by Dalton S. Spence
Part XI - Season of Giving
Deanna and I seem to have become the targets of a benevolent conspiracy. They aren't even subtle about it. Father is forever finding books that Deanna should see right away, and for some reason he can't take them to her himself. Mary suddenly requires my services in the school room, where Deanna is telling the children stories. And no matter how early we arrive for meals, the only seats remaining are together.
Ordinarily, I would shrug this off as the sincere concern of meddlesome friends, but for some reason Deanna is becoming increasingly upset with their well meant interferance. I was not surprised when, invited by Diana on a shopping expedition up top, Deanna quickly accepted. In fact, the speed of her acceptance might have hurt my feelings, if I hadn't felt the need for a little respite myself. I almost shudder to think what sort of matchmaking mischief they will be up to tomorrow at Winterfest."
Deanna tried not to gawk as her friend manuvered them through the late afternoon crowds of Christmas shoppers. "It's just like the simulation," she thought, then drawing her borrowed overcoat closer about her, "except colder." Used to the quieter environment of a starship, and lately of the tunnels, she was almost overwhelmed by cacophony of thousands of people bent on filling their holiday gift lists. The emotional onslaught was almost as bad, only made tolerable by the underlying motivation of all this chaos; the spirit of giving. The mission of most of these people was to find something that would make someone else happy.
When Diana had first proposed this little trip, Deanna's quick acceptance was based not only on her need to escape the matchmaking, but on her realization that she had not any of this amazing city she was living under. All the careful preparations for her journey into the past had remained unused, because she had chosen to hide. There was no telling when she might have to return to her own time, and it would be a shame to miss out on what promised to be a truly unique experience. Besides, she wanted to get some gifts for her new friends, and she had no skills to make them herself.
They finally arrived at their first destination. Deciding on a place to sell her jewels had taken some consideration. The more expensive establishments, where she could have gotten the best price, were closed to her because of the notice she would draw trying to sell expensive items dressed as she was, in the neat but somewhat worn fashions from the tunnels. There were places she could sell them with no questions asked, but she wouldn't get a fraction of what they were worth, since the buyer would assume the merchandise was stolen. Also, there was the risk of attracting the attention of those who (as Cullen put it) prefer to pay for gold with lead.
The place she had chosen was a small but established family business, that was known for its discretion as well as its scrupulous honesty. For generations they had catered to the well-to-do who sometimes fell on hard times, and Father had used them for years (indirectly, of course) to dispose of the occasional valuable that came into the community's possession.
As a traditional shopkeeper's bell announced their arrival, Deanna wondered for a moment if she had suffered another time slip. The shop would not have been out of place in the Victorian era, all mahogany panelling and polish, except for the discreet addition of electric lighting and electronic alarm systems. There were about about a dozen people in the store, mostly couples, either browsing the selection of items tastefully presented in the old fashioned display cases, or being served by the attentive staff.
The clientele was quite varied. A young couple in black leather and studs, sporting bizarre makeup and outrageously coloured hair, were carefully looking over a display of engagement rings, while next to them an elderly couple (obviously quite wealthy) were being shown an exquisite diamond necklace by the owner himself. A distinguished looking gentleman was pondering over a tray of gold watches, while a middle aged couple debated whether to buy a bracelet or earrings as a present for a friend.
"May I help you ladies?" Deanna turned, startled by the salesman's sudden appearance. She had been so engrossed in her study of the customers that she hadn't noticed his approach.
"I'd like to see someone about selling some jewelery," she replied, hiding her embarrasment at being caught off guard.
At this the salesman's eager smile dimmed somewhat, but still he politely showed the ladies to an office, saying "Mr. Jeffik, who handles our acquisitions, will be with you in a moment. Would you like some coffee?" Deanna politely declined, feeling she was already nervous enough as it was, and the young man left to find his supervisor.
Diana turned to her, concerned. "Are you sure you want to do this? That jewelery is one of the few links you have to your past. You might regret selling it, later."
Deanna shook her head. "The way I was carrying them, it's unlikely they had any emotional significance to me. They were packaged more like merchandise for sale (with a price list included), than personal effects. They certainly aren't my style, and where would I wear them anyway? Besides, if I'm going to do any shopping, I need money, right?"
The door opened, and a large, portly man with dark hair and an infectious grin entered. He quickly crossed over to the red haired detective, an enveloped her in a bear hug and lifted her off her feet. "Ah, love," he crooned, "I knew you couldn't stay away."
Diana sputtered, laughing, "Leon, you idiot, put me down! We've got company!"
Sadly, he complied, complaining, "You never used be like that."
Diana straightened her rumpled clothing. "Deanna, allow me to introduce Leon Jeffik, my former partner on the force when I worked bunko. When I moved to special investigations, he wisely decided to change careers, and now works as chief appraiser here, earning as much in one month as we used to earn in a year. Leon, this is my friend, Deanna Troi. She has some interesting pieces to show you."
At this, Leon cocked a quizzical eyebrow. "No questions, as usual?"
"They're clean. That's all you need to know."
He paused, considering. "Ellen and I are having a little party Thursday night at 7. You know, she hasn't seen you in a long time."
Diana sighed. "I'll be there."
Leon suddenly became all business. "All right then, Deanna, let's see what you have."
Fifteen minutes later, the negotiations were concluded, and they left Leon's office. Deanna was pleasantly surprised at having gotten nearly the complete list value for the pieces, a fact she attributed as much to her friendship with Diana, as to her empathic talents aid to her negotiating skills ("Devinoni Ral(1) would be proud of me," she thought ruefully).
As Leon went to get her money, Diana looked at her in amazement. "Where on Earth did you learn to bargain like that? No, forget I asked. It's one of those things you can't tell me, right?" Deanna just looked at her, silently. "You know, one of these days you're going to give me a straight answer, and I'll keel over from the shock."
Deanna just smiled. "In that case, I'd better remain quiet until we've finished our shopping."
Across the room, the middle-aged couple had made their purchases, and were leaving. "Isis will love this, I'm sure," the woman said, looking at the diamond bracelet they had finally agreed on. "And what's more," she added with a wink, "it goes with everything."
"You're just hoping she forgets to take it off when she changes," her husband responded with a mock stern look.
He missed his wife's "Who, me?" response, as he spotted Deanna, or more specifically, her communicator pin which she wore outside her heavy coat. He hadn't seen that symbol in 25 years, but it wasn't likely he'd forget it. "Bobby, see that woman over there, the one wearing the strange broach?"
"Give it up, Gary," the woman sighed, recognizing the tone in his voice, "you're retired, remember? Report it to your successor if you must, but let her handle it. You've done more than enough."
"All right, dear," he replied, knowing she was right as she dragged him out the door, "but I'd give anything to know what they're doing here NOW."
Jonathan Pope was silently cursing the orders he had just received. Silently, because even here, in his inner sanctum, he couldn't be sure THEY weren't listening. What he was about to do would risk four years of painstaking work quietly rebuilding his former employer's shattered organization. In his opinion, she was no conceivable danger to them, and it would be best just to let her be.
Of course, THEY never asked his opinion, nor would THEY ever consider sharing their reasoning with him. Fortunately, he prepared for all contingencies (even the unwise ones). He picked up the phone, and dialed a number that did not appear on anyone's records (even the phone company would deny it COULD exist). He waited for precisely twenty-two rings, punched a four digit code, then hung up. It had begun.
At the New York District Attorney's office, a jubilant Joe Maxwell had just received the best Christmas present he had even had (five days early, yet). He was rushing out to keep a just made appointment with the giver, when he bumped into Edie from information systems, who was bringing the case file printouts he had ordered just half an hour ago.
"Hey, I thought you wanted these," Edie complained as the printouts spilled to the floor. Seeing her boss's expression, she asked, "What happened, did you win the lottery?"
"No, better!" he answered, still smiling as he helped her collect the scattered pages.
"Jenny said yes?"
"Even better! You'll never guess, not in a million years." He handed her the pages, grabbed his coat and hat, and headed for the door.
"Okay, okay, I give up! What is it?"
Joe turned, his hand on the doorknob, and faced her with tears of joy in his eyes. He was almost afraid to say the words, but in the end, he just had to share this miracle with someone. "She's alive, Edie. She's ALIVE!"
Edie stared dumbfounded at the closing door, no doubt in her mind who Joe was speaking about. "Damn," she muttered, disbelieving, "he's finally lost it. Now I'll have break in a new boss." But in her heart, she began to pray, "Please God, let there be a Santa Claus!"
REFERENCE
1. ST:TNG, The Price, SD: 43385.6. Devinoni Ral was a quarter Betazoid freelance negotiator with whom Deanna debated the ethics of using empathic talents for commercial advantage.