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This Dismantled Altar
Chapter One: Watercolors in the Rain
She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running
Like a watercolor in the rain.
Don't bother asking for explanations;
She'll just tell you that she came
In the year of the cat.
— Al Stewart, "Year of the Cat"
It's just past sunset of his third day on this planet, and he's headed into the third restaurant-slash-club on the list of the most likely ones located near the university. He's tired and he has a headache, and wants nothing more than to find enough liquid oblivion to put himself to sleep. It's not smart, letting himself get into this state; but then, nothing about this assignment is particularly smart. Or even sane.
That was what had attracted him to it.
Despite his less-than-complete awareness of his surroundings, he spots her as soon as the doors close behind him. She's dressed as a student, wearing the loose, bright attire that the locals favor, with her hair in a messy, partially-pulled back style. There's an array of study materials in front of her on the table and a glass of water to the side. She's doing an admirable job of attempting to blend in, but something about her still stands out.
This isn't good.
"No," he tells the host. "No table. I'll just hit the bar." Bourbon, neat. He finishes three before looking around again. Maybe he'd just been mistaken. Maybe she's already gone.
But she's still at her table, frowning at something on one of her padds. He watches as one of the locals approaches her table, seeing her look up and politely shake her head. As the would-be suitor turns to leave, she takes a long look around the room, pausing for only the briefest of moments when her eyes find him. Pursing her lips, she runs a finger around the lip of her water glass before taking a long drink, and then returns to whatever she was studying.
That's the signal. She's the one.
He fishes out his credit chit and signals the bartender. "That lady over there, in the blue and green dress with all the study padds in front of her. Send her a drink. White wine, if you have any." It seems to suit her.
To his surprise, she declines the drink.
Well, then. Maybe she isn't the one. He'll have to try a different restaurant, but not tonight. As of right now, he's completely off the clock. He did what he was supposed to do, and they'd warned him that the connection window could be as long as five or six days. She's arranging her own schedule, just like you, which means it can't be any more precise than that.
I still don't understand why I need a partner anyway. I can do this by myself.
Not an option. Starfleet never sends an officer into deep cover alone, Commander.
He orders another glass of bourbon, and decides it's helping the headache.
"If you were going to send me a drink, the least you could've done was send me a real one." She's managed to slip up next to him completely unnoticed. There's a cloth bag over one shoulder, presumably holding the padds and supplies she'd had on her table. "Something like the one you're having."
He eyes her for a moment before calling the bartender back. "Bourbon for the lady, then. Assuming she's old enough. Aren't you still in school?"
"Appearances can be deceiving," she answers as she shows an ID to the bartender.
With half a laugh, he offers a hand. "I'm Michael. Michael Phillips." It's not the name he was born with, of course. It's not even his legal name. But it's the one he's using now and for the foreseeable future. It's the person he's going to become.
Because Gabriel Lorca died back on Tarsus IV.
After two more drinks, he leads her to the dance floor so they can talk in some relative privacy. She's a good dancer, and in this closer proximity he can see she's not as young as her dress and demeanor initially suggested. Rather, she's somewhere around his own age; maybe a little older, maybe a little younger. He wonders what drew her to this assignment.
"I'm Anna," she tells him after a music shift. "At HQ they called me Anna Chapman, but I guess it'll be Anna Phillips before too long."
He forces himself not to grimace. The fact that they're going to actually get married is another thing he'd protested in vain. We've spent months laying the data trails for these identities, Commander. All the records are as perfect and airtight as we can get them. They need to stay that way. Including this part of it.
He'd nearly backed out after that argument. Had said he was leaving, in fact, but he'd gone back after two hours spent walking off his anger.
Because he wasn't a quitter, and after the debacle that led to Adrian Kodos escaping justice into a quick death, he needs to bring something down. Something big, and to his surprise, the shrinks had agreed with that idea. Proving himself could expiate the guilt, even though it probably won't completely resolve the grieving process.
Which is fine with him. He doesn't want to resolve it. He failed them. Failed her. That can't just be forgotten. It won't be.
Anna changes position in his arms, breaking their rhythm and drawing his attention back to the moment. "Just how much have you had to drink?"
That's not her real name, of course, any more than "Michael" is his; and because of that their marriage won't be legally valid. Security HQ had explained it'd be easier if the two officers on this operation didn't know each other — or even about each other — prior to their meeting here. It would be easier to believe their own cover identities this way. Harder to break them.
"I've had enough to enjoy myself," he tells her, not bothering to keep the surly undertone out of his voice.
"Not the best of beginnings, for a serious relationship."
"Look, as long as we fool whoever's watching, it's good enough." HQ had mandated a brief courtship before they "eloped" and set themselves up as civilians. They'd also made a point of clarifying that they were only outlining the public story. The nature of the private relationship would be up to them; no questions would be asked.
She changes her rhythm again, and he realizes she's trying to keep from having her feet stepped on. "Sorry. I'll start paying more attention."
"I'd appreciate it if you did." There's a bite in her tone, but she slips closer. Continues to play her part. He's faintly annoyed to realize that he really is having to concentrate to keep playing his, to at least pretend he's enjoying the way they dance together. At least she's good enough to compensate every time he takes another mis-step.
The music changes again, to something slower this time, and he uses it as an excuse to guide her against his shoulder. "This should be easier. I think we've been out here long enough that leaving together won't seem so strange, anyway. Don't you?"
"Yeah. But…" she trails off, and though he can't see her face he can feel a slight tremor in her body. "I like this song. Can we finish it?"
Her voice has become quieter, almost wistful, and he wonders if they might have more in common than their ages. Another lost soul. Someone who just wants to be someone else. It's only natural to stroke her hair, to seem to offer some level of comfort and understanding.
"Sure," he says, startled to hear the gentler tone in his voice.
They wrap their arms around each other's waists as they make their way down the street toward her flat in the students' sector. He tells himself it's just another way of looking good for anyone who might be watching, and that the unsteadiness in his legs has nothing to do with it. To prove it, he steps away to stand on his own after she finishes keying them through the door.
He's forced to grab for a wall almost immediately.
Anna sighs. "Come on, then. Bed's through here."
This is the time when they're supposed to be reviewing the mission parameters, exchanging information, starting to develop the public story of them. But all he wants to do is sleep. The headache hasn't quite come back, but there's a ghost of it lingering, lurking just underneath his awareness, warning him that he's too old for this sort of thing.
A glass clinks down on the nightstand next to him. "Drink this. All of it."
It's plain water. No ice. He stares a question at her over the rim.
"The primary cause of hangovers is dehydration," she explains. "You need to drink as much water as you can stand. Then an anti-intoxicant and some rest. Sleep it off. We'll talk in the morning."
"Anti-intoxicant? What, are you a doctor or something?"
She takes a sharp breath, her eyes narrowing, and it's then that he notices their color. It brings the headache back with a vengeance, and he only narrowly manages to avoid cursing out loud. Of all the colors that human eyes can be, why did hers have to be grayish-green? Why couldn't they have been different from Balayna's?
The moment goes unnoticed; she's turned away, reaching into a drawer for a hypo kit. There's a calm efficiency to her manner as she programs the device, an air of routine that he tries to emulate. By the time she administers the medication, he's managed to get his breathing back under control. The sweat at his hairline could have any number of causes.
Without comment, she wipes it away and then reaches down to take his shoes off. He tries to do it himself, but she's able to push him away without difficulty. "Just stay put."
"Don't you have a couch?"
"It's too short for you." Her tone brooks no argument as she takes the glass into the bathroom to refill it, dimming the lights as she does so. His last thought, before he falls asleep, is a half-formed prayer that the memories in his dreams will be pleasant ones this time.
"Balayna? Are you here?"
The light in her foyer comes on automatically in response to his presence, but his voice echoes. She's not there. He finds the lamp on her desk, turns it on, sees the message on the notepad.
From the couch, his lieutenant turns on the screen. He reaches for the control pad. He knows what's coming next. He doesn't want to see it. But he's helpless, limbs frozen in place as the amphitheater appears on the screen. All the seats in the stands are empty: the people in this gathering have been directed onto the grounds themselves.
"Pretty crowded down there," observes another member of his team. "Why not use the stands?"
But nobody's listening. The only thing he hears is the sonorous voice, orating, declaiming. Making pronouncements, ending with the claim that he, and he alone, can decide whose lives aren't valuable enough to preserve. They're almost anticlimactic, those words, and it's not until the phaser relays begin that their true import becomes clear.
Most of the colonists never even have the time to scream, but some do, and he knows that she's one of them. That she understood what was happening, in that split second before the executions began, that she felt the heat of the beam and —
He wakes with a hoarse, anguished cry, sweating and shaking.
And in desperate need. It's not until after he's sprinted to the bathroom and relieved himself that he realizes he's alone. And parsecs away, months away, from Tarsus IV.
His hands shake as he wipes his face, but the image in the mirror is startlingly normal-looking, bringing him fully back to the present. He's in remarkably good shape, considering the night he had; there's no nausea, no vomiting, and while it's not happy, his head's in one piece.
He retrieves the water glass from the nightstand and refills it, wandering into the apartment's living room and wondering what he's supposed to do now. Wait? Go check out of his hotel and bring his things back here? Forget the whole plan entirely?
As if in answer to his musings, the exterior door slides open and his new partner enters, carrying a bag of food. "The apartments in this complex don't have replicators. But there's a decent place down the block."
He takes the bag and carries it over to the coffee table in the living room, noting the flushed skin and hair sticking to her face. She's wearing a t-shirt and shorts, with athletic shoes on her feet. "You go for a run, Doc?"
"Anna," she corrects him as she takes a large beaker of orange juice from the under-counter cooler in her tiny kitchenette. The food proves to be a North American-style breakfast: toast, eggs, bacon. "And yes, I did go running. I thought I'd be back before you woke up. Do you need an analgesic?"
The word no is on the tip of his tongue, but now isn't the time to push things. Instead, he nods.
She's as quiet and efficient with the hypo as she was the night before, once again giving herself away as a medical professional despite her refusal to admit it. "Eat as much or as little as you want, but make sure you have plenty of orange juice. I'm going to take a shower."
By the time she comes back into the room, toweling her hair, the combination of food and medicine has him feeling almost human again. He pours a second glass of orange juice and offers it to her, leaning back on the tiny couch in her living area. It's too short for her, too.
She accepts with a nod of thanks, standing awkwardly across from him. There's nowhere else to sit.
He scoots over. "Oh, sit down. I don't bite."
She complies, tucking herself into the corner and busying herself with toast and butter before looking up at him again. "You do that a lot?"
"Do what?"
"Get so drunk you can't walk straight."
"No," he answers automatically, but then he sighs. "Yeah, I suppose I have lately. There's not much else to do here while you're waiting. But I guess I'm not waiting anymore, am I?"
"No," she agrees, putting her plate back on the table and topping up both their glasses. "You aren't. Which means I'm not either." Her eyes are wary. "You asked if I'm a doctor. I'm not. I was a field medic for planetary security here for ten years, but that was long enough. The last time my enlistment came up for renewal, I decided it was time for a career change and went back to school. I'm just finishing up a degree in business. Marketing."
He considers her. It's plausible, especially given that HQ had specifically mentioned pharmaceutical smuggling as a problem on Starbase 24. They would have wanted someone familiar with the medical field. "You might want to work on your delivery a little. But the story itself sounds true."
"It is true," she snaps. "What about you, Michael? Or do you go by Mike?"
"Either's fine." He shrugs. "I have a pilot certification." That much actually is true; he'd switched specializations from flight ops to security relatively early on, but he's never let that lapse. "But I don't have a ship, so I work on contract instead. I was first-relief on a conglomerate ship that got noticed by Nausicaan pirates." There's a long pause as he takes another swallow of the juice. "We limped it into dock here, but the ship was shot up so bad the conglomerate just scrapped it. Which left me out of a job. So I'm looking for another berth."
She nods. "Makes sense. It also makes me wonder what the real story is, though."
"It's the story you're getting."
It's her turn to shrug. "Most pilots gloss over a lot of the details when they're talking about themselves."
They lapse into silence again, and he finds himself contemplating her bare feet. They're calloused and worn, with uneven toenails. A runner's feet, though there's no evidence of recent injury and she clearly knows it's important to take care of them. "I run, too. Maybe we can do that together tomorrow morning. Find some things in common."
A small smile appears. "I wouldn't mind that. I like having a running companion, especially when I'm in unfamiliar —" she cuts herself off, shaking her head. He's going to have to needle her a little more, he thinks. She's supposed to be a local. Even the smallest of lapses in their stories could be dangerous.
"I have to get to class," she says into the silence. "We're in the final week before exams, so I can't miss it."
"Definitely not." He stands up, gathering the remains of their meal. "I can take care of this on my way out. What time do you, ah, get out of class?"
"Around fifteen hundred. I really am going to classes," she says as she slips a pair of sandals onto her feet. "I have been all term. There are at least a few people who'll recognize and remember me."
He nods and purses his lips. She'll definitely need to work on internalizing her story some more before trying to go public. On staying in character, even in situations where it might be tempting not to.
But he's the one who catches her hand before she can get out of the door. "Wait."
"What?"
"Be real with me," he says. "Just this once. No pretense, no covers. Are you Starfleet, at least? Because I am."
She considers him for a long moment before nodding slightly. Then she opens the door and ushers him out, heading down the block toward the university. It's the opposite direction from the one he'll be taking, and as he turns away he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
They're both going to need to work on internalizing.