The Zephram Cochrane Memorial Banquet

Savannah 2145


Hoshi was true to her word. Once had she consoled Max Forrest about Hinata's horrible illness - and enchanted him with her dreams of starting her own consort academy in Brazil, one which would do things the right way- she wove a tale about the enslaved alien genius working away in a school basement on the most revolutionary torture device the Empire had ever known. And Forrest was duly intrigued.

"How clever you are, Hoshi!" he said, stroking her under her chin. "Thank you for bring this potential asset to my attention. Although, you may come to regret it, after you take your place as my woman in the fleet. What if I ever have cause to punish you?"

Hoshi purred. "I assure you, Max, that I am more than up to the challenge. I got the best pain tolerance grade in my year!"

"Good to know, good to know."

Hoshi sat by Forrest for the rest of the evening. Just what her hand was up to in his lap was safely concealed from all by the table top. Mostly, his various clients bored her, but about half-way through the party, a young man sidled up to Forrest, almost sideways, and with a poorly-concealed look of dislike in his eyes. Finally, the promise of something interesting.

"Charles Tucker, as I live and breathe!" Forrest said, jovially. "Pull up a chair! You've certainly come up in the world since you last slid out of my bed."

Tucker's lips narrowed slightly. "And I understand I have you to thank for that, sir. For bringing a portion of my skill set to the attention of Henry Archer."

"Indeed you do. Pleased it worked out for you, son. Those mosquito catchers are damn useful little machines. Damn useful. Although..." and here Forrest took a sip of his cocktail before continuing. "...I did want to mention something to you. Word has reached me that you've been carrying on with a certain Vulcan. Now, no one is going to look down on you for flipping the odd green-creamer on your mattress - the gods know, I partake myself - but this particular Vulcan... Look, I was in the service the same time as Stuart Reed, and if I ever met a more tiresome asshole, I don't remember it. And the boy, well, he's twitchier than a vestal virgin in a whorehouse. It won't be good for your career to carry on with Malcolm Reed's sloppy seconds, so..."

"He never touched her!" Tucker spat, loud enough to make Hoshi jump. "She was just for show. Just a cover..."

Forrest leaned forward, a glint in his eye. "You don't say! Now that is sad to hear. Stuart Reed may be a tiresome asshole, but a deviant son is more than I would wish on anyone."

"But what does it matter, Max?" Hoshi interrupted, both bored and annoyed by a conversation she wasn't able to contribute to, about people she didn't know. "You just said that you took Tucker on the regular, a few years back."

Max stroked her hair indulgently. "Oh, my sweet summer-whore! You just don't understand the world of men. Let me explain. Real men aren't taken, real men take. Tucker here has been taken, its true. But he did it out of necessity. Out of desperation. For family. There's a sort of honour in that. However, now he's come up in the world, I'm sure Tucker would try to snap the neck of any man who came sniffing. Me included."

"Damn right I would," Tucker growled.

"Good lad! Now, Malcolm Reed, on the other hand, has wanted for nothing his entire life. And he owned this Vulcan for years - and honestly, you should see her; I bet she could even make YOU wet. So he has this hottie in his room for years, and NEVER indulges? Only one reason for that, and we'd best see it corrected."

Hoshi shifted. "Corrected how?"

Forrest smiled. "When I was a boy, I stole one of my daddy's beers. When he found out, he was so mad that he held me down and poured the rest of the six pack straight down my throat. After I came to in the hospital, well, I never stole one of his beers again, and damn near didn't touch a beer 'til well into my twenties."

Hoshi watched Tuckers face shift uncomfortably during this speech. This evening had been far more educational than she had hoped.

Forrest droned on for a while longer about his early adventures with alcohol, until suddenly he pulled up short, nodding in the direction of yet another young man storming towards them.

"Heads up, here's trouble," Forrest muttered, just as Tucker muttered "Jonathan?"

Whoever 'Jonathan' was, he marked straight up to Forrest and slammed him into the wall by the lapels. "I'll kill you!"

"Calm yourself, lad," Forrest said firmly, while waving off the four anonymous men who had suddenly appeared around them. "Pull yourself together. It was time. We ALL knew. We've all known for years."

"It wasn't time!," Jonathan shouted back. "He had years left. Years."

Forrest sneered. "Mewling years. Puking years. Years sitting in his own shit. Trust me, no man wants that. He would have been grateful."

"You had no right!" Jonathan shouted in response. "No right. I'll make you pay. I will."

Hoshi flicked her eyes to Tucker and saw him breath the question "Henry Archer's dead?", almost to himself.

Henry Archer? Even she had heard of him.

"Go home, son," Forrest drawled pushing Jonathan's hands off his jacket with the air of one picking at lint balls. "Go home. Get a good night's sleep. Maybe take a vacation. Come back when you realise this was all for the best. I doubt it will take you long."

And, Jonathan DID leave, if only - Hoshi suspected - to be gone before a room full of Imperial movers and shakers saw his tears.

Tucker stared after him, paused as if to stand, indecision on his face.

"Charles, stay and have a drink," Forrest directed firmly.

And that answered that.