BREAKFAST AT DENNEEZ

by ardavenport


- - - Part 4

"I'll have some of this." Picard pointed to the picture on the menu screen. The waiter nodded and marked down the order. Having already taken Doctor Crusher's order, she left their table.

They sat at a an obnoxiously pink table on the restaurant's terrace. The chairs were turquoise with the ubiquitous hammock seats that were fortunately slung high enough for them to sit normally.. The sun hung low in the sky. A whisper of a late afternoon breeze slightly curbed the oppressive heat and humidity. It was cooler inside, but the eating arrangements were not friendly to the appetites of the two Humans. Denneezians placed eating and personal hygiene on the same social level. The furnishings on the inside of the restaurant were an even mixture of tables, chairs, baths and toilets. Neither one of them wanted to watch any of this over their dinner, so they had claimed a table on the outer edge of the sparsely populated terrace while most of the patrons inside the restaurant were non-natives. Thankfully, the building's architect hadn't thought to equip any of the outside tables with plumbing.

Picard grumbled about the lack of replicators in the rooms. He felt at least grateful to his first officer for the clean uniforms that he and Crusher now wore. Twenty minutes after the commander had left them, one of Sorse's assistants arrived with a case from the Enterprise. It had contained, among other things, two complete changes of clothes for each of them and the book Picard had been reading in his ready room.

"They can't have everything," Crusher answered. Picard didn't respond.

She watched him unhappily look at the scenery. The terrace overlooked a large and watery park. In the distance, sparse greenish brown plants dotted a ridge of white sand dunes. With no moon and its gravity to stir them, Denneez's shallow seas and lakes were more like great, stagnant swamps. Crusher looked at the plants that lined the terrace. They were mostly deep green, flowering vines and bushes that were totally inappropriate to the climate. She didn't recognize the exact species, but she knew enough about general plant biology to realize that it was too damp for them. Traces of decay and fungus on some leaves confirmed this for her. Among them, a hardy, brownish weed covered with tiny, thorny seeds, flourished.

"Captain Picard?"

They both turned. Inspector Sorse had silently approached their table while they were both absorbed with their own thoughts. Picard invited the Vulcan to sit. He coughed and cleared his throat and Doctor Crusher asked about it and how well he was adjusted to the humidity. Sorse politely, but firmly told her that his personal affairs were private.

"Captain, I have some unfortunate news to deliver."

"Yes?" Picard frowned. Sorse was in charge of the investigation about Brahga's death. But the Vulcan raised a hand and reassured them that the only blame was to be laid on Brahga himself.

"No, the matter that I have come to speak with you about concerns Minister Shan'Kaar's intention to hold an open hearing to review the circumstances of Brahga's death."

"An open hearing?" Picard asked.

"Yes. All persons, even remotely connected to the incident, and any interested members of the public, will be invited to an open meeting during which every detail of the circumstances around Brahga's death will be covered."

"What?" Crusher exclaimed.

"Why?" Picard demanded.

"I do not know. Shan'Kaar's actions are totally illogical." The Vulcan cleared his throat and folded his hands on the table before him. "Captain, I am completely at a loss to explain Minister Shan'Kaar's motives. It is within his authority to call for such a hearing, but I can see no reason why he should wish it. He has been told very forcefully by Director Floron, the Director of Interstellar Trade, that you would be greatly inconvenienced by it. Director Floron has asked me to personally extend her apologize for Shan'Kaar's actions. She will try her best to settle the matter without an open hearing, but she does not think she will be successful."

"Wonderful," the captain declared.

Sarcasm, Sorse noted, along with both Humans' open displeasure. Neither were suspected in causing Brahga's death, but the detective mentally catalogued their reactions out of habit. Neither of them showed any sign of worry over the expected hearing, but indignation emanated from them. The Vulcan inspector produced a notepadd and handed it to the doctor. On it was the data from Brahga's mind scanner device. After reviewing it, she handed it to the captain. The data meant less to him than to the doctor, but it was obvious even to his own untrained eye which squiggling lines were his and Crusher's and what they were doing and for how long. Their own activities were mirrored to a much lesser degree in Brahga's physical reactions . . . until he'd had his stroke about ten minutes before he and Crusher had reached their . . . peak. Amazingly durable, the device had kept running even after its user had died.

Sorse continued. "Your staff has been most helpful in this investigation. They have confirmed your account of your earlier encounter with the Ferengi Bok, and the illegal nature of Brahga's device. That would give Shan'Kaar the means to undermine Brahga, with the revelation of its use . . . if Brahga were still alive. Brahnon has denied any knowledge of it, or its use, and nothing can be proved to connect him to it." That, and any other theory they proposed went nowhere; no theory as to Shan'Kaar's motives emerged.

"Inspector," Crusher drew his attention, "what exactly would happen at this open meeting?"

"The stated purpose of the hearing would be to review and conclude all questions regarding Brahga's death. It is a means for all parties involved to publicly finalize the circumstances of the death. Denneez has a long tradition of public declarations for significant events, most often tragedies. However . . ." Sorse cleared his throat again.

Doctor Crusher listened to it carefully. Probably some kind of bronchitis, no doubt caused by the humid atmosphere.

". . . given what I have learned about the Denneezians' fascination with their own bodily functions, it is almost assured that the real focus of the hearing will become your activity, as well as Brahga's voyeurism."

The waiter swept up to the table, a laden tray held aloft over her shoulder. Sorse used this as his cue to leave. He stood while the waiter laid out plates of greens and pale, boiled something. After repeating Floron's apologies—she had actually told him to say it at least three times, but Sorse felt that this was superfluous-the Vulcan left the two Starfleet officers to their meal.

They ate in silence for long minutes until Doctor Crusher couldn't stand the deadly gloom any more and spoke.

"Well, it could be worse."

"What?" Picard demanded over his plate of greens and stir-fried flower petals. The food was acceptable and filling, but plain and curiously homogenous, like it had come from a replicator that didn't have a very large selection.

"This hearing. I mean, it's not like they're going to execute us." His expression soured at her. He put down the pronged scoop that had come with the meal.

"Beverly, Shan'Kaar is going to drag out our personal affairs in public for his own purposes. It's bad enough."

She put her own scoop down amidst the remains of her purple pasta and untouched pile of boiled grain. "Jean-Luc, the Denneezians obviously don't think anything of it. Next to them we're a couple of prudes."

She gestured toward the indoor eating area/bathroom where a large number of Denneezians enjoyed the facilities. It had been so hot that neither one of them had been interested in lunch, which turned out to be fortunate for them, since their waiter had genially informed them that the restaurant also had an excellent Midday menu and activities.

"Minister Shan'Kaar isn't calling a hearing because he wants to establish the truth about Brahga's death. For some twisted reason he probably wants to rub it in on Brahga's son to get an advantage on the trade dispute. And I don't particularly appreciate playing the pawn in his game with the Ferengi."

"Well, I'm not going to worry about it. It's not going get any of this over with any faster," Crusher declared, tired of her captain's melodramatic wounded honor. He muttered something and took another stab at his greens.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," he denied over a small mouthful.

"It wasn't nothing. You said something about, 'You wouldn't'? Why wouldn't I?" She pinned him with her glare.

He looked back uncomfortably, debating how much honesty the discussion could stand. There was nobody near their pink table on the almost deserted terrace.

"Well, you're not very discreet, when we uh . . . um . . . "

"Discreet?"

"Well, yes . . . you . . . you're noisy." he admitted.

"Noisy?" she asked, incredulous. "Is that what you call it?"

"Well, yes. All that moaning and groaning, it's . . . tacky. It's like a romance novel."

"Why didn't you say anything?" Why am I always asking him this about things? Why the hell doesn't he just come out and tell me if something's bothering him?

"Well, I . . . assumed you liked it and . . . I didn't really think you could help it."

"What?" He looked very uncomfortable, and as far as she was concerned, not uncomfortable enough. "Wait a minute . . ."

Jean-Luc Picard was a wonderful kisser, and he used it all the way through their lovemaking. She liked it a lot. But it suddenly occurred to her that it was also a good way for him to shut her up. Why the hell doesn't he tell me these things? She put her napkin down, pushed her plate away, and got up. They weren't arguing, but she knew if she stayed they probably would be.

"Have a nice quiet meal." She left him.


ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo


The Ferengi transporter effect vanished, leaving the new Daimon Brahnon standing before Minister Moor Shan'Kaar's desk.

"What do you want, Den-NEE-zian?" the diminutive Brahnon demanded. The Ferengi had already appropriated his dead father's best blue suit, the one he'd died in. It was too small. The front of the jacket wouldn't close all the way around his chest, the sparkling shirt and straining fasteners underneath clearly visible.

"Oh, I just had a little information about your father's . . . sad demise." Shan'Kaar's voice dripped with melodramatic insincerity.

"You desecrated my father's body! You will pay for that Den-NEE-zian. I promise you!" Brahnon exclaimed, his breath hissing around his jagged, uneven teeth.

"True, true. We are guilty. But it's a pity, really, that the investigators didn't know much about Ferengi physiology, else they might have seen something . . . quite interesting. As it was though . . . " Shan'Kaar cheerfully slid a note padd, glowing lines and Ferengi letters on its screen, over to Brahnon, " . . . there was a recording. It's quite . . . enlightening."

Brahnon automatically denied any knowledge of his father's illegal device as he cautiously looked at the padd. Shan'Kaar narrated the events that led to Brahga's death while his guest read the details. The minister reclined in his throne and smoothed his brown neck hair while the Ferengi's arrogance evaporated. Brahnon looked up, his eyes fearful, horrified.

"You cannot reveal this, Shan'Kaar!"

"Oh, I don't know how I could possibly stop it. The hearing is set for tomorrow. Your father's death must be publicly settled, else there will be . . . rumors and . . . suspicions."

Brahnon fretted, his face scrunched up in near panic. Cornered, he looked about for an escape that was not there.

"All right. I'll take your worthless payment," Brahnon hissed.

"One third, then?" Shan'Kaar inquired genially, his smile broad, his cheek ridges perfectly painted and powdered.

"One third!" The Ferengi's eyes bulged. Shan'Kaar's friendly expression vanished. He tilted his head and reached for the padd. "No! I—I . . . " Brahnon sucked in panicky breaths. "I agree!"

Shan'Kaar's smile returned and he sat back in his throne.


ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo


Beverly Crusher exited the bathroom. Jean-Luc Picard sat in one of the room's chairs, reading his book.

"All yours," she announced as she passed him.

"Hrmph." His eyes flicked up at her and then back down to the page. Crusher shrugged and sat down on the bed. Why was he sitting in the chair? It was almost like sitting on the floor, the hammock seat was so low. He was reading his book between his knees. She looked at the chrono. It was near the end of the last Evening quarter, Shan'Kaar's open hearing wasn't scheduled until the middle of the Morning. Dressed in a knee-length green Denneezian shirt with a blue and purple fountain on its front, she was ready to go to bed, but . . .

Picard sat in his chair, sullenly (she thought) reading his book. The lighting in the room was terrible.

He ignored her. Crusher sighed to herself. When Jean-Luc Picard was angry or moody, he could be extremely unpleasant to be around. Well, there isn't any other place for me to go, Jean-Luc. She settled herself on the bed, lying down on the covers because of the stuffy humidity. You're not going to drive me out this time. She thought about last week's argument.

She had left his quarters and hadn't shown up for breakfast for two days after that. What right did he have to demand to censor her mail to her own son? Keeping in touch was sporadic enough, since Wesley was out there finding himself by not only travelling the galaxy, but time, and probably a few other dimensions, as well. When the message had arrived, she'd sent her reply right away to catch him before he moved on.

She lay on her side, her back to Picard. She closed her eyes and swallowed, the noise sounding loud, and she wondered if he'd heard her. The pages of his book slid against each other as he turned them. She wanted to be alone. She was sure he wanted to be alone, too. She felt as if their friendship was being stretched between them in the stifling silence in the room. Lovers, friends, fellow officers, what were they now? When his secret love for her had come to light months ago, she had held back, afraid that this kind of situation would develop between them. She'd seen too many good friendships poisoned by a love affair. Was this going to happen between them?

She listened, his presence in the room a subliminal noise. Wasn't he going to use the bathroom? Was he going to sit in an uncomfortable chair and read in bad light all night? This was so like him, to sit and stew rather than talk This was why she had been so reluctant about a relationship with him. He was so solitary in nature, she knew right away that there would be a long, bumpy passage between them, just getting used to being together. She closed her eyes and made herself more comfortable.

You just want him to sweep you off your feet, so you don't have to think about it.

She had a real weakness for that sort of affair. But, all attraction aside, looking at Jean-Luc Picard made her want to schedule her itinerary with him for the next two months. He just wasn't the sweeping off the feet kind.

But he thinks he is.

She closed her eyes. Jean-Luc Picard was an idealist when it came down to it, and if the relationship he was in failed to meet the ideal . . . but there he was, sitting in his chair, alone . . . reading his book, alone, while she lay by herself on the bed. She wanted him with her, but she wasn't going to ask him. She didn't feel like wading through his defensiveness, or listening to him make up some lame excuse for his sulking.

Is he going to sit there all night . . .

Beverly Crusher started awake. She'd fallen asleep. The room looked the same as it had before, unchanged by the passage of time. But she knew it was later. Much later. She looked toward the timepiece by the bed. It was near the end of Night. She yawned and turned over.

Jean-Luc Picard was still in his chair, asleep, his book in his lap.

She sighed, quietly got up and slipped past him into the bathroom. When she came out he was still there. Crusher looked down at him. It was a lot harder to remember how irritating he could be when he was like this.

She reached down and slowly, carefully slid the book out from under his hands. This wasn't the first time she'd seen him fall asleep over a book. The first few times she'd tried, she'd woken him when she took the book away, but she was getting better at it.

Holding the liberated volume aloft, she started to lay it on the chest of drawers next to the chair, but she had a better idea. Thump! The book dropped thirty centimeters down onto the chest.

"Huh?" Picard started and looked around and then up at her.

"Oh." He started to get up and groaned. He was stiff from hours of sitting in one position in that low chair. She extended her hand and helped him up. He stiffly went into the bathroom. When he came out, wearing a long, pastel pink shirt with a shooting star and Denneezian script on it. He looked at the clock. He felt a touch and turned.

Beverly Crusher put her arms around his waist. He relaxed, feeling again as foolish as he had when he'd woken up in the chair. She felt his muscles relax and he even managed a tiny smile.

"I suppose it's not as bad as it could be."

"Um hm," she agreed. He slid his arms around her.

"I just don't like the idea of being the pawn in Shan'Kaar's scheme to cheat the Ferengi."

"Is that what you think it is?"

"I'm sure of it now. Shan'Kaar contracted the Ferengi to deliver the cocoa. And when it arrived, I think Shan'Kaar saw an opportunity to get it for half the price. He accused the Ferengi of trying to deliver a contaminated cargo, sent messages to any other likely buyers in the sector, making it nearly impossible for Brahga to get rid of it, and then kindly announced that the Denneezian Ministry of Interstellar Trade would take it off his hands for half of what they agreed. I don't think Shan'Kaar was at all expecting Brahga to park his ships around the planet and harass any of their other trading partners."

"So, Shan'Kaar called for a mediator?" Crusher lightly rubbed his lower back where he would be most sore from spending the night in the chair.

"Yes, but Brahga requested me specifically. He's had that recording from Bok for years and he finally got a chance to use it."

"Hmm." She moved closer, her arms holding him a little tighter. He's not even going to think about apologizing for his sulking last night.

He stiffened. "Beverly, isn't this how we got into trouble in the first place?" But his arms stayed around her.

"I know." She hugged him. I really need to tell him what an idiot he is sometimes.

He hugged her back. He liked the feel of her, the intimacy. It was becoming hard to think of ever not having it. He knew he was becoming dependent upon it and he didn't like the idea of being dependent on anything, particularly if it was emotional. After their argument over her letter to Wesley, she'd stayed away and every night she was gone he had fallen asleep in a chair, reading and unwilling to go to bed . . . alone. He hadn't told her this since they'd settled things between them, and he wondered if he should.

They separated and she gave him a peck on the lips. He followed it up with something better. But it didn't go any further. Finding a Ferengi voyeur in the bathroom had cooled their ardor quite a bit. That's all we'd need now, another Ferengi, or even Shan'Kaar listening in on us. As if they couldn't get enough . . .

"What?" Crusher asked, curious at his sudden change of expression.

"I know why Shan'Kaar is having the hearing," he said, focused on the new idea. "And I know what killed Brahga."

"It was a stroke."

"Besides that," he insisted, releasing her. He went to the bathroom, leaving her to follow. "Come on, get dressed. We're going to go talk to Sorse."


- - - End Part 4