Chapel and Priest: Husks part 7-9
Seven: Let's misbehave
Even the entrance hallway of JT's building dripped with opulence; polished steel revolving doors three men high were framed with shining architraves of zigzag metal. Above them, the interior glittered with leaded glass panels that echoed the chevron patterns of the teak floor, so highly polished that if she looked down, a woman could see the lace of her underclothing. It had a cathedral's gilding and space, and McCoy could sit there all day on one of the plush couches, absorbing the beauty and peace. Stage right stood a lacquered walnut desk, styled as the dashboard of a million-credit shuttle-car. As usual, the buttoned up, Brylcreemed concierge regarded him with the expression of a man inhaling the whiff of disappointment.
“You again, sir. Do you have an appointment with Mister Tiberius today?”
“Nope, but I got one with his lovely assistant, Miss Gaila. I'm working a case for her. You can call her if you like. If you can remember the number of her apartment, Barty.” That earned him a familiar stick-up-the-ass scowl.
“It is Bartholomew, sir.” Barty made a show of calling Gaila. He played her the security feed from his station and asked twice to see Uhura's ID, even though he'd scrutinised it with his beady little bird eyes the first time.
McCoy hadn't the patience. “You sure that's quite necessary Barty? It's not like we never met before.”
“Are you attempting to tell me my job, sir?” It was a marvel how Barty's eyebrows went up while he was still looking down his nose.
“Nope, just trying to figure out what it is.”
Two minutes later they were in a turbolift decorated in bronze sunbursts, hurtling up to the seventy-seventh floor.
As the trio stood waiting for the doors to open, Bones grinned at Chekov, who rubbed his palms on his trousers. He had to hand it to Uhura today, she looked scary, in a most agreeable way. Her micro-braided hair was piled up in a French roll with a tiny, military-style pillbox perched on top. She'd given up on the straight style and cut about a foot off it. Everyone who lived in this damp place arrived at a manageable 'do' through trial-and-error. Her red suit was sprayed on with a fire-hose -- the skirt was so slim that when she sat, it almost showed her stocking-tops, but didn't -- it was some trick. The jacket was a parody of a bell-hop uniform, but with a more pleasing frontage.
On the penthouse floor, the lift doors opened at half the speed of the other doors. McCoy knew that because he'd timed them. Gaila always greeted visitors at these doors, and he'd long suspected she'd engineered them that way to stage a dramatic entrance. Of course, the level of drama was in inverse proportion to the size of her clothing. Bones thought of covering the Kid's eyes until he saw what she was wearing. With a 'ping', they reached their floor, and the doors crept apart, separating to reveal the green goddess in all her glory. At McCoy's shoulder, Chekov let out a quiet gasp.
A violet satin dress wound round Gaila's curves, leaving her shoulders as bare as a lover who'd wrapped a bed sheet about her naked body, but no sheet ever got filled out that way. It was a miracle of twenty-third century engineering; a dress that threatened to spill its load at any moment, and what a load. Green for go, and red for danger. She was poured by a barman who didn't know when to stop.
Her hair flowed loose in a copper river, and an artless curl covered one eye. A long black cigarette holder balanced between her fingers. Held away from her body, its smoke trail seemed to come from Gaila herself. When she spoke, McCoy felt it in his hip pocket. A little of her old spark was back.
“Well, Bones, you finally decided to have me show the Kid the ropes?”
“I swear, Gaila, if you were younger, I'd put you over my knee and spank you.”
“You mean if you were younger, daddy.” As she spoke again, she moved off with a pendulum's swing. “Walk this way Doc.”
“I can't. I don't have the equipment.”
“Sorry Bones, did you leave your cane in the elevator?” She looked back at him over her shoulder and the exposed eye closed in a sly wink. He mimed groping about his collar to attach a leash.
All four sat on snowy leather couches that ensured Porthos wasn't allowed in JT's home. The lounge was twice the size of Bones' apartment, including his secret OR. Just like the huge captains' quarters on eighteenth century frigates, it reminded the crew who was boss.
Gaila offered around cigarettes. “So, when were you thinking of introducing me to your beautiful companion?” The Orion addressed Uhura. “Sorry, the old guy always gets a tad forgetful around me, I have no idea why.”
“This is Uhura, Gaila. Best communications officer in the fleet. Now you behave.” He hoped she wouldn't. He liked her best when she misbehaved.
“Pleased to meet you Uhura, I like your look. It's always the quiet ones.”
Not versed in female-speak, McCoy couldn't tell if that was honey or vinegar, so he got up and wandered about the room, picking up a polished brass telescope from a ledge on his travels. Seafaring antiques were Jim's comfort blanket; in his heart he captained that frigate, and watched the stars from the quarterdeck.
New Glasgow stretched out beyond the tall iron-framed windows of the penthouse. Through the telescope, McCoy saw all kinds of transport. On the River Clyde, a hovercraft; above the water, a sleek mag-train on an iron bridge; in the air, taxicabs. If he had x-ray vision he would see the low-level trains beneath the ground, or the tiny subway that had only one circle line and was nicknamed the 'Clockwork Orange' on account of its colour.
Inside, the room they sat in was an iceberg-white of the kind designed for armies of maids. Either JT wanted to dazzle from all angles, or he got into a lot of brawls up here and hoped his opponents would go snow-blind. Perhaps he just wanted to admire the statuesque Orion who lounged here, her contrast turned up to max against the monochrome landscape. About four minutes ago, Chekov had lost the power of speech, and as he processed Gaila's greeting, McCoy knew how he felt. Had she lit the fuse of a bomb or a friendship? He needn't have worried. Uhura was an expert in communication:
“I find lovers adore an uptight up-do and a lot of buttons. In the time it takes to unloose my bindings, I have a measure of their stamina. Except if they are old and rich, then I have to engage the services of my seamstress.”
“What, the old guys tear them?” Gaila's voice lowered, as if to shield Chekov, who'd almost smoked an entire 'Old Navy' in one drag.
“No, I do. I'd rather they had the heart attack later, not sooner.”
A peal of laughter escaped the Orion's lipsticked pout. “That's a line, but it's a funny one. I like you.”
Steady brown eyes stared at Gaila.“Good for you.”
“Okay, ladies, enough of the lollygagging. Where's JT, Red?” McCoy didn't want this dance to go on any longer, since both participants wanted to lead.
“Still getting dressed, he's a very particular boy.”
“Speaking of dress, you always wear an evening gown at ten in the morning? Are you going to offer us a Martini next?”
“Ha, no. I was trying my new outfit for the party tomorrow. You are coming, aren't you, Doc? It would be such a shame to miss you. Bring that gorgeous Vulcan too -- he's such a hit at parties. My social stock goes up when he shows. Everyone thinks it's perfectly charming that JT knows someone who is a university professor -- it's so...worthy.”
On cue, the comm buzzed and a young Irishman's voice ghosted into the room. “Sorry Ma'am, the Captain's had to go out, the advertising shots he did for Slater's tuxedos need to be approved.”
“Oh Hawkins, what flimflam, they could have done that remotely. Where's he really gone?” Gaila tutted at the ceiling.
“Well, you didn't get this from me, but I think he's gone for a nose around MediKhan -- an unofficial behind-the-scenes tour of the facilities.”
The Orion shook her head. “Well let’s hope he doesn't end up slugged and put in the River Clyde wearing concrete overshoes.”
Laughter came from the disembodied voice, “Ma'am, you know him, he'd float, or more likely be rescued by passing mermaids. Hey, Chekov, are you coming to the party? Go on, help keep me company while I pretend to be the butler.”
The Russian shook his head, “Oy no. No way I am going to a party with this lot, it is like going to a party with my parents, everyone saying how much I have grown in the last month, petting my head like I am Porthos. I am staying in with Charlie and Scotty. We can go out another day, yes?”
“Ha, OK, I'll call you later. Ma'am, do you need anything? I've got a pile of paperwork here.”
“No, thanks Hawkins, see you later.” The comm clicked off.
“Who is that?” Uhura was curious, directing her question to the Orion.
“That's JT's PA, Hawkins -- he's young and smart like Chekov here -- you'll see him at the party.” Gaila inhaled deeply on her cigarette, leaving traces of metallic, coppery lipstick on the ebony holder. “Oh, and he's very, very pretty.”
McCoy continued, “Of course, Gaila is officially JT's PA, since his publicist doesn't think what Gaila really is fits the fan demographic. All the fans should be allowed the fantasy of getting it on with JT, an old ball and chain in the way won't help sell records.”
“You're married?” This didn't equate with what Uhura heard about the Captain.
Gaila shot McCoy a death-glare. “No, we're not married, I'm an SI computing engineer, disguised as JT's girlfriend, disguised as his PA. Bones just calls me that after busting in on Jim and me by accident one day...”
“Well, you gotta admit,” McCoy winked at Uhura, “there were balls... and chains.”
Low groaning from the corner of the sofa drew their attention again to Chekov, who shook his head from behind a pewter velvet cushion he'd clamped to his face.
**
Thirty-five hours later, back once more in the plush white hallway, McCoy smoked a fat cigar behind a slim bronze female nude who held a glowing translucent globe aloft. Bones's free hand was deep in his pocket, a deliberate strategy to stop himself from tugging at the high shirt-collar that supported his bow tie. A twin of the statue that concealed him guarded the other side of the wide doorway into the lounge. Both were unpolished so a faint film of verdigris covered their bodies, and McCoy thought this affectation of JT's emphasised their resemblance to Gaila.
His surveillance continued as Hawkins, a tall, pale boy in tails, took coats from Uhura and Chapel. White-blonde hair was slicked to his skull; he wore a shadow of Kohl around his eyes, emphasising the emerald green of his irises, and his lips were rouged. Even McCoy was taken by the sharp angles of the kid's cheekbones and the youthful skeleton that was a fraction too large for his gangly limbs.
Although their ages were almost the same, folk's reactions to Hawkins and Chekov were night and day. Chekov got warm giggles; Hawkins got furtive glances, and notes were pushed deep into his trouser pockets by men and women old enough to know better. Despite his near-albino colouring he was danger wrapped in darkness and silence. The silent thing was an act, possibly modelled on Spock, but he played it well, driving both sexes to foolish acts. If someone looked close, they would see Hawkins wore a twenty-thousand credit watch, and a pinky ring with a Cardassian opal that cost the same as a week in the best hotel in Dunedin. Starfleet didn't pay that well. JT loved to be surrounded by people who surprised him. “One day,” Jim had told McCoy, “Hawkins’ll be head of Starfleet Intelligence.”
Earlier, Uhura had told Bones she didn't want to meet James Tiberius Kirk. After the last near-miss he'd become a cypher to her, a disguised deep-cover contact who she only heard of secondhand. She didn't want to know what he was like, how he really spoke, or to find out if the legendary charm was real. In a gesture Christine said was 'just like Jim, what a cheese ball', Kirk sent Uhura a dress, and what a dress it was. Heavy with silver sequins that threw starlight about her with every step, it swept the floor, draped low in front and back, and was held up with wide crystal straps.
A hand clapped McCoy from behind on the shoulder, as he watched Uhura and Chapel disappear. “Good evening Bones, drink?”
“Jim, what are you, some kinda psychic? I think about you and you just appear from thin air?” He took the proffered glass from JT's hand.
“You were thinking about me Bones? Aww, that's nice.” The Captain leaned back against the wall, hidden along with the doctor.
“You find anything at KhanCorp? What’d ya go looking around there for, all alone? You'll get yourself hurt so bad one day I won't be able to patch you together. And what's the meaning of sending Uhura that dress? Are you crazy?”
“Bones, Bones, Bones.” Jim held up the hand that didn't hold a drink. “One question at a time, please. First, no, I didn't find squat at KhanCorp. The place is locked down tighter than a tribble in a Klingon battle cruiser.” Jim dropped his voice. “I'm sure Khan's the key to these missing beings, he's behind every racket on this planet. Things are getting out of hand.”
“He here tonight?”
“Hell no -- I made sure this party was on a date when he was out of town -- he's in Dunedin with Marla the moll for a long weekend.”
Bones bent to stub out his cigar-butt on an ashtray that sat on the statue's plinth. “Yeah, a weekend with that creep must always seem like a long one. And the dress? You making a sucker out of Gaila?”
“Relax, Gaila chose the dress - no sense in Spock knowing that though - you think I'd know the dress-size of a woman I never met? I've heard Spock yammering on about Uhura long enough to know his interest isn't exactly professional. I'm just trying to give him a jump-start. Where is he anyway?”
“He's parking the hover-bike in the basement. Probably got delayed by Barty,” McCoy rolled his eyes, “that superior, officious jack-ass.”
“Come on Bones, Spock's not that bad. You came on the bike?” McCoy nodded. “Smooth, but my two most important men on the same mode of transport? Naughty, naughty, Bones. You're like royalty -- shouldn't travel together.” Jim smirked. “Let's wait for Spock and get out of the shadows, talk to some women. You look like a matinee idol in a tux, Bones. When Spock gets here, the three of us can go in together, knock 'em dead.”
“Anyone ever tell you you're a vain bastard, Jim?”
“Yes, you do. All the time. You're a regular Jiminy Cricket.”
~~intermission~~
Eight: I could really use a wish right now
A wall of smoke and chatter hit Uhura and Chapel as soon as they reached the lounge, and a server in a cigarette-girl costume, with a tray of drinks harnessed around her neck, offered them a cocktail.
“Don't mind if I do,” said Christine, lifting a funnel of clear liquid to her lips and throwing it back in one. “Harry Mudd in yer eye!”
“Christine!” Uhura chastised the nurse, laughing, “Do you know what's in that?”
“Huh? Nope. It sure reached the parts other drinks don't though.” In a practised movement she simultaneously liberated two full glasses and discarded her empty back on the tray. After handing one glass to Uhura, Christine linked their arms. “All right, let’s have a look at the quality of the fellas at this clam-bake.”
“Shouldn't we wait for Spock and McCoy?” Uhura was well outside of her comfort zone.
“Nah, they'll come find us. Well, Spock will. Bones is a little slower on the uptake.”
Uhura wasn't blind; she saw the way Christine looked at McCoy, although she pretended to abuse him. “Hmm...not as slow as some.”
“What?” Chapel feigned confusion.
“Oh, nothing.” Uhura played along, her last words clanging loud in the throng as the room turned silent.
Christine elbowed her and whispered, “Well, looky here; three guns for hire. Brace yourself.”
A male trio of almost identical height strode through the wide doorway wearing similar tuxedos and white ties. Kirk smiled warmly, and shook a few hands in the double-clasp of a presidential candidate. McCoy glared, dark and baleful, shielding his body with a whiskey glass. Spock, in parade-stance, surveyed the crowd with the dispassionate scrutiny of an animal behaviourist observing the interactions of a field of sheep. A buzz of conversation started up again, then the Enterprise's nurse and communications officer were stampeded by Kirk's flock.
Christine unhooked her arm from Uhura's and held her about the wrist. “Let's get outta this jam. We see these guys every day, leave 'em to the desperadoes.” Uhura was dragged through a heavy door, to an infernally hot kitchen full of shouting and clatter, up some narrow service stairs, not easy in heels and a dress that weighed some fifteen pounds, into a wide, cool landing. The upper floor of the apartment was an ocean liner's deck, chrome balustrades, shining teak flooring and huge, suggestive floral paintings so three-dimensional she couldn't look away. One in particular, a frilly red rose with a deep-green centre, held her attention so that Christine snapped her fingers in front of Uhura's face. “Hey! You wanna look at dirty pictures dressed up as fancy art, or see the best view in New Glasgow?”
“Dirty pictures? Christine, are you twelve?” Despite herself, Uhura laughed once more, the nurse was, as McCoy said, a droll doll.
Christine's black, sequinned dress was accessorised with a long, double rope of faceted jet beads, knotted down her bare back to cover the base of her spine. She pulled at the rope and swung it round, revealing a flat oval, a platinum jeweller's tag, which she pressed to the frame of the door at the end of the landing. The frame glowed faint green, and the door opened into a Chinese bedroom, in olive and gold tones. Hand-painted wallpaper depicted plumed birds roosting in delicate, twisted trees laden with sculptural, pale blooms.
A carved bed - easily big enough for four people - dominated the room, and intricate wooden screens lined the walls either side of it. Christine bore left, and heaved one of the massive screens aside to reveal the outdoors: a terrace paved in dark slate, decorated with ceramic pots and lacquered benches. Red paper lanterns the size of cantaloupes hung overhead from a wide-spaced silver mesh that served as protection against the seventy-six floor drop, and the whole of New Glasgow lay spread out below, shining.
“It looks pretty at night -- you can't see the rats from up here.” Christine looked down through the silver wires. “It's a Faraday cage,” her manicured hand waved at the delicate structure, “JT and Gaila come out here in storms, praying they get hit by lightning; it's so rare on Orion, not like this miserable place. They've never been hit yet, maybe one day...”
“I don't like lightning. We get bad storms on the open plain in Kenya; there's no place to hide.” Uhura shivered at the thought.
“Do you miss home a lot?”
“Yes, especially here. I've never been anywhere so damp, I'm wilting for a dry, hot day. You?”
“Sometimes. I’ve got no family there now, though.” The nurse worried her beads, distant, her usual flow of wisecracks stemmed, so Uhura changed the subject.
“Christine,” Uhura traced the rim of her glass with a finger, “do you have any hunches about the disappeared?”
The blonde's brows knitted together. “Khan. It's him all right, but getting any proof is impossible. We're just waiting for him to play a bad hand. McCoy says most crooks are caught by their mistakes, not by brilliant detection. Not that he's exactly an ace detective, not like Spock is.”
“He's a good man, our boss, you should cut him some slack. And he's an excellent detective. He sees things Spock's logic doesn't. They balance each other out.”
A flush, obvious even in the gloom, spread over Christine's cheeks. “Look at us, talking about men, how corny. Hey, I gotta take a powder, back in a sec. Wait here, OK?”
Left alone, Uhura was attracted by the bulbous ceramic pots, their pearly glaze gleaming in the glow from the paper lanterns. At the rear of the terrace sat the largest pot, an almost-sphere with a flat side pushed up against the apartment wall. It held a gnarled tree, its branches espaliered against the stone. Dark, leathery fruit the size of plums hung from the rope-like wood, and she reached up just as she heard footsteps. Attempting to brush a just-out-of-reach cluster she asked, “Do you know what these are, Christine?”
“Allow me.” And Spock was behind her, his body almost flush with hers, his arm extended along the line of her own so the wool of his jacket scratched her soft skin. The clove smell of his Vulcan hair oil, his warm breath at her ear and the vibration of his voice, a rumble low enough to shatter rocks, rendered her senseless. With a soft snap he detached a fruit and stepped back, enabling her to turn round, but her legs wouldn't move.
“Are you quite well, Nyota?”
The use of her forename caused a lurch in her limbs, but she managed to find her sea-legs and face him. “Just startled. I thought you were Christine.”
“I passed her in the bedroom. She has gone to locate the doctor.” While he spoke, he rolled the fruit between his fingers in a mesmerising caress. “It has a brittle shell and requires careful handling.”
Uhura swallowed her drink in one gulp, almost choking. With a shaking hand, she placed the glass on a low table then watched as he gave the little fruit a twist, so it fell in two halves, still joined at the stem. Juice ran into his palm, and he presented it to her, outstretched, its gift balanced on top. “Take this also.” He pulled the white handkerchief from his top pocket and shook it out. She took his offerings in silence. “You will find the taste intriguing, and familiar. Please excuse me, I wish to wash my hands.”
With a silvered nail she traced the fruit; it leaked juice and she put her tongue to it, feeling the smooth hard stone and contrasting soft flesh. It was ripe and tasted of watermelon and chili, an addictive combination, and she sucked the pulp away, savouring its sweet heat. As she dabbed juice from her chin, he returned in his shirt-sleeves, head down as he fastened a cuff-link; such a masculine action. She imagined assisting him before a party, folding his cuff, pushing a link through, straightening his bow tie and brushing lint from his shoulder.
“The fruit is a Vulcan Pla-savas; Mister Sulu was kind enough to cultivate it, and both he and Gaila grow it. In fact Gaila makes jam which she sends to my parents on Vulcan. It is kind of her to do so.” The voice was electricity as he sat down on a bench. “Will you join me?”
She sat, but could hardly look at him, so distracted herself by folding his handkerchief into a neat square on her lap. “But how can it grow here? This is about as close in climate to Vulcan as Earth's North Pole is to Nairobi.”
“That is correct; however, this fruit is the rarest on Vulcan, growing in cool, damp caves only found within a few square kilometres in the far south of the planet. Yet here, it grows easily. Its flowers are particularly aesthetic. It is a pity it is too late in the year to view them. Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, and waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
Smoothing the white pad of fabric, Nyota still looked to her knees. “Perhaps then, that is one comforting thing on this cold, wet planet, sir.”
A warm, steady hand moved over her fidgeting fingers, stilling them. “Lately, there has been another.”
**
Jim opened the door to the master bedroom, looking for Gaila and trying to escape the fawning for a few minutes. A tuxedo jacket lay across the bed, and the terrace screen was ajar. Intrigued, he crept up to the screen and listened to Spock putting the moves on a woman who could only be Uhura. Creeping away, he decided he might hide out in his study, but was dismayed to see the door thrown open again to the sound of Gaila's bubbly giggle.
“Did you see the look on the old trout's face when McCoy mumbled 'ass-face' at her back! I thought she was going to have an aneurysm!” Gaila yanked Christine in, just about keeping her cocktail upright. Jim made frantic hand signals, pointing to the outside.
“What's wrong? Did you take one of Crimson's 'special pills'? I told you not to do that, babe.” Gaila looked concerned; Jim's shoulders dropped in defeat and he stepped out onto the terrace, motioning to the women to stay back.
“Good evening, Mister Spock. This must be our new communications officer you talk about so often.” Uhura stood looking out over the city while Spock sat on the bench. By the slight sway of the heavy skirt of her dress he guessed she had stood up only seconds before.
She glided towards him, her arm outstretched. “I’m very pleased to finally meet you sir, I've heard a lot about you.”
“Likewise.” He took her hand in both of his, switching on the full-watt smile. “You came highly recommended by Mister Spock here. If I may say, his Vulcan description was a little lacking in flair.”
Her eyes lowered for a second and she smiled before looking up. “Thank you sir…and thank you kindly for the dress, it's too much.”
“You're welcome. Call me JT, everyone does.” It was time to make a little mischief. “ What do you make of the dress, Mister Spock?”
For a couple of beats, the Vulcan observed Uhura's sequinned form. The whole of the terrace was pinpricked with tiny spots of light, with the shining column of her gown at the centre. Even the dark fabric of their suits served as a backcloth for the stars.
“It is very striking. While I understand the need to appear suitably dressed at a function such as this, you must agree Miss Uhura carries with her the grace and bearing of generations. She would be as beautiful clothed in rags.”
Now that was not at all what Kirk expected. He was well and truly put in his place and a smart retort about him teaching Spock everything he knew about seduction died on his lips. “You surprise me, Mister Spock. I'll leave you two alone to get reacquainted.” Kirk gave a sharp nod, “Miss Uhura, perhaps you would join us downstairs later for a song, we'd love to hear you.” It was too warm and he high-tailed it from the terrace, badly in need of a large brandy with lots of ice, and one of Bones's cigars. Cinderella looked as if she was ready to pick up her skirts and flee from the ball.
**
Uhura put her back to Spock and resumed her examination of the view, trying to control herself after his blind-side. She felt his heat at her bared skin.
“I have offended you.”
Once more, she faced him, “No, of course not -- never, Spock. I was taken aback, that's all.It was just the most romantic, and gallant, thing anyone has ever said to me. I think even Kirk was shocked.” Could she say romantic? More than anything, she needed to touch him and she lifted her hand to caress his cheek, slow in her movements, in case she misread the situation. When her hand made contact with his face, she tried not to fall, to be pulled in by the moment, the setting, the clothes, and the hot, humid night.
For the second time that night, he covered her hand with his own, pressing it to his cheek, “I did not intend any misunderstanding; I find your garment exceedingly flattering, but I do not wish Jim to infer it is an influencing factor in my opinion of you. You are, and always will be, quite lovely.”
In the academy, they’d skirted round one another, settling into a friendship bound by the propriety of their respective situations. But that was not all; once he reached a hundred, Spock would be in his prime, while she would be in decline. He would still look young and the thought of her as an elderly wife to a young, virile husband was distasteful and embarrassing.
Of all the emotions her fellow humans displayed, the one she most despised was pity. The night settled heavy upon her and Uhura wished to be among a crowd. “I would love to sing beside that Steinway in Jim's sitting room, would you be my accompanist?”
“It would be an honour, shall we?” Spock offered his arm and Uhura took it, despite the sensory overload of the warmth of his skin through his shirt. Together, they left the tranquil Chinese terrace where the lanterns were grown dim.
~~intermission~~
Nine: With her fog, her amphetamines and her pearls
It was the end of the night and Hawkins helped the serving girls to tidy up among the miasma of cigar smoke and booze fumes. Gaila pushed open the powder room door, ready to plonk herself down on the toilet. There was somebody already standing at the washbasin; Crimson Crest kneaded her face this way and that in the mirror, her blood-red velvet gown accessorised with pearls the colour of gasoline spilled on a road.
High as a kite, thought Gaila. “You OK, Crimson? You wanna stay over?”
The actress teetered away from the sink and sat on the edge of the bath, dead-eyed and stroking its edge as if she’d never seen a tub before.
Gaila knelt down. “Crimson, babe, what's wrong?”
“Is this my face?”
“Of course it's your face baby, why do you say that?”
“Khan did something to me.”
One rule about JT's parties that Gaila enforced was no Khan girls; the Mayor got them high and they stayed that way until they left their teens. Marla's short stature and small breasts were no surprise, rumour was she’d had a breast reduction after their marriage, and a butt-load shaved off her butt-load. Each time Khan met with Gaila he put on some kind of act, admiring her hills and valleys, but his eyes were revolted; he wasn't that good of a thespian. Crimson wasn't the usual Khan girl. Gaila knew he courted her fame rather than her looks, and she and JT were complicit, encouraging it for their own ends. Gaila felt shame in her heart. What have I become, my sweetest friend?
Yesterday, when McCoy defined in vague sexual terms Gaila's relationship with Jim, it stung. Not because he was wrong, but because he was right. Kirk dreamed of a starship, and when he got her, the ship would come first, and Gaila would rather not be there only as a computer engineer. More easily than some, she understood Jim's drive, and respected it. Better to have loved and lost? Well, when she lost, she would need Crimson more than ever, in all her off-centre, warm, brittle, intelligent, dumb magnificence.
“He said not to tell... izza secret, shh...” Crimson lifted a drunken finger to her lips.
Gaila took her friend's hands. “Did he assault you, Crimson? If he did, JT will ...”
“No, he made...I want to look nice, what if my studio drops my pictures?”
The Orion was worried; she'd never seen Crimson this way before. The actress pulled her hands away and circled her her white wrist with her fingers beneath her heavy pearl bracelet, prodding and feeling the bones in a way that panicked Gaila.
“I got a new face. This isn't the face I had before.” She lifted her hand to pinch and poke her cheeks, digging with scarlet nails until they left red half-moons.
“Sweetie, it looks like the same to me. You're fresher, sure. You got a bit of re-surfacing.”
The actress moved her examination to her scalp. “It’s not my skull. Why isn't it my skull, Gaila? Why isn't it the same as my old one? Why would they make it different? Doesn't make sense.”
This was not the same Crimson who - only yesterday - held a vitamin shake, with a straw, between her bare breasts for JT. The same Crimson who, along with Gaila and Kirk, woke up in the penthouse's master suite, naked, warm and swathed in linen sheets. “Sweetheart, I'm gonna get my friend Len, he's still chatting with JT, he's kind of a doctor. Can you stay here for me, stay here for Gaila?”
“Yes, stay here for Gaila.” Crimson continued to feel her head.
**
“She's not drugged, a few cocktails, but nothing that would make her this crazy.” McCoy was outside the closed bathroom door with Gaila. “I think she's having a breakdown, but I can't be sure; you'd have to take her in to the office, which is risky. Can you keep her here tonight? Tell me how she is in the morning?”
“I wasn't about to send her home, Bones!” Gaila looked him right in the eye, she was the same height as him with her heels on. “I think I deserve a kiss for that lack of faith, buster.” And then her lips were on his mouth, she tasted of gin and smelled like mangoes, and he knew why JT cared for her. With reluctance, he pulled away.
“Don't you dare wipe away that lipstick, Bones. Give your nursie something to think about. Acting all tough; I know her type. She aches just like a woman, but one day, she'll break just like a little girl.”
**
A shepherdess with a lost lamb, Gaila led Crimson to bed and tucked her in, smoothing her forehead as her own mother did to her.
“Gaila, will you stay with me?” Crimson's voice wavered.
“Of course I will, babe.” The Orion shucked her dress and shoes, draped them on a small velvet chair, then unclipped and rolled down her stockings, and slid off her bra. She peeled back the cover and slipped in with Crimson, tucking in behind her and wrapping her in her limbs. She stroked and kissed her hair, “It's all right. Go to sleep babe, Gaila's here.”
At the end of an hour in silence, she heard Jim undressing, and as he slipped in behind them, he asked, “How's she doing?”
“Let's talk in the morning, OK?”
“OK.” He reached over and slid his hand over Gaila and on to Crimson's shoulder, then down to her elbow. Gaila felt his warm breath in her hair - brandy and coffee - and his strong arms about them both.
~~intermission~~
Awesome fanmix With our Rain Washed Histories by
i_am_32_flavors
Beautiful character art by
theoreticalpixy
[ Part 1-3] [ Part 4-6] [ Part 7-9] [ Part 10-12] [ Part 13-15] [ Part 16-17] [ Part 18-end]
Even the entrance hallway of JT's building dripped with opulence; polished steel revolving doors three men high were framed with shining architraves of zigzag metal. Above them, the interior glittered with leaded glass panels that echoed the chevron patterns of the teak floor, so highly polished that if she looked down, a woman could see the lace of her underclothing. It had a cathedral's gilding and space, and McCoy could sit there all day on one of the plush couches, absorbing the beauty and peace. Stage right stood a lacquered walnut desk, styled as the dashboard of a million-credit shuttle-car. As usual, the buttoned up, Brylcreemed concierge regarded him with the expression of a man inhaling the whiff of disappointment.
“You again, sir. Do you have an appointment with Mister Tiberius today?”
“Nope, but I got one with his lovely assistant, Miss Gaila. I'm working a case for her. You can call her if you like. If you can remember the number of her apartment, Barty.” That earned him a familiar stick-up-the-ass scowl.
“It is Bartholomew, sir.” Barty made a show of calling Gaila. He played her the security feed from his station and asked twice to see Uhura's ID, even though he'd scrutinised it with his beady little bird eyes the first time.
McCoy hadn't the patience. “You sure that's quite necessary Barty? It's not like we never met before.”
“Are you attempting to tell me my job, sir?” It was a marvel how Barty's eyebrows went up while he was still looking down his nose.
“Nope, just trying to figure out what it is.”
Two minutes later they were in a turbolift decorated in bronze sunbursts, hurtling up to the seventy-seventh floor.
As the trio stood waiting for the doors to open, Bones grinned at Chekov, who rubbed his palms on his trousers. He had to hand it to Uhura today, she looked scary, in a most agreeable way. Her micro-braided hair was piled up in a French roll with a tiny, military-style pillbox perched on top. She'd given up on the straight style and cut about a foot off it. Everyone who lived in this damp place arrived at a manageable 'do' through trial-and-error. Her red suit was sprayed on with a fire-hose -- the skirt was so slim that when she sat, it almost showed her stocking-tops, but didn't -- it was some trick. The jacket was a parody of a bell-hop uniform, but with a more pleasing frontage.
On the penthouse floor, the lift doors opened at half the speed of the other doors. McCoy knew that because he'd timed them. Gaila always greeted visitors at these doors, and he'd long suspected she'd engineered them that way to stage a dramatic entrance. Of course, the level of drama was in inverse proportion to the size of her clothing. Bones thought of covering the Kid's eyes until he saw what she was wearing. With a 'ping', they reached their floor, and the doors crept apart, separating to reveal the green goddess in all her glory. At McCoy's shoulder, Chekov let out a quiet gasp.
A violet satin dress wound round Gaila's curves, leaving her shoulders as bare as a lover who'd wrapped a bed sheet about her naked body, but no sheet ever got filled out that way. It was a miracle of twenty-third century engineering; a dress that threatened to spill its load at any moment, and what a load. Green for go, and red for danger. She was poured by a barman who didn't know when to stop.
Her hair flowed loose in a copper river, and an artless curl covered one eye. A long black cigarette holder balanced between her fingers. Held away from her body, its smoke trail seemed to come from Gaila herself. When she spoke, McCoy felt it in his hip pocket. A little of her old spark was back.
“Well, Bones, you finally decided to have me show the Kid the ropes?”
“I swear, Gaila, if you were younger, I'd put you over my knee and spank you.”
“You mean if you were younger, daddy.” As she spoke again, she moved off with a pendulum's swing. “Walk this way Doc.”
“I can't. I don't have the equipment.”
“Sorry Bones, did you leave your cane in the elevator?” She looked back at him over her shoulder and the exposed eye closed in a sly wink. He mimed groping about his collar to attach a leash.
All four sat on snowy leather couches that ensured Porthos wasn't allowed in JT's home. The lounge was twice the size of Bones' apartment, including his secret OR. Just like the huge captains' quarters on eighteenth century frigates, it reminded the crew who was boss.
Gaila offered around cigarettes. “So, when were you thinking of introducing me to your beautiful companion?” The Orion addressed Uhura. “Sorry, the old guy always gets a tad forgetful around me, I have no idea why.”
“This is Uhura, Gaila. Best communications officer in the fleet. Now you behave.” He hoped she wouldn't. He liked her best when she misbehaved.
“Pleased to meet you Uhura, I like your look. It's always the quiet ones.”
Not versed in female-speak, McCoy couldn't tell if that was honey or vinegar, so he got up and wandered about the room, picking up a polished brass telescope from a ledge on his travels. Seafaring antiques were Jim's comfort blanket; in his heart he captained that frigate, and watched the stars from the quarterdeck.
New Glasgow stretched out beyond the tall iron-framed windows of the penthouse. Through the telescope, McCoy saw all kinds of transport. On the River Clyde, a hovercraft; above the water, a sleek mag-train on an iron bridge; in the air, taxicabs. If he had x-ray vision he would see the low-level trains beneath the ground, or the tiny subway that had only one circle line and was nicknamed the 'Clockwork Orange' on account of its colour.
Inside, the room they sat in was an iceberg-white of the kind designed for armies of maids. Either JT wanted to dazzle from all angles, or he got into a lot of brawls up here and hoped his opponents would go snow-blind. Perhaps he just wanted to admire the statuesque Orion who lounged here, her contrast turned up to max against the monochrome landscape. About four minutes ago, Chekov had lost the power of speech, and as he processed Gaila's greeting, McCoy knew how he felt. Had she lit the fuse of a bomb or a friendship? He needn't have worried. Uhura was an expert in communication:
“I find lovers adore an uptight up-do and a lot of buttons. In the time it takes to unloose my bindings, I have a measure of their stamina. Except if they are old and rich, then I have to engage the services of my seamstress.”
“What, the old guys tear them?” Gaila's voice lowered, as if to shield Chekov, who'd almost smoked an entire 'Old Navy' in one drag.
“No, I do. I'd rather they had the heart attack later, not sooner.”
A peal of laughter escaped the Orion's lipsticked pout. “That's a line, but it's a funny one. I like you.”
Steady brown eyes stared at Gaila.“Good for you.”
“Okay, ladies, enough of the lollygagging. Where's JT, Red?” McCoy didn't want this dance to go on any longer, since both participants wanted to lead.
“Still getting dressed, he's a very particular boy.”
“Speaking of dress, you always wear an evening gown at ten in the morning? Are you going to offer us a Martini next?”
“Ha, no. I was trying my new outfit for the party tomorrow. You are coming, aren't you, Doc? It would be such a shame to miss you. Bring that gorgeous Vulcan too -- he's such a hit at parties. My social stock goes up when he shows. Everyone thinks it's perfectly charming that JT knows someone who is a university professor -- it's so...worthy.”
On cue, the comm buzzed and a young Irishman's voice ghosted into the room. “Sorry Ma'am, the Captain's had to go out, the advertising shots he did for Slater's tuxedos need to be approved.”
“Oh Hawkins, what flimflam, they could have done that remotely. Where's he really gone?” Gaila tutted at the ceiling.
“Well, you didn't get this from me, but I think he's gone for a nose around MediKhan -- an unofficial behind-the-scenes tour of the facilities.”
The Orion shook her head. “Well let’s hope he doesn't end up slugged and put in the River Clyde wearing concrete overshoes.”
Laughter came from the disembodied voice, “Ma'am, you know him, he'd float, or more likely be rescued by passing mermaids. Hey, Chekov, are you coming to the party? Go on, help keep me company while I pretend to be the butler.”
The Russian shook his head, “Oy no. No way I am going to a party with this lot, it is like going to a party with my parents, everyone saying how much I have grown in the last month, petting my head like I am Porthos. I am staying in with Charlie and Scotty. We can go out another day, yes?”
“Ha, OK, I'll call you later. Ma'am, do you need anything? I've got a pile of paperwork here.”
“No, thanks Hawkins, see you later.” The comm clicked off.
“Who is that?” Uhura was curious, directing her question to the Orion.
“That's JT's PA, Hawkins -- he's young and smart like Chekov here -- you'll see him at the party.” Gaila inhaled deeply on her cigarette, leaving traces of metallic, coppery lipstick on the ebony holder. “Oh, and he's very, very pretty.”
McCoy continued, “Of course, Gaila is officially JT's PA, since his publicist doesn't think what Gaila really is fits the fan demographic. All the fans should be allowed the fantasy of getting it on with JT, an old ball and chain in the way won't help sell records.”
“You're married?” This didn't equate with what Uhura heard about the Captain.
Gaila shot McCoy a death-glare. “No, we're not married, I'm an SI computing engineer, disguised as JT's girlfriend, disguised as his PA. Bones just calls me that after busting in on Jim and me by accident one day...”
“Well, you gotta admit,” McCoy winked at Uhura, “there were balls... and chains.”
Low groaning from the corner of the sofa drew their attention again to Chekov, who shook his head from behind a pewter velvet cushion he'd clamped to his face.
**
Thirty-five hours later, back once more in the plush white hallway, McCoy smoked a fat cigar behind a slim bronze female nude who held a glowing translucent globe aloft. Bones's free hand was deep in his pocket, a deliberate strategy to stop himself from tugging at the high shirt-collar that supported his bow tie. A twin of the statue that concealed him guarded the other side of the wide doorway into the lounge. Both were unpolished so a faint film of verdigris covered their bodies, and McCoy thought this affectation of JT's emphasised their resemblance to Gaila.
His surveillance continued as Hawkins, a tall, pale boy in tails, took coats from Uhura and Chapel. White-blonde hair was slicked to his skull; he wore a shadow of Kohl around his eyes, emphasising the emerald green of his irises, and his lips were rouged. Even McCoy was taken by the sharp angles of the kid's cheekbones and the youthful skeleton that was a fraction too large for his gangly limbs.
Although their ages were almost the same, folk's reactions to Hawkins and Chekov were night and day. Chekov got warm giggles; Hawkins got furtive glances, and notes were pushed deep into his trouser pockets by men and women old enough to know better. Despite his near-albino colouring he was danger wrapped in darkness and silence. The silent thing was an act, possibly modelled on Spock, but he played it well, driving both sexes to foolish acts. If someone looked close, they would see Hawkins wore a twenty-thousand credit watch, and a pinky ring with a Cardassian opal that cost the same as a week in the best hotel in Dunedin. Starfleet didn't pay that well. JT loved to be surrounded by people who surprised him. “One day,” Jim had told McCoy, “Hawkins’ll be head of Starfleet Intelligence.”
Earlier, Uhura had told Bones she didn't want to meet James Tiberius Kirk. After the last near-miss he'd become a cypher to her, a disguised deep-cover contact who she only heard of secondhand. She didn't want to know what he was like, how he really spoke, or to find out if the legendary charm was real. In a gesture Christine said was 'just like Jim, what a cheese ball', Kirk sent Uhura a dress, and what a dress it was. Heavy with silver sequins that threw starlight about her with every step, it swept the floor, draped low in front and back, and was held up with wide crystal straps.
A hand clapped McCoy from behind on the shoulder, as he watched Uhura and Chapel disappear. “Good evening Bones, drink?”
“Jim, what are you, some kinda psychic? I think about you and you just appear from thin air?” He took the proffered glass from JT's hand.
“You were thinking about me Bones? Aww, that's nice.” The Captain leaned back against the wall, hidden along with the doctor.
“You find anything at KhanCorp? What’d ya go looking around there for, all alone? You'll get yourself hurt so bad one day I won't be able to patch you together. And what's the meaning of sending Uhura that dress? Are you crazy?”
“Bones, Bones, Bones.” Jim held up the hand that didn't hold a drink. “One question at a time, please. First, no, I didn't find squat at KhanCorp. The place is locked down tighter than a tribble in a Klingon battle cruiser.” Jim dropped his voice. “I'm sure Khan's the key to these missing beings, he's behind every racket on this planet. Things are getting out of hand.”
“He here tonight?”
“Hell no -- I made sure this party was on a date when he was out of town -- he's in Dunedin with Marla the moll for a long weekend.”
Bones bent to stub out his cigar-butt on an ashtray that sat on the statue's plinth. “Yeah, a weekend with that creep must always seem like a long one. And the dress? You making a sucker out of Gaila?”
“Relax, Gaila chose the dress - no sense in Spock knowing that though - you think I'd know the dress-size of a woman I never met? I've heard Spock yammering on about Uhura long enough to know his interest isn't exactly professional. I'm just trying to give him a jump-start. Where is he anyway?”
“He's parking the hover-bike in the basement. Probably got delayed by Barty,” McCoy rolled his eyes, “that superior, officious jack-ass.”
“Come on Bones, Spock's not that bad. You came on the bike?” McCoy nodded. “Smooth, but my two most important men on the same mode of transport? Naughty, naughty, Bones. You're like royalty -- shouldn't travel together.” Jim smirked. “Let's wait for Spock and get out of the shadows, talk to some women. You look like a matinee idol in a tux, Bones. When Spock gets here, the three of us can go in together, knock 'em dead.”
“Anyone ever tell you you're a vain bastard, Jim?”
“Yes, you do. All the time. You're a regular Jiminy Cricket.”
~~intermission~~
Eight: I could really use a wish right now
A wall of smoke and chatter hit Uhura and Chapel as soon as they reached the lounge, and a server in a cigarette-girl costume, with a tray of drinks harnessed around her neck, offered them a cocktail.
“Don't mind if I do,” said Christine, lifting a funnel of clear liquid to her lips and throwing it back in one. “Harry Mudd in yer eye!”
“Christine!” Uhura chastised the nurse, laughing, “Do you know what's in that?”
“Huh? Nope. It sure reached the parts other drinks don't though.” In a practised movement she simultaneously liberated two full glasses and discarded her empty back on the tray. After handing one glass to Uhura, Christine linked their arms. “All right, let’s have a look at the quality of the fellas at this clam-bake.”
“Shouldn't we wait for Spock and McCoy?” Uhura was well outside of her comfort zone.
“Nah, they'll come find us. Well, Spock will. Bones is a little slower on the uptake.”
Uhura wasn't blind; she saw the way Christine looked at McCoy, although she pretended to abuse him. “Hmm...not as slow as some.”
“What?” Chapel feigned confusion.
“Oh, nothing.” Uhura played along, her last words clanging loud in the throng as the room turned silent.
Christine elbowed her and whispered, “Well, looky here; three guns for hire. Brace yourself.”
A male trio of almost identical height strode through the wide doorway wearing similar tuxedos and white ties. Kirk smiled warmly, and shook a few hands in the double-clasp of a presidential candidate. McCoy glared, dark and baleful, shielding his body with a whiskey glass. Spock, in parade-stance, surveyed the crowd with the dispassionate scrutiny of an animal behaviourist observing the interactions of a field of sheep. A buzz of conversation started up again, then the Enterprise's nurse and communications officer were stampeded by Kirk's flock.
Christine unhooked her arm from Uhura's and held her about the wrist. “Let's get outta this jam. We see these guys every day, leave 'em to the desperadoes.” Uhura was dragged through a heavy door, to an infernally hot kitchen full of shouting and clatter, up some narrow service stairs, not easy in heels and a dress that weighed some fifteen pounds, into a wide, cool landing. The upper floor of the apartment was an ocean liner's deck, chrome balustrades, shining teak flooring and huge, suggestive floral paintings so three-dimensional she couldn't look away. One in particular, a frilly red rose with a deep-green centre, held her attention so that Christine snapped her fingers in front of Uhura's face. “Hey! You wanna look at dirty pictures dressed up as fancy art, or see the best view in New Glasgow?”
“Dirty pictures? Christine, are you twelve?” Despite herself, Uhura laughed once more, the nurse was, as McCoy said, a droll doll.
Christine's black, sequinned dress was accessorised with a long, double rope of faceted jet beads, knotted down her bare back to cover the base of her spine. She pulled at the rope and swung it round, revealing a flat oval, a platinum jeweller's tag, which she pressed to the frame of the door at the end of the landing. The frame glowed faint green, and the door opened into a Chinese bedroom, in olive and gold tones. Hand-painted wallpaper depicted plumed birds roosting in delicate, twisted trees laden with sculptural, pale blooms.
A carved bed - easily big enough for four people - dominated the room, and intricate wooden screens lined the walls either side of it. Christine bore left, and heaved one of the massive screens aside to reveal the outdoors: a terrace paved in dark slate, decorated with ceramic pots and lacquered benches. Red paper lanterns the size of cantaloupes hung overhead from a wide-spaced silver mesh that served as protection against the seventy-six floor drop, and the whole of New Glasgow lay spread out below, shining.
“It looks pretty at night -- you can't see the rats from up here.” Christine looked down through the silver wires. “It's a Faraday cage,” her manicured hand waved at the delicate structure, “JT and Gaila come out here in storms, praying they get hit by lightning; it's so rare on Orion, not like this miserable place. They've never been hit yet, maybe one day...”
“I don't like lightning. We get bad storms on the open plain in Kenya; there's no place to hide.” Uhura shivered at the thought.
“Do you miss home a lot?”
“Yes, especially here. I've never been anywhere so damp, I'm wilting for a dry, hot day. You?”
“Sometimes. I’ve got no family there now, though.” The nurse worried her beads, distant, her usual flow of wisecracks stemmed, so Uhura changed the subject.
“Christine,” Uhura traced the rim of her glass with a finger, “do you have any hunches about the disappeared?”
The blonde's brows knitted together. “Khan. It's him all right, but getting any proof is impossible. We're just waiting for him to play a bad hand. McCoy says most crooks are caught by their mistakes, not by brilliant detection. Not that he's exactly an ace detective, not like Spock is.”
“He's a good man, our boss, you should cut him some slack. And he's an excellent detective. He sees things Spock's logic doesn't. They balance each other out.”
A flush, obvious even in the gloom, spread over Christine's cheeks. “Look at us, talking about men, how corny. Hey, I gotta take a powder, back in a sec. Wait here, OK?”
Left alone, Uhura was attracted by the bulbous ceramic pots, their pearly glaze gleaming in the glow from the paper lanterns. At the rear of the terrace sat the largest pot, an almost-sphere with a flat side pushed up against the apartment wall. It held a gnarled tree, its branches espaliered against the stone. Dark, leathery fruit the size of plums hung from the rope-like wood, and she reached up just as she heard footsteps. Attempting to brush a just-out-of-reach cluster she asked, “Do you know what these are, Christine?”
“Allow me.” And Spock was behind her, his body almost flush with hers, his arm extended along the line of her own so the wool of his jacket scratched her soft skin. The clove smell of his Vulcan hair oil, his warm breath at her ear and the vibration of his voice, a rumble low enough to shatter rocks, rendered her senseless. With a soft snap he detached a fruit and stepped back, enabling her to turn round, but her legs wouldn't move.
“Are you quite well, Nyota?”
The use of her forename caused a lurch in her limbs, but she managed to find her sea-legs and face him. “Just startled. I thought you were Christine.”
“I passed her in the bedroom. She has gone to locate the doctor.” While he spoke, he rolled the fruit between his fingers in a mesmerising caress. “It has a brittle shell and requires careful handling.”
Uhura swallowed her drink in one gulp, almost choking. With a shaking hand, she placed the glass on a low table then watched as he gave the little fruit a twist, so it fell in two halves, still joined at the stem. Juice ran into his palm, and he presented it to her, outstretched, its gift balanced on top. “Take this also.” He pulled the white handkerchief from his top pocket and shook it out. She took his offerings in silence. “You will find the taste intriguing, and familiar. Please excuse me, I wish to wash my hands.”
With a silvered nail she traced the fruit; it leaked juice and she put her tongue to it, feeling the smooth hard stone and contrasting soft flesh. It was ripe and tasted of watermelon and chili, an addictive combination, and she sucked the pulp away, savouring its sweet heat. As she dabbed juice from her chin, he returned in his shirt-sleeves, head down as he fastened a cuff-link; such a masculine action. She imagined assisting him before a party, folding his cuff, pushing a link through, straightening his bow tie and brushing lint from his shoulder.
“The fruit is a Vulcan Pla-savas; Mister Sulu was kind enough to cultivate it, and both he and Gaila grow it. In fact Gaila makes jam which she sends to my parents on Vulcan. It is kind of her to do so.” The voice was electricity as he sat down on a bench. “Will you join me?”
She sat, but could hardly look at him, so distracted herself by folding his handkerchief into a neat square on her lap. “But how can it grow here? This is about as close in climate to Vulcan as Earth's North Pole is to Nairobi.”
“That is correct; however, this fruit is the rarest on Vulcan, growing in cool, damp caves only found within a few square kilometres in the far south of the planet. Yet here, it grows easily. Its flowers are particularly aesthetic. It is a pity it is too late in the year to view them. Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, and waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
Smoothing the white pad of fabric, Nyota still looked to her knees. “Perhaps then, that is one comforting thing on this cold, wet planet, sir.”
A warm, steady hand moved over her fidgeting fingers, stilling them. “Lately, there has been another.”
**
Jim opened the door to the master bedroom, looking for Gaila and trying to escape the fawning for a few minutes. A tuxedo jacket lay across the bed, and the terrace screen was ajar. Intrigued, he crept up to the screen and listened to Spock putting the moves on a woman who could only be Uhura. Creeping away, he decided he might hide out in his study, but was dismayed to see the door thrown open again to the sound of Gaila's bubbly giggle.
“Did you see the look on the old trout's face when McCoy mumbled 'ass-face' at her back! I thought she was going to have an aneurysm!” Gaila yanked Christine in, just about keeping her cocktail upright. Jim made frantic hand signals, pointing to the outside.
“What's wrong? Did you take one of Crimson's 'special pills'? I told you not to do that, babe.” Gaila looked concerned; Jim's shoulders dropped in defeat and he stepped out onto the terrace, motioning to the women to stay back.
“Good evening, Mister Spock. This must be our new communications officer you talk about so often.” Uhura stood looking out over the city while Spock sat on the bench. By the slight sway of the heavy skirt of her dress he guessed she had stood up only seconds before.
She glided towards him, her arm outstretched. “I’m very pleased to finally meet you sir, I've heard a lot about you.”
“Likewise.” He took her hand in both of his, switching on the full-watt smile. “You came highly recommended by Mister Spock here. If I may say, his Vulcan description was a little lacking in flair.”
Her eyes lowered for a second and she smiled before looking up. “Thank you sir…and thank you kindly for the dress, it's too much.”
“You're welcome. Call me JT, everyone does.” It was time to make a little mischief. “ What do you make of the dress, Mister Spock?”
For a couple of beats, the Vulcan observed Uhura's sequinned form. The whole of the terrace was pinpricked with tiny spots of light, with the shining column of her gown at the centre. Even the dark fabric of their suits served as a backcloth for the stars.
“It is very striking. While I understand the need to appear suitably dressed at a function such as this, you must agree Miss Uhura carries with her the grace and bearing of generations. She would be as beautiful clothed in rags.”
Now that was not at all what Kirk expected. He was well and truly put in his place and a smart retort about him teaching Spock everything he knew about seduction died on his lips. “You surprise me, Mister Spock. I'll leave you two alone to get reacquainted.” Kirk gave a sharp nod, “Miss Uhura, perhaps you would join us downstairs later for a song, we'd love to hear you.” It was too warm and he high-tailed it from the terrace, badly in need of a large brandy with lots of ice, and one of Bones's cigars. Cinderella looked as if she was ready to pick up her skirts and flee from the ball.
**
Uhura put her back to Spock and resumed her examination of the view, trying to control herself after his blind-side. She felt his heat at her bared skin.
“I have offended you.”
Once more, she faced him, “No, of course not -- never, Spock. I was taken aback, that's all.It was just the most romantic, and gallant, thing anyone has ever said to me. I think even Kirk was shocked.” Could she say romantic? More than anything, she needed to touch him and she lifted her hand to caress his cheek, slow in her movements, in case she misread the situation. When her hand made contact with his face, she tried not to fall, to be pulled in by the moment, the setting, the clothes, and the hot, humid night.
For the second time that night, he covered her hand with his own, pressing it to his cheek, “I did not intend any misunderstanding; I find your garment exceedingly flattering, but I do not wish Jim to infer it is an influencing factor in my opinion of you. You are, and always will be, quite lovely.”
In the academy, they’d skirted round one another, settling into a friendship bound by the propriety of their respective situations. But that was not all; once he reached a hundred, Spock would be in his prime, while she would be in decline. He would still look young and the thought of her as an elderly wife to a young, virile husband was distasteful and embarrassing.
Of all the emotions her fellow humans displayed, the one she most despised was pity. The night settled heavy upon her and Uhura wished to be among a crowd. “I would love to sing beside that Steinway in Jim's sitting room, would you be my accompanist?”
“It would be an honour, shall we?” Spock offered his arm and Uhura took it, despite the sensory overload of the warmth of his skin through his shirt. Together, they left the tranquil Chinese terrace where the lanterns were grown dim.
~~intermission~~
Nine: With her fog, her amphetamines and her pearls
It was the end of the night and Hawkins helped the serving girls to tidy up among the miasma of cigar smoke and booze fumes. Gaila pushed open the powder room door, ready to plonk herself down on the toilet. There was somebody already standing at the washbasin; Crimson Crest kneaded her face this way and that in the mirror, her blood-red velvet gown accessorised with pearls the colour of gasoline spilled on a road.
High as a kite, thought Gaila. “You OK, Crimson? You wanna stay over?”
The actress teetered away from the sink and sat on the edge of the bath, dead-eyed and stroking its edge as if she’d never seen a tub before.
Gaila knelt down. “Crimson, babe, what's wrong?”
“Is this my face?”
“Of course it's your face baby, why do you say that?”
“Khan did something to me.”
One rule about JT's parties that Gaila enforced was no Khan girls; the Mayor got them high and they stayed that way until they left their teens. Marla's short stature and small breasts were no surprise, rumour was she’d had a breast reduction after their marriage, and a butt-load shaved off her butt-load. Each time Khan met with Gaila he put on some kind of act, admiring her hills and valleys, but his eyes were revolted; he wasn't that good of a thespian. Crimson wasn't the usual Khan girl. Gaila knew he courted her fame rather than her looks, and she and JT were complicit, encouraging it for their own ends. Gaila felt shame in her heart. What have I become, my sweetest friend?
Yesterday, when McCoy defined in vague sexual terms Gaila's relationship with Jim, it stung. Not because he was wrong, but because he was right. Kirk dreamed of a starship, and when he got her, the ship would come first, and Gaila would rather not be there only as a computer engineer. More easily than some, she understood Jim's drive, and respected it. Better to have loved and lost? Well, when she lost, she would need Crimson more than ever, in all her off-centre, warm, brittle, intelligent, dumb magnificence.
“He said not to tell... izza secret, shh...” Crimson lifted a drunken finger to her lips.
Gaila took her friend's hands. “Did he assault you, Crimson? If he did, JT will ...”
“No, he made...I want to look nice, what if my studio drops my pictures?”
The Orion was worried; she'd never seen Crimson this way before. The actress pulled her hands away and circled her her white wrist with her fingers beneath her heavy pearl bracelet, prodding and feeling the bones in a way that panicked Gaila.
“I got a new face. This isn't the face I had before.” She lifted her hand to pinch and poke her cheeks, digging with scarlet nails until they left red half-moons.
“Sweetie, it looks like the same to me. You're fresher, sure. You got a bit of re-surfacing.”
The actress moved her examination to her scalp. “It’s not my skull. Why isn't it my skull, Gaila? Why isn't it the same as my old one? Why would they make it different? Doesn't make sense.”
This was not the same Crimson who - only yesterday - held a vitamin shake, with a straw, between her bare breasts for JT. The same Crimson who, along with Gaila and Kirk, woke up in the penthouse's master suite, naked, warm and swathed in linen sheets. “Sweetheart, I'm gonna get my friend Len, he's still chatting with JT, he's kind of a doctor. Can you stay here for me, stay here for Gaila?”
“Yes, stay here for Gaila.” Crimson continued to feel her head.
**
“She's not drugged, a few cocktails, but nothing that would make her this crazy.” McCoy was outside the closed bathroom door with Gaila. “I think she's having a breakdown, but I can't be sure; you'd have to take her in to the office, which is risky. Can you keep her here tonight? Tell me how she is in the morning?”
“I wasn't about to send her home, Bones!” Gaila looked him right in the eye, she was the same height as him with her heels on. “I think I deserve a kiss for that lack of faith, buster.” And then her lips were on his mouth, she tasted of gin and smelled like mangoes, and he knew why JT cared for her. With reluctance, he pulled away.
“Don't you dare wipe away that lipstick, Bones. Give your nursie something to think about. Acting all tough; I know her type. She aches just like a woman, but one day, she'll break just like a little girl.”
**
A shepherdess with a lost lamb, Gaila led Crimson to bed and tucked her in, smoothing her forehead as her own mother did to her.
“Gaila, will you stay with me?” Crimson's voice wavered.
“Of course I will, babe.” The Orion shucked her dress and shoes, draped them on a small velvet chair, then unclipped and rolled down her stockings, and slid off her bra. She peeled back the cover and slipped in with Crimson, tucking in behind her and wrapping her in her limbs. She stroked and kissed her hair, “It's all right. Go to sleep babe, Gaila's here.”
At the end of an hour in silence, she heard Jim undressing, and as he slipped in behind them, he asked, “How's she doing?”
“Let's talk in the morning, OK?”
“OK.” He reached over and slid his hand over Gaila and on to Crimson's shoulder, then down to her elbow. Gaila felt his warm breath in her hair - brandy and coffee - and his strong arms about them both.
~~intermission~~
Awesome fanmix With our Rain Washed Histories by
i_am_32_flavors
Beautiful character art by
theoreticalpixy
[ Part 1-3] [ Part 4-6] [ Part 7-9] [ Part 10-12] [ Part 13-15] [ Part 16-17] [ Part 18-end]