I don't own anything Andromeda.
Set right after The Honey Offering.
And: Happy birthday, Squid109!
Wagram Roses
He was roaming about the ship, unable to rest, to sleep, to come to terms with the latest events. It was the dead of the night, the huge vessel was silent but for the hums and throbbing of its functions, and he didn't expect to meet with anyone: Andromeda was taking care of her night shifts on her own. They were too few to unnecessarily disturb the natural bio-rhythm even people living aboard starships had to submit to, as Trance had plausibly explained.
He aimlessly wandered from his quarters to his nearby-set office, to Command, the officers' mess – avoiding the other one, much larger, designed for the lower ranks, a huge space always painfully reminding him that there were no lower ranks left – and to Obs Deck, the gyms, several other recreational rooms with large holovid-screens, and cosy sitting corners, and shelves full of flexis, rolls, books, instruments and devices to either make or listen to music, games, enough to keep thousands of people entertained and happy... Finally he ended up in Hydroponics and sat down on a small bench, his legs at long last picking up on the weariness of his mind. He sat down and slowly closed his eyes, relaxing a bit, smelling the scent of the flowers mixed with that of a well-watered soil.
"Hey!"
With eyes still closed he smiled. She hadn't startled him. Light as they were, he had heard her steps all along.
"Hey, Beka!"
"What are you doing here, at this kind of hour?"
He opened his eyes, his smile deepening.
"What are you doing here, at this kind of hour?" he asked in return.
She grinned.
"I read the manuals. On the first officer's duties," she explained further, seeing his eyebrows rise inquiringly. "Apparently I'm supposed to always keep an eye on things when no-one else is."
"Actually, I think that I am supposed to keep an eye on things when no-one else is."
"No," she disagreed, "you're supposed to always keep an eye on things, regardless of who else might be watching as well."
"Yeah," Dylan agreed quietly, letting his eyes roam through the gardens and slightly moving to the side, to make some room for her to sit down next to him. After some time spent in companionable silence, Beka discreetly cleared her throat.
"I was looking for you..."
Again he smiled lightly.
"I... had sort of figured that out already," he told her with a small chuckle.
"The news-flash tonight..." Beka began anew. "The Sabra-Jaguar alliance has come true. I thought you might want to know that. Apparently the marriage went through after all, and now they're all moving on to the 'happily ever after'-part."
"I know," he said, shrugging slightly upon seeing her inquiring gaze, "Elsbett Mossadim sent me a private message." Beka's eyes narrowed.
"How... unexpectedly thoughtful of her," she praised, her hesitant tone a bit ironic. "So despite the rather bumpy start, the two of you got to do some bonding after all, hm?"
He shook his head.
"Not really," he confessed, "we just got a bit acquainted with each other's frailties."
"Elsbett Mossadim has frailties? That you found out about?" Beka laughed up. "You should write a book about it. You know, share precious information with the rest of us. Our all survival might one day depend on it."
He let his head drop, hiding a lopsided grin and staring at his hands, the fingers of his right hand unconsciously rubbing the left wrist where it had been enclosed by Elsbett's handcuffs.
"Dylan?"
"Hm?"
"Well...?
"Well what?"
"What did you find out?" Beka asked directly. He sighed, then shook his head.
"Not much. Only that – for all her cold deadliness – underneath it all Elsbett Mossadim is just like every other woman looking for a man to love her..."
"Oh, that!" his companion exclaimed dismissively. He peeked into her face with curiosity.
"Not really news to you, is it?" he inquired lowly. She delicately shrugged her shoulders, grimacing a little.
"That there is a seed of humanity underneath all their arrogance and ruthlessness? No. No news in there," Beka confirmed. "Neither is there any news-value in the fact that it is the one trait they can rid themselves of with utmost ease whenever they feel like it," she concluded, her tone gaining an edge of sharpness.
"I know," Dylan acquiesced quietly. He lifted his head, searching for her eyes with a somewhat lost, helpless expression in his own. "Why?" he asked her softly. "How?"
She contemplated him in silence for an instant.
"Have you ever been to the Sabra homeworld?" she finally queried.
"No," he mouthed soundlessly.
"Massada, a moon of Massilia Magna, dry, stony and dusty. Hot, where water's worth a fortune, with habitats carved deep into the mountains, where men, women and children walk around only armed to their teeth. From there they have spread out, ruling the entire Santorin-system. Once a year they meet – almost all of them – on Wagram, another of Massilia's moons, the only cooler, wetter place in the whole system, covered with dark, blue-green forests that are always misty and cold. Years on Wagram have 412 days. It rains on about 360 of them."
"Sounds... wet," Dylan inserted.
"It is," Beka laughed. "But they love it. They meet there, build camp-fires, drink disgusting stuff like hot wine made of fermented honey, sing war-songs, dance war-dances, shoot off their gauss-guns into the skies and tell their children old stories about greedy dragon-slayers, who got slain themselves by warrior queens or – alternatively – by their own relatives."
"Lovely," the man commented dryly.
"Indeed," she confirmed.
"You seem to know a lot about them..." Dylan ventured.
"I like to look at them. I like to... study them."
"Do you also like to... interact with them?" he inquired.
"I like to... use them. Occasionally," Beka admitted freely.
He nodded pensively.
"But you don't like them," Andromeda's captain stated.
The blonde bowed closer to him, her eyes insistently locking on to his.
"I know them, Dylan," she told him in a deep-throated, hoarse voice. "I've been there, spent a few vacations on Wagram, freezing in the rain, silently listening to their stories, their songs. I've got lots of memories from there, intense, interesting, sometimes thrilling ones. Violent ones too, most of them. I know their ways, the way they subdued Santorin. Their history there is... an indignity, but they only see it as a mere opening to a grand adventure, never short on excuses about how all cruelty is inevitable. I know their one-way roads. When they enter peace-talks, I know where they keep their weapons hidden. And when they sign their treaties, I know where their tolerance ends."
"And you think I don't." It was not a question. Beka shook her head.
"No, I think you do. But I also think that you like to believe that one can have sincere stories of love and friendship with Nietzscheans, I believe that when you think of them, you also like to tell yourself that although you know even their romanticism to be violent and brutal, you will one day succeed in finding a way to their minds and hearts. Even if it means that you have to constantly concentrate on some sentimental ancient melody of theirs - and block away the war-drums."
"I'm not a fool, Beka," Dylan warned her lowly. "And I get the picture by now, you told and showed it to me often and clearly enough. It's just that..." He shrugged. "I can't help seeing these other sides of them too; the doves behind the hawks, the poetry in their stories of blood and death and mayhem, and how their violins can play Viennese waltzes slower and much sweeter than all others can."
"Viennese waltzes, hm?" Beka threw him a long, pensive look and seemed to shrink in on herself, as if freezing. "I hate Viennese waltzes..."
"What?" He laughed incredulously. "Come on, now. Everyone loves Viennese waltzes. They're fun, so light..."
"There is death underneath their lightness..."
She stood up and walked a few steps away, silently motioning him to follow her. He complied, walking behind her on the wounded Hydroponics-alley until they reached a somewhat remote, slightly hidden spot displaying masses of dark-red, almost black roses on tall, dark-green leafed bushes giving off a sweet, almost intoxicating scent. Dylan gasped.
"That's...beautiful. They're new. I've never seen them before. Where did Trance get them from?"
He almost involuntarily lifted a hand to reach for the flowers. Hastily, violently Beka hit his arm away.
"Their stems are covered with deadly poisonous thorns," she explained, looking sternly into his questioning eyes. "They're a special breed: Wagram roses. Look, if you must, but stay away from them."