The Equinox logs
by Soledad
LOG #1: IMPOSSIBLE ODDSTitle: Log#1: Impossible Odds
Author: Soledad
Series: The Equinox Logs – totally AU
Genre: Acton-Adventure/Romance/Drama – take your pick.
Rating: from G to R, it varies by chapter.
Pairings: Ransom/Burke mainly, but also a series of other pairings, mostly implied.
Warning: This series contains adult themes like violence, experiments on sentient beings and non-detailed sexual interactions. Also, the main romance is that of a same-gender couple. If these topics are bothersome for you, please do us both the favour and hit the Back button. Thank you.
Also, it is spellchecked but not beta-read, so beware of my weird grammar.
Feedback: Sure, we all live for it. Just don't complain about the topics, please. The warnings were clear enough, weren't they?
Disclaimer: All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.
CHAPTER 00: A SHORT INTRODUCTIONThis series is a side product to my Alternate Voyager series. The idea was born after I read the novelization to the "Equinox"-episodes and began to think about Captain Ransom. What kind of person was he? What motivated him and his crew? What sort of relationship connected him to his first officer, Lt. Maxwell Burke?
Obviously, the answers I have come up with are set in an alternate universe. The family background of most characters – canon and original ones alike – has been made up by me. Nevertheless, I tried to respect canon facts as far as it still let my story work.
This particular series will contain four separate stories as follows:
Log #1: Impossible OddsThis part tells us the backstory of Ransom and Burke's relationship. As this is an AU, I took the freedom to make them lovers. This story shows Ransom the scientists, his adventures that were only mentioned in the episode, and how he made the famous first contact with the Yridians.
Log #2: The Krowtonan GuardThis story shows the abduction of the Equinox to the Delta Quadrant and their first disastrous weeks there, struggling with the Krowtonan Guard. The structure and customs of the Krowtonan Empire has been made up by me.
Log #3: Shattered HopesThis is the record of the Equinox' journey from near-starving through meeting the Ankari and the disaster with the nucleogenic aliens, until they leave the same starless void that Voyager crossed in the episode "Night" – just through a different part of it.
Log #4: Hope, Fear and a New EarthThe last log ties in with my Alternate Voyager series, starting with the meeting of the two ships and offering a very different outcome for all involved parties.
These stories will be written in chronological order. The teaser will appear before each story, but this intro chapter won't be posted again.
I hope you'll enjoy our little trek together (pardon the pun).
Soledad
CHAPTER 1: A CHANCE MEETING
Disclaimer: see in the Introduction.
Rating: R, for non-detailed sexual intercourse.
Author's notes: This particular chapter happens shortly after the 3rd season TNG-episode "The Price". Starbase 80 is only mentioned in the novelization of the "Equinox" episodes, as a place where Ransom had been stationed earlier.
Heartfelt thanks to my good friend, Jenn, for proofreading.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Personal log of Lt. Cmdr. Rudolph Ransom.
Stardate: 43411.7
The fourth month of my stationary assignment on Starbase 80 has nearly reached its end. I have to admit that after three years on various science vessels in little-known parts of the Beta Quadrant, enjoying the comfort of a space dock deep in Federation territory is a luxury that I've come to appreciate very much. Starfleet Sciences did me a huge favour by giving me a sabbatical to correlate all the collected data, and this for the second time.
The Enterprise has left the space dock, after dropping out all the dignities involved in the bargain for the Barzan wormhole. I ran into Devinoni Ral briefly, the man who'd negotiated on behalf of the Chrysalians, and though he was friendly enough, I'm glad that I was not the one to deal with these people. There is a reason why I never considered going to command school. Fortunately, Admiral T'Lara is a Vulcan, and as such she has the necessary patience to endure them.
My research work is going well. I've made considerable headway already. The biodata collected in the last three years are too eclectic to make sufficient raw material for another thesis right now, but they could build a solid basis for later work. All in all, I'm content.
News from Minos Kova are still sparse. Even though I don't have any relatives left on my birthplace – as my parents, thank some strange foresight, decided to move to Mars Solis when I was six – the fate of my homeworld of old still concerns me. The Cardassians are an enemy that shouldn't be underestimated. Ransom out.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Rudy Ransom rose from behind his desk and stretched. He'd been working since 08.00 without a break and now, eleven hours later, every single bone in his body ached. I definitely need more exercise, he realized, it's not normal to be this stiff at the age of 35.
He closed down his research for the day, stored everything in password-protected files, secured his lab and left the Institute of Exobiology Research to ride the turbolift to the habitat area. The computer was configured to transfer all research data to his even more secure personal terminal every time he finished working.
Starbase 80 was one of the huge space docks built at the end of the 22nd century, and – together with several identical ones – thoroughly overhauled a dozen times ever since, so that it looked brand new to the inexperienced eye. Drawing its energy from the large molten core of an E-class planet on the outskirts of Vulcan space, it was practically an independent city in space, with a population of over 25,000 – Vulcans, humans and dozens of other Federation species. The docking area was open for non-Federation starships as well, but for visiting other parts of the base (or for an extended presence) the crew of these needed a visa from the local Federation Embassy, led by Dr. Seth Mendoza, an experienced human diplomat of Centaurus.
Ransom briefly considered visiting one of the bars in the space port that – just like the huge docks that could swallow a Galaxy-class starship like a Klingon gob fly – was situated in the mushroom-shaped upper part of the Starbase, but in the end he decided against it. As magnificent as the view of arriving and leaving starships through the huge, transparent aluminium windows was, he didn't felt like mingling with all the sometimes noisy new arrivals, Starfleet or otherwise. After a long working day, one of the establishments in the habitat area, visited by permanent inhabitants only, seemed a better choice.
I'm getting very settled in my routine, he thought with a self-ironic smile, realizing that his feet had automatically brought him to Börek's Cantina – a dining place of moderate size, with good food, quiet music and mostly peaceful and solitary clientele. Definitely not the place to pick someone up for a night or two, tops. And yet, ever since he'd arrived at Starbase 80, Ransom had come here to eat. Almost every night.
Börek himself – a seven-foot-tall, burly alien with vertical yellow eyes, a hairless skull and a wrinkled, leathery face like that of a steer – seemed to spend his whole life in the Cantina. The diner was open 22 hours a day, and while the cooks worked in shifts, Börek apparently never left the place. Ransom wondered sometimes whether the Stroyerian needed any sleep at all, or if his people only hibernated a few days in an extended period of time, like the Denoblians. Such little details never failed to stir the exobiologist's interest, but he didn't feel that the time to ask a direct question was right – yet.
When Ransom entered, Börek was leaning on his elbows over the counter, towering over a ruddy-faced Starfleet officer in a command uniform. They were talking in a language Ransom had never heard before: it contained deep, guttural, gurgling noises on other ones that reminded suspiciously of burping. It has to be Stroyerian, Ransom decided, as the strange sounds actually matched Börek's appearance very well. Hearing them coming from the mouth of the stocky, sandy-haired human officer was another matter, of course.
Börek noticed the new customer immediately and excused himself from his chatting partner – it was business policy to serve the food to regulars personally. The Starfleet officer grinned and winked goodbye before leaving.
"Who was that?" Ransom asked, leaving to Börek to select a light meal for him; it was the best thing to do, as the names on the menu didn't say him much anyway.
"Commander Flaherty," Börek explained, producing a plate with selected pieces of vegetable-filled pastry, some sort of alarmingly pink sauce and a big glass of ikelberry juice in matching colour. "First officer. USS Aries. Only human ever speak mine tongue. Very decent fellow."
Börek's grasp on Standard was somewhat – elusive at times. Apparently, prepositions and articles were a strange concept for him. Obviously having decided that he had given all the important details, he trudged away already to great the next customer.
Ransom felt slightly envious. He had no linguistic talents worth mentioning, so he was dependent on the universal translator every time he met an lien who didn't speak Standard. And learning a language as strange as Stroyerian certainly demanded outstanding linguistic abilities. Most people, even most Starfleet officers, hadn't even heard of Stroyerians – they were not a numerous people and lived in an obscure, little-known sector of the Alpha Quadrant. Stroyeria wasn't even a full member of the Federation, allied only through trade contracts(2).
Ransom carefully tried the food, including the bizarrely-coloured sauce – as always, it proved t o be excellent, meaning that either everything served here was delicious, or Börek had some arcane ability that guided him by selecting the food for his regular customers. Whatever the matter might be, Ransom congratulated himself for finding the place in the first week and pulled out a PADD to check his mail while eating.
"Is this a private meeting between you and your dinner or is a guy without any decent company allowed to join the party?" a deep, mellow voice interrupted his reading.
He looked up in surprise, to see the most extraordinary young man he'd met in the last four months… or longer. He was most likely human, as Ransom could not recognize any known accent used by aliens speaking Standard, about a head taller than Ransom himself, lean and long-limbed, with slicked-back black hair and large, liquid dark eyes. He seemed to be made of sharp angles entirely, expect his surprisingly round cheeks that looked as if they would belong to a different face and had ended up on his by mistake. He wore casual clothes – dark trousers and an open-necked black silk shirt – but there was something in his mannerism that revealed that he was more than just a bored playboy in search for a date.
"Sure," Ransom cleared his throat a little nervously; this wasn't the first time someone had picked him up in a bar – not that he minded it – but he wasn't prepared for it to happen in Börek's sober establishment. "Be my guest, Mr…"
"Name's Max," the young man offered, making himself comfortable already; the fact that he didn't tell his whole name made his intention all the more obvious. Ransom nodded.
"I'm Rudy."
That earned him a grin from Max, but he was used to people reacting to his first name that way. Especially humans. To Max' credit, at least the young man resisted the temptation to bring up the infamous red-nosed reindeer. Or else he was from a far-away colony where Santa was not part of the tradition. In any case, it was a relief.
Having found more interesting entertainment, Ransom put the PADD back into his pocket, sending a short blessing to whoever ingenious person designed these new coveralls for station personnel. They were comfortable, pleasant to wear, made anyone look well – and they actually had pockets, for the first time in a century and a half! He only hoped they would be adapted as duty uniforms for starship use as well.
"So… Max," he said, surveying the amount and variety of food that Börek had found suitable to pile on three different plates on the young man's tray, "you're new on the Base, I guess."
Max nodded, chewing and swallowing unhurriedly, his eyes rolling back in pleasure. "I was transferred six days ago."
"You're Fleet, too?" Ransom felt he had the right to ask that much – after all, he was in uniform, complete with rank pins, a fact that gave the other man an advantage.
"Only recently," Max dropped something that looked like fried shrimps but was most definitely not into his mouth. "My first post. I've just graduated."
That piece of information made Ransom decidedly uncomfortable.
"I thought you were older."
Max grinned. "Actually, I am. I worked on a civilian freighter for five years before going to the Academy."
Which meant in translation: Don't fret, I'm no frightened virgin. Of course, it would take for Ransom another four years to discover that Max had bent the truth a little, just to put his mind at ease. The five years on the freighter were true – only that Max had been barely fifteen when he started working there. But the young man did look older than his actual age, so Ransom didn't suspect that there still were twelve years between the two of them.
"Was it there that you got used to eating so much?" he joked, a little taken aback by the predatory glance in those dark eyes. "How do you manage to remain this skinny?"
Max shrugged, grinning. "The clue is energy. Lots of nervous energy, or so they say. I've got a very fast digestion."
But his eyes clouded over a little, and Ransom suspected that there had to be more behind his ravenous appetite than genetics. A childhood spent in poverty, perhaps. This was the reaction of someone who'd known real hunger.
The conversation died for the time being, and Ransom leaned back in his chair, watching the younger man making a sensual performance out of his dinner. There was little doubt how their chance encounter would end, but since it was Max who initiated the whole thing, Ransom decided to let him make the next step – if he wanted. In the meantime, the performance was worth watching.
Finally Max finished eating (and showing off for his potential date) and pushed the tray from him with a content sigh. All three plates were meticulously cleaned from the last morsel of food.
"That was excellent," the young man said. "I see I'll love this place. But I'm so full now, it's not even funny anymore. I think I'll need some exercise – and maybe a real drink or two. Can you suggest a place where I can find both?"
Which meant in translation: I want to go somewhere where we can dance and have a drink – and preferably a room afterwards. The ball was back in Ransom's corner again. And he just happened to know the right place, for all three requirements.
"What about the Starlight Casino?" he asked. It's run by Ferengi, but it has gambling tables, a well-stocked bar… and a number of holosuites."
"Sounds interesting," Max' eyes raked all over Ransom's body. "You may not want to be seen there in uniform, though…"
Ransom shrugged. "It's not an off-limits place for Starfleet personnel." He knew, of course, that Max simply wanted more eye-candy, so with a slight smile, he added. "But I can change if that's what you mean."
Max nodded slowly. "That would be nice. Meet you there in twenty minutes?"
"Will you find your way?" Ransom asked. The grin on Max' face was a clear enough answer, so he stood, paid his bill and went home to dress up for his first date in two months.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Ransom never made much of clothes, so changing actually meant for him to put on his civvies – a simple, sand-coloured shirt that nearly matched his hair and some dark grey trousers that he preferred to wear off-duty. They revealed little more than his uniform, as he had no exhibitionistic tendencies whatsoever. The only allowance he made was leaving the top three buttons of his shirt open.
The Starlight Casino was buzzing with life already when he arrived. The majority of the customers was human or Betazoid – the latter had an institute of advanced psychology on the station – but he could see quite a few civilian Trill scientists from the microcontamination lab of from Quantum Mechanics, too. Personally, he only knew Dr. Hanor Pren who used to be a guest professor at the Academy. Some Ferengi merchants were playing at one of the Dabo tables, and even a couple of Vulcans stood there, watching he gambles with detached, almost scientific interest.
Max was at the bar already, leaning against the polished counter and flirting shamelessly with a scantily-clad blonde humanoid waitress – most likely a K'tarian, if the slanted eyes, the bulbous forehead and the lion-like mane were any indication. Ransom dismissed the scene with a shrug. Apparently, Max walked both sides of the street. So what? They had no commitment – they had just met. Besides, Ransom wasn't the possessive type, so even if his date turned out a failure, he wouldn't lose any sleep about it.
As if he had some special mental sensors, Max noticed his arrival immediately.
"Sorry, honey," he said to the waitress, "but it seems that my date has arrived. Was nice to chat with you, though."
The K'tarian woman shot Ransom a rueful look (she had been chastised before by her boss for molesting the customers) and hurried back to the Dabo tables.
"What a pleasure to see you in our humble establishment again, Commander," a deep, oozing voice spoke, and Paldor and his brother Manion, the owners of the Starlight Casino (and many other, less than lawful business areas on the station) made their appearance. Max stared at them with his mouth literally open, and when he was being honest, Ransom couldn't blame the younger man for it.
As Ferengi go, the two godfathers of Starbase 80 were far from usual in appearance. Though short like all of their people, each had an oversized head covered with white hair –except one circular area above their eyebrow ridges – which created a V-shaped line with the bushy eyebrows. On the bald area that barely reached the top of their heads, the pale red tattoo of their tribal and clan identifications could be seen. The eyebrow ridges that shadowed the long, pale eyes, continued in an unbroken line along the enormous ear shells and down to the tip of their chins, which were long enough to touch their chests. Paldor, the older one, even wore a short, curly white goatee, hold together by golden pins. Long, velvet robes in burgundy red and royal blue with stiff, gold-seamed collars and triangular golden buttons completed their venerable appearance(2).
"We have missed you lately," Manion added, his voice oozing he same false benevolence as his brother's. "But as it seems, you've chosen the best time for a visit. We have an Argelian dance group for a guest performance tonight. They are said to be a true marvel."
"The Red Separee is still free at the moment, if you please," Paldor took over smoothly, and Ransom made a quick calculation. The separees of the Starlight Casino – small dining chambers with a curtain-covered door into luxurious bedrooms behind them – were outrageously expensive, but had direct access to the dance floor, the best view of all performances – and the bedrooms were soundproof. Plus, the drinks and desserts were included into the price. Which was high, alarmingly so – but he could afford it, having barely spent a couple of credits during the last two months.
"All right," he said with a flat smile that told Paldor not to try any tricks on him, "we'll take it. Until 03.00 hours. Not a nanosecond longer." Which still gave them more than five hours of ridiculous luxury. That should be enough – both for having fun and for eating up every credit he had laid aside for recreation purposes since he arrived.
"You better be good," he said to Max in a low voice, hoping that not even the unnaturally keen Ferengi ears would hear it through the music and the noise of the gambling tables. "This is one stunt I won't be able to repeat for months to come."
"I'll do my best," the young man replied with false modesty; then he glanced at the Ferengi who'd gone forward to show them the way. "Didn't you say this place was run by Ferengi?"
"They are Ferengi," Ransom said, "just not the sort you can run into in every port. They are upper class the ultimate nobility. Ferengi are no more of a homogenous species than humans are. Up to 200 years ago, these were the ruling class on Ferenginar. The planet used to be an oligarchy, ruled by about two dozen powerful (meaning: very rich) clans. They were protected by a warrior caste that has become almost completely extinct."
"Ferengi warriors?" Max shook his head in amusement. "Sounds like Klingon merchants… What were those like?"
"Apparently, they looked the average Ferengi rather alike, but were somewhat bigger and stronger," Ransom started warming up for the topic. "They had only one big forehead bulb, slightly pointed ears and long, sharp, vampire-like canines. The rest of the people, however, was the same as today, or so they say. Then a civil war – or something like that, the details are unclear – happened, that more or less eradicated the warrior caste and forced the ruling class into exile. They were discovered by Kirk's Enterprise during its second five-year-mission."(3)
"How come that you know these things, of which nobody else has ever heard?" Max asked in amazement while they were lead to the Red Separee and got seated on the low and broad, velvet-covered settee. Ransom shrugged.
"I'm an exobiologist – and for some reason I can't guess, Paldor decided that he liked me, right after my arrival. So, sometimes I come here for a drink, and we talk. Most of the time he lies through his teeth, I think, but it's an interesting challenge to find the kernel of truth behind all those layers of lies. Still, he seems to really like me. I even got into the holosuites for an acceptable price for a few times."
"And?" Max asked with interest. Of course he'd had tales about the holographic brothels of the Ferengi – everyone had. But very few people could afford the prices in an establishment like the Starlight Casino. Not many of Starfleet, at least.
"The programs are incredible," Ransom admitted, laying a hand on Max' thigh and squeezing gently, "but they can't beat the real thing."
They were distracted for a moment by the waiter – this time a young, beautiful, dark-skinned Centaurian boy with deep red eyes and a shaved skull, wearing a very tiny loincloth and a golden collar only – who took their drink orders. The Starlight Casino personnel adapted quickly to the customers' preferences.
"An Arcturian Fizz for me," Ransom ordered; not that he would need any aphrodisiac, not with this gorgeous young man on his side, but "in for a penny, in for a pound", as the old Earth saying stated. "And a macchiato, double strong, double sweet, in about two hours."
The practically naked young waiter nodded and tapped the order into his PADD.
"And for you, sir?" he asked Max.
"Do you serve Calaman sherry here?"
"But of course, sir."
"I mean the real thing, not that replicated stuff," Max warned. "And tell whoever pours the drinks that I can tell the difference, so no tricks."
"No problem, sir," the waiter answered. "Had you ordered Romulan ale, we might need to be a little… creative, but Calaman sherry is a fairly common order here, so the boss keeps an extensive stock. Any desserts? We've got home-made I'danian spice pudding tonight. It's excellent."
"And extremely caloric," Max laughed. "No, thanks. I've got to keep my girlish shape."
"It's always good to have some extra calories to burn," the waiter gave Ransom's hand, still resting on Max' thigh, an unmistakable look. Max grinned.
"Another time, perhaps. I'll have iced coffee instead. Later."
"In about two hours," the waiter nodded, completely aware of the likely run of the evening; he'd worked here for quite some time. "Your drinks will arrive in a moment, gentlemen. The performance starts in forty minutes."
With that, he left to fetch their drinks, swaying his hips in a seemingly innocent manner.
"Forty minutes?" Max rolled his eyes. "What are we going to do that long? It's too much time for sitting with a drink, but not nearly enough to go into the back room. I'm not into quickies, unless there's no other choice."
"We're going to dance," Ransom slid his hand higher, over the younger man's crotch, fondling his prize briefly. "You wanted some exercise, didn't you? And the lights above the dance floor are reasonably dim."
"This place was made for people like us," Max agreed, rubbing himself against Ransom's hand like a cat in the heat. "Let's go!"
They stood and walked out of their separee, directly onto the well populated dance floor. The lights were dim enough, indeed, the music slow and sensuous – loud enough that the dancing couples of various age, gender and race wouldn't disturb each other with low moans, soft grunts or whispered endearments, but not so loud that it would kill the amorous mood. There seemed to be no rules what would go and what wouldn't, as long as some level of discretion was kept.
Ransom led his date to a less crowded part of the dance floor, wanting a little more privacy. They danced lazily, holding each other by the hips, hands exploring lightly the more intimate places, then returning again, growing interests rubbing together repeatedly.
"This is nice," Max murmured, sliding his hands up to the strong, shoulders of his date, kneading the tense muscled absently. "Most guys don't take their time; it's usually a drink and a quick pounding, and it's over."
"Is that why you prefer women?" Ransom asked, smiling. Max looked down at him in surprise.
"Who told you that I preferred women?"
"Well, I saw you with that K'tarian girl… you did seem interested," Ransom pointed out neutrally. Max shrugged.
"She was pretty… but I was just flirting. The good thing with girls is that you can flirt with them without them demanding more on the spot. That's why I never flirt with men. They tend to believe that it would give them the right to get into my pants, without asking."
"What were you doing in Börek's then, if not flirting with me?" Ransom asked. Max looked him straight in the eyes.
"Making a pass at you, so that you'd get the hint."
"I did," Ransom grinned, "so we can call that a success. What next? Do you want to watch the performance, or should we continue straight in the back room?" Max thought about that for a moment.
"Drinks, performance, then back room," he finally decided. "I've never seen an Argelian dance group before, and since you're gonna sell your last shirt for that separee anyway, it'd be a shame to waste the perfect view. We can still make out while watching them, can't we? The tablecloth is long for a reason…"
"We don't need the tablecloth for cover," Ransom said, moving with the music and pressing his lower body against the younger man's suggestively. "The separees are equipped with a semi-transparent screen, or so I am told. We can look out, but nobody can peer in."
"Yeah, but where's the adventure in that?" Max laughed, undulating his hips a few times experimentally. "The real kick is that we actually could be seen, isn't it?"
"For you, perhaps," Ransom grabbed the back of the younger man's head and pulled him down for the first kiss. It was a tentative approach, sampling the taste and texture of the soft mouth – an aperitif to the meal to come. He found his first taste of Max extremely satisfying. "Let's go back," he suggested, slipping his hand under Max' shirt, basking in the warmth and softness of his skin. "Necking is awkward when we are standing – you are too tall."
"Or you are too short," Max laughed, shivering slightly under the sensual touch, but followed obediently. He wasn't usually this submissive, but he hadn't been treated this generously by his other dates either, so he decided to let Rudy take the lead – for the time being. The older man seemed like a patient and considerable lover, so it didn't really matter who called the shots.
They returned to their separee where their desserts were already waiting for them, and now the necking began in earnest. Ransom found the scent and the taste of Max intoxicating, and Max couldn't keep his hands off Ransom either. It had been too long, for both of them, their need for closeness was almost desperate.
When the – admittedly marvellous – Argelian belly dancers swarmed out onto the dance flour, their smooth, incredibly limber bodies swaying and glistening like a nest of beautiful and deadly cobras to the pipe of the snake charmer, the Arcturian Fizz had already developed its full effect. The two men were more laying than sitting on the plush sofa, watching the performance with half an eye, while the rest of their body parts were… otherwise occupied.
"How many hands do you have, Rudy?" The low, throaty laughter of Max was barely audible above the aggressive shrieking of Argelian flutes and the throbbing of the drums. "Are you an octopus or what?"
"You have a problem with the position of my hands?" Ransom inquired politely; one of said hands was currently deep in Max' pants, the other under his shirt.
"Only… that they are… not… deep enough…" Max was losing the ability of coherent speech rapidly.
"Yeah, but if I let them wander any deeper," which Ransom actually was doing in that very moment, "you won't be able to concentrate on the dancers."
"Forget the dancers," Max gasped," I've seen enough. But I'll die… from… blue balls,… if you keep… doing that… any longer…."
"Now, we can't have that, can we?" Ransom murmured, sinking under the table bonelessly. "Just enjoy the performance while I take care of your little problem."
Unless he wanted to attract any unwanted attention, Max had no other choice than to pretend watching the dancers while the older man went down gleefully on him. He was very much aware of the fact that – unlike the back room – this part of the separee was not soundproof. Painfully aware of it, in fact – remaining silent while Rudy had his wicked way with him under the table was pure torture.
Finally, just seconds before the waiter reappeared with their pre-ordered desserts, the older man emerged again, sitting casually on his side, watching the rest of the performance with infuriating calmness.
"Anything else, gentlemen?" the waiter asked, his face carefully neutral.
"I think we'll have two I'danian spice puddings, after all," Ransom answered, as Max was beyond speech at the moment. "And two cups of hot pejuta, with a slice of lemon at 02.30. Can you arrange it?"
"Of course, sir. Do you want the dessert now or with the pejuta?"
"Neither, actually. Around midnight. Here in the foreroom. Preferably warm."
"No problem at all, sir. I'll serve it in a thermo-dish. Have a pleasant time, gentlemen."
With that, the waiter left. Max had recovered a little in the meantime, so that they had the coffee of their choice and decided to retire in the back room and get down to business seriously.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
At 02.48 they were ready to leave – sated, lazy and cleaned up for the new day, as the back room had a sonic shower, among other luxuries. Ransom walked back to the counter, checked the bill carefully – friendship aside, one could never be suspicious enough when doing business with Ferengi – then signed it, allowing the considerable amount of credits to be transferred from his account. Max, not wanting to spy on him, waited a little further away.
"I had a lot of fun," he offered a little awkwardly, following his lover out of the Casino. Ransom nodded.
"Me, too. I'm glad we ran into each other at Börek's."
"Perhaps we'll run into each other again," Max said uncertainly. He didn't keep up his hopes for that to happen very much, but a guy could try, after all.
"Perhaps," Rudy answered noncommittally. "Well, duty calls. Take care, Max." And he was gone.
"You, too," Max answered to the empty corridor, walking off toward the turbolift in defeat.
Damn it, he thought, angry with himself, when will I learn not to expect anything else but what has been offered?
TBC
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End notes:
(1) Actually, Stroyerians are one of the nameless species from the TOS-movies in my alternate universe. "Börek" is the name of a Turkish dish, BTW. *g*
(2) The description is based on Andrew Probert's first (rejected) designs for Ferengi. See: "The Art of Star Trek", pp. 94-95.
(3) Well, no, they were not. Not in canon anyway. Just in my stories, which are AU. Like the whole concept about Ferengi history.
