Author's Note: Star Trek and all its intellectual property belongs to Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no money made.
"I was hoping to spend some intimate time with you."
All these years I've denied the existence of guardian angels and mine suddenly drops bliss into my lap. Here where I'm always happiest, able to rule my domain with sense and discipline (things that occasionally feel free to take a temporary leave of absence elsewhere in the ship, though propriety forbids me to say where), I'm so startled that I almost can't believe what I'm hearing. The attractive woman whose positively delectable arse I enjoyed admiring as she entered the phase cannon housing has just propositioned me.
"Maybe we could sleep together tonight," she continues.
She doesn't even seem to change her mind when I'm so taken aback I stand up and whack my head on the coolant pipe. Yes, Malcolm, why don't you act like the suave man-of-the-world who gets this kind of invitation every day?
Because I bloody well don't, that's why. And certain trains of thought that were set in motion while we were flirting in the Mess have ensured that the hormones were ready and waiting to respond if by any chance my non-existent guardian angel should remember I've been a really good boy for a very long time and surely deserve a little something.
I'm a Starfleet officer. And officially, I'm an English gentleman. Officially.
So I make an effort. "On Earth, it's customary to ask a woman to dinner first before spending the night with her."
The smile she gives me sends blood hurtling into my groin. "It's very different on Vissia. It's only when a woman enjoys her intimate time with a man that she'll join him for dinner."
Why couldn't I have been born a Vissian?
We emerge from the housing a few minutes later. I'm trying to keep my breathing even but I'm not sure I'm wholly successful. Bernhard looks across from the targeting assembly and makes me the recipient of a solemn Bavarian wink.
If I wasn't so happy I'd put him on report. Fortunately for him, he maintains the gravity of a turnip while I usher my willing victim out of the Armoury.
I bet he grins as soon as we're outside the door, but I can hardly put him on report for something I don't see.
I know what Enterprise is like for rumours, and if there's one thing I don't want it's for my sexual exploits to be the latest item on the gossip boards. As sure as God made gooseberries, someone would spot me shepherding my plump, tasty little gazelle into my lair. I could quite happily have leaned her over the phase cannon and at least earned a bumper breakfast to be going on with, but dinner will require time, skill, stamina and effort, all of which I'm more than willing to commit if only I can get the opportunity. Time. Place. Think of something. You're the Tactical Officer, bloody think of something!
Fortunately, Veylo is also a tactical officer. And it appears that her ability to scheme is currently not impaired by the sudden rush of blood to inconvenient places in her flight suit.
"While your captain is exploring the hypergiant with ours, perhaps your First Officer would perceive the advantages of you visiting our ship to ... discuss weaponry," she suggests, her voice as bland as milk.
"I'm sure she would." I swallow and step to the nearest comm. panel. "Reed to Sub-Commander T'Pol."
"T'Pol here."
"Sub-Commander, I've been invited to visit the Vissian ship. Tactical Officer Veylo believes I may be interested in their weaponry." Another swallow, which I try to turn into a cough. "I understand their technology is superior to ours, and if there's anything that Lieutenant Veylo feels able to share with me then it might be greatly to Starfleet's benefit.
"And, of course, as they've accepted our hospitality it would be impolite of me to refuse."
The pause is only slight, but it's agonising. I can only hope that she believes that unlike a certain Commander Tucker, I am a diplomat who does know when and where to stick his fingers.
Which, of course, I do.
Amongst other things.
"It appears that your absence from the ship could be beneficial to both parties," she says at last. "Commander Tucker is already a guest of the engineering department. I perceive no reason why you should not benefit in the same way."
It would not be in keeping with the standards of conduct befitting an officer to punch the air, let alone cheer, however tempted I am to do both. For the benefit of a passing crewman I ignore Veylo's carefully-hidden gleam and maintain the appropriate gravitas. After all, everyone knows how onerous I find socialising at the best of times, so this will be a huge sacrifice on my part.
I wouldn't even consider it if it weren't for the weapons.
=/\=
Obviously I have to make arrangements for the security department to be run properly in my absence. Bernhard knows what he got away with last time so he just nods seriously as I inform him that on my return I'll adjust the rotas to compensate for the extra hours he will spend on duty. Em, on the other hand, who will split the Alpha shift with him, takes one look at Veylo and folds her mouth up trying not to grin. Veylo doesn't even bother trying. If I've ever seen the expression of a cat that's about to get the cream, I see it now on that Vissian's face.
Sometimes I don't think I'm strict enough with my staff. Trouble is, I'm not sure this is the best time and place to start.
The Vissians have transporter technology too, but I suspect they're tolerant of our discomfort with the idea. A shuttle is sent over to fetch us. The reflective shields are darkening the windows, protecting us from external view as well as from the heat and light of the star which our respective ships' captains are currently investigating. No doubt both ships are monitoring our progress as a matter of course, but just for a moment we're sealed in our small cocoon, hidden from the world.
Her mouth is deliciously soft. My probing tongue runs lightly along her teeth, eliciting a faint gasp.
"Lihi-vaelef to shuttle." The comm. interrupts, which is probably just as well. Up close, I can detect a musky perfume that goes straight to my amygdala among other places, and the shell of a prim and proper Starfleet officer is starting to feel perilously close to slipping.
From her expression, I suspect I'm not the only one who's both relieved and irked by the interruption. "Shuttle here."
"Please go to aft Docking Port 2. The Earth craft is at Docking Port 1 and the two forward ports are currently closed for routine maintenance."
"Shuttle acknowledging. Out." She deftly changes course, and as the Lihi-vaelef 's huge bulk slowly rotates across the viewscreen and we enter its shadow, our new approach vector shows us the back view of Shuttlepod Two already coupled up.
Of course Trip is going to be here. I steered him deftly in the direction of their chief engineer and his wife in the Mess Hall aboard Enterprise (well, he was hogging two attractive women so that situation couldn't be allowed to continue indefinitely – we may be mates these days but we're still intensely competitive). The few glances I spared him afterwards suggested that he wasn't intending to come back and elbow me out again any time soon, so I reckoned he was happy enough with the exchange; Trip would sit and gossip with a Denebian slime devil if it could chat warp theorem. Trip being Trip, it looked as if he was even getting curious about that – that 'cogenitor' who was along with them. I have to say that it piques my curiosity too about how this 'tri-gender' lark works, but as I very much doubt whether Veylo has any more interest in reproducing than I have right now, that issue is not uppermost in my mind. Maybe I may get to find out more about it along the way, but in the meantime I have far more intriguing aspects of Vissian sexuality to explore.
Still, the Vissians have been nothing but friendly since we introduced ourselves. If an unamiable third party happened to materialise out of the ether (as unamiable third parties have a habit of doing out here, in my experience) then the proximity of a large and well-armed ship in our company would probably be far more of a protection for Enterprise than my presence on the Bridge would be. Even so, though, for some strange reason I feel the frisson of – not quite unease. But what is there to be uneasy about? Even I can't really suspect our hosts of ill-intent, and Lord knows my ground state is 'suspect everyone'. The last time Trip went wandering off with an engineer might have ended badly, but even apart from the fact that Veylo's delightfully matter-of-fact approach suggests that rape is not a big problem among Vissians, surely to god he can't get bitten twice in a row. Even for Trip that would be pushing it.
I like to think that even the imminent prospect of earning dinner wouldn't be enough to override my instinct about the Vissians. It's an instinct I developed hard, and in the old days I learned to rely on it absolutely. Unusual as it may be, these people are the sort of folk Captain Archer has come out here looking for – as interested in meeting others and making friends as he is. I could have told him from the start these were a lot rarer than he was expecting, but I didn't like to dash his hopes prematurely. I knew time and sad experiences would do that for me...
"Docking complete." Veylo looks at me limpidly.
"I hope ours will be shortly." I dismiss Trip's prospects from my mind. Delightful as Canna may be, if there's a cogenitor in the picture with her and her husband then he'll have to look elsewhere. Traistana certainly seemed to be giving him the glad eye over the chocolate sundae, and I'm sure if she's minded to continue investigating Human customs such as why we eat the cherry first, he'll be quite enough of a Southern gentleman to oblige. You never know, we might both get to earn dinner.
I'm getting to like this Vissian culture more and more. Instead of blushing, my fair companion smiles, leans forward and kisses me lingeringly. "I hope so too," she whispers.
=/\=
We are, of course, professionals. And I'm here to admire the Armoury, so she escorts me there and if it weren't disloyal to admit it, I have to say that as soon as I walk in I understand exactly why she wasn't struck dumb by our armaments aboard Enterprise. Even with the prospect of the shagging of a lifetime on the horizon, I can't help but do everything but drool over the technology on display.
And as professionals, we talk. Naturally there are things she's not allowed to disclose and naturally I notice exactly where the borders are, but even what she does talk about opens up avenues that could keep Starfleet's R&D busy for years. She's not just attractive and interested in me, her weapons expertise is probably greater than mine.
I think I'm in love.
After that, we go for a general tour of the ship. I'm introduced to a lot of people whose names I won't remember, but presently we arrive in Engineering. It's probably inevitable that just as the Vissian armoury dwarfed ours, so their propulsion drive makes ours look pitifully small and antiquated by comparison. I look around for Trip, because if there's anything I'd put my last credit on it's that he'll be around here somewhere, and almost as impossible to dislodge as one of the limpets that used to litter the rocks down on the beach at Bosahan Cove.
But he isn't.
Trying not to sound like a sheepdog in search of an errant lamb, I remark casually that I'm surprised not to see him.
"He was hungry," one of the engineers replies cheerfully. "He said he was going down to the Mess Hall."
Well, that's reasonable enough. It's getting on for dinnertime aboard Enterprise and if I know anything, confronted by technology like this our Commander Tucker will have skipped lunch.
Speaking of dinner, I'm starting to feel a bit peckish myself. But first things first, and one thing I'm damned well going to make sure of is that when Veylo puts in an appearance at the food queue or however they do things around here, I'm going to be sharing a tray with her.
=/\=
Afterwards, I'm never quite sure how I'd describe what takes place in Veylo's quarters.
To call it 'sex' would be almost insulting. It's far more than that. Light, music, taste, texture... not just the texture of flesh on flesh, which in and of itself is exciting enough to a man who's been celibate since we left Jupiter Station, but a whole smörgåsbord of sensations expressly designed to prolong and heighten pleasure. The Vissians take their sexuality very seriously.
I'm not an amateur, though I may be out of practice, but it's much as I can do to keep up with my voracious partner. By the time we sit opposite each other across the dinner table I'm already feeling like a wrung-out cloth, though Veylo's satisfied smiles and the knowing grins of other Vissians reassure me that I've done a good job so far of keeping up Starfleet's reputation.
The food's undoubtedly the nearest the Vissian chef can approximate to Earth food. It's some kind of slightly crunchy grain with sauce poured over it, with side plates of what looks like scraped vegetable shells. There are no knives or forks; we scoop up the grain with the shells and eat them. Given that our hosts thought that Earth food tasted bland, they must have done their best to make this one moderate, but it's still strong enough to make me look around for something to wash it down with.
"I'm looking forward to breakfast," Veylo whispers, pouring some stuff that looks like opaque pink grapefruit juice out of a pretty glass flask into the tumbler in front of my plate, after which she fills her own. "Drink this, Malcolm. You'll see why."
Well. I may not be the socialite of the century, but no English gentleman would decline an invitation like that. I pick up the glass and sip it cautiously before taking a larger mouthful; it doesn't taste like grapefruit, but something more neutral – pear pulp perhaps. Across from me she sips her own, and as I watch her glossy lips shape themselves at the rim of the tumbler, lust catches me by the throat. I grip the arms of my chair to prevent myself jumping up and lunging at her, and my mind fills with images of throwing her back across one of the Mess tables and fucking her for all I'm worth.
The glossy lips form a knowing smile of their own. This nectar is fuel for the second round.
I'm going to have to keep my strength up. Somehow I regain control of myself, manage to pull my attention back to the contents of my plate and start wolfing the food down. She eats just as fast, both of us alternating with gulps of juice, while our eyes make unspeakable promises across the dinner table.
I don't think I've ever eaten a dinner so quickly. She's barely a mouthful behind me, and neither of us have attention to spare for the grins that greet the screech of our chairs going backwards. She grabs the flask and brings it with us, and I dismiss a fleeting thought that wonders if it really is possible for a dick to fall off from overwork.
Her quarters are two decks above the level where the Mess Hall is situated. I could never make it up the stairs without losing control. It's as much as I can do to stand decorously on one side of the turbo-lift while she stands at the other, just in case there's someone waiting at the intervening stop and the door opens to reveal two tactical officers shagging like rabbits.
We just about make it to her quarters but there's no chance of waiting till we get to the bed. I all but throw her to the floor, and she's already tearing her knickers off before she gets there.
I already know this is going to be the first of many.
And I'm not going for finesse.