[USS QUASAR] SFSECIS: Popov's Day (SCD, long, ultimately inconsequential)
Kip Manley
Kriten Compound
Tualan, Epsilon Indi VIII
MD 14, 0740 local time
Maybe three minutes, and Popov's entire day was gone to grass and never
coming back. And all he did was step off the lift and cut round the corner
into the basement bullpen of the Surveillance Division, SFSECIS, Epsilon VIII
Branch, a cup of raktajino in one hand and his holographic pramha in the
other. Ceeley had given the damn thing to him, supposedly as a present, last
month when he'd announced he was coming back to Fesoan -- "To help keep you
focussed," she'd said, with that smile, and it wasn't hard to figure out what
she meant, the way she held him, patted his belly, smiling down at the damn
thing in his hands with those big black eyes. It was maybe the size of a
finger joint, a tenth the size of a real pramha, and it wandered around on it
little holographic cage, projected from a base the size of his palm, and it
was constantly meeping to let him know he had to do one thing or another:
feed it, play with it, clean up after it, tell it a flipping bedtime story,
for all Barhkoryu knew. Damn thing had started meeping every minute or so on
the tram, a block away from the Kriten Compound, and he'd finally fished it
out of his pocket and started punching up its little status display, face
darkening from embarrassment. It was a kid's toy, dammit, something for
little urban whelps who didn't get out to a farming coop often enough, teach
'em the value of livestock. If only in the abstract. So why'd she given it to
him? A test, of course. She was watching him; they all were. And some time a
month from now, maybe, at dinner, she'd ask: "Where's your pramha, Pooki?
How's it doing?" And if he'd let it go to grass (and he would, he just knew
it) they'd hang their heads. "Oh, Pooki," Ceeley'd say, and her eyes would
fall. And Siddil would frown, and tap his fingers on the table. And Kalith'd
yank his plate off the table, and glare furiously, and confront him in the
hall, later, hissing at him, "How can you hurt her again, dammit? Again?" He
couldn't take care of things, she'd tell him, he didn't care, and they could
tell this by the way he'd let some electronic pramha die that had never even
existed in the first place.
So the damn thing was meeping and sitting over in one corner of its little
holographic pen, under a holographic log, and he was dumping food out into the
middle of the feeding pen, and punching the little button that gave the damn
thing holographic rubs on its holographic tummy, and nothing was working, and
he was getting more and more frustrated and he wasn't watching where he was
going so as he stepped off the lift and around the corner he bumped into
Director Tutsu and dumped raktajino all over them both.
Tutsu blinked. "Who," she said, eyes flashing, antennae jerking back in
surprise and distaste, "are you?"
"Popov," he said. "Lieutenant Commander Popov." He decided trying to sluice
Klingon coffee off the front of her jacket would just make matters worse, so
he just stood there. Like an idiot.
"Popov," she said. "Our new acquisition from CI."
"That's me," he said.
His pramha meeped.
"Nice pramha," she said, and she brushed past him.
Straight to the flipping grass.
"How kind of you to join us," said Mitar when he ducked into the bullpen,
stuffing the damn pramha back into his pocket and casting about for a towel, a
newsfax, anything to wipe up the raktajino.
"Sorry if I'm early," he mumbled. "First day and all."
"Early?" Mitar cocked a bushy white eyebrow at that. Two agents pushed past
them, in street clothes, carrying foam cups, a pastry of some sort, a twist of
chorn root -- then a third, oddly enough Human, short next to the Andorians,
his legs chunky and thick, and pale, poking out of his loose, floppy shorts.
"You missed the mission briefing."
"But -- " said Popov. "Oh eight hundred -- "
"Maybe that's when you begin your day in CI, rollah. We've got a Goruz
Meklik cell fixing to pop at a rally for Pinah uptown and we're rolling.
Briefing was at oh seven hundred -- notices went out at oh five..." Mitar
reached out to pat Popov's shoulder, and Popov nearly flinched.
"Let's go!" said the Human, drumming his hands on a desk, rat-a-tat-tat.
"First day, after all," said Mitar, smiling. He was being nice about it,
which somehow made it worse. "Get settled in. We'll meet when we get back." He
pushed past Popov, waving his folks ahead of him. "Awright!" yelled the Human.
Tung-tung little rollah. Mitar paused in the doorway of the bullpen, looked
back at Popov -- "Commander?"
"Yeah?" said Popov.
"Just check your messages from now on? Okay?"
And off they went, leaving Popov standing there in a two-thirds empty
bullpen, dripping raktajino on the stained plastic floor. A muffled "Meedle
meep" sounded from his pocket. Sighing, he fished out the damn pramha.
It was lying on its holographic back, teeny little holographic legs
sticking in the air, a holographic pramha ghost dancing over its forlorn
little holographic corpse, chiding him for not taking better care of his
livestock.
Flip.
"Hey," said a file clerk, standing by a data terminal. "You Popov?"
"Yeah," he said, flatly.
"Somebody named Siddil's trying to patch a call into you. You got a
terminal yet?"
And Popov's stomach suddenly felt as if he'd eaten too much bad meat;
heavy, and greasy, and cold.
+ + + +
Goralsan's Traditional Megwar Cuisine
off the Hahrlot Underpass
Tualan
MD 14, 1125 local time
"Glad you could make an early lunch," said Siddil, standing as Popov came
up to the table.
"Let's get this over with," said Popov.
Siddil blinked, his antennae drooping a little. "I ordered," he said.
"Nohaga medallions and noodles, with General Haddah's Sauce."
His favorite. Popov sat heavily on the stool across from Siddil. It was
going to be as bad as he'd thought. He distracted himself by totting up the
etiquette violations, as Siddil sat slowly, warily, across from him, them
eyeing each other like a couple of littermates vying for a white teat. Siddil
had arranged the meeting, thus inviting a challenge; by sitting first, Popov
had implicitly refused it, which Siddil could take as an insult. By meeting
his gaze, though, Siddil was continuing to invite a challenge; refusing
Popov's refusal, as it were, and by not doing so explicitly, insulting Popov
in turn. No weapons present -- oh, they both had the ceremonial bone knives
any decent Andorian wore in the small of his or her back, but those didn't
count; little things, practically needles, and not showing. Well, grass,
there were the meat knives, sitting on the table, blade pointing, of course,
toward the diner. As Siddil settled himself, Popov idly spun his meat knife
so the blade was pointing away from him, towards Siddil. A deadly insult, a
slap in the face; my blade faces you, you are a threat to me. Not that Siddil
would take it. Siddil was an urbane Andorian, a smooth city-dweller; he'd
been in the grass maybe three, maybe four times his whole flipping life, and
he'd never had to kill a littermate. He wouldn't know a call to a duel if it
slipped up behind him and stuck a knife under his armplates.
"I'm afraid," said Siddil, and he took a deep breath, and started again.
"This is going to be awkward."
"The only thing I'm trying to figure out," said Popov, "is why you're here,
instead of Ceeley."
While Siddil was trying to figure that out, the thrall came up. "Drinks,
gentlemen?"
"River water," said Popov.
"Nothing, ah, nothing for me," said Siddil, flustered. "Are you sure," he
said, as the thrall left, "you ought to be drinking that stuff?"
"Tell me what you came to tell me," said Popov. "Let me worry about the
water."
Siddil sighed, looked down at the scarred sleemhar shell table, then back
up at Popov. "Well," he said. "You can't pretend, then, you didn't know this
was coming."
"I sure as hell can," said Popov.
Siddil's antennae drew back at that.
Popov grinned at that, flashing teeth. "I have no intention of making this
easy for you, Sid."
"I just -- I mean -- you knew, you said -- "
"I've been back on Fesoan almost four days now, and I haven't heard word
one from any of you. Why else invite me to an early lunch now? And bother to
find out from Ceeley what my favorite is?" Popov spread his hands. "I'm not
prescient; I'm just not stupid."
Siddil shook his head, thrusting his antennae forward determinedly, and
Popov felt his own twitching in response. I don't trust you, that reflex said;
I'm checking you out. Another insult. "This isn't easy, for any of us. It
hasn't been. But I'm not looking for you to make this easy, at all."
"Ceeley wants to call off the marriage," said Popov, baldly.
"Indeed," said Siddil.
"Well?" said Popov, after a moment. "Is that all you want to say?"
"You're getting angry."
"Not yet, I'm not."
"You talk to me like that," said Siddil, "and yet you have the gall to
pretend you didn't see this coming? You treat Ceeley with suspicion, with
cold suspicion -- you treat all of us like that, like one of your spies, and
you say you didn't expect this? You can tell me that?"
"That's nice," said Popov. "The spy thing. You think that up yourself, or
did Kalith help you with that?"
"River water," said the thrall, clearing his throat, setting the glass
half- full of spicy clear liquor down by Popov's elbow. "Your food will be
ready in a few more minutes."
Siddil's eyes flashed with frustration, his antennae quivering until the
thrall walked off. "What happened between us, Popov? How dare you speak to me
with such disrespect?"
"Disrespect?" said Popov. He picked up the glass, swigged, set it down.
"Let's talk disrespect. I quit my job with CI. I took a cut in pay to join
dirtside SECIS here in Tualan. I shot my career in the foot. I don't catch
spies anymore, I keep tabs on disaffected Andorian political groups who
picket cooperative rallies. That's not serving the Federation. That's not
keeping the borders secure." His voice was rising. He didn't care. "I did all
that to be close to you. To make this work. I. Did this. For you. And you sit
across the table and tell me it's off, Ceeley wants to call it off. And on
top of that," he took a deep breath, forced himself to lower his voice, a
woman at the next table was frowning (and he could have challenged her for
that, yanked the knife off the table and taken her to task for the insult),
and he said, "you didn't even bother to forward my messages to my new
apartment."
"I," said Siddil.
"Shut up," said Popov, but he wasn't sure why. Siddil's jaws slapped shut,
and Popov found he had nothing more to say. He drank off the rest of the
river water, and then the thrall was there, dropping hot plates before each
of them, mounded with meat and noodles and shimmering in the clear, sweet,
gluey sauce. Popov attacked his like a starving hand just in from the grass,
twining noodles about both forks with great gusto, snarling a little, as he
sawed at a chunk of nohaga, his elbows jerking.
"We're sorry," said Siddil, after a time of this. He hadn't touched his
plate at all.
"Again," said Popov, chewing some meat, surprised at how calm he'd gotten.
He pointed at Siddil with a fork. "I just can't figure out why it's you, not
Ceeley -- " And then he stopped; he figured it out. Again, his belly felt
full of something cold and heavy, and he dropped his forks, the smell of
General Haddah's sauce making him nauseous. And Siddil saw it all reflected
in his eyes.
"What's his name," said Popov, flatly.
"He's a good man, Popov. He -- "
"His name, Sid! Not his flipping pedigree!"
Siddil opened his mouth, closed it; opened it again. "Damonyu," he said.
"Out of the west end of Mangea. He's a member of the -- "
"When," snapped Popov.
"A member -- what?"
"When did she meet him?"
"At the reception. Two weeks ago. Which you missed."
"I was making arrangements! To bloody well move down here!"
"As I said," said Siddil. "It's awkward."
Popov sat back, shoving his hands in his pockets, and running up against
the dead pramha, barking his knuckle against it, and it hurt more than it
should have. He took a grim pleasure in keeping any sign of it off his face,
in not giving in to the sudden infantile impulse to whip it out, slam it on
the table, wave it in Siddil's face -- his commitment to them, dead despite
his best efforts, his best intentions.
"Damnoyu's a member of the Talliryens -- he brings a lot of financial
stability to us. A lot of stability, period."
He was discussing this all, this monstrous, monumental thing as if it were
nothing more than a business transaction, shifting funds from one account to
another. Which, in no small part, it probably was to him. He was speaking
quietly of a Talliryen vacation cottage, by the Kju'lok Falls, which might
become theirs -- a sound measure, to Siddil's mind (and Kalith's, too, no
doubt) of how much he loved Ceeley -- when Popov spoke up. "I went through
courtship with her," he said, quietly, remembering the hellish, fevered summer
over ten years ago when they'd realized they were imprinting each other,
recognizing each other like a prince and princess out of an old fable.
Siddil's eyes grew cold, and his antennae drew straight up. He leaned over
their plates. "What have you done for her since?"
The cold lanced through Popov's heart, and suddenly the grinding emotions
that had plagued him since the damn pramha started meeping on the tram faded
away, like so much smoke, like curlicues of burnt joss dissipating to reveal
the snarling statue, many-armed, of Korhyan, the Devourer, behind. He had a
Problem on his hands, and Lieutenant Commander Popov of Starfleet Security
and Investigative Services was an absolute terror when it came to solving
Problems.
Oddly enough, what came to him as he turned the Problem over in his mind
was an image, and a feeling, of the strength of the man across the table from
him. They weren't supposed to, of course; nobody was, but everybody did -- it
had happened the night after they'd announced the engagement, they'd all been
a little drunk, and they'd -- well. You weren't supposed to, but everybody
did anyway. And he could remember the moment he'd entered Ceeley for what
seemed like the first time (they'd played together enough, when they were
little, but not since That Summer), and he'd looked over her shoulder to see
Kalith looking back, but not at him, at Siddil -- Siddil, standing behind
him, bracing him with his arms, his chest plates cool against Popov's back,
his breath warm in Popov's ear as he'd groaned. And Ceeley, her head back,
her eyes closed, a look on her face like she was about to weep, but she
wasn't --
And in that, he had the answer to the Problem. He'd thought Siddil had
come, instead of Ceeley, because he was acting as the senior representative
of the new engagement to Popov, who was now an outsider -- and while there
was something to that, it wasn't enough. The old engagement was dissolved,
but the new one, between the three of them and Damonyu, wouldn't be official
until they'd announced it. Which they'd wait a month, at least (to be
decorous), to do. No, Siddil had come -- and not Ceeley -- because he was
strong, and she --
She'd gone through courtship with Popov. She wasn't strong enough to break
that, herself. Siddil and Kalith were pushing her into this -- and she might
even love this Damonyu -- but she couldn't, herself, break things off.
He still had a chance.
The answer had flashed into his mind with sharp swiftness, every chain in
the logic as clear as his memory of her face, Siddil's arms. The cold look was
still in Siddil's eyes when Popov reached out and turned the meat knife back
around, so that its hilt faced Siddil. Done that way, slowly, deliberately,
another insult: you aren't worthy of my vigilance, that said; I feel safe with
you. "I want to speak to Ceeley," he said, slowly, with perfect surety.
Siddil shook his head, slowly, and Popov knew he was right. He still had a
chance. "I can't," said Siddil slowly, "let you do that."
And he suddenly thought of the pramha, and he reached into his pocket and
pulled out the little holographic projector. He tossed it on the table between
them. "Give that to her," he said.
Siddil picked it up, turned it over in his hands. "You fed it too much," he
said, pointing to the readout on the base of the disk.
"Just give it to her," said Popov, standing up.
"All right," said Siddil. "Should I say anything to her?"
"Tell her I want to talk."
And Popov turned on his heel and walked away.
+ + + +
Epsilon Indi SFSECIS HQ
Kriten Compound
Tualan
MD 14, 1440 local time
"Popov."
"Yeah?" He was shucking out of his jacket, wondering when, exactly, Mitar
and the rest were coming back from the rally. He'd taken the long way back to
the bullpen, hoping they'd be there when he got back, only to find it still
two- thirds empty. Still, he was -- not exactly cheerful, but. Perhaps some
of it was due to some lingering flush from his morning's river water
(followed by another, to celebrate the passage of noon, at a sidewalk bar)?
But maybe this was a call. Maybe Ceeley had seen in the pramha what he'd
wanted her to see -- "Look what you've driven me to" -- maybe she was calling
right now --
"You've got another call. Have you set up your terminal yet? It's some
Human named Lessingham, from OSFI -- something about the Daggles, and how you
'screwed the pooch,' I think was what she said. Whatever that means."
And once again, he felt cold, and heavy, and sick.
The Daggles?
Again?
Oh, Barhkoryu, he found himself praying, Mother of Mercy, bring on your
rains to feed my grass, for it is parched; and I will give my blood to feed
it...
submitted for your approval,
kip
kipm...@yahoo.com
LCDR Gwregoleth dyFyk
COU, USS QUASAR
LTJG Lurlene McConnell
SEC/TAC, USS CORONA
----------------
NRPG:
A little backtracking, to set up some of the ORCA's mission stuff, the
connection of which may not be immediately apparent, since LCDR Popov probably
won't ever set foot on said little ship. But I did some reading on Andorians,
and got this idea for why, maybe, Popov might seem to be in a constant foul
mood -- so I kind of went overboard. SCD of a minor protected NPC... Sigh.
A complementary post will follow, dealing with Lessingham herself, and the
mysterious Daggles, and which specific pooch was screwed, and how -- which
should make some things more clear.
MD Summary:
MD14(0740) Popov is late for his first day on the job.
MD14(1125) Popov gets some personal bad news.
MD14(1440) Popov gets some official bad news.
A pramha is a small, guinea-pig like creature; mainstream Andorian marriages
involve four people -- two complementary couples. Most details extrapolated
from Leslie Fish's excellent (and funny) essay on Andorian culture and
psychology; unfortunately, I don't have the website handy. And I just made up
"Tung-tung little rollah"; I have no idea what it means.
kip
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