The Naked Truth
"Okay, Okay, Hoshi, I'll be in a minute," the chief engineer relented and wiggled his hand free from hers. "I'll have to tell the captain."
She bounded ahead, while he pressed the call button. "Tucker to bridge"
"Archer. How does it look?"
"We're done here Cap'n. Have to take a shower but you can launch any time. Lieutenant Hess is here."
"I think we can wait until you've made yourself presentable, Trip."
He could hear the amused tone of his commanding officer, but he also saw the slightly hurt look on Anna's face; she didn't exactly understood the message as a show of confidence in her.
"Your call, Cap'n," he replied, rolling his eyes at the captain's 'people skills'. "But I didn't select my second in command for bein' dependent on me and I'd guess T'Pol would appreciate a launch as early as possible."
He heard a chuckle, before the connection ended and he followed Hoshi into the shower, watched by a grinning Anna Hess.
=/\=
"I can't believe Trip is giving this up for a shower," the captain said, looking ahead at open space as the umbilical cords fell away from the hull. "Commander, since we're unlikely to make many scientific discoveries in the solar system, would you mind taking the comms console? I would suppose that our comms officer is on her way to her quarters for a shower, too."
With a nod T'Pol left her station and took Hoshi's place. Jon smiled faintly as she took out a cloth and wiped the ear-piece before putting it on.
"We have clearance to launch," the Vulcan reported after tapping keys in what seemed to him to be a rather random order.
"Ensign Mayweather, lay in a course to Starbase 74 and take us out. Half impulse."
"Half impulse, Sir."
Jonathan Archer sat back into his chair and smiled at Travis's enthusiasm. The day had finally come. The warp five engine – the work of his father's life was finally propelling a ship into deep space.
=/\=
Trip entered the changing room of the engineering shower and saw Hoshi saunter – already stark naked – into the adjoining room, which had five shower heads aligned next to each other. He had initially thought that Malcolm had been exaggerating when he waxed lyrical about Hoshi's tush while they were in the Brig. But seeing the exquisite arrangement he came to the conclusion that Malcolm had actually employed a good deal of British understatement, and the engineer had to fight the urge to whistle.
"Like what you see, Commander?" she asked nonchalantly as she glanced around at him.
He blushed, caught out in blatant ogling.
"S-sorry, I-I mean... I didn't mean to stare," he muttered, remembering that this was exactly why he had wanted to wait for her to be finished.
"It's okay, Trip," she said and he heard the water already running. "If I had been afraid of you looking, I'd have let you wait."
"Well, if Malcolm's memories of meetin' you for the first time are any indication, you're not exactly afraid of anyone lookin'."
He walked into the main room and opened the taps on one of the shower heads. There were no walls to separate the five shower heads on the wall, so he left one unused between himself and her to keep a respectful distance. He wasn't exactly shy or self-conscious, but it still felt weird being in the shower with the girl his buddy had unmistakably fallen for. He wondered if that tentative friendship they had developed would survive, if the Brit ever learned that they had taken the shower together as opposed to returning to their own quarters for it.
"How in the name of all that's holy did you get so much grime on your back?" she asked and he felt her scrubbing his back with a sponge.
"You haven't seen yours," he replied with a chuckle. "That stuff creeps in everywhere. Why'd you think we have a shower down here? The ship would be completely filthy within a week if we walked back to our quarters every time we need to get cleaned."
"Guess engineers aren't really self-conscious then," she mused, continuing her work on his back.
"Our department has the worst male-to-female ratio of the whole ship. We only have six women and all except Anna don't really get that dirty to begin with. So you rarely find anyone but guys in here – except for Anna o' course, but she's the galaxy's least shy person."
=/\=
He checked the read-outs before him and – yes – the weapons array was still perfectly aligned. Considering that their 'epic' journey had lasted all of fifteen minutes so far, Malcolm found it unnerving that he had already run out of schematics to check. He needed something to do or he would die of boredom. Sure, it beat continuing to be Harris's pet assassin, but he was never one to be idle for too long.
"Permission to be relieved by my deputy, Captain," he requested, and waited for the answer.
"You aren't a nervous flyer, are you, Lieutenant?" his commanding officer replied with a smirk that he found slightly irksome, though he took care not to reveal that fact. In his opinion, it was not professional practice to poke fun at one's officers in the presence of junior personnel.
"Actually no, sir." His own tone was stiffly formal. "I would like to get started on that... new assignment you gave me."
He fought down an indignant retort when he saw the captain's even more obvious amusement. Did the man think weapons were a joke?
"Granted Lieutenant. I doubt we have much to shoot at in our own backyard. We go to warp in about two hours. Make sure you're back by then."
He acknowledged the order with a nod and waited for his deputy – Ensign Moravek – to arrive on the bridge.
=/\=
Trip took a large towel and wrapped it around Hoshi's hair while she was holding it in a bunch on top of her head. He folded it with the ease of long practice into what he used to call a 'long haired girl bathroom turban'.
"Someone had a long-haired girl friend once," she said appreciatively.
"Actually, no. But my baby sister has a long mane like you. Had to do that loads of times when we were kids or she'd start cryin' in frustration when she couldn't get it done. She's a brilliant architect, but she's got two left hands and all her fingers are thumbs."
They shared a grin.
"And you still remember how it's done?"
"It's hardly rocket science, is it? And it's like ridin' a bike – you don't forget it," he explained, busy toweling himself dry.
There was a comfortable pause.
"So, will you help Malcolm with his new job?" he asked casually as he began putting on his underwear.
"If he asks – why not? Too bad you don't need help with your new job."
He smirked off her amused barb.
"The captain should have selected you or Anna for it, considerin' you're both not shy to flaunt it. And besides, a woman is much nicer to look at than a hairy guy."
"Hmm, I don't know. I found you quite pleasant to look at," she said mischievously. Zipping up her uniform she prepared to go, but turned around again, smiling brightly at him.
"And besides, Commander, I bet the art group will be mostly women."
=/\=
T'Pol sat down at her terminal after the shift had ended. The first hours of warp flight had been pleasantly uneventful and in another forty-eight hours they would arrive at Starbase 74.
Three messages from Lieutenant Reed had arrived. The first one was an appointment for the next day for her hand weapons training with certification evaluation. She acknowledged the proposed time.
The other two messages were shipwide interactive announcements. She opened the first.
Application for art class
Ensign Mayumi Rao will teach an art class, open to non-commissioned and commissioned personnel. Applications are to be sent using the attached form.
I wish to take part in the painting and sculpturing class
a) as a student
b) as a model
c) both
If you selected model as a participatory option, select the appropriate option
a) only clothed depiction
b) also nude or semi-nude depiction
T'Pol thought about the proposal. It would help to integrate herself with the crew if she took part in recreational activities and an art class sounded like an acceptable proposal. A congregation to produce art was a perfectly acceptable recreational activity for a Vulcan and likely to be a sedate and quiet activity as no incessant 'small talk' would be required. In addition she knew that some Vulcans used painting as a preferred method of meditation.
The question was if she would restrict her participation to the role of a student or would actually volunteer as the subject of the produced paintings. Logic dictated that she, as a Vulcan, would be more adept at remaining still for extended period of time and therefore increase the chance of higher quality art to be created. The distinction between nude and clothed depiction was not readily understandable. The body remained the same whether it was clothed or not and was merely a shell for one's katra. She reasoned that it might actually help to decrease the still visible apprehension of her human ship mates regarding interaction with her if they learned that the Vulcan body, small differences like the spinal ridge notwithstanding, was actually almost same as that of a human – at least in outward appearance.
T'Pol chose options c) and b) respectively and submitted the form.
=/\=
Commander Charles Tucker III sat in a quiet corner of the mess hall, lazily stabbing at his salad.
"May I?"
He looked up and saw newly minted Commander T'Pol standing near his table carrying a tray with her food. He nodded his consent and indicated the empty chair across from him.
"Is there something wrong with your food, Commander?"
He looked up again. He had not really expected to be engaged in conversation as she usually preferred to eat in silence.
"Not really," he answered. "I just don't have a lot of appetite right now."
"If you wish to speak about what makes you lose your appetite..."
He thought about her roundabout offer. Hell, as first officer she might actually even mediate the inevitable conflict with the captain.
"It's about the message from Lieutenant Reed – the one about the art class. As a punishment for my brawl with Malcolm, I've been 'volunteered' to model for it."
"Would you have preferred a more severe punishment? Standing still for a period of time will most likely be challenging for someone with your obvious energy, but it is hardly a cruel punishment."
"Have you seen the 'options'?," he protested. "Both of them were pre-selected and locked against modification in my form. Forcing me to pose in the nude without my expressed consent is pushing it. I'm not self-conscious so if they really think they can stomach seeing me naked – fine, but I think I should have a say in this. I don't know who will be part of that class. It could get mighty awkward.
"Indeed you are right, and I concur. But I do not believe that there is reason to start a conflict with the Captain over it. As the first officer I shall make sure that your rights are strictly respected. It is fortunate that I have signed up for the class, too. I will be able to intervene immediately on your behalf should there be any unreasonable requests."
His heart skipped a beat or twelve. Of all the people on the ship who were interested in the art class, T'Pol would be part of it? He wasn't so sure if that was really helpful.
"May I ask a question, regarding this activity, Commander?"
"Sure." He put down his fork and mentally resigned himself to having a tough time. If he was going to have to have an unbelievably difficult conversation with the Vulcan, the mess hall sure wasn't the place he'd have chosen, even though they were far away from the few other occupants.
"The fact that there was a clear distinction between being drawn in a clothed or unclothed state on the form indicates that humans have problems with a state of undress?"
"Return question: Vulcans haven't?"
"No," she said. "There are many situations where an absence of clothing is required. For bathing, obviously; for medical checks; and sometimes at the height of summer, divesting yourself of your clothing can be necessary to prevent heat stroke. Not all Vulcan homes have climate regulation."
"But those are all activities you do more or less in private. Standin' there with each and every flaw in your physique bein' plainly visible to everyone in the room is something completely different!"
"I see," she answered.
That, of course, was the problem. Everybody would 'see'. The more he thought about it, the less he liked the idea. Being naked in front of somebody by choice was one thing. Being ordered to do it was a completely different ball game.
"Do Vulcans... draw? Or did you sign up to see what it is like?"
"Art is a most important part of our culture, as Vulcans do not normally make digital recordings of themselves. And expressing one's emotions through paintings is one of the very few ways such a thing is allowed, if only indirectly."
"An' I take it from your previous questions that that includes nude portraits."
She nodded, obviously intending to explain more fully. Before she did so, however, she looked around to ensure that there was sufficient empty space around them. He gathered that she was about to talk about something rather private.
"Vulcan marriages are arranged in childhood. Once the two betrothed reach the age of full maturity they have paintings produced of themselves and exchange them. Except for some clans with a more militant history, where both wear their clans' historic uniforms, those portraits are traditionally created without clothing."
His heart sank, and since she was obviously willing to share rather private details, he decided to go for the million-credits question.
"So somewhere on Vulcan one lucky guy has a naked paintin' of you on the wall?"
"These paintings are not put on display. But indeed, I did have an unclothed portrait of me created when I reached maturity, and presented it to my childhood betrothed."
Now his appetite was truly and utterly gone.
=/\=
Malcolm sounded the door bell on Commander Tucker's quarters. He doubted that leaving his shift thirty minutes early was part of the Southerners 'good ol' boy' facade and besides, since their reprimand, there was no longer a need to pre-empt an unwanted promotion by bending the rules a bit.
"I'm not home," came the knackered reply, and it was obvious that the Commander was about to run roughshod over the 'reasonable amounts' part of the relaxed alcohol restrictions. He quickly tapped in his override code and entered the quarters of the ship's chief engineer.
"I would hazard a guess that those stretch the boundaries of 'reasonable amount', Commander," he said, pointing at an array of beer bottles on the floor. Four of them were already empty and a fifth was in the hands of the cabin's occupant.
He wasn't really a people's person, but it was not too difficult to see that his new-found friend was badly frustrated. Only two things could frustrate a man like that – Aston bloody Villa's goal famine or a woman. Since Americans still managed to call a game 'football' that should actually be named 'hand-egg', the bet on option two was not a risky one.
"If you came here to chew me out for leavin' my station early, go ahead," the commander said tiredly.
"I don't think it's my job to 'chew out' a superior officer," he observed, contriving – under cover of picking up the bottles and putting them tidily on the desk – to look more closely at the man sprawled on the bunk. "I'd be more interested in finding out what made you do that. From what little I know about life, only a woman can make you as frustrated as you look."
"Help yourself," the Southerner said and pointed at the seven bottles of brew still waiting to be emptied. Malcolm hesitated for a moment – he still wasn't quite sure where the boundaries were in this changed universe – and then grabbed a chair, picked up a bottle and checked the label. Staropramen – an American with a taste for proper beer, now that was something he hadn't seen in a while. Though, inevitably, it was cold. Bloody Yanks and their weird ideas.
"So are you going to let me in on which of the ladies has frustrated you like that?"
"One thing at a time. First of all – I think you should know that... well... Hoshi and I took a shower together after we were done in Engineerin' yesterday. Nothin' happened, but since you have an eye on her, I think you should know."
It was mildly flattering that a blue eye watched his reaction cautiously. He knew his face revealed nothing.
"Well, if nothing happened, why are you so frustrated then? Unless of course you're frustrated because nothing happened." Understandable, if that was the case. He pictured Hoshi's singularly lovely body naked, clad in nothing but foam and running water, and shifted slightly to ease the resultant mild pressure in his groin.
"I'm not pissed off about that, I just didn't want you to find out from someone else and think I was goin' behind your back."
"And I appreciate the thought, Trip." Malcolm took a swig from his bottle. He savoured the taste of the first beer he'd had in many months. "From my recollection of meeting her, you should know that she doesn't give a toss about being seen naked. If she doesn't care, I don't quite see why you think I have any right to object." Silently he congratulated himself that his voice would convey nothing but unconcern. The fact that he was now fighting down a surge of unworthy envy was no-one's business but his own.
"Good to know you're not upset." That off his conscience, Trip moved on to what was really bothering him. "Well I certainly am, because I'm now the first human to be friend-zoned by a Vulcan."
Malcolm stood up and stood at attention, confident that surprise had disposed of his momentary difficulty. "A moment of silence for our brother in the friendzone," he recited in a grave voice. At least this age-old 'gentleman joke' from some time in the early 21st century got a chuckle out of the downtrodden engineer.
He sat down again, and took another swig while he considered the startling revelation. "Care to share any details? 'Friendzoned' implies she actually wants to be friends."
"Well she noticed that I was interested in her and, long story short, there's a guy she's engaged to in a Vulcan traditional way, but she can't and doesn't want to marry him, but she can't hook up with any other guy either as that would be the Vulcan equivalent of adultery. She wants to get the engagement broken, but can't because for some reason she doesn't even know herself, the government's insistin' that she marries the guy."
"The government? Since when does the bloody government have a say in who you marry?" Malcolm couldn't believe his ears.
"If it's a Vulcan government they apparently do. Now you have an idea why she hates them."
"Still doesn't sound like a flat-out rejection to me," the armory officer supplied, looking for a glimmer of hope – not, admittedly, something that he was all that used to doing; he was far more likely to do exactly the opposite, but Trip's dejection was pitifully real. He heard a long sigh from the chief engineer.
"She actually wants to be friends, and in her roundabout Vulcan way she thinks we already are. She hasn't ruled out that she one day 'might develop an affection for me', but thinks that her people would immediately deport her if she hooked up with an alien."
"Talk about xenophobia," Malcolm snorted indignantly, and took another swig from the bottle. "Still no idea why that frustrates you so much, though. I mean in all seriousness, the chance of rejection was always there."
"That's the point, Malcolm – it wasn't an all-out rejection. She told me some pretty private details and I'd appreciate that none of this leaves this room. She made it pretty clear that some years down the road there might be a chance. But how long will that be? Five months, five years, forever?"
The lieutenant grimaced. He'd read something somewhere, long ago, about it not being despair that destroys, but the 'thin sliver of hope'. It looked like he was being faced with a classic case of that here. Still, if it was as serious as it looked...
"And the problem is? If you think it's worth waiting, don't start another relationship. Just become part of the ship's bachelor pool. There's nothing to say you can't have a bit of fun now and then, just don't get serious."
He saw the incredulous – and upset – look on the engineer's face.
"Are you out of your mind, Malcolm? If I start sleepin' with other women I might just as well give up! Can't you see the goddamn problem I have here? Do I live like a monk for god knows how long, or do I give up altogether? Hell, it's been a year since Natalie and I broke up – it's hard enough already. But I don't want to miss out on the chance that one day, maybe that damn government of hers will be gone."
Malcolm snorted. What kind of subservience was that? Nevertheless, a part of him sympathized: it was, after all, an old enough romantic tradition: the knight patiently waiting as long as necessary for his lady to decide to grant him her favour. And he'd suspected for quite some time that Trip had a romantic streak the width of the M1 down his personality.
"Listen." He took a deep breath. Romance was one thing, but he was a realist when it came to relationships. "She told you she wants to be friends and she didn't rule out that one day, maybe, it could be more. Do you really think she expects you to be celibate until then, even though you're not in a relationship? What kind of 'friend' would she be to demand something like that of you? And you don't need to hop in the sack with another girl every night. You won't get the chance out here, for one thing."
"Dammit, it just feels wrong." Trip lay back and looked mulish.
"Suit yourself." Malcolm shrugged, exchanging the empty bottle for a full one. "If you want my take on it – talk to Hoshi, or better yet T'Pol herself. Hoshi and she meet often enough after duty hours. T'Pol's teaching her some old Vulcan dialects and Hoshi's teaching her to make sense of your gobbledygook."
"I think I'd be more comfortable asking Hoshi."
"Well, you know where to find her."
A bloody sight better than I do, he thought sourly.