My greatest thanks to Mia for the beta on this story.
A follow-up story, with permission, on The Seventh Bar by LittleObsessions and the Second Circle by Mia Cooper. Read them first and savour them in the AO3 collection Counterpoint Vignettes at archiveofourown dot org/collections/Counterpoint. The Second Circle is also posted here at s/12346125/1/The-Second-Circle.
'He'd pity you.'
I can almost grasp the meaning of those few words when I lie between sleep and awareness near my wife, in the early hours of the morning. They come unbidden in my mind, querying my understanding of emotions which nearly a lifetime of duty to the Imperium taught me to crush underfoot at the slightest inkling of their existence.
I let the wisps of the portent of her words disappear, their memory curling away, elusive once again. The daylight will soon expose the decaying scent of virtuousness they carry, the shallow depth of wishful thinking from the one who spoke them such a long time ago. Pity speaks of compassion, forgiveness, absolution. If I was to bend under the weight of those sentiments, I would need to feel guilt or shame. And that, I cannot do. She knew, that guileful human, that those feelings do not become me.
So what did she mean?
The woman beside me stirs. At the beginning of our marriage, she had begged me to let her come to me with her desires, but I allow her wishes rarely, if at all. Now she just endures, whenever and however I take my pleasure. She is my wife, a useful convenience in the new world that is the Devore Republic. Nothing more.
I move my hand down her back and she stills, knowing I'll take her as I want.
Frankly, I was about as interested in her First Officer's opinion as I was in Prax's. Two big oafs, one useful to me, the other one supposedly always at her side according to the ship records, charged with doing his Captain's bidding. I did not need Prax with her. And she sure did not want her footman shadowing her.
I can't help laughing, quietly. Maybe she was not the only one I should have taken. The thought is gratifying. I am sure he would not have pitied me then. Neither she.
My wife whimpers under me. I quicken my pace.
Did he come to her with his sad brown eyes when I left her sore and bruised? Did he wrap her in his loving arms? Or maybe he just patched her up in silence, because he knew he could not give her what she craved.
Pity is such a weak and soft little word. It's interesting that she told me of it as I was taking her, rough and ready and yielding. Soft is certainly not what she was, nor what she wanted.
Need. Will. Want. She must have been fascinated to watch herself slide so quickly, so easily from one to the other. From the need to protect her crew, to the will to submit to my commands, to the want to come back to me when there was no reason to do so anymore.
Ah, the ambiguity of some words. So tantalizing to dance from one to the other, back and forth, the mind nicely messed up.
Fifteen years later, and I still feel her smooth pale skin, her firm buttocks. She wanted it hard and I obliged, recognising her silent demands for what they were. Lucky we had the same tastes.
I can get carried away at times, transposing those memories of another woman onto my wife. We have no dermal regenerators on Devore. My wife hides for a couple of days before appearing back on my arm to attend the next diplomatic reception. The consort of an ambassador has only one job to do: to smile and look beautiful.
I restrain myself. I want everything to be perfect for tonight.
Did the dark tattooed man pity her when he saw the recording I left of us? Rushed to her quarters, demanding his pound of flesh? Did he rise to the occasion?
His name is on the manifest of the newly minted Federation ship that is coming to Devore. Captain Chakotay of the USS La Recherche, and Admiral Kathryn Janeway.
Did she think of me when his hands held her down?
I swirl my tongue around her new rank, remembering those occasions when it lashed at her instead. Sometimes, I can taste our mutual recklessness in my mouth.
I get up as soon as I'm finished, leaving my wife spread over the covers. I miss Janeway's silent, almost controlled shuddering releases. Although the last time we had together, she was far from soundless or restrained in her pleasure, and it pleased me to extract such licence from her.
I've seen the recordings the Federation sent to my Minister of their representatives. She is still thin and lithe in her new uniform. Her face is lined near the eyes like small sunrays, her hair tinged with silver. I don't know how humans age, but it seems that she wears time well. Her deep voice tingles up my spine.
I should have quelled my reminiscences of Voyager's Captain and kept my body primed for the long night ahead instead. She'll find me a little wider in the loins, hair a tad greyer, rounder ridges. Two wives later, I'm in good shape.
But she does not know of me as yet. All our communications have been through intermediaries, as it is often done between two powerful political partners in the making. I imagine her eyes widening when the Devore Ambassador takes her arm to guide her to the lavish reception this evening.
You've got to admire the woman. Seventy-five years in a tin can navigating hundreds of unfriendly territories - like ours - would make anybody baulk. But she had one goal in her mind which kept her going. I wonder how often she had to spread her legs to get a new technology or a quick passage so she could find her way back to her home planet that much faster.
In return, I learnt from her, although I did not quite understand her gift to me until later on. That long term planning of hers. That single-mindedness to do all it takes to serve your people the best you can.
When we dine side by side at the reception table, I'll tell her how I knew the Federation would come back sooner or later to what she called the Delta quadrant, keen to force their civilised ideals on its depraved barbarians; eager to start their foray with those species already nice and tame, according to their much enlightened standards. Those telepaths for example.
Telepaths and advanced alien technology were not a combination that brought me joy. And Devore would miss out on the rich pickings that would come from trading with such a powerful partner as the Federation. Kept isolated behind our borders, we would soon be ignored, maybe even pitied by those who had tasted our might in years past. Soon forgotten.
I could not let that happen. Devore had to change.
After the dinner, while the two of us lead what passes for a formal dance on Devore, I will whisper in her ear how letting Voyager go brought me to the attention of the weak - but growing - underground movement among the telepath-lovers of our world. How a coup I had some small role in organising toppled the inflexible Imperium I used to obey without question. In its place grew a benign and tolerant republic, willing to reward those who had helped it to power.
Not that I care much for telepaths. I am still repelled by such beings. I long for those days when the number of prisoners I sent to their deaths was testimony enough of my achievements. Peace makes for such a dull world.
In the early hours of the morning, finding ourselves conveniently alone in a sealed room behind the reception hall, she will fully grasp how her consent will ensure the Devore and the Federation remain close and long-term partners.
But she told me I talked too much. So, instead, we might just pick up from when she left my quarters on Voyager, fifteen years ago. And that Captain of hers may watch, if he likes.
###
"Admiral Janeway, Captain Chakotay, I am Ambassador Kashyk. Welcome to the Devore Republic."
I wonder if he knows how I envy him.