Set right after S4's Time Out of Mind, but not really episode-related .
I don't own any of this Drom-stuff.
Out of Order
1.
The ship watched in silence as her captain dragged himself out of bed yet again that night. It was for the fourth time that he had jerked up from sleep, covered in cold sweat and shouting Beka's name. What was so terrifying about her first officer the Andromeda Ascendant didn't understand. As he came out of his bathroom only a short time later, displaying once more a new t-shirt and a new pair of sweat-pants as well as a huge towel hung around his neck, Dylan Hunt looked at least a lot less clammy, if still not at ease.
„Andromeda..."
„Yes, Captain?" In spite of the fact that his call had not been louder than a whisper, the pleasant if somewhat inflexible voice of the ships's AI answered immediately. Pouring himself a huge glass of water, he cleared his throat, then drank, then cleared his throat again.
Whatever is up, this is going to be a tough one... the ship reasoned to herself, observing his behaviour.
Slowly walking over to the adjacent room Dylan didn't even bother to ask for some light, until he sat himself down behind his desk. Only then did he light up a small, old-fashioned lamp, that still left most of the room in darkness. Inserting a code into a hidden display, he opened up a drawer and took out a small, triangular crystal. Placing it carefully in front of him on the desk, he looked at the item with an odd expression, as if it was something that could bite him, should he come too close.
„Andromeda," he repeated, turning slightly towards the viewscreen to his right, „could I talk just to you?"
The ship's AI flickered up on the monitor, slightly frowning.
„Just to me?" she asked back, awaiting further explanation.
„Yes, just to you, no Rommie, no hologram... Just you."
The dark eyes closed briefly.
„Done. You are speaking just to me, Captain."
„Thank you."
He sat in silence.
Definitely a tough one... Andromeda confirmed to herself.
„What you want to talk to me about..." she ventured hesitantly after nothing happened for some while, „does it by any chance have something to do with the information data you received from Amira?"
He nodded, looking even more tired than before. A couple of moments later the AI spoke again.
„Are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?"
„No, I'm telling... I will tell you..." Dylan replied, then shut up.
„Captain," Andromeda tried to sound as sympathetic as she could, but she wasn't Trance. Fact was that she wasn't even Rommie with her extensive experience with feelings and emotions, nor her hologram, who was used to interact with her crew. For a brief moment she wondered why Dylan had asked to speak with just her, when it was quite obvious that Rommie would have been far, far better suited for this kind of conversation. „Captain," she went on, „does this also concern your nightmares?"
Nodding, he pressed the crystal into a booting dent, then closed his eyes exhausted, as she accessed the data. Therefore he missed the slight dilation of her pupils.
„Done," she informed him after a short while.
„Show me," he ordered lowly.
„Dylan, are you sure?" He reopened his eyes. She had called him Dylan. That was as unusual as what he was about to do. Searching for words he turned towards her.
„Amira gave me full data on us all..." he finally said. „She said that outside private quarters – and sometimes even there – everything gets recorded, of everyone, everywhere – and that it all ends up in some Collector's library. And then it got to her. Everything everywhere, Rommie." He sounded pained.
„You object?"
„It's... it's not right! I mean, I understand it, but everyone has secrets he doesn't want to share..."
„It isn't meant for public entertainment, you know," the ship told him crisply. „It's enclosed, secured... For special ‚need-to-know' cases." Looking at the viewscreen, it did seem to Dylan that even Andromeda was watching him a bit distantly. He blew his cheeks up slightly, bracing himself for the question. „So this isn't really about the ethics of collecting and storing such data," she continued. „It's about whether or not this is such a case."
„So what do you think: is it?"
„One question, Dylan: you said Amira gave you full coverage on the lives of you all, Rhade, Harper, Rev, yourself... Even Trance?" she asked doubtful.
„Even Trance," he acquiesced.
„When she was still purple?"
He shrugged.
„I didn't see it."
„Why not?"
He didn't answer.
„Did you see any of them?"
Dylan shook his head in silence.
„Then why now? And why Beka?"
Again, he didn't answer her.
„Dylan?" she asked him minutes later. He still did not speak up, but closed his eyes in pain. „Dylan, talk to me! Do you have a reason?"
"When the Abyss had her..." his voice trailed off.
„I see." Andromeda didn't really, but that she couldn't tell the pained, haunted man she was looking at. „Why now?" she then asked. „I mean, it's been months..."
„Yes, but the Worldship comes nearer. So does the Abyss. What if he tries to get to her once more?"
„Oh, he will," Andromeda informed him without any emotion. „He'll try to get us all. Why are you so worried about her more than others?"
„She is The One," he answered, in a tortured whisper.
Again she nodded slowly.
„Yes, so says Trance. But did she ever tell you why Beka is The One?"
Dylan shook his head.
„No," he admitted to her, „but all those figures popping out of her past with schemes, riddles... So many secrets... I have to know, Rommie, who she really is."
„But you do know, Dylan. You know who she is. It's how she became who she is, that you aim to find out. Do you really believe it will help to keep her?"
„What do you mean?"
„Oh, please. I might not have Rommie's empathy for emotions, nor my hologram's experience with reading in your face, but I am smarter than both of them – and you! It's been a tough year, Dylan; she nearly left after Tyr defected, then almost left with Tyr, got gravely in danger when she brought him to you, you came close to having to give up on her because of the Abyss – and with her being the one who pulled us free at Hephaistos, you are more emotionally dependent on her than on anyone else..."
„For the one without any emotions..." he tried to joke weakly.
„I have endless supplies of psychological data on all different species to make up for my lack of empathy."
He nodded to her, looking more serious than ever.
„I need to know, Rommie."
„Maybe. But can you bear it?"
Dylan's eyes widened briefly.
„That bad?"
The image shrugged.
„She obviously survived it. She copes. But sometimes it is a lot easier to cope with what has been done to you than with things that someone you love suffered through."
He took her words in, considering. But then straightened himself up and ordered once again:
„Show me, Rommie."
"Are you sure?"
"No... Show me anyway."
Without further comment she disappeared and complied.
2.
She had been stuck there for about 3 or 4 months, on that backward, dusty planet so fittingly called Desertia, the Maru down and in dire need for repairs, with no money, no acquaintances, no contacts. The inevitable end of yet another nasty story... By now she would willingly have accepted any offer, any proposal, no matter what dirty little love affair, trading it for a way out.
She was staying at the old, run-down space-port where she had brought the Maru to, struggling to earn herself a living by performing every night in the shabby so-called piano-bar the broke workers there frequented, desperately hoping to save enough to pay for the parts she needed.
-
When he saw her, she was sitting at a table of the coffee-shop, playing poker with 2-3 dockers and winning – how, he didn't know and didn't want to think about it, either. She looked up and saw him, not recognising him though, which hurt even more than seeing her that way. Passing by her table to go to the counter he saw her misty eyes, the half empty bottle, observed her hands shaking slightly. She had definitely grown up since the last time that he had seen her, when... He couldn't even remember, when that last time had been.
As time went by she started to try drawing his attention, insisting, desperately, as if nobody else ever cared about her. He did not react until she got up, collecting her coins and moving over to the worn-out planks that served for a scene in a lighter corner. Seeing the ease with which she stood there, slightly nodding over to the old, half-dead looking pianist and dominating the place with a mere look of her eyes, it only then occurred to him that she was doing this regularly, singing there probably every night. His drink came just in time with the music starting, some slow, smoky, lascivious songs in an old language from Earth - French.
„She's good, don't you think?" the bartender asked him lowly, while the crowd of men started to cheer at her.
He nodded, slowly nipping at his glass.
„Is she here every night?"
The man confirmed.
„She has to make a living... And just before you go asking what a nice girl like her is doing in a place like this: she is not that nice, and I don't think she minds. That's the way it is around here, you know," the man grinned broadly to him, „no sorrows, no regrets..."
Oh yes, he could hear that, as he listened to her. No sorrows, no regrets. She sang it quite well, actually, loud and clear for anyone to hear – no regrets at all. Rien de rien!(1)
„Who is she?"
„No idea. They all call her ‚The Star'. I suspect the boss knows who she really is... Do you want me to ask him?"
„No. No, it's all right."
Silently, he wondered in front of just how many wrong doors she must have had laid down the tenderness she used to have as a child, to end up like this. Trying to remember, he figured out that she could not be older than eighteen, at most.
When she finished singing, she walked over to him, clearly expecting him to buy her a drink. He complied, and they started talking. She still did not remember him – and he didn't tell, asking her instead to tell him her story. She told him some tale of mythomaniacally ascending lies, her eyes laughing at him in scorn, while he pretended to believe her – and she pretended not to know he didn't. They talked almost all night, glasses of cachaca giving them the courage to try and outsmart each other. At dawn she walked away. He never saw her again... Not that he had expected it, after giving her the money...
-
She had recognised him the minute he walked in, long before he ever set his eyes on her. She knew he thought, she hadn't. He did look older, not sick, but not too well, either. The minute she noticed that he had recognised her, she decided to go on pretending that she didn't know him, just to see if he believed her. She doubted it, though. How could he believe such a thing, knowing how much she had adored him back then, when he was still with them... It didn't take her long to figure out that he actually bought the act. The fool! She would tell him later, when she knew more about him, knew what exactly had become of him...
Nothing. Nothing had become of him, just a guy with some business to attend to on Desertia, and lots and lots of money to spend... She never told him that she had recognised him, after all. As the night dragged on, he wanted more and more to rescue her, that much she could see, but they both kept dancing around their former acquaintance, keeping each other at bay, him doubting, her not telling. Playing with his guilt, teasing him, keeping him conscience-stricken, she finally pretended to give in. She told him that she needed cash, a huge amount of money to buy herself out first. But then she would meet him, the following night, at the dry docks. To her surprise he gave her the money just like that. At dawn she walked away. Paid up for the parts, the repairs on the Maru, told them to hurry up. Early that afternoon she was out of there.
3.
To her immense surprise, she found out that the debts Ignatius had accumulated didn't run that high that she would lose the Maru. Still: life became pretty soon too difficult to handle. In spite of having managed the business and the flying for the past two years since her father had become too sick to take care of it by himself, the crew still had considered themselves to be his crew. After his death they left her, one by one – and struggling to get the jobs done all by herself proved futile. She stranded pretty soon on Desertia for a while. Once she got the Maru up and flying with the money Abel had given her, she started looking out for jobs, all kind of jobs, never ever admitting that she was on her own. It didn't work out long, she couldn't keep it a secret. Only six months later no more jobs were given to her, the money stopped to come in – and she found herself stuck anew, this time on Massilia Magna, a former mining planet used nowadays mainly for freighter ships to land while waiting for maintenance. She was broke and without a crew there was no way someone would have agreed to give her another job, not even a shady, illegal one. She needed men and had no idea how to get them. It was only when she entered a bar and saw all the figures turning around and staring at her that she came up with the right idea. Okay, maybe not the right one, but one that would at least work out just fine... She would get a crew the way she got the money to fix up the Maru. Or so she hoped, at least.
She applied for a job, refusing to wait tables or to become one of the girls in one of the multiple strip-bars of Massilia. There was though one place, something of an elite-club really, which simply meant that the clothes the girls had to get rid of were more expensive and looked better on them; the owner was a ratface, a slimy, oily Nightsider, who at first refused her. She was not as pretty as all the other ladies, she was too young, too... She started to sing for him, interrupting him right in the middle of his sentence; he didn't care for human females, but he was an expert: the deep, vibrant voice that could reach amazing heights if she chose to, the husky, foreign language he hadn't heard before – and then, as she slowly peeled herself out of her trousers, the long, perfect legs... She might not have been as pretty as any of the others, she might have been too young, but her voice, the irresistible way in which those legs demanded to be looked at, touched – their attraction was as old as life itself.
„I am not a whore," she warned him quietly.
It really didn't matter. The others were, and she would draw the men to them...
And so she started singing in his club, that happened also to be a meeting place for smugglers. Not quite the average Massilian dance-hall.
She pretty much stood out among the girls who worked there. Most of them locals from there or the countryside nearby. Bakhorin was the largest city on the southern hemisphere of Massilia and tended to draw crowds in. Of those ladies who weren't from nearby, most came from all the towns in the North, where sunshine was worth a fortune, and where they had shut down the plants after the mines were exhausted. In their midst she appeared to be almost exotic, not so much because of her look – it was her attitude, the easy way she turned down businessmen who asked her to share with them a room with a view to the ocean or a luxury ride all over the galaxy.
And yet, as much as she seemed to be different, as much as she saw herself to be different, as the months slipped by she became aware that she was changing slowly, no longer really minding to get her hands and heart dirty if need be. Apparently it was.
When he first came in, she didn't pay attention. But three months later she did, reluctantly admitting that he stood out among the polished crooks the way she stood out among the whores.
She was at least 25 years his junior, but didn't feel that way. He didn't look the crook. The perfectly fitting clothes, the distinguished grey temples, the lean body not taller than herself as well as the well-tempered voice and his handsome, yet someone effeminate face were, at least, deceiving. He was the oldest Nietzschean she'd ever come across, and had it not been for the boneblades, one never would have guessed. He was the most imfluential figure in the whole of Bakhorin, maybe on all Massilia, operating discreetly, with a tiny team consisting of a bully, taciturne Umbite, his sterile twin-sister and a purple kid of unknown origins. They came together for the first time in an easy, unpretentious way. From then on they were together, her being officially known as the'Privateer's fiancée', as they used to call him. It gave her clout, protection, although she still remained in fact the same blonde young whore she had been before. And yet, it was a good time: he was gentle, caring, and he was well-bred, well-read, funny – and taught her a lot.
About one year later there was a raid in the club. Kalderans came looking for him - and took her instead. They brought her back two months later, when they had agreed with him on the terms of a new understanding with the one who had employed them to strike a deal with the 'Privateer'. When they dragged her in, she was dirty, skinny, bruised, battered and bloody, more dead than alive. He just gave her a look and curled his nose up, disgusted.
"She is damaged goods. When we agreed, I thought I'd get her back in one piece."
"She is in one piece," the Kalderan chief-goon growled.
"After you all had her for two months? No, she is not. Next time when you want to use someone as an assett, make sure she stays intact. I have no further use for something that damaged. The deal is off." With that he turned around to leave, not caring much about the surprise written on the faces of all other people present. Judging by the stunned way the Kalderans merely stood there, not saying anything, even they were in shock. Only one person acted: she simply grabbed the gun of the Kalderan standing next to her and started shooting before anyone of them could react. By the time she was done all of the Kalderans, the Privateer, his sister and at least seven others were lying in their blood.
He left nothing behind. Nothing but a sulking, bully Umbrite and a purple girl, who were both kind of lost. And so, after all this time spent singing Lili Marleen and dancing on the tables while taking care to scare the hell out of all jerks, she downed for the last time a crazying rest of absinthe floating on the bottom of some left-over glass and walked out of the place with her new crew, towards her ship and her life, never to look back.
4.
„She'd been a kid, for Heavens' sake," he whispered tightly, sitting at his desk, silently promising himself that he would never ever again make her do something she didn't want. From now on she was free to fell all her decisions without having to fear him interfering with them. Or so he hoped, honest enough to himself to doubt his resolve. Andromeda had been right: wondering, suspecting that there had been things done by Beka, done to her that he knew nothing about was quite different from seeing, witnessing the way her adult life had started, too soon and much too ugly and impossible for him to change. And he still knew nothing more about her, that could enable him to take better care of what lay before them, to protect her more. The only enlightment the data had provided was that she understood even more about Nietzscheans than himself. And could act on the knowledge. Which, come to think of it, was actually more than he could... Still: it had not been worth it. From now there was a new, young face with too much make-up and ice-cold eyes that would haunt his sleep, mixed up with blurry visions of the gentle child he'd seen in the Maru-projections at the library and of a blonde head cut off by his force-lance.
Unnoticed by her captain, Andromeda observed him, his face, that had grown colder and harder by the minute, while his eyes grew softer.
She refrained from sharing her thought on the matter with him, though: For their both sakes I hope she never finds out...
(1) Reference to an old French song by Edith Piaf called 'Je ne regrette rien...'