SIX: Momentum
The office was colder than usual the next evening –but, then, it always was. Luckily, she'd remembered to bring a sweater this time.
"You have the translations ready?" Ambassador Thoris inquired coolly in that thin, reedy voice of his. Dagmar nodded, proffering the handful of PADDs wordlessly. The Ambassador has summoned her to his office almost the moment she'd set foot in the Embassy, and much of the visit had been spent in uncomfortable, speculating silence. She was exhausted –her prediction of not sleeping a wink having come true- and she was anxious under the layer of resignation she felt; a quiet sort of sad feeling that was not really sad at all but instead just a kind of very tired.
The Ambassador gave the PADD on the top of the pile a cursory glance before setting the stack down. Standing before the shorter Andorian male, who despite sitting behind a large desk and –psychologically speaking- in an inferior position in terms of body language, Dagmar felt like she was the small one.
"You understand that you are responsible for the disruption yesterday evening?"
"Yes, sir."
"And do you understand the ramifications of that disruption –not least of which is the questionable integrity of the Human male's translations?"
"Yes, sir. I have retranslated the documents handled by the Mr. Fox, and most of the ones he was consulted on by the other students."
"I see. Were there flaws?"
"Yes, sir."
"How serious?"
"Relatively minor, sir, but they were pervasive and centered largely on the Vulcan translations." A grimace as she struggled to fight against the impulse to flee.
"Of what nature were they?" The thin, reedy voice of the Ambassador drawled.
"Condescension and insufficient detail."
"Have you corrected all of them?"
A nod, not-quite-curt, her eyes fixed on the empty space in front of her. "Yes, sir."
"So, if I were to present these to the Vulcan Ambassador, he would find no flaws?"
She felt like a child being reprimanded for breaking a vase and trying to hide the evidence. "No, sir."
"Would you believe," Thoris changed the subject abruptly, antennae directed at her. "That I have never read your file?"
Dagmar blinked in surprise. That couldn't be right -Thoris had been the one to approve her employment! "...No, sir. I would not."
The Andorian stood, clasping his hands behind his back as he turned to examine the wall of weapons behind him. "Rather, I read your professional profile –your academic standing, noted skills and experience and such- but your psychological profile was never presented to me prior to yesterday evening."
What? That wasn't right... Dagmar dropped her eyes to the floor, feeling the beginnings of dread.
"It took me the better part of last evening to convince your government to debrief me," The Andorian continued, still facing away from her. Off to the side, the omnipresent Shral looked on, antennae rigid with careful self-control. "And yet, despite our alliance, I was not given all of the details." –the Ambassador's antennae flicked backwards in irritation before curving once more towards the weapons- "Suffice it to say, Miss Gunnarssen, that if I had been aware of your state of... displacement... in addition to your noted psychological troubles, I likely would not have agreed to take you on."
Dread grew, thin and slippery tendrils reaching out and coiling about her innards, heavy and cold in her belly, but with it came confusion.
"I don't understand, sir." Dagmar tentatively began, brow furrowed. "You should have been given my entire profile. I never intended to hide or withhold anything from you or the rest of this Embassy and I don't understand why this was done."
The Andorian Ambassador seemed to consider this for a long moment, turning slowly to pace to the front corner of his desk. His eyes and antennae were fixed on her the entire time, watchful of a telling tick. Dagmar forced herself to not react, understanding the cultural disdain of lying that was pervasive amongst Andorians –and somewhat at odds with their leniency towards the more indirect duplicity they sometimes engaged in. Dagmar figured they had some sort of unspoken general rule about such things: outright lying was dishonourable, but fudging a few details could slip by now and then.
"Fortunately for us, I do." Thoris revealed, stepping away from his desk, hands clasped behind his back, and beginning to circle her. Dagmar held still, feeling her shoulders tense and her back straighten under the scrutiny. "Your situation is an embarrassment to your government –the circumstances that brought you here should never have occurred. As such, when it was discovered that you might find employment amongst my staff, it was decided that a few of the more... scandalous details could be left out. Rest assured, this was not done as any favour to you –the officials within your government are particularly mercenary in these matters."
There was nothing Dagmar could say to that, really. She'd been told over and over and over again that this government wasn't like the ones she'd grown up with –fraught with corruption and impotent- but she'd never believed it. Apparently, her scepticism was warranted.
Something a few shades lighter than shame unfurled in the back of her mind. "I'm sorry, sir –I didn't know."
"Well, that makes two of us!" The Andorian agreed, irritation colouring his voice and antennae flicking as he came full circle and faced her directly. Dagmar raised her eyes from the floor to look at the Ambassador, feeling miserable and unwelcome.
Silence crept in –not the freeing silence of a dismissal or the tense silence of conflict, but somewhere between the two. It left Dagmar wondering if she should be doing something –or not doing something.
Shifting her weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, the Canadian frowned and carefully offered, "I understand if you wish to dismiss me, sir. My records should not have been withheld from you; you have every right to take punitive action against me."
Shral, off to the side, lost some of his stoicism as he stepped forward to activate a console. His antennae gave away his state of mind, not-quite drooping and flicking occasionally with agitation. The scene on the console startled the Human female; it was a security recording of the lobby area where Dagmar and her three students had spent hours translating. This particular recording showed the events of the previous day, a few moments before Mr. Fox began to lay into Kov. Wordlessly the three occupants of the Ambassador's office watched the console as the events unfolded.
The recording offered a slightly new perspective on the events that Dagmar remembered. Shral had gone missing towards the end of the altercation; Dagmar now saw that he had been dismissed by Thoris from the sidelines. Zepht, also, had been distressed throughout the scene –something the Canadian hadn't paid much attention to. She also saw Thelen, her security guard buddy, amongst the crowd of onlookers, antennae almost flattened against his skull in outright rage.
Worse, though, was the presence of a media personality that Dagmar knew very well –the woman had interviewed her twice after her arrival into the twenty-third century, and had been mostly sympathetic. Mostly. She hadn't seen anything in the news reports that morning, though, so either the Ambassador had pulled strings or the woman was waiting for an opportunity.
When the recording ended, Dagmar blinked, surprised to find that she'd begun to sink into memory, and returned to the present.
"Despite the flaws indicated in your psychological profile, your behaviour was appropriate." Shral began after receiving a nod from the Ambassador. Dagmar wondered at their relationship –evidently, Thoris trusted Shral and they occasionally worked in concert, but to what degree? What else was Shral trusted with? Not that she could do anything with such information, of course, but the redheaded Canadian was curious. "You withstood an attack on your honour and averted an altercation without suffering any further loss of face. An Andorian would not have cared to remember that the Embassy comes under the jurisdiction of ambiguous laws at best; ushaan would have been declared and the incident would have developed into an intergalactic scandal."
"The Vulcans would have pitched a fit." Dagmar agreed after a moment, desperately trying not to stare at his antennae –which, as usual, were doing that pointing thing again. What did that mean? It was freaking her out!
"And the Tellerites would have protested vehemently." Shral affirmed. Dagmar idly wondered if he was even aware that he was doing it, the bastard. "Which is why your inaction was, in fact, the ideal course of action."
Wait, what? She was... being praised? Dagmar allowed confusion to show in her expression, bewildered as she was, and wondered why they hadn't thrown her out yet.
"In short, Miss Gunnarssen," Thoris summarized. "I should dismiss you. In fact, it has been suggested to me on several occasions this morning alone. The Vulcan Ambassador is especially averse to keeping you here. On that note, we are also doing a security overhaul on our communications systems and figuring out how the Vulcans heard about your records; submit your clearance details to the Chief of Security on your way out."
This was a compliment sandwich, wasn't it? Berate her, throw in some praise in the middle to soften the blow, and then fire her. Bloody hell.
"However," Thoris added, and Dagmar was even more bewildered to find his antennae beginning to curve towards one another. "I do not like this Vulcan Ambassador; the previous one, I understand, was far more reasonable."
That's right, Dagmar remembered. Ambassador Soval had retired –rather, had been called back to Vulcan to serve his government more directly. A pity –apparently, he'd come dangerously close to developing a sense of humour. The new Ambassador was young and uptight, and Dagmar was glad to have little contact with the Vulcan dignitary.
But what did that mean? Thoris was keeping her just to annoy the new Vulcan Ambassador? What purpose did that serve?
"So... you're not dismissing me?" The Canadian asked slowly, trying to wrap her mind around this newest turn of events.
"She is awfully slow this morning." Thoris commented to Shral, whose antennae bowed together in open amusement. Turning to the sole pink-skin in the room, the Ambassador spoke slowly and used very small words. "No, little pink-skin, you get to stay a little while longer. For the next week, you're on leave while we look into Mr. Fox and sort out the Vulcans. When you return, you'll been transferred to my personal staff.
Dagmar blinked. A wry voice in the back of her mind speculated that her leave was likely unpaid, but it was overridden by the internal echo of the Ambassador's last sentence.
"Your personal staff, sir?" She repeated dumbly. What the devil had she done right?
"You have an abnormally level head in a conflict, for a Human –that's worth keeping around, if nothing else." Almost as an aside to himself, the Ambassador added, "Besides, it's not often that I get to annoy the Vulcans."
Stunned, all Dagmar could really manage in response was a faint, "Oh."
Oh, wow.
Was this happening? Maybe she was dreaming. Dagmar surreptitiously pinched herself and winced. Nope, definitely awake.
Wow.
There had to be a catch somewhere.
"Do something about her, Shral –she's gone into a state, from the looks of it." Thoris ordered after a moment. Dagmar registered the words, the exasperated tone, and Shral's hand at her elbow, but only very faintly, still stuck in her own internal moment of stunned surprise.
Dagmar had walked into the Ambassador's office expecting to be shouted at and fired. Now she was walking out with a promotion. And that's what it was, really –a promotion, albeit a backwards one.
By the time Dagmar came back to her senses, Shral had corralled her to his own smaller office, sat her down in the chair in front of his PADD-cluttered desk, and had pushed a cool shot glass of something blue and faintly iridescent into her hand. Andorian ale, the Canadian recognized the drink as; potent, with a strong, funny sort of flavour that she could never quite put a name on.
"Did that really just happen?" She asked after a long moment of staring at the ale in her hand. The Andorian aide leaned against his desk, half-sitting, half-standing, with a shot glass of his own and an open bottle beside him.
Shral gave her a thin sort of smile, sharp teeth peeking through momentarily, as his antennae bowed towards each other once again. Andorians didn't grin like Humans did –not that they could. Their facial muscles weren't quite developed enough for it, and it never quite looked right even when they tried. "I'm afraid so."
Dagmar raised her shot glass in a wordless toast –to who or what, she wasn't sure- and downed the ale in one go. It burned the entire way down, but strangely –not at all like Terran alcohol did. It burned coldly, if that made any sense, but made her feel warm and toasty a few moments later. The best comparison that she could think of was that it was like to much mint –only without the flavour.
"Thanks." She murmured, suddenly very tired. She'd psyched herself up with worries and anxieties earlier, moments after she'd been summoned to see Ambassador Thoris. Now that there was suddenly no reason to worry, the Human woman felt drained. With a stare that was more plaintive than anything else, Dagmar confessed, "This had been a very odd week."
Shral made a noise of interest, antennae curving forward.
"Long story." The Canadian waved the Andorian's curiosity away, slouching in the high-backed chair and running a hand through her hair.
Dagmar reviewed recent events in her mind: her awkward first encounter with Ambassador Thoris when Savannah White got sick, Thelen accidentally triggering an 'emotional relapse' –which lead to her calling her former Vulcan professor at some ungodly time in the morning for counselling- then getting into a tiff with that Fox kid, dinner with a tetchy Vulcan and an entirely too curious Denobulan, and –magically- getting promoted by aforementioned Ambassador when he should have been firing her.
All within the span of five days. Her brow furrowed in disbelief. In years after her untimely arrival in the twenty-third century, her life had been fairly routine –dull even- and now this?
There had to be a catch somewhere. There just had to be. Lucky things didn't just happen to her, after all.
Not recently, anyway.
The Andorian aide wordlessly poured her another shot of ale and then a second for himself. And then a third. And then a fourth.
Somewhere between that fourth shot of Andorian ale and the seventh, Dagmar found herself in a booth towards the back of a jazz club. The light was low –not enough to strain her eyes, but enough to set the relaxed sort of mood common to jazz and blues joints from her time- and the music was of the smooth vocal jazz genre with a bit of swing thrown in there for good measure, near as the Terran could tell. The band playing on an elevated stage over in the far end of the club was pretty good –though the singer's voice was a shade too gravelly for her tastes.
It was a fairly spacious club, with food being served from a circular table at each booth, around which were not chairs but wide, flat cushions. The booths were sectioned off from one another with a circular half-wall (solid with the exception of the entryway); the wall was low enough to see over when seated and close enough to the cushions to lean comfortably against. The lacquered wooden table itself was a surprisingly intricate affair, low-bearing and being formed of an inner layer and an outer layer of wide rings which rotated clockwise and counter-clockwise. There appeared to be place-holders of some sort on the rings, to ensure that the various dishes and trays didn't slip or slide off of the table, and the central section of the table, which did not rotate, held a decorative fondue pot of boiling oil with an array of long-necked two-pronged forks around it.
The dishes themselves held various raw meats and vegetables –some of which Dagmar recognized as Terran in origin while others were foreign to her- as well as fruits and flatbreads and various smaller bowls of dipping sauces. There also appeared to be a platter of honey-drizzled flowers, of all things.
Judging by the number of Andorians into the circular booth with her, she guessed that she and Shral must have picked up a few friends on the way out of the Embassy. Predictably, the number of Andorians crammed into the booth combined with the lax attitude towards personal space meant that Dagmar found her crossed legs being used as an armrest (and her shoulder by association as a headrest) by Thelen –Dagmar had fuzzy recollections of snagging the security officer's elbow on the way out- and herself pressed hip to shoulder with Shral. Thelen in turn was partially entangled with an Andorian female –the one from the elevator a few days ago, Dagmar recognized- while Shral had one arm looped around the Canadian's shoulder and his thigh serving as a pillow for a younger Andorian male from the security branch. The other eight Andorians were draped over and around each other in whatever way their deemed most comfortable, and all of them, Dagmar included, were varying degrees of tipsy –not drunk, mind, but ranging from Not Completely Sober to Very Nearly Plastered.
"Try this, Dagmar," Thelen suggested, contorting his torso to offer her one of the honey-drizzled flowers. It was one of the few times the Andorian had ever referred to her by her first name, and Dagmar was exactly sober enough to notice and exactly tipsy enough not to overanalyze it.
The Canadian deduced that the security officer was closer to the Very Nearly Plastered side of things than she was, judging by the way his antennae were swivelling and rotating in different directions. His speech was remarkably unhindered, but that made sense; Andorians, when drunk, found that their vision was affected first, rather than speech as was seen in Humans. They visual data from their eyes and their antennae didn't quite click after a few drinks; more than that and the poor bastards ended up seeing two different versions of the world and couldn't figure out where, exactly, anything was because their spatial orientation was shot to hell, too.
"Humans find vithi bitter." Shral frowned, his set of antennae more stable than anyone else's at the moment. Dagmar placed the aide at the Not Completely Sober range of things.
"She likes bitter!" Thelen dismissed, leaning heavily on the redhead in question and offering the Andorian version of a smile; soft, almost liquid eyes, and the very faintest of creasing at the corners. If Dagmar hadn't known about that non-smile, she might have accused the Andorian of using calf-eyes on her.
Good thing, too –Thelen probably would have been insulted.
Curious, Dagmar reached over and plucked the flower out of Thelen's hand and popped it into her mouth. The taste was... interesting. The petals were thick, fleshy like spinach, but smoother in texture and they seemed to only have a faint, watery flavour. It wasn't until she bit into the heart of the flower that the supposed bitterness presented itself. It was a weird sort of bitterness –like when someone roasts their coffee too darkly; you can tell there are high notes somewhere in there, but it's just smothered by the bitter flavour. The honey managed to salvage some of those highlights, and the overall flavour was actually quite enjoyable.
The Terran woman hummed, offering a pleased, closed-mouth smile as she continued chewing. The approval on her part was met with entirely too enthusiastic (and hard) thumps on the shoulder from all of the Andorians within arm's reach of her and claims that they would make an Andorian of her yet.
Something about that made her feel warm and kind of fuzzy, and Dagmar wasn't entirely sure it was the alcohol.
"Just don't make me eat that bloody beetle dish again, and we're good!" She agreed, giving an exaggerated shudder at the memory of that particular 'delicacy.' It was probably the worst thing she'd ever tasted.
Shral's antennae bowed together, wobbling unsteadily enough to warrant the antennae-expression taking several moments to form. If he were Human, he would have fallen into drunken giggling. As it was, Dagmar wasn't entirely sure Andorians could giggle. She'd certainly never seen any evidence of it. In fact, she'd never even heard any of her Andorian compatriots laugh. Strange, given that they should have the capability –their physiology in that respect was similar enough to a Human's.
Maybe something embarrassing happened when they giggled. Dagmar's mind latched onto that idea like a small child to the world's biggest lollipop. Maybe it threw their balance off and they all fell over when it happened. That could be very embarrassing, indeed! Imagine, trying to have a serious conversation at a treaty negotiation, and poor Ambassador Thoris toppling over whenever Ambassador Gral said something entertaining enough to warrant a giggle! It would ruin Andoria's entire image! No longer would they be the stark and stoic warriors of an ice planet, but wobbly gigglers! The shame! The horror!
...The sober part of Dagmar's mind told her to stop drinking, for god's sake, before she said any of that out loud.
