FIVE: Altercation
"Right, minions!" Dagmar added her PADD to the stack of finished translations with a negligent air, grinning victoriously. The graduate students –a Human man, an adult Denobulan male, and a Vulcan male- rolled their eyes, hummed in amusement, and raised an eyebrow respectively. "Let's go raid a bar –sorry, Kov, a restaurant. No alcohol for you."
Standing, Dagmar straightened her clothes and waited for the students next to her to join her.
Kov, a young adult so far as Dagmar could tell, lowered his eyebrow and furrowed his brow ever-so-slightly. "I do not understand. Why would we engage in a military assault against such an establishment?"
From across the table, Shral snorted.
The pale, dark-haired Vulcan, whose skin-tone carried strong green pigments, was relatively new to Earth, from what Dagmar understood, and despite the clash in culture, had thus far adapted very well to Terran society. Better than Dagmar had, at least. Still, the boy's grasp on Human humour seemed loose and a bit faulty. The twenty-first-century woman figured he'd get the hang of it eventually, though. Maybe.
Randal Fox, the sole Human of the trio of students, sighed and impatiently explained, with the air of someone who was more than a little exasperated with the world and all Vulcans, too, "Miss Gunnarssen is making a joke. Vulcan's do joke, don't they?"
"We do not." Kov answered calmly, but the serene expression he bore was marred by the faintest twitch of his hands, which were clasped loosely on the tabletop.
Dagmar didn't like the boy's tone –and from the faint look of distress on the Denobulan's tanned face, neither did Zepht. Denoublans were very friendly, generally, and they disliked conflict.
Shral observed silently from the other side of the long table, eye focused on his work but antennae flicking in the direction of the students occasionally. Dagmar felt irrationally ashamed of Randal's behaviour, as if she was responsible for them.
...Well, technically, she was. She'd brought them into the Embassy to help her. Their behaviour was a direct reflection upon her.
"I figured that much." Randal all but sneered. "What? A sense of humour's too illogical for you?"
"Whoa, hey, that's enough!" Dagmar cut in sharply, bewildered. What the hell had triggered this? Fox was a Starfleet cadet - what was a xenophobe doing in a program dedicated to interstellar diplomacy, and in linguistics no less? Randal scowled at her and Zepht frowned impressively, but Kov alone remained unaffected. "Mr. Fox, that's enough. Apologize and leave, or I will be speaking to your supervisor."
"But-!" Randal stood from his seat, turning to her with what looked like betrayal etching his expression. Whatever the wiry man had to say, Dagmar wasn't interested. She'd encountered faint traces of xenophobia among some of the older aliens in the Embassy, which stemmed from her supposed primitive mindset as a Human, but the worst of it had come from her own species. She was a fellow Human, yes, but she was different so -clearly- that made her dangerous and maybe a bit stupid, too.
Humans hadn't changed much in the last two hundred years, and Dagmar was tired of it.
"I come from a time where the serious contemplation of non-Human life in the universe was considered crazy-talk, yet I have no problems with Andorians, or Vulcans, or Denobulans –or any other race that's been thrown at me thus far." Dagmar interrupted sharply, albeit with more calm and composure than she felt. "What's your excuse?"
"You don't get it - you weren't here for any of our history - what would you know about it?" Randal sneered in protest, shaking his head angrily. He had a point; he might as well have stabbed her with it.
"Yes," Dagmar answered coldly. "I wasn't here. Instead, I was torn from my home, my family, by a goddamn madman produced by your society's xenophobia, and then I was told I had to live with the consequences of his actions. Believe me, I understand struggling to deal with new cultures, especially those which are radically different from my own, but I didn't have a choice. If alien cultures bother you so much then pack your things, resign from Starfleet, and go home to your family - and be grateful you still have one."
Randal flushed red, fists clenching. Dagmar wondered if he would try to hit her.
Unwittingly, the quartet had attracted a few onlookers –mostly Andorian- many of whom were speculating on the likelihood of violence. Out of the corner of her eye, Dagmar could have sworn she saw Ambassador Thoris among the crowd.
Shit.
"You're no different than they are!" A sharp, jabbing gesture indicating Kov, at Zepht and the Andorians around them punctuated the blonde man's sentence.
Dagmar flinched; a slap in the face would have been kinder. "Get out."
"Why don't you make me?" The thin blonde snarled. Dagmar took a step forward, fists clenching. It wasn't really anger that drove her forward, though she was angry –rather, it was pain. Isolation, xenophobia, and a growing sense of how deep the divide was between herself and this boy, this boy who was a member of her own species, gnawed at her. "What, are you scared?"
Dagmar blanched, and emotional pain receded in the face of ire and dismay.
To the side, Shral inhaled sharply, antennae flattened against his skull as he all but leapt to his feet. Two of the security officers looked at each other, antennae flicking in agitation, and shifted forwards. To call someone a coward amongst Andorians was not unlike a killing insult among vikings, or an equally grave offense amongst samurai: legally, it gave Shral and any other Andorian in the room the right to challenge Randal to ushaan, to the death, on her behalf. Not because they had any special affection for her, of course, but because she was associated with the Ambassador (however loosely) and the Ambassador could not have ties to a coward; it would dishonour the whole of the Andorian side of the Embassy by proxy.
Worse, if Dagmar let the insult go she'd essentially be admitting to cowardice. The Andorians would never respect her again; her work would be ignored, her input worthless, and her job almost definitely terminated by the day's end.
Her options were limited, to say the least. She could indicate the desire for someone to challenge Randal –which would almost certainly result in the stupid boys' death- or she could shoot the Starfleet cadet down before someone did something stupid.
"No." Dagmar answered after several long moments. In the background, the Canadian saw Shral give the Andorian equivalent of a frown, antennae writhing in confusion.
"No?" Randal repeated dumbly, and a little too much of his righteous indignation on behalf of the Human race fell away in that moment of surprise.
Abruptly, Dagmar knew his game. He had heard that the primitive twenty-first century girl was violent, would fight anyone if challenged, would show her true colours as an uncivilized, unsafe creature. He was trying to prove a point; she did not belong, she could not belong, she was not capable of belonging. A few others had tried to do the same, though their tactics had been far more refined.
Taking a breath and reigning in her anger and horror and hurt, Dagmar affirmed, "No. I am not afraid to fight you, Mr. Fox, but I will not do so –not here, in an Embassy, on supposedly neutral ground. If you have some issue with me, you will respect the laws of this day and contain yourself until we are at a more appropriate location."
Quietly, at her back, Zepht remarked to Kov, "Ah, most wise. Outside of the Embassy, they are both subject to Terran laws. In here, the law is more... ambiguous, you see; there's no way to know what's in the right and what might result in a galactic incident."
Clever, clever man.
More loudly, Zepht coughed and began, "If I may interject?"
Dagmar nodded, encouraging the Denobulan to continue. Her face was a carefully crafted mask of indifference.
"Perhaps it would be best if Mr. Fox did not accompany us to dinner." Zepht continued with an exaggerated smile that reminded the Canadian of the Grinch. For all his friendly tone, however, he was visibly tense and upset. "Clearly, there are some diplomatic issues which need to be worked out between you two, and I think I speak for all of us when I say I'd rather not ruin a perfectly good dinner with all this unpleasantness."
"I concur." Kov seconded after a moment. "A conflict of this nature would be most unsuitable in any of the possible establishments chosen for this evening. Additionally, as Miss Gunnarssen is our host for the evening, it would be most unwise to continue such hostile interactions." –A brow quirked upwards- "It is my understanding that Mr. Fox has delivered a grave insult, to both Miss Gunnarssen and the Andorian Embassy by association. Under a set of ancient Andorian laws, Miss Gunnarssen has the legal right to maim, mutilate, or terminate you with impunity - or to indicate that another should do so in her place. That Miss Gunnarssen had restrained herself thus far, given the violent disposition of Humans from her time, speaks of notable self-discipline."
Dagmar tried not the react to the uncharacteristic praise, which was abnormally effusive for a Vulcan, or the Vulcan's surprising knowledge of Andorian customs. Clearly, someone had been angling for extra credit in his studies.
Randal's angry flush withered as the blood drained from his face - because being told you'd picked a fight with a bunch of Andorians would be daunting even to a seasoned officer, never mind a cadet. He turned on the Vulcan, as if Kov was to blame for his oversight; suddenly, it seemed to Dagmar that he hadn't expected to lose so much ground quite so quickly, and he was searching for an easy target for his anger. Pointing accusingly, the Terran male accused, "You said you didn't know anything about her people!"
Her people –as if she was any different from him. Dagmar grit her teeth together and fought not to say something that would only escalate the situation.
Kov tilted his head to one side, just fractionally, and corrected. "I did not. I merely questioned the necessity of performing a raid upon a food-dispensing establishment. I have studied Human history in great detail, prior to participating in Starfleet's inter-species exchange program."
Randal stared at the three of them –Dagmar and her two co-op students- before turning on his heel and all but stomping out of the room like an ill-tempered child.
"Kov." The redhead woman turned to the Vulcan graduate student behind her. Her hands were clasped tightly behind her back, white-knuckled. "Erase everything that Mr. Fox translated this evening. I cannot trust the integrity of his work. I will translate those documents again myself."
Kov nodded wordlessly and separated seven of the twenty-four PADDs. A few muted beeps later, and the pale Vulcan placed those same seven PADDs in a separate pile from the finished translations.
The mostly-Andorian crowd murmured amongst themselves but gradually dissipated, growing bored now that one of the potential combatants had disappeared. Dagmar relaxed tensed muscles and exhaled slowly, adrenaline fading from her system.
"I understand your people were very much like Andorians, once."
Ambassador Thoris was the speaker –the redheaded Terran knew that reedy, thin voice anywhere. Still, she turned to face the Andorian, fighting to keep her chagrin off of her face; she'd all but forgotten that he had been amongst the crowd of observers.
The Ambassador's antennae were ramrod straight, and Dagmar felt her stomach sink. Dagmar had a vivid image of her job flitting out the window like an ungainly butterfly.
Shral was nowhere to be seen.
Varek was going to dissect her behaviour and lecture her for hours when he found out she'd been fired –not that she'd been fired yet, but it was looking like a strong possibility.
Hesitantly, she answered the comment, examining the floor with feigned interest. Eye-contact with her employer was too awkward, just then. "In a way, sir."
"And what became of them? Your people?"
Dagmar suppressed another flinch and dragged her eyes away from the floor to look at the shorter Andorian male. "Dead, sir. A long time ago. I'm the last one."
Yes, she supposed she was. She was the last of her family. There were a few descendants -from her brother, from her cousins- but there had been no connection between herself and them, when she had tried to talk to them. Umpteenth-great grandnephews and grandnieces, and cousins so distant as to be almost without relation. They might as well have been strangers, bearing bits and pieces of her family in their faces and within bodies. Her brother's eyes or maybe his pianist's hands, her father's nose and clever smirk, her mother's smile and chortling laugh - all scattered like old, dead leaves amid unfamiliar traits. She had to look long and hard to find the familiar, hiding behind someone else's cheekbones, someone else's ears or brow. There was so little of her blood in them, after so long, and they saw nothing of themselves in her.
No, she had no one. She was the last.
Thoris inquired, imperious and demanding, his antennae lashing minutely before curving forwards, "And your keth?"
Dagmar blinked, wondering what part of her response the male hadn't understood, what part hadn't made it across the cultural gap. Slowly, deliberately, she repeated herself. "I'm the last."
There was something truly horrible about the words –like nails holding a coffin shut while you were in it, still alive, still breathing. It was like suffocating and breathing too fast at the same time, dizzying and frightening.
Thoris left without another word; Andorians did not waste time with unnecessary small talk.
"That was most unnecessary." Kov, predictably, stated some time later, fingers forming a steeple. The inflection had Dagmar wagering that he was a very unhappy Vulcan, emotional discipline or not. If any of the restaurant's patrons noticed, no one stared or commented.
The Terran woman had chosen a restaurant that catered to her meat-heavy diet and the Vulcan's meat-free requirements. It was a quiet sort of place, where you could eat and drink in peace without running the risk of getting hit on by packs of Starfleet's would-be finest. The music was quiet, subtle –more atmospheric than energizing- and the overall ambience was welcoming, but not intimate.
Shaking her head, feeling her braid sway with the motion, the redhead sighed. "I apologize for disturbing you, both of you. I shouldn't have lost my temper."
"Your interference was unnecessary." Kov repeated. Yep. Definitely an unhappy Vulcan. "And I do not believe it was wise behave in such a manner in front of the Andorian Ambassador. It would be most undesirable for you were to suffer punitive actions as a result of your conduct."
Undesirable, indeed.
Silence and then, so faintly that Dagmar thought she was seeing things, a tiny quirk at the corner of Kov's downturned mouth. "However, experience has taught me that Humans are rarely logical or wise. Perhaps the Ambassador will take this into account and be lenient."
"Perhaps." Zepht agreed, and there was that creepy Grinch-smile that only a Denobulan could pull off.
Dagmar blinked, and, smiling faintly, completely revised her opinions of the young Vulcan and the Denobulan linguist.
"I hope so." The redhead murmured before straightening a little and asking, "So, have you two figured out what you'd like to order?"
Zepht was entirely too excited about the prospect of Terran food. "Oh! I haven't had the chance to try Human cuisine before –I wonder, might you recommend something? I wouldn't know where to begin, myself! So many choices! For example, what are these Belgian waffles I keep hearing about? And what is pizza? It seems to be very popular among Human students. Also, a young woman I met on a transport ship some months ago strongly recommended edible clothing –what do you know about this phenomenon?"
Dagmar nearly choked on her ice water at that, only to laugh until it hurt when the full implications of the question hit her. Zepht blinked, confused, while Kov looked on with careful indifference.
Once she'd recovered enough to speak, all Dagmar could bring herself to say between chuckles was, "Zepht, sometimes Humans have very strange sexual habits; sometimes it's better not to ask."
Zepht, naturally, was fascinated.
In the back of her mind, the twenty-first-century woman tried not to panic over losing her job –which she almost certainly would. Thoris didn't strike her as the lenient type, whatever the Vulcan and the Denobulan might say.
At the very least, she could make sure that Randal Fox never set foot in the Embassy again. That was something –even if she had to redo all of those translations and probably lose another night's sleep over it.
In the meantime, though, she planned to enjoy her dinner.
