Things can only get better - right?
TWO
"If it'd help for us to wear dresses or something…" Maria Morozova, he considered, couldn't have suggested vaporisation by a Klingon disruptor with less enthusiasm. Trip just managed to contain his sigh of relief as Captain Archer shook his head.
"Thanks for the offer, but Antrum insists we shouldn't compromise our cultural norms for the sake of a few Mekronians unwilling to move with the times," he said, visibly checking the crowded launch bay. "Kelly – Callis. You're both okay with returning to the surface?"
"Yes, Sir."
"I'm taking Commander Reed's advice about avoiding crowded places alone, Sir, but it's best to get right back on the horse." Kelly shouldered her bag and hopped into Pod 2 amid a group of engineering crewmates. Archer flicked a smile to his Tactical Officer.
"Anyone who feels in any way threatened, holler," he said loudly enough for everyone to hear. "And if there are any further – incidents – report them to Commander Reed or me. All clear?"
A hum of indistinct "Yessir's" rose. Nodding to his First Officer, Archer climbed into Pod One with the rest of the senior staff, fervently hoping the instruction would prove as unnecessary as Antrum promised.
Damn. He was spending too much time with Malcolm if his natural optimism couldn't make that hope an expectation.
Still, the morning passed without incident, and as he strolled through the sunlit streets of the Jewellery Quarter in search of a suitably quiet lunch stop Jonathan Archer could feel himself beginning to relax. Enterprise crewmen acknowledged him with friendly smiles, glancing up from conversations with hosts whose clawed hands stayed firmly in the pockets of their loose tunics. Even Malcolm appeared willing to unbend a little, under Trip's gentle persuasion.
Archer smothered a smile as he passed them, seated at an outdoor table with a large empty bowl that had contained refreshing iced soup and two long-handled thin spoons between them. Hands clasped on the blue-and-white checked tablecloth, his two officers were smiling tenderly as they gazed into each other's eyes, their feelings displayed with an openness even their closest friends seldom saw.
It was fortunate, he reflected, that the Mekronians did not simply tolerate, but actively approved of same-gender partnerships (between men at least; he'd seen no evidence Mekronian women were granted the same indulgence), because anybody seeing Trip and Malcolm together, the tall blond gently rubbing a fingertip over the dark-haired Englishman's sensually-shaped lips, would identify the nature of their bond immediately.
Reed had been uptight since the first incident was reported, fearing the worst and quietly bristling with resentment against diplomacy's constraints. Tucker had appointed himself jollier-along-in-chief, and as so often, his efforts had borne reluctant fruit.
Archer spared them a wave as he passed, dismissing their half-hearted invitation with an alacrity that brought gratified smiles too quickly to their handsome faces. He had been concerned when the easy friendship between them had blossomed into romance – concerned and, he conceded, unsurprised. The attraction had been obvious to everyone beside the two principals, and as a friend he had been delighted when they stopped pussy-footing around as Reed put it.
It was only as their commanding officer he dreaded a shipboard relationship imploding and shattering the efficient running of his ship. They still battled over power ratios and reactor shut-down drills, but even T'Pol acknowledged the heat had gone from their professional exchanges. It was the personal squabbles (Trip's natural untidiness versus Malcolm's inbred fastidiousness; pancakes with maple syrup verses peanut butter) that disturbed the tranquillity of Enterprise's daily routine the most.
And even when they were yelling, the two men had a connection that made the more romantically-inclined of their crewmates swoon.
Jonathan Archer was hardly a romantic man, but he understood his subordinates' fascination. It wasn't often anyone saw a couple as much in sync as Malcolm Reed and Charles Tucker the Third.
"Damn!" All three men's communicators crackled at the same moment. "Charteris to all senior officers. I've just had my breasts groped outside the dig site."
Reed was on his feet so fast he turned the table over. "Sorry!" Tucker yelled, chasing down the street in pursuit of the smaller man after throwing a handful of coins onto his chair. "Cap'n?"
"Right behind you, Trip." His legs felt leaden and ice had formed around his vitals, but somehow Archer managed to get one foot in front of the other, brushing by the gaggle of noisy Mekronian waiters trying to right their upturned furniture. If only his brain wasn't telling him to turn around and run in the opposite direction!
He did not need this! Yes, most Mekronians were civil, and yes: Starfleet had emphasised the cardinal importance of showing respect to the new cultures he encountered. But three of his crew grabbed? Three women attacked, and their captain powerless to offer more than the meaningless reassurances of a hand-wringing politician?
He felt sick, and he wasn't sure who was going to be hardest to face: the frightened geologist, or the angry Chief Tactical Officer.
Sarah Charteris was leaning back against the huge spoil heap when Archer reached her, the vivid splash of her titian hair throwing the deathly pallor of her face into stark relief. The rotund Minister of the Divines, his silvery scales almost purple, waved his claws in the direction of her brow while a dozen diggers, human and Mekronian alike, huddled impotently staring. Trip, Archer noted with relief, had taken charge of shooing the gawkers away, while Malcolm, features schooled into an impassivity his rigid posture implied he was a long way from feeling, was gently questioning the trembling woman.
"Dear Captain!" Minister Dikarum scuttled his way with an alacrity which suggested he had already received a phase-pistol glare or two. "A thousand apologies! Our labourers have been instructed – I cannot comprehend how one of servants of the Divines could so demean the Deities as to commit this – this ungraciousness!"
"A thousand generations of tradition can be tough to set aside, Minister." He managed to control his flinch from the fat, scaly claw that gripped his wrist; even kept his tone level as he watched Reed drape a comforting arm around the ensign's heaving shoulders. "You'll inform the First Secretary what's happened?"
"It will be my painful duty, as governor of this excavation. Dear Captain – allow me to present my apologies to the female in person!"
"You okay, Ensign?" Reed fired him a glare that screamed Honours degree in dumb questions! but Charteris managed a fragile smile.
"Getting there, Sir. Just shocked."
Her uniform was intact, but for the zipper yanked a little too low for regulations. The moment his eye snagged on it, she blushed and tried to tug it upward, catching it on the bright blue fabric. "Perhaps it would be advisable to withdraw our people for the day, Sir," Reed suggested, the words more deferential than the tone. Catching the minimal nod of his Chief Engineer, Archer sighed.
"Agreed, Commander. No, Minister – we're not walking away from our promises. You asked for our help, and we're honoured to provide it, but you understand, I have to consider additional precautions…"
"Indeed; and be assured by the guidance of the Great Divines we of Mekrona will redouble our efforts to see all our people better schooled… forgive us, Female Charteris!"
She couldn't stop herself withdrawing from his outstretched hand, shrinking back, Archer noted, into Reed's protective hold. "Trip, comm. the rest of the crew. I want everybody back at the landing site as fast as possible."
"Aye, Cap'n." The blond engineer looked torn between frustration and fury; Archer didn't blame him.
"I'll see Ensign Charteris back to the shuttle, Malcolm, if you want to start roundin' up our people," he suggested. With a curt nod, the Englishman withdrew his arm.
"Um, sirs?"
"Problem, Ethan?" Trip frowned at the loitering crewman, whose nervous glances seemed to shift from one senior officer to the next just before his eye could be caught. Novakovitch cleared his throat.
"Just as I was running across to see what was happening, Sir – somebody grabbed my ass and squeezed. Hard."
"They could hardly mistake Novakovitch for a woman." Restraining himself from stating the obvious had gotten too much for Malcolm, Archer noted ruefully. "And Ensign Charteris's breasts are not a subject Mekronian archaeologists can legitimately wish to study."
"No." Dikarum squeaked at the blunt words. Archer suspected his subordinate had used them intending to get a rise, and he didn't blame him. "Draw up some proposals and we'll assemble the senior staff. Minister."