Someone wanted Rommie's POV on that.
Stating the Obvious
I've got more to tell you, but I don't think I dare now, not after the way you glared at me the last time around.
You stared at me with eyes full of reproach and anger. If looks could kill, if I were not an avatar, if somehow, somewhere deep inside you wouldn't know that all the things you thought of me are not true… I'd be dead. And all this would add up to would be just another case of killing the bearer of bad news.
Because you were right in one respect: Molly IS bad news. But not because of all of those reasons that you dread. The bad news about Molly isn't Molly, Beka. The bad news about Molly is Dylan. And it's you.
I don't have Harper's inbred skills in defining all peculiarities mankind has developed along the millennia; I don't have Trance's empathy for what every being feels nor do I claim the wise insight into human nature Rev Bem seems to have gained over the years. All I can do is observe, and analyse as thoroughly and as objectively as possible what's right in front of me. And this is what I did. I observed Dylan, and you – and yes, I have come to some conclusions. And I can bet my core on it that you'd rather not hear anything about them.
You think that I was jealous of Molly, that I wanted to use you to force her off this ship, away from this crew and out of Dylan's life. And to some extent you even might have been right: I don't want another sassy blonde with great piloting skills staying in Dylan's life and with us anymore than I wanted to have a spoiled alpha female, the unstable yet charismatic leader of a bunch of weirdoes, the immoral sister of an amoral criminal, a strong-headed, challenging commanding officer of some other ship or a fascinating con-artist with a regal bearing along for the ride. None of them really interested in much more than to just add another conquest to their lists and with their minds set on winning their respective… Hmm, I suppose Harper would call them 'pissing contests' with Dylan. And if I were to guess, I'd say that next in line is some pirate-bride or smuggler-queen or whatever else slightly shady, independent, sharp, strong and intriguing woman we might run across.
Does this ring any bells with you? No? Well, it does with me, Beka; and no, it doesn't take a brain the size of a planet to recognise a certain… shall we say "predatory pattern" here, a quite obvious preference in Dylan's… choice of prey. But you, of course, don't. No. You wouldn't. Not ever. Not unless your life depended on it. Or his. Well, tell you what: had Molly stayed, your life or his life or your both' lives and, consequently, the lives of us all just might have depended on it.
You think that you and me and all the Mollies out there are competing for the same place. You're wrong, we're not. You're humans and me, I am a warship. A sentient one, with feelings, but those feelings match my nature, not yours, Beka. I do love Dylan, I want him to be safe and happy and out of harm's way, I need him and I miss him when he's not around. I know his every mood, I like to have him around, to see him think and move and talk and play and… well, everything really. But so I did with Perim; and if one day something should happen to Dylan, I know that I will do so with you, too. Even though it might well be true that because of what we went through together, I probably always will love Dylan a bit more. Nonetheless, this isn't what he wants and - more importantly: he is not what I want, either.
The only ones I ever loved in a way to make me want with them this place you think I might be wanting with Dylan were Gabriel and Metis, because to some extent they both were as timeless, as perennial as I am, and as you're not. However, the only ones I ever was jealous of where Dylan is concerned were Hector – and you, Beka.
I think it's clear, why Hector. And you… Well, you I'm jealous of because…
No, I'm not jealous; I am angry, Beka. I'm angry because at one point, probably when you were just a foetus in your mother's womb, something – somebody, and I guess Rev would say the Divine – reached out and touched you, offering you the two most precious gifts that I've ever seen bestowed on anyone, a small gift and a great one.
You see, that gut instinct and those sensitive hands of yours… Together they're worth trillions of gold-thrones when in slipstream, where – compared to that – all of Dylan's limbs thrown in together with all his careful training don't add up to much more than a dime. Dylan's got the brains and the education, but you – you've got the talent.
The other gift you have, the big one, is that life-force of yours. One that burns so strongly and so brightly that it seems to shine through every one of your pores. And it lures people to you, it made Dylan succumb to it almost the second he set his eyes on you for the very first time. It makes one want to see that life-force preserved, protected at all cost, while at the same time it inspires trust and love in good and decent men. You know that, but you don't trust yourself and your knowledge. You fight it, you reject it, thinking you don't deserve the love of nice guys, Beka. And so you go instead for the dangerously shrewd, lying, dumb, pretty bad boys, all of that just because you don't respect the gifts you have received, the feelings they inspire and the responsibilities that come out of them.
In the long run that would, of course, be just your problem. But what it adds up to, is that you don't respect yourself. And that makes it MY problem. Because it leads to Leydons, to Abels and to Tyrs. Just as it also leads to Sashas, Turas and Mollies. And when that happens, Beka, it's somehow always me ending up with the fear that I'm going to lose either you or Dylan or both, all the while the two of you fool around, mostly to the point where you get hurt and can't make it out of the hot seat without the other one standing by and throwing the bucky-cable to pull you in. Had Dylan not been there to sort things out with Abel, had you not been there to keep Tura in line for him, chances are pretty good that we all would have ended up badly.
Harper would say that this sucks – and for once I agree. Because this isn't just about slipstream and the things that go on or not between a man and a woman, and how all of it is magic, instinct, passion and dreams. It's also about jobs, your job and Dylan's. I am a warship and you are my crew. I can't just stand by, watching, resigned that such is life with humans, and that this was to be expected with hormone-ridden guys and irrational women, and that we were bound to end up like this with Dylan being one of those, you being one of these. I can't because neither you nor Dylan are 'one of them': you both are two of me.
Molly won't stay, Beka. I don't know exactly why, but it might just be because she's not merely a sassy blonde with great piloting skills and a big mouth, but also one with brains. And with too much self-respect to enter a cat-fight for a lost cause.
And Dylan IS a lost cause. Back in the days I could see it in his eyes how much he really liked her, how he allowed himself to even fall in love with her for a little while. But then she entered the Academy, and he was off again, and after sighing softly in one corridor or other for a couple of days, he didn't feel the need, not ONCE in more than two years, to so much as send her a message to ask her how she's doing, although it didn't take him long to fall for her anew the second time around again.
I don't know, what that tells you. But it tells me – and I suspect that it also told Molly, now that she finally met you – that more than with her or with any other potential candidate, what Dylan is in love with is the very concept of a stunning presence able and more than willing to meet him head-on. So she faced the truth and gracefully bowed out. Which, my dear friend, is more than you will ever deign to do.
But if this goes on much longer, one day some less smart Molly or a more ruthless Tyr will step out of the shadows and take advantage of it. I am not jealous, Beka – and I am not trying to make you solve my problems, but I do have a problem. A problem you've created. And you know what? Dylan's right: you do inspire trust, even in those like me, who – unlike him – don't take risks when called upon to tell the real hearts from the fake ones. I've trusted you with me, I've trusted you with us, I finally even came around and trusted you with Dylan: to keep him safe, protect him from Magog, Nietzscheans, black holes. And now I'm asking you to protect him from you, too. Please, solve the problem, Beka. Make up your mind, commit; or else, if you can't do that, step aside like Molly, leave space – enough space, Beka – for someone else instead. Somebody less afraid that things could get real. Either way, quit playing. Before someone gets killed.
