The Dinner Party
A captain with an eye towards advancement needed a record of service, intelligence, and initiative.
He also needed to avoid angering superior officers that, to a man like Hornblower, seemed roughly as prone to caprice as they were powerful. Admiral Wellesley was enormously powerful; consequently, in Hornblower's mind, Admiral Wellesley would be enormously capricious. Never mind the fact that the Ambassador was a professional of a decade's experience. Never mind the fact that she had traveled much of the Federation and points beyond without significant escort, or that she had a uniquely distinguished record with several major coups indicating, in each case, not only supreme negotiation skills, but also remarkable toughness of mind and resolve.
Still, by the night of the formal dinner, Hornblower had convinced himself that on hearing of ill-treatment of his youngest sister by an insignificant junior frigate captain, the Admiral would find that Starfleet needed to trim its roster of ships. Frigates of the Lydia's class were being replaced, after all. The versatile ships of the Intrepid class were splendid exploratory vessels, capable of long missions and easy planetary landings; Defiants were hardy fighters with cloaking devices and impressive tactical systems.
And if there as no need for a ship like the Lydia, surely there was no need for her captain.
Once again, Hornblower's mind illustrated the consequences of offending Lady Barbara's family: loss of command. Loss of status. Humiliation, followed by being driven out of Starfleet to spend the rest of his life, stuck on a mudball with Maria. The newest addition to his fantasy was that he would not even be able to count on his officers to remember him -- Wellesley would be wise enough to win them over. They had performed admirably on this cruise, after all, and it might be difficult, politically, to make them share the fate of their captain.
In fact, Hornblower suspected Gerard would sell his mother for the chance to get his hands on the tactical systems of a Defiant. Even unambitious, unimaginative, dog-loyal Bush would be drawn away, and Hornblower had a vision of what he would look like in thirty years, stumbling around on a planet, barely able to see the stars through the pollution.
It was a terrible fate. Terrible. Hornblower fidgeted as the decks scrolled past the turbolift.
And then, there was this latest insanity. He had never liked being alone on nights like this, but what had possessed him to send a formal invitation to his officers and to Lady Barbara? A game of cards, perhaps, with his holodeck program. Or a meal with some of the junior officers. That was more his line. How had he thought that the way back into the good graces of Lady Barbara -- and her all-important brother -- was a formal meal, in full dress, on this night, of all nights?
The Ambassador accepted readily. Hornblower then went through agonies trying to figure out what, exactly, to do about the dinner. In the end, Bush provided the materials. When they had first met, Hornblower thought she had an incredible imagination with her numerous holodeck programs from various historical periods of Earth's past. He soon realized that each scenario was, in fact, the same: battle sequences with ample opportunity to create large explosions with primitive projectile weaponry. He could rationalize her fascination with Terran history, as she had grown up far from the Earth in space stations and cramped transports. Bush admitted once that she had never seen real snow until she attended the Academy, but still, her love of antique explosions was a little odd.
At least Bush's bizarre hobby was, for once, going to be put to good use. The Lydia was a small vessel; she had no elegant conference rooms or lounges to hold important events, only a small mess hall that doubled as an emergency medical ward in times of need. Consequently, Hornblower had used one of Bush's programs to provide an adequately impressive setting for dinner with the ambassador. Bush, with the help from Gerard, had modified the program so that errant ballista would not interrupt their meal.
At least they'd claimed that none would. It was another thing for Hornblower to brood about tonight.
Then, though, the turbolift stopped. The doors opened. Bush stood on the other side, looking exceedingly upright in her dress uniform. It could have been Hornblower's foul mood, but even her commbadge seemed to have been specially shined, and he was very much aware of the fact that there were circles under his eyes and a long wrinkle in the side of his own uniform. The material was engineered to be molecularly incapable of wrinkling; the storage closet in his quarters had, it seemed, accomplished the physically impossible.
"Captain," she said as she entered the lift.
"Commander," he returned, shortly before the lift resumed its movement.
The lift hadn't been moving for more than a few seconds, though, when Bush spoke again.
"Lift, temporary halt." Despite the unorthodoxy of the command, her hands were still clasped behind her back in parade-ground style. She turned, on her heel, to Hornblower.
He looked at her. She considered him, levelly, with a good bit more directness than usual.
"Commander -- "
"With your permission, sir," she said, and before Hornblower could either assent or deny or even inquire as to the meaning of this entire bizarre sequence of events, two hands were straightening the bottom of his white uniform coat. Bush adjusted the fabric there, then turned the waist of his trousers so that the gold stripes ran exactly down the middle of the sides of his legs. She turned him around, gently but firmly, and pulled the fabric of his coat until the horizontal gold stripe was parallel with his shoulders. The stripe also needed smoothing with her fingertips -- it ran over his shoulderblades, and despite the onset of age, Hornblower was still bony enough that the back of the uniform needed straightening. Once she had straightened that, the long wrinkle in the uniform miraculously disappeared, and as Bush turned him back to face her, Hornblower thought that he heard her mumbling something about how the Captain needed a personal steward. There was something else, too, about how, after all these years, he still managed to look like he dressed in the dark.
Bush was doing her best to keep a straight face -- they both knew that Hornblower's dress uniform had been straight when he left his quarters. His fidgeting had upset it; Bush could bear it on the bridge when it was his everyday uniform and would bear it while they were at dinner, but this was beyond endurance.
"Well?" Hornblower fought to keep from smiling. A rebel faction had managed to escape and take up residence in the left corner of his mouth. Perhaps if he lifted his eyebrows enough, he could pretend that his black humor and brooding hadn't evaporated like dry ice under strong sun.
Bush considered him for another second, then reached over and made a slight adjustment to his commbadge. He had spent a great deal of time trying to pin it on straight, but it seemed that he hadn't quite managed it.
She took a step back.
Hornblower stepped back onto his side of the turbolift. Bush tucked her hands behind her back and ordered the lift to resume -- that had been quite definitely a smile that Bush was hiding as she turned to look at the wall of the turbolift, and they went the rest of the way to the holodeck in decorous, separate silence.
Nothing else was said. Nothing else really needed to be said.
…
The dinner did not begin auspiciously. Savage and Galbraith, nervous and quiet, were seated near the equally nervous and quiet Hebe -- Hornblower cursed himself for not anticipating this, and there was a great deal of dead air while the first drinks arrived. Waves could be heard, quite distinctly, in the cabin, and Hornblower stared at the tablecloth. He began to wish himself onto the mudball already -- at least it would save him the agony of this. He could deal with boredom a great deal better than this active humiliation, he suddenly felt. Hornblower thought of himself as being cursed with Napoleon's rounded, inflated form, fighting a losing battle to remain upright with some dignity.
At least his heaving stomach, the result of the slight rolling of the ship, had subsided. It was a small comfort, though, as the awkward silence continued.
And then Lady Barbara came to the rescue.
She began by persuading Gerard to talk about himself; that was not a terribly difficult, in and of itself Hornblower knew, but it was remarkable how quickly she had pulled him away from sexual innuendo and had him telling, instead, stories about the merchant fleet. Gerard's parents had been freighter pilots; to hear him tell it, he'd been born at warp and visited every dangerous port in the Federation and points beyond, braving space pirates and fighting dastardly scoundrels at every stop without the assistance of Starfleet. At that point, Bush had to defend her beloved service; she had been the tactical officer on the Temeraire at Wolf 359, so she told stories of Starfleet courage. Savage and Galbraith were listening raptly -- Hornblower could hear their hero worship of Gerard and Bush growing by the word -- while Stahl nodded approvingly at the points of that featured navigation feats.
Then, the Ambassador lifted her glass in an informal toast. "To the brave souls who have died fighting the Borg. At Wolf 359, Sector 001, and elsewhere."
Bush's face glowed; whatever resentment she'd felt over the Lydia being used as a diplomatic transport was gone, and the table belonged to Lady Barbara.
In fact, even Hornblower found himself reassessing the Ambassador. She was entirely flat-chested, true, and without anything in the way of womanly shape, and her seat next to Bush made these qualities more palpable. Still, her features were softer in the candlelight. They were merely strong, rather than unpleasant, and there could be no doubt that she was a brilliant conversationalist, effortlessly drawing the entire table into whatever topic she chose. She was not flirtatious, and yet she effortlessly held the attention of four men. She did not rely on sexual charms, and yet, Hornblower admitted, she was striking, almost lovely. The whiteness of her gown emphasized the wonderful tanness of her skin, and the sleeveless cut displayed the elegant shape, as well as the strength, of her arms. Lady Barbara was lean and muscled. Hornblower found himself recalling, suddenly, that her eyes were somewhere between gray and blue.
He made himself take a sip of his water.
"In your travels, did you ever visit Risa, Lieutenant Gerard?
"Of course, Madame Ambassador," Gerard replied, grinning with entirely more enthusiasm than appropriate. "One must find a release for tension. Every inch of Risa is fine-tuned for such an endeavor."
Hornblower and Bush snorted in unison.
"I've always been fond of the beaches," the Ambassador, smiling a little. "There's something about the warmth and the way sand feels between the toes."
Gerard proceeded to expound the virtues of beach sand, and Hornblower drifted back out of the conversation: it had been daylight when they sat down to dinner. Since then, the sun had set, and it was dark outside the stern windows, the stars looked clearer than Hornblower thought they should. Had Gerard and Bush remembered to adjust them?
It was more interesting to watch the others than listen to the conversation. Lady Barbara was responded to Gerard's occasional sallies with a smile and impenetrable charm. She presented every sign and requirement of the fine hostess. For his part, Stahl nodded, with the experience and sagacity that seven lifetimes afforded; Savage and Galbraith, for theirs, hung on Gerard's every word.
Bush had, however, retreated a bit. When Gerard cast a look her way, she seemed to be studying the side of a carved wood bulkhead. When Stahl complained of how sand, real sand, not holodeck sand, got everywhere and stuck everywhere, Bush crossed her legs and shifted in her chair as though she had just been reminded of something uncomfortable.
Hornblower bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. Recalling a youthful indiscretion on a Risan beach, no doubt.
Lady Barbara turned to ask Bush a question. Bush was lost in her personal reminisce, so Gerard answered for her.
" -- afraid that Risa really isn't the Commander's style, Madame Ambassador. She grew up in artificial G, out on a space station. You should hear her complain every time we have to set foot on a planet."
Lady Barbara shook her head, smiled charmingly. "I'm sure there must be some planet that's struck your fancy, Commander."
"I like Risa." It had taken Bush a moment to respond; Hornblower had watched the options fly across her face. Once she had settled on the response, though, her chin came up, and she straightened in her seat. "Had a better time there than you ever did, Alex, I wager."
Gerard voiced skepticism, but Bush refused to volunteer further details, and Lady Barbara turned to Hornblower, "And you, Captain Hornblower? What is your favorite place for a holiday?"
He gave her his most stern look. It was a personal question; he did not encourage personal questions. "It has been a very long time since I have indulged in a holiday."
"You must have some significant amount of shore leave available then," Lady Barbara said, undeterred. There was a distinct glimmer in her eye, and Hornblower was suddenly uncomfortable.
"Perhaps," Hornblower said. He made a show of picking up his water glass. Would this be a clear enough sign that the inquiry was unwelcome?
"Well, then, Captain, you must tell us of your pursuits then, since you don't holiday."
She would not stop. And she was looking at him -- the glimmer was gone, replaced by something else that was a little more difficult to identify. Her expression had gotten a good deal softer, in fact. There was something in it. She wanted to hear what he had to say, Hornblower realized. She was eager to hear it, in fact, and she was trying to hide it, but it was there, and Hornblower looked away. Sharply. "I enjoy reading."
"Ah," she said and leaned back.
"And, when time permits, a game of whist."
Lady Barbara lifted an eyebrow. "I was beginning to think that there were no whist players left in Starfleet. Perhaps we should begin a game when we've finished eating."
Hornblower managed a smile in return, and the uncomfortableness, the sensation of having almost given something up to her, remained until the dishes were cleared and the holodeck-provided servants, of their own accord, presented a deck of period-correct cards. Savage and Stahl volunteered to play, and at the Ambassador's suggestion -- which made Hornblower writhe, briefly -- they played whist. Hornblower cut the cards to draw for partners, and unsurprisingly, given his wretched luck for the night, he drew Lady Barbara.
Stahl turned hearts as trump, and Lady Barbara lead the king of that suit. Hornblower writhed again, worried that she might be a poor player and his enjoyment would be spoiled. But as the hand continued he found her to be an adept player. She watched every discard and could read all of his signals. And not only could she play a good hand well, at the next rubber she proved she could fight valiantly with a losing hand. It had been a long time since Hornblower had another player nearly as good, and he lost himself in the pleasure of the game. His mood was so good, in fact, that he joined them when they went up to the deck after the game.
Bush and Gerard had escaped once the card-playing begun. Gerard possessed no interest in social activities where he could not flirt, it seemed. From experience, Hornblower knew that Bush hated cards, as a general rule, and had no interest in games where she could not gamble. Now, they passed around a box of period entertainments -- Hornblower hung back a little and watched as Gerard demonstrated how one produced a flame and lit the end of the tube. It caught, and smoke went up from the end of it. Savage and Galbraith were, predictably, fascinated.
"It's called a cigar," Gerard explained. "An Old Earth conveyance for an addictive chemical. Terribly unhealthy, but period authentic, and we've removed the worst of the ingredients. The thing the Commander is holding is a pipe version. Similar theory, different model."
Instead of trying either of them, though, Hornblower went up the ladder to the deck above. The quarterdeck, he thought it was called. A long time ago, Bush had given him a tour of a ship like this and explained some of the names and how they correlated to a proper, space-going ship. It was possible, Hornblower supposed, to think of this ship as the Lydia's great-great-great grandmother of a sort. Those did look like solar sails up above, and the unobstructed view from the quarterdeck reminded him of the view out of the Lydia's stern windows. He really must ask Bush and Gerard whether this was an accurate view from an Earth ship of the time.
His commbadge chirped. It was Knyvett, whom he'd left in charge of the bridge. "You asked to be called at 1815, sir."
"And the neutrino traces?"
"Right where you said they'd be, sir. We found them two minutes ago in the nebula. They're trying to hide, but we've got a firm lock on them. What shall I do, sir?"
On the deck below, someone had found a stringed instrument. The Ambassador had found a seat on something -- a barrel, maybe -- and by the light that had been brought up, Hornblower could see that she was playing it by holding it on her knee and plucking at it with her fingers. Bush sang along. Hornblower was tonedeaf, and thus, so far as he could hear it over the sound of the waves, the music was unpleasant noise. Still, though. A corner of his mind nevertheless noted how odd it was that the Lady Ambassador and Bush should both know the same song. The sight of them together, with the stars behind them, on this old Earth ship and a bit of wind blowing -- it was not altogether unpleasant to look at.
"Sir?" It was Knyvett again.
Hornblower found that he had been grasping the railing with both hands. He made himself release it.
"We'll be up directly, Ensign. Continue as we discussed."
A moment later the warning for yellow alert broke into the holodeck, and Hornblower went down to ask the Ambassador to return to her quarters. The Natividad had found them, and Hornblower meant to fight her.