her voice, when she finds it, is terribly uncertain. "Navaar?"
The woman stills, manages to make falling out of her one-footed position look graceful, and almost before Uhura sees her move, she's across the room and is gazing intently into Gaila's face, hands cupping her chin. I'm intruding, thinks Uhura, as though this isn't something she should be witnessing, but she can't help but watch as the two Orion women stand perfectly still together.
"You shound not be back," says Navaar, finally. "They came and they beat me for not keeping you here, and it was worth every blow to know that you were not here. How is it that you are back?"
"I am sorry, Navaar," says Gaila. "I did not know that they would beat you. I had good reasons for leaving, but I also have good reasons for coming back. Forgive me.”
She doesn't really sound like Gaila. Uhura is so used to the Gaila she knew at the Academy – flirtatious, cavalier, irrepressibly friendly – that she has a hard time reconciling this formal, self-effacing creature with the woman she thought she knew. Even knowing that they are speaking the formal dialect of Orion used pretty much exclusively in the capital city, and that there's not really many other ways to speak, she has to forcibly remind herself that this Gaila came first. The formal mood is broken, though, when Gaila smiles brilliantly.
“Navaar, this is Ura. She is here for the same reasons as I am here. Ura, this is Navaar. She is my Teacher.”
Uhura can hear the capital letter, and if she hadn't already guessed that Navaar was important, she has now. She inclines her head respectfully in the way Gaila showed her. “This one is honoured to be in your presence.”
“As am I to be in yours, Ura.” Navaar is looking at her quizzically as she says, “But I am as you are – you may use personal pronouns. Gaila, how is it she does not yet know this?”
“She was raised offworld, Navaar. She is still learning.”
“Gaila has cautioned me to be cautious when unsure, Navaar. I have found it to be good advice.”
“Gaila was not an unintelligent pupil. It does not surprise me that she would be a good teacher, as well.” Navaar snaps her fingers. “Now, come! We have much to discuss, Gaila.”
“Soon, Navaar,” Gaila demurs. “Prince Lonat-Sor has requested my presence. I have been away a long tome – I must go. Perhaps,” and then Uhura catches a glimpse of her impish friend, “Ura will dance for you.” She leans in close, and whispers in English, “you'll need to be naked, sweetie. You'll stand out more if you aren't, and it'll be easier for her to teach you if she can see your muscles properly. You can put your clothes in one of the cubbies in the next room.” She switches back to Orion. “What are the latest fashions? Does the prince still favour red?”
The other women, who have been watching with frank interest, descend upon her, and Uhura is left to go into the next room alone. Mercifully, there is nobody there. She's all right with undressing in front of friends, or in front of Spock, but... They're all strangers, and I think they'd be grading me on how well I took my shirt off. She strips, stashes her clothes, and rejoins the women in the... gym? Studio? Studio seems more appropriate, she decides. She's just in time to see Gaila, wearing what looks like a single blue ribbon with tiny golden bells dangling from it, square her shoulders and leave. Then, there are hands pushing on her abdomen and the small of her back, straightening her shoulders, and Navaar is saying, “We stand like this.”
***
Gaila feels as though she is going to vomit. It's not enough that there are murmurs of “isn't that...” and “I heard she...” as she walks along the vaulted corridors of the Palace of the Sun. She's practiced in the art of appearances, and holds her head high, but she is keenly aware that yes, she is, and yes, she did. She is not sure she'll be able to hide it when the prince's hands are on her body. It's been seven years since she's had to consciously decide not to flinch when someone touched her – seven years of touches she's chosen. I did it, she thinks. I killed Lord Sanet-thal. I left, and this time I'm here on my own terms. This time, I'll use him.
She's nearly to the entrance to the prince's quarters when she realizes she is thinking in English, and smiles as she reaches the heavy wooden doors. They're new since the last time she was here, inlaid with images of naked women. Her smile widens: one panel is a picture of her, picked out in serpentine, jade, and garnets. She's still smiling as the doors open.
The prince is there to greet her, as tall and handsome as she remembers. His voice is warm.
“Gaila. I have missed you – nobody else dances quite like you do.”
He was never unkind to me. Careless, sure, but not cruel. “This one is once again honoured to be in your presence, Highness, and would be honoured to dance again, though one begs forgiveness for the lack of practice as one has not had a worthy audience in some time.”
Lonat-Sor laughs, delighted with the flattery as always, and motions to the slave who is standing by in the corner, ready to serve. She is young, perhaps fifteen, and Gaila does not recognize her. She fetches a large drum and picks up a slow, insistent beat. I'll thank her later – she's very good, and this is an easy one to dance to.
Her feet remember the rythmic steps, and the floor is cool under her toes. Every drumbeat draws an answering pulse from her spine, a roll of her hips, and her eyes never leave her audience. The bells on her ribbon add a chiming counterpoint to the bass of the drum. She is good at this, very good, and keenly aware of the effect she is having on the prince. He gets up, slowly, and puts his hands on her hips. She adds an extra twitch on the off-beat, and his breath quickens.
“This,” he says, “this is why I chose you.” His lips press, hot and wet, on her ear, down her neck, across her breasts. The drummer, obviously practiced in such situations, quickens her tempo. Gaila does not flinch.
“This one came back to you. You are this one's prince.”
The drummer keeps going as Lonat-Sor takes her wrist and leads her towards the bed, and Gaila thinks to herself in time to the beat. This time, I am using him. I am using him. I am using him.
She is stiff and sore when she returns to the women's quarters and finds Uhura there, already asleep. She curls up next to her friend, nearly close enough to touch.
***
The grand dining hall meets Uhura's expectations more than the women's quarters did, Gaila discovers. Bolts of brilliant fabric hang in billows from the ceiling, and the carpets underfoot are soft against their bare feet. Three days after their arrival, Navaar is finally satisfied with Uhura's ability to conduct herself appropriately in a public setting, and so she is playing a harp for Navaar, who is dancing with two other women, draped in something gauzy and blue that covers everything but her face and still manages to be scandalous. Uhura's hands move like birds, flitting along the strings and coming to delicate rests . Several of the guests are having a hard time taking their eyes off of her.
Gaila, who is remembering the soreness she thought she'd long left behind, has managed to convince the Prince that she would serve him better by serving drinks to the Prince's guests, who are early arrivals for the auction which will be held in the next day, than by dancing. He basked in the glow of her words as she described how his prowess has drained her of all her energy, leaving her to require a rest.
One by one, guests arrive and are seated, and Gaila notes their names and faces. She fights to conceal her surprise at the sight of a Romulan man – she sees his face and suddenly she's back on the Enterprise, struggling to keep the ship in one piece as her friends and colleagues die around her, as her new home is attacked. She's brought back to reality, though, when the majordomo announces “Captain Guffin, of Starfleet.”
Captain? He's given himself a promotion, then. Neglected to mention that little desertion detail, too. His hair is greyer, and he's out of uniform, but it's definitely him – he's still wearing what looks like a modified Starfleet com badge, presumably for the translator circuit. Gaila catches Uhura's eye, and Uhura nods once, turning the motion into a signal to the dancers that the tempo is changing.
Yes, defnitely him.
Gaila glides over to him once he's seated, using the tiny steps Navaar taught her when she was small (“like this, girl, like you're floating over the floor, again! You clomp like a man. It is unattractive. Again!”). The dark liquid in the decanter she carries barely ripples. She leans over Guffin to pour his drink, allowing her breast to brush against his shoulder briefly, and trailing her fingers up his arm and across his back as she leaves. She can feel his eyes following her as she moves away to greet the next guest.
She comes back to him again and again through the evening, making sure that his glass is always full, that his plate always has something new on it. She winds him in with little touches. By the end of the evening, she knows she has him. She pretends not to hear him asking the prince about her, and ignores the prince telling him he has excellent taste, regaling his guest with descriptions of Gaila's many talents. This is what needs to happen. All I have to do is to get into his quarters.
“Gaila!” Lonat-Sor calls over to her, as she is clearing the final course's crystal bowls from the table. “Come.”
She goes.
Lonat-Sor is standing with Guffin. “This man is a friend of mine, Gaila. He wishes to see you this evening, and I have granted him permission.”
“Yes, your Highness.”
Lonat-Sor turns his attention to an Andorian across the table. Guffin takes a step towards her and grabs her chin roughly. “Red hair. Unusual for an Orion. Some offworlder's get?”
Gaila's chin comes up a little as she replies. “This one does not know her parents, sir. This one was raised in the women's quarters, as are all girls before they are given training in the arts.”
“Arts, huh? What can you do?”
“This one can dance, and make ka'i'la beer. This one is also trained in the art of pleasure.”
“So that's what you call it. Well, “this one”, can you be ready in an hour? It's been a long time, and I think, after tomorrow, I had better get used to pleasure, whatever pretty words you wrap it in.”
“Yes, sir.” Gaila curtseys and exits.
***
Uhura meets her back in the women's quarters, which are nearly empty. Gaila's rummaging through the wardrobes, looking for something specific. They speak in English, so that the other occupants can't understand them.
“We've got him. How do you want to play this?”
“He'll be expecting me to show up, so getting in should be simple enough. Locating the padd will be slightly harder – he's housed in the nobles' wing, so he'll be in one of the larger guestrooms.” Gaila pulls out something that appears to be very fine chain mail attached to a leather belt and holds it up. Nodding to herself, she dives back into the wardrobe. “It'll be easier with two of us. I'll distract him while you look. Here, try this on – you look good in red. I'll stick with the blue.”
“How'll we get me in?” Uhura strips off the filmy dress she'd been dressed in for the dinner and reaches for the chainv mail. “Ugh, the dye's fading. Help me reapply it? I can't get my back.” She pulls the bottle from her personal cubbyhole, pours some into her hand, and starts rubbing it into her face and neck while Gaila does her back.
“Flattery usually works. You saw him and wanted to come with me. He's a selfish traitor; he'll take the ego boost.”
Uhura nods and, dye applied, dons the chain mail. It feels bizarre against her bare skin, but she wriggles the belt into place and, examining herself in the mirror to check that she hasn't missed anywhere with the dye, she can't help but admit she looks like a fantasy woman from one of Gaila's Antique Film Society movies. I wonder what Spock would think? He's told me some interesting things about Vulcan biology... I think I might see if I can get something like this the timing's right.
She turns to Gaila and does a little turn. “Well?”
“Pull the skirt lower. Yep. Perfect.”
“This is a skirt?”
“Technically. Think you're all set for your first seduction?”
“As I'll ever be. Let's go.
***
They only meet one of the palace guards along the way, and he's obviously been briefed on the visiting human's request, waving them through with only a cursory leer. The long corridor is, like most of the corridors in the nobles' wing, pitted at regular intervals with veiled alcoves, and heavy breath and rustling noises are emanating from a few of them. The guest quarters that Guffin is housed in aren't as ornate as the prince's, but the door is still heavily inlaid... and slightly ajar. Gaila stops suddenly, and listens. Something's not right.
“There's someone else in there,” she whispers to Uhura. “I can hear voices.”
She can't quite make them out, though. Guffin and his visitor are speaking in hushed, forceful tones, and she can hear footsteps, as though one of them is pacing. There is a crash, and a thud, and a different set of footsteps, growing louder.
“In here!”
She pulls Uhura into the nearest alcove, which is thankfully empty, crouches to the floor, and lifts the filmy curtain just enough to see the Romulan from the dinner party vanish around the corner. She hisses an obscenity.
There is nobody in the receiving room of the guest suite, but in the sitting room, they find Guffin. He is sprawled in the sparkling debris of what used to be a glass end table, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Blood drips from a wound on his temple, staining the rug. There is a padd on the ground below his right hand, and Gaila picks it up while Uhura takes the man's pulse.
“He's dead,” she says.
“At least we don't have to worry about his expertise falling into enemy hands as well.”
“That's callous.”
“The man's a traitor, and he's the reason I had to come back here. He's the reason for a lot of things I've done this week that I'm not proud of. This solves the problem of what to do with him once we found him. I don't mourn his death.”
Gaila's tapping at the padd's controls as she speaks, and she curses a second time. “This has been copied, and in the last twenty minutes. The Romulan has the plans.” She taps a few more times, wiping the padd's hard drive, then shoves it under a couch leg and jumps on the couch, shattering the little machine for good measure.
“Right. Same plan, except this time the prince has sent us as gifts to his guest.”
Uhura grins. “Let me do the talking, this time. That paper Spock and I were working on was a linguistic study of Romulan courtship techniques.”
Gaila is taken aback, but has to concede the point. She's never had to interact on a personal level with a Romulan before and, even if Uhura hasn't either, theoretical knowledge is better than nothing. They leave Guffin's room unseen, and find another guard, who, upon hearing that they belong to the prince, directs them to the Romulan's room.
They knock. The door opens, and the Romulan blocks it with his body. Gaila realizes they still do not know his name.
“Yes?” he growls.
“We are a gift from the Prince,” says Uhura.
“Tell him I said no.”
His surly expression turns to astonishment as Uhura unleashes a stream of what Gaila presumes is Romulan invective and shoves him backward into the bedroom. Gaila follows. It's less plush than Guffin's, done all in grey stone with scattered cushions and the occasional drapery, presumably decorated with a nod to Romulus's spartan warrior tastes. The Romulan was evidently in the middle of packing when they disturbed him, and clothing and weaponry are scattered on what little furniture there is.
Uhura's getting some firsthand research material for her paper, Gaila notes as she casts her eyes about for a data storage device. The Romulan has grabbed her around the waist and is kissing her roughly – she's responding, her face set into as much as a snarl as possible, her fingers clawing into his back. He's even bleeding a little. He disentangles himself a little and growls at Gaila, “come,” while pulling Uhura into his lap on the floor by the window. Gaila can't figure out a way to disobey without breaking cover, so she does, twining herself around his leg and, as Uhura's uncharacteristic violence seems to be getting the job done, biting her way up it through the thick fabric, doing it from as many angles as she can crane her neck to reach, the better to keep scanning the room for something that might contain the classified designs.
Suddenly, Uhura shrieks, and Gaila looks up to see her pulling away from the Romulan, who has her wrist in a death grip and is covered in green where Uhura has touched his sweaty skin. There are gaps in the dye on Uhura's skin, and the Romulan is staring at her with a murderous expression on his face.
What was it McCoy said about Spock? Body chemistry. Crap. We're not in control here any more.
Gaila lunges for the nearest weapon, and ends up holding a Starfleet phaser rifle on the Romulan at short range, just as he roars with rage and flings Uhura away from him. She pulls the trigger, and the Romulan falls to the ground, stunned.
What kind of Romulan keeps his weapon set on stun? For that matter, what kind of Romulan carries a Starfleet weapon? He must have taken it off of Guffin.
Across the room, Uhura is stirring where she lies against the wall, and Gaila helps her to sit.
“You all right?”
Uhura blinks at her muzzily. “Wha?”
Great. Gaila thinks, running her hands along Uhura's limbs and torso. Nothing's broken, but I've got a concussed teammate and an unconscious Romulan on my hands. Then, she has to restrain laughter. On the bright side, I've also got a gun.
Gaila field-strips the various firearms in the room and, after a search which still doesn't turn up anything resembling a data storage device, locks the various blades in the safe, with the exception of one which doesn't fit. She hides it under the mattress of the bed. Then, she stands over the Romulan and waits. When he wakes up, the muzzle of the rifle is ten centimetres from his right eyeball.
“It's not on stun anymore.” Gaila is matter-of-fact, and takes some satisfaction in the widening of his eyes. “Here is what is going to happen. I have dismantled the other weapons in this room. You are going to do precisely as I say.”
“May your ancestors be ashamed of you, harlot.”
Without blinking, Gaila ratchets the damage setting on the rifle up a notch. “I don't know who my parents are, and I've never taken a penny for sex. Nobody could afford me if I had. I'm good. I have, however, taken top honours in markmanship in a military organization, and I could use this rifle to kill you even if the charge was flat. You, on the other hand, are on the floor, and not in possession of the only weapon in this room, and you are going to do exactly as I say. Is. That. Clear.”
The Romulan scowls, but nods.
“Right. You are going to tell my colleague over there” - Uhura waves limply - “where you have hidden the information you took from the human tonight. You might want to hurry. I get bored when I wait.”
“I swallowed it.”
“Okay, you swallowed it. In that case, you're coming with us. You have a ship?”
He nods again, grudgingly.
“Wrong. I have a ship. You are going to help my colleague to her feet, gently, and make sure she doesn't fall over again as you show us where it is parked. Now.”
She keeps a steady bead on him as he does her bidding, and moves in close behind him as they exit the room, tucking the rifle against his back in just the right position to blow off the back of his skull if her finger twitches. She conceals it by draping herself against his back, so that he looks for all the world like a man with pleasure on his mind rather than imminent death. She leans up, and whispers in his ear: “Which way, dead man?”
Rather than answering, he starts walking towards the East Mews, practically carrying Uhura. Gaila keeps pace. They turn the corner, and -
“Gaila!”
Gaila closes her eyes in shame. It's Navaar. She was going to leave again without saying good-bye to the woman who raised her.
“Gaila, what are you doing? The guards found the human dead. Everyone is looking for you! They think – what is wrong with Ura?”
“Navaar, please listen. I do not have time to explain fully. When I left, I joined Starfleet. I am part of the crew of a great starship. The human used to belong to Starfleet as well – he was a traitor, carrying valuable information to sell at tomorrow's auction. My superiors couldn't let that happen. I owed it to them not to let it happen. This man has that information. We need to escape, and the only way we have to do that is with his ship. Our people do not know that we need to leave, and they won't be coming for us until tomorrow night. Please help us.”
Navaar looks at Gaila searchingly for a moment, then nods.
“I would have you away from here again.” There's a guard coming around the corner. Gaila's pulse is racing. Navaar smiles, and cups Gaila's cheek in her hand briefly. “Be well, Gaila.”
She turns, and sashays toward the guard. The last Gaila sees of her, she is kissing him.
They don't see anyone else until they reach the Mews, the gigantic hangar where the nobility keep their vehicles and those of guests. There's a small runabout of Romulan design near the exit, and Gaila relaxes her hold on the Romulan once they're inside.
“Uhura, grab those cables, would you?”
Uhura, whose eyes are looking clearer, does so, and uses them to restrain their hostage. Gaila shoves him roughly into a seat, and motions Uhura to the one facing him. She hands Uhura the rifle.
“Keep this on him. If he gets up, or if I say so, pull the trigger. Aim for his head. We need his torso intact. You, dead man. Where's the comm?”
He indicates the appropriate control station with a nod of his head. Fingers flying, Gaila sends a text-only request for permission to take off. It's denied, and the hangar bays remain resolutely closed. She sighs. “Weapons?”
Another nod, and Gaila jabs the indicated button. Disruptors beams flash from the ship's nose, and the hangar's great doors are no more. Guards spill through the doors as she takes off and guns it, heading for the sky.
***
They're a long way above the ecliptic when the Romulan speaks again, several hours later.
“See that flashing light, harlot?” Gaila looks. There is indeed a light to the left, flashing green. Humans have red lights as warnings because that's the colour of their blood. Romulans have green blood like Vulcans. Now what?
“It's a warning light. My ship was scheduled to be refueled tomorrow.”
With diabolical timing, the hum of the engines deepens in pitch, then stops. The lights go out. The Romulan is up out of his seat and lunging at her when there's a tingling sensation. Suddenly they're surrounded by bright lights, and the Romulan is knocking her backwards onto the Enterprise's transporter pad. Security moves in immediately to drag him off of her.
“There's a chip with the data,” she gasps. “He's swallowed it. Get him to Sickbay. Uhura too, she's concussed.”
Kirk himself is helping her to sit up. “Are you all right?” he asks, checking her over while McCoy busies himself with Uhura. “We picked up on you leaving the atmosphere with the improvements you and Scotty were working on. Sorry it took so long to get into transporter range.”
“Yeah, I'm fine. I'd like a word in private, though.”
“I can manage that. Now?”
“No. Right now, I want to see that Uhura's all right, and that the chip is the correct one, and then I am going to bed.”
She sleeps deeply, but not well.
Epilogue
Janice Rand works wonders with coffee again, though, and she's awake when she walks into Kirk's ready room and stands stiffly to attention.
“What happened down there, Ensign?”
“You'll find it in my report, sir. Permission to speak freely?”
“Granted.”
“That is the second time you have used me to get something you want. Commander Spock still hasn't forgiven me for my part in breaking his test program, even though I didn't know I was doing it. This time, Starfleet used me, made me turn back into someone I left behind a long time ago, to catch a traitor.
“I agreed to protect Starfleet and its planets when I became an officer. But I will not be betrayed again, Captain. Not by you, and not by Starfleet.
“You don't have the right.”
Artist: The brilliant
korilian!Author:
framlingemRating (both art/fic): PG--13
Genre/Pairing: Gen
Word Count: 7 688
Warnings: Mentions a past rape. Some violence. Scantily-clad (or unclad) women.
Fic Summary: History, duplicity, and treachery as Starfleet sends Gaila and Uhura on an undercover mission to the world of Gaila's adolescence.
Part One
It takes two days for the engineers to be satisfied that the shuttle won't lead back to the Starfleet. By that time, Enterprise is close enough to Orion that they're within the shuttle's range. The senior staff see them off, and the hours to Orion are uneventful. There's not much conversation. Gaila is immersed in her own thoughts, and Uhura is practicing her Orion and checking repeatedly to make sure she's still green. It still startles her every time she looks in a mirror.
They land roughly at the capital city's spaceport, appropriate for two women who've stolen a spaceship and aren't entirely sure how to fly it. Before exiting, Gaila turns to Uhura.
“Don't flinch,” she says.
They stumble out, carrying a bag each and are immediately surrounded by armed guards, demanding to know their identities and ownership.
Gaila straightens her spine and lifts her chin. “This one is Gaila,” she says, in the formal mode and cadences expected of an Orion woman addressing a man. “This one belongs to Prince Lonat-Sor. This one was stolen many years ago, and has finally escaped to do the duty this one longs to do.”
The guard in charge raises his eyebrows. “I remember you. You danced at the Festival of Daylight.”
“Yes.”
He looks to Uhura. “You. You, I don't recognize. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“This one is Ura.” Uhura speaks slowly, deliberately, concentrating on each syllable. “This one was not born here. This one wished to follow Gaila, and do the duty that is expected of her.”
A young guard is rummaging through their bags, and extracts an unmarked bottle of dye. He tosses it to the captain, who undoes the lid and sniffs.
“What's this?”
Uhura's pulse speeds up, but Gaila has an answer. “It is a lotion. Here, feel how soft her skin is.”
When Gaila takes the guard's hand and moves it it roughly across Uhura's bare throat, Uhura does not flinch.
The guard pushes Uhura in before she's ready, and she's through the door, and it is not at all what she expected, despite Gaila's descriptions. When she was young, her grandmother had told her stories; Anansi stories and Perrault fairy tales and stories of Baba Yaga in the woods, and this, this should have been like Arabian Nights. She'd anticipated being barely able to breathe for perfumes and stifling heat; she'd expected diaphanous gauze hanging from the ceilings, a floor invisible beneath rugs and cushions. The women should have been lounging about looking appealing. Granted, there are giant wardrobes covering one wall, and mirrors covering another, but the floor is uncluttered, highly polished hardwood, the air contains nothing so much as the unmistakeable tang of some cleaning product, with hints of old sweat, and the women are, for the most part, dressed in a pretty close analogue to her cadet PT gear.
The women who aren't wearing practical clothing are naked, but they're hardly lounging around decoratively. Instead, they're clustered around an older woman who is having them flex muscles in order, alternately barking commands and demonstrating a stance, a pose. She's tall and elegant, still trim and athletic despite no longer being precisely young.
Beside Uhura, Gaila makes a small, quiet noise. When Uhura looks at her, she looks younger than she did when they started at the academy - her voice, when she finds it, is terribly uncertain. "Navaar?"
The woman stills, manages to make falling out of her one-footed position look graceful, and almost before Uhura sees her move, she's across the room and is gazing intently into Gaila's face, hands cupping her chin. I'm intruding, thinks Uhura, as though this isn't something she should be witnessing, but she can't help but watch as the two Orion women stand perfectly still together.
"You shound not be back," says Navaar, finally. "They came and they beat me for not keeping you here, and it was worth every blow to know that you were not here. How is it that you are back?"
"I am sorry, Navaar," says Gaila. "I did not know that they would beat you. I had good reasons for leaving, but I also have good reasons for coming back. Forgive me.”
She doesn't really sound like Gaila. Uhura is so used to the Gaila she knew at the Academy – flirtatious, cavalier, irrepressibly friendly – that she has a hard time reconciling this formal, self-effacing creature with the woman she thought she knew. Even knowing that they are speaking the formal dialect of Orion used pretty much exclusively in the capital city, and that there's not really many other ways to speak, she has to forcibly remind herself that this Gaila came first. The formal mood is broken, though, when Gaila smiles brilliantly.
“Navaar, this is Ura. She is here for the same reasons as I am here. Ura, this is Navaar. She is my Teacher.”
Uhura can hear the capital letter, and if she hadn't already guessed that Navaar was important, she has now. She inclines her head respectfully in the way Gaila showed her. “This one is honoured to be in your presence.”
“As am I to be in yours, Ura.” Navaar is looking at her quizzically as she says, “But I am as you are – you may use personal pronouns. Gaila, how is it she does not yet know this?”
“She was raised offworld, Navaar. She is still learning.”
“Gaila has cautioned me to be cautious when unsure, Navaar. I have found it to be good advice.”
“Gaila was not an unintelligent pupil. It does not surprise me that she would be a good teacher, as well.” Navaar snaps her fingers. “Now, come! We have much to discuss, Gaila.”
“Soon, Navaar,” Gaila demurs. “Prince Lonat-Sor has requested my presence. I have been away a long tome – I must go. Perhaps,” and then Uhura catches a glimpse of her impish friend, “Ura will dance for you.” She leans in close, and whispers in English, “you'll need to be naked, sweetie. You'll stand out more if you aren't, and it'll be easier for her to teach you if she can see your muscles properly. You can put your clothes in one of the cubbies in the next room.” She switches back to Orion. “What are the latest fashions? Does the prince still favour red?”
The other women, who have been watching with frank interest, descend upon her, and Uhura is left to go into the next room alone. Mercifully, there is nobody there. She's all right with undressing in front of friends, or in front of Spock, but... They're all strangers, and I think they'd be grading me on how well I took my shirt off. She strips, stashes her clothes, and rejoins the women in the... gym? Studio? Studio seems more appropriate, she decides. She's just in time to see Gaila, wearing what looks like a single blue ribbon with tiny golden bells dangling from it, square her shoulders and leave. Then, there are hands pushing on her abdomen and the small of her back, straightening her shoulders, and Navaar is saying, “We stand like this.”
Gaila feels as though she is going to vomit. It's not enough that there are murmurs of “isn't that...” and “I heard she...” as she walks along the vaulted corridors of the Palace of the Sun. She's practiced in the art of appearances, and holds her head high, but she is keenly aware that yes, she is, and yes, she did. She is not sure she'll be able to hide it when the prince's hands are on her body. It's been seven years since she's had to consciously decide not to flinch when someone touched her – seven years of touches she's chosen. I did it, she thinks. I killed Lord Sanet-thal. I left, and this time I'm here on my own terms. This time, I'll use him.
She's nearly to the entrance to the prince's quarters when she realizes she is thinking in English, and smiles as she reaches the heavy wooden doors. They're new since the last time she was here, inlaid with images of naked women. Her smile widens: one panel is a picture of her, picked out in serpentine, jade, and garnets. She's still smiling as the doors open.
The prince is there to greet her, as tall and handsome as she remembers. His voice is warm.
“Gaila. I have missed you – nobody else dances quite like you do.”
He was never unkind to me. Careless, sure, but not cruel. “This one is once again honoured to be in your presence, Highness, and would be honoured to dance again, though one begs forgiveness for the lack of practice as one has not had a worthy audience in some time.”
Lonat-Sor laughs, delighted with the flattery as always, and motions to the slave who is standing by in the corner, ready to serve. She is young, perhaps fifteen, and Gaila does not recognize her. She fetches a large drum and picks up a slow, insistent beat. I'll thank her later – she's very good, and this is an easy one to dance to.
Her feet remember the rythmic steps, and the floor is cool under her toes. Every drumbeat draws an answering pulse from her spine, a roll of her hips, and her eyes never leave her audience. The bells on her ribbon add a chiming counterpoint to the bass of the drum. She is good at this, very good, and keenly aware of the effect she is having on the prince. He gets up, slowly, and puts his hands on her hips. She adds an extra twitch on the off-beat, and his breath quickens.
“This,” he says, “this is why I chose you.” His lips press, hot and wet, on her ear, down her neck, across her breasts. The drummer, obviously practiced in such situations, quickens her tempo. Gaila does not flinch.
“This one came back to you. You are this one's prince.”
The drummer keeps going as Lonat-Sor takes her wrist and leads her towards the bed, and Gaila thinks to herself in time to the beat. This time, I am using him. I am using him. I am using him.
She is stiff and sore when she returns to the women's quarters and finds Uhura there, already asleep. She curls up next to her friend, nearly close enough to touch.
The grand dining hall meets Uhura's expectations more than the women's quarters did, Gaila discovers. Bolts of brilliant fabric hang in billows from the ceiling, and the carpets underfoot are soft against their bare feet. Three days after their arrival, Navaar is finally satisfied with Uhura's ability to conduct herself appropriately in a public setting, and so she is playing a harp for Navaar, who is dancing with two other women, draped in something gauzy and blue that covers everything but her face and still manages to be scandalous. Uhura's hands move like birds, flitting along the strings and coming to delicate rests . Several of the guests are having a hard time taking their eyes off of her.
Gaila, who is remembering the soreness she thought she'd long left behind, has managed to convince the Prince that she would serve him better by serving drinks to the Prince's guests, who are early arrivals for the auction which will be held in the next day, than by dancing. He basked in the glow of her words as she described how his prowess has drained her of all her energy, leaving her to require a rest.
One by one, guests arrive and are seated, and Gaila notes their names and faces. She fights to conceal her surprise at the sight of a Romulan man – she sees his face and suddenly she's back on the Enterprise, struggling to keep the ship in one piece as her friends and colleagues die around her, as her new home is attacked. She's brought back to reality, though, when the majordomo announces “Captain Guffin, of Starfleet.”
Captain? He's given himself a promotion, then. Neglected to mention that little desertion detail, too. His hair is greyer, and he's out of uniform, but it's definitely him – he's still wearing what looks like a modified Starfleet com badge, presumably for the translator circuit. Gaila catches Uhura's eye, and Uhura nods once, turning the motion into a signal to the dancers that the tempo is changing.
Yes, defnitely him.
Gaila glides over to him once he's seated, using the tiny steps Navaar taught her when she was small (“like this, girl, like you're floating over the floor, again! You clomp like a man. It is unattractive. Again!”). The dark liquid in the decanter she carries barely ripples. She leans over Guffin to pour his drink, allowing her breast to brush against his shoulder briefly, and trailing her fingers up his arm and across his back as she leaves. She can feel his eyes following her as she moves away to greet the next guest.
She comes back to him again and again through the evening, making sure that his glass is always full, that his plate always has something new on it. She winds him in with little touches. By the end of the evening, she knows she has him. She pretends not to hear him asking the prince about her, and ignores the prince telling him he has excellent taste, regaling his guest with descriptions of Gaila's many talents. This is what needs to happen. All I have to do is to get into his quarters.
“Gaila!” Lonat-Sor calls over to her, as she is clearing the final course's crystal bowls from the table. “Come.”
She goes.
Lonat-Sor is standing with Guffin. “This man is a friend of mine, Gaila. He wishes to see you this evening, and I have granted him permission.”
“Yes, your Highness.”
Lonat-Sor turns his attention to an Andorian across the table. Guffin takes a step towards her and grabs her chin roughly. “Red hair. Unusual for an Orion. Some offworlder's get?”
Gaila's chin comes up a little as she replies. “This one does not know her parents, sir. This one was raised in the women's quarters, as are all girls before they are given training in the arts.”
“Arts, huh? What can you do?”
“This one can dance, and make ka'i'la beer. This one is also trained in the art of pleasure.”
“So that's what you call it. Well, “this one”, can you be ready in an hour? It's been a long time, and I think, after tomorrow, I had better get used to pleasure, whatever pretty words you wrap it in.”
“Yes, sir.” Gaila curtseys and exits.
Uhura meets her back in the women's quarters, which are nearly empty. Gaila's rummaging through the wardrobes, looking for something specific. They speak in English, so that the other occupants can't understand them.
“We've got him. How do you want to play this?”
“He'll be expecting me to show up, so getting in should be simple enough. Locating the padd will be slightly harder – he's housed in the nobles' wing, so he'll be in one of the larger guestrooms.” Gaila pulls out something that appears to be very fine chain mail attached to a leather belt and holds it up. Nodding to herself, she dives back into the wardrobe. “It'll be easier with two of us. I'll distract him while you look. Here, try this on – you look good in red. I'll stick with the blue.”
“How'll we get me in?” Uhura strips off the filmy dress she'd been dressed in for the dinner and reaches for the chainv mail. “Ugh, the dye's fading. Help me reapply it? I can't get my back.” She pulls the bottle from her personal cubbyhole, pours some into her hand, and starts rubbing it into her face and neck while Gaila does her back.
“Flattery usually works. You saw him and wanted to come with me. He's a selfish traitor; he'll take the ego boost.”
Uhura nods and, dye applied, dons the chain mail. It feels bizarre against her bare skin, but she wriggles the belt into place and, examining herself in the mirror to check that she hasn't missed anywhere with the dye, she can't help but admit she looks like a fantasy woman from one of Gaila's Antique Film Society movies. I wonder what Spock would think? He's told me some interesting things about Vulcan biology... I think I might see if I can get something like this the timing's right.
She turns to Gaila and does a little turn. “Well?”
“Pull the skirt lower. Yep. Perfect.”
“This is a skirt?”
“Technically. Think you're all set for your first seduction?”
“As I'll ever be. Let's go.
They only meet one of the palace guards along the way, and he's obviously been briefed on the visiting human's request, waving them through with only a cursory leer. The long corridor is, like most of the corridors in the nobles' wing, pitted at regular intervals with veiled alcoves, and heavy breath and rustling noises are emanating from a few of them. The guest quarters that Guffin is housed in aren't as ornate as the prince's, but the door is still heavily inlaid... and slightly ajar. Gaila stops suddenly, and listens. Something's not right.
“There's someone else in there,” she whispers to Uhura. “I can hear voices.”
She can't quite make them out, though. Guffin and his visitor are speaking in hushed, forceful tones, and she can hear footsteps, as though one of them is pacing. There is a crash, and a thud, and a different set of footsteps, growing louder.
“In here!”
She pulls Uhura into the nearest alcove, which is thankfully empty, crouches to the floor, and lifts the filmy curtain just enough to see the Romulan from the dinner party vanish around the corner. She hisses an obscenity.
There is nobody in the receiving room of the guest suite, but in the sitting room, they find Guffin. He is sprawled in the sparkling debris of what used to be a glass end table, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Blood drips from a wound on his temple, staining the rug. There is a padd on the ground below his right hand, and Gaila picks it up while Uhura takes the man's pulse.
“He's dead,” she says.
“At least we don't have to worry about his expertise falling into enemy hands as well.”
“That's callous.”
“The man's a traitor, and he's the reason I had to come back here. He's the reason for a lot of things I've done this week that I'm not proud of. This solves the problem of what to do with him once we found him. I don't mourn his death.”
Gaila's tapping at the padd's controls as she speaks, and she curses a second time. “This has been copied, and in the last twenty minutes. The Romulan has the plans.” She taps a few more times, wiping the padd's hard drive, then shoves it under a couch leg and jumps on the couch, shattering the little machine for good measure.
“Right. Same plan, except this time the prince has sent us as gifts to his guest.”
Uhura grins. “Let me do the talking, this time. That paper Spock and I were working on was a linguistic study of Romulan courtship techniques.”
Gaila is taken aback, but has to concede the point. She's never had to interact on a personal level with a Romulan before and, even if Uhura hasn't either, theoretical knowledge is better than nothing. They leave Guffin's room unseen, and find another guard, who, upon hearing that they belong to the prince, directs them to the Romulan's room.
They knock. The door opens, and the Romulan blocks it with his body. Gaila realizes they still do not know his name.
“Yes?” he growls.
“We are a gift from the Prince,” says Uhura.
“Tell him I said no.”
His surly expression turns to astonishment as Uhura unleashes a stream of what Gaila presumes is Romulan invective and shoves him backward into the bedroom. Gaila follows. It's less plush than Guffin's, done all in grey stone with scattered cushions and the occasional drapery, presumably decorated with a nod to Romulus's spartan warrior tastes. The Romulan was evidently in the middle of packing when they disturbed him, and clothing and weaponry are scattered on what little furniture there is.
Uhura's getting some firsthand research material for her paper, Gaila notes as she casts her eyes about for a data storage device. The Romulan has grabbed her around the waist and is kissing her roughly – she's responding, her face set into as much as a snarl as possible, her fingers clawing into his back. He's even bleeding a little. He disentangles himself a little and growls at Gaila, “come,” while pulling Uhura into his lap on the floor by the window. Gaila can't figure out a way to disobey without breaking cover, so she does, twining herself around his leg and, as Uhura's uncharacteristic violence seems to be getting the job done, biting her way up it through the thick fabric, doing it from as many angles as she can crane her neck to reach, the better to keep scanning the room for something that might contain the classified designs.
Suddenly, Uhura shrieks, and Gaila looks up to see her pulling away from the Romulan, who has her wrist in a death grip and is covered in green where Uhura has touched his sweaty skin. There are gaps in the dye on Uhura's skin, and the Romulan is staring at her with a murderous expression on his face.
What was it McCoy said about Spock? Body chemistry. Crap. We're not in control here any more.
Gaila lunges for the nearest weapon, and ends up holding a Starfleet phaser rifle on the Romulan at short range, just as he roars with rage and flings Uhura away from him. She pulls the trigger, and the Romulan falls to the ground, stunned.
What kind of Romulan keeps his weapon set on stun? For that matter, what kind of Romulan carries a Starfleet weapon? He must have taken it off of Guffin.
Across the room, Uhura is stirring where she lies against the wall, and Gaila helps her to sit.
“You all right?”
Uhura blinks at her muzzily. “Wha?”
Great. Gaila thinks, running her hands along Uhura's limbs and torso. Nothing's broken, but I've got a concussed teammate and an unconscious Romulan on my hands. Then, she has to restrain laughter. On the bright side, I've also got a gun.
Gaila field-strips the various firearms in the room and, after a search which still doesn't turn up anything resembling a data storage device, locks the various blades in the safe, with the exception of one which doesn't fit. She hides it under the mattress of the bed. Then, she stands over the Romulan and waits. When he wakes up, the muzzle of the rifle is ten centimetres from his right eyeball.
“It's not on stun anymore.” Gaila is matter-of-fact, and takes some satisfaction in the widening of his eyes. “Here is what is going to happen. I have dismantled the other weapons in this room. You are going to do precisely as I say.”
“May your ancestors be ashamed of you, harlot.”
Without blinking, Gaila ratchets the damage setting on the rifle up a notch. “I don't know who my parents are, and I've never taken a penny for sex. Nobody could afford me if I had. I'm good. I have, however, taken top honours in markmanship in a military organization, and I could use this rifle to kill you even if the charge was flat. You, on the other hand, are on the floor, and not in possession of the only weapon in this room, and you are going to do exactly as I say. Is. That. Clear.”
The Romulan scowls, but nods.
“Right. You are going to tell my colleague over there” - Uhura waves limply - “where you have hidden the information you took from the human tonight. You might want to hurry. I get bored when I wait.”
“I swallowed it.”
“Okay, you swallowed it. In that case, you're coming with us. You have a ship?”
He nods again, grudgingly.
“Wrong. I have a ship. You are going to help my colleague to her feet, gently, and make sure she doesn't fall over again as you show us where it is parked. Now.”
She keeps a steady bead on him as he does her bidding, and moves in close behind him as they exit the room, tucking the rifle against his back in just the right position to blow off the back of his skull if her finger twitches. She conceals it by draping herself against his back, so that he looks for all the world like a man with pleasure on his mind rather than imminent death. She leans up, and whispers in his ear: “Which way, dead man?”
Rather than answering, he starts walking towards the East Mews, practically carrying Uhura. Gaila keeps pace. They turn the corner, and -
“Gaila!”
Gaila closes her eyes in shame. It's Navaar. She was going to leave again without saying good-bye to the woman who raised her.
“Gaila, what are you doing? The guards found the human dead. Everyone is looking for you! They think – what is wrong with Ura?”
“Navaar, please listen. I do not have time to explain fully. When I left, I joined Starfleet. I am part of the crew of a great starship. The human used to belong to Starfleet as well – he was a traitor, carrying valuable information to sell at tomorrow's auction. My superiors couldn't let that happen. I owed it to them not to let it happen. This man has that information. We need to escape, and the only way we have to do that is with his ship. Our people do not know that we need to leave, and they won't be coming for us until tomorrow night. Please help us.”
Navaar looks at Gaila searchingly for a moment, then nods.
“I would have you away from here again.” There's a guard coming around the corner. Gaila's pulse is racing. Navaar smiles, and cups Gaila's cheek in her hand briefly. “Be well, Gaila.”
She turns, and sashays toward the guard. The last Gaila sees of her, she is kissing him.
They don't see anyone else until they reach the Mews, the gigantic hangar where the nobility keep their vehicles and those of guests. There's a small runabout of Romulan design near the exit, and Gaila relaxes her hold on the Romulan once they're inside.
“Uhura, grab those cables, would you?”
Uhura, whose eyes are looking clearer, does so, and uses them to restrain their hostage. Gaila shoves him roughly into a seat, and motions Uhura to the one facing him. She hands Uhura the rifle.
“Keep this on him. If he gets up, or if I say so, pull the trigger. Aim for his head. We need his torso intact. You, dead man. Where's the comm?”
He indicates the appropriate control station with a nod of his head. Fingers flying, Gaila sends a text-only request for permission to take off. It's denied, and the hangar bays remain resolutely closed. She sighs. “Weapons?”
Another nod, and Gaila jabs the indicated button. Disruptors beams flash from the ship's nose, and the hangar's great doors are no more. Guards spill through the doors as she takes off and guns it, heading for the sky.
They're a long way above the ecliptic when the Romulan speaks again, several hours later.
“See that flashing light, harlot?” Gaila looks. There is indeed a light to the left, flashing green. Humans have red lights as warnings because that's the colour of their blood. Romulans have green blood like Vulcans. Now what?
“It's a warning light. My ship was scheduled to be refueled tomorrow.”
With diabolical timing, the hum of the engines deepens in pitch, then stops. The lights go out. The Romulan is up out of his seat and lunging at her when there's a tingling sensation. Suddenly they're surrounded by bright lights, and the Romulan is knocking her backwards onto the Enterprise's transporter pad. Security moves in immediately to drag him off of her.
“There's a chip with the data,” she gasps. “He's swallowed it. Get him to Sickbay. Uhura too, she's concussed.”
Kirk himself is helping her to sit up. “Are you all right?” he asks, checking her over while McCoy busies himself with Uhura. “We picked up on you leaving the atmosphere with the improvements you and Scotty were working on. Sorry it took so long to get into transporter range.”
“Yeah, I'm fine. I'd like a word in private, though.”
“I can manage that. Now?”
“No. Right now, I want to see that Uhura's all right, and that the chip is the correct one, and then I am going to bed.”
She sleeps deeply, but not well.
Epilogue
Janice Rand works wonders with coffee again, though, and she's awake when she walks into Kirk's ready room and stands stiffly to attention.
“What happened down there, Ensign?”
“You'll find it in my report, sir. Permission to speak freely?”
“Granted.”
“That is the second time you have used me to get something you want. Commander Spock still hasn't forgiven me for my part in breaking his test program, even though I didn't know I was doing it. This time, Starfleet used me, made me turn back into someone I left behind a long time ago, to catch a traitor.
“I agreed to protect Starfleet and its planets when I became an officer. But I will not be betrayed again, Captain. Not by you, and not by Starfleet.
“You don't have the right.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2010-05-27 06:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-28 02:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-27 06:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-28 02:32 am (UTC)(As for bad-ass... have you SEEN that art?
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Date: 2010-05-27 08:07 am (UTC)I loved the look we got at Orion culture. Poor Gaila. She worked so hard to create the best life possible for herself there, but it hindsight it must look like nothing much at all. It's also pretty chilling that Naveer assumed Gaila was better off away, despite not having any idea what happened to her.
This was such a great character piece for Gaila especially. I wonder what she told Uhura when she went to the prince. I don't think she would have just gone to sleep if she'd known what was really happening 0_o.
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Date: 2010-05-28 02:41 am (UTC)The paint... my god, woman, you gave me fits with that. "It can't be paint. People would notice if it was paint. Makeup doesn't last long enough and would take too long to apply stealthily. It has to be at least semi-permanent. But then how do I make it come off? GRAAAAR." I finally found the answer by remembering, of all the weird things, a Star Wars novel in which a character had to break up with his alien girlfriend because he was faintly allergic to her fur, and his sweat was acidic enough to irritate her skin. (Thank you, Mike Stackpole!) From there, I was all "AHA, I CAN HANDWAVE SOME BIOCHEMISTRY!"
I think Gaila didn't tell Uhura much about the prince (who's not really a bad guy, I think. Just a little careless, and a product of his environment.), to protect her a little. She might have gone to sleep anyway, though - busy few days, and she'd been put through Navaar's danceclass-wringer. No matter how much someone wants to stay awake, eventually exhaustion catches up.
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Date: 2010-05-27 09:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-28 02:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-28 02:09 am (UTC)And the epilogue made me cheer. You tell him, Gaila. I hope he apologized.
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Date: 2010-05-28 02:51 am (UTC)I don't usually write plotty stuff, so pardon me if I babble. I'm just so pleased that people are liking it!
As far as the epilogue, it always bugged me that Kirk used her like that. Yeah, sure, he absolved himself, but she's still that cadet who let Jim Kirk pull a fast one on her. It was a jerky thing to do, and Gaila didn't strike me as someone not to call him on it. I think he apologized, though. He's a good guy, and he as much as told her that he didn't want to send her back to Orion any more than she wanted to go.
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Date: 2010-05-28 06:18 pm (UTC)The world needs more badass women, and Gaila and Uhura totally are badass :D
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Date: 2010-05-29 01:40 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked it. Thank you for telling me! <3
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Date: 2010-05-28 08:14 pm (UTC)Seriously! Intrigue and suspense combined with some really serious questions, a fabulous Gaila backstory, Gaila/Uhura friendship, all of the little complexities of character... I love this.
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Date: 2010-05-29 01:41 pm (UTC)Thanks for the compliments!
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