TWENTY-FOUR: Ghosts
The sad, cynical side of Dagmar berated her even as she decided not to speak to Shral, despite Thelen's advice, but it wasn't terribly surprised; she defaulted to some pretty standard avoidance patterns in situations like this, almost subconsciously sometimes.
Dr. Shore had gotten some things right, after all, she supposed; bitter, but only faintly.
What was she supposed to say to Shral, anyway?
"Thelen said to tell you that you're imagining things?" Yeah right. That would go over well.
Or how about, "Shral, while I'm very flattered, I must inform you that I consider myself married to my job as a glorified secretary?" If nothing else, he might laugh.
And then probably never speak to her again.
Not that Shral was much of a chatterbox at the moment either, she lamented internally. Even now, as she was the focus of everyone else in the frosty office, the aide did not look directly at her, except to occasionally glance at her with a vaguely disconcerted expression that she only now could begin to comprehend.
She'd be freaked out, too, if she suspected someone was in her head like Thelen had described to her.
The Human translator opted not to think about it as she continued her explanation of some of the humour used in one of the latest communications between Earth and Andoria to Ambassador Thoris and one of Andoria's many, many Ministers. The politician who had sent the message had been tasteless and had probably not even bothered to read up on Andorian etiquette prior to hitting the 'send' button.
The message itself was innocuous in spirit, merely a proposal regarding the potential in combining Andoria's extremely eco-friendly technology with Earth's innovative agricultural technology. The problem was how it was written. The politician had chosen to address the Andorian Minister of Agriculture and how he had chosen to phrase things –informal, peppered with friendly jabs, and cavalier when he should have been ceremonial, excessively polite, and restrained.
What was going through the man's head? 'Oh, let's just call the angry, blue, samurai-guy with kill-setting-only phase weapons "Joe Blue" and make jokes about agriculture on an ice planet -see how that goes over!'
Sometimes, Dagmar swore these twenty-third century Humans were stupider than the ones she grew up with.
And that was saying something.
"Essentially, sirs, this is simple carelessness." Dagmar summed up as delicately as she could. "None of this is meant as an insult –quite the opposite, actually. Amongst Humans, this would be seen as an attempt to 'break the ice' –to shift from stiff formality into an easier, more friendly interaction without being disrespectful." –Dagmar took care to stress that point- "Either the author did not fully understand the nature of Andorian etiquette, or he simply did not realize that these things are not as flexible as they are on Earth."
Thoris gave her the look. The one that he did when he knew she was trying to smooth things over, and it was getting a bit too thin to work. Sometimes he let her get away with it –so long as she was perfectly honest and frank when dealing with him directly- but this particular occasion looked like a bust.
Dagmar grimaced internally, and awkwardly admitted, "... Admittedly, sirs, this man is rather tactless about it, even with his good intentions... Ham-handed, even."
The Minister frowned impressively, the characteristically sharp lines of his face blockish and blunt in comparison to Shral and Thoris, and his antennae flicked irritably.
A slight, awkward pause reigned momentarily before intuition kicked in and Dagmar blurted out, "I can't say for certain, but this poor attempt at humour may well be taken as a sign of nervousness. I would wager that you, Minister, are not the first to receive a message like this, actually."
That caught the Minister's interest, but not quite how the redheaded woman had intended. Antennae rearing dangerously as he started to go a faint, reddish-purple in the face, the Andorian hissed, "Cowardice, you mean!"
Odd, how a blue species flushed purple. It never failed to surprise and bewilder the Human woman.
"Explain," Thoris ordered imperiously, stepping in before the Minister could hurl abuse and furniture.
That had nearly happened once –though, thankfully, that particular instance had not involved Dagmar as the target. A Vulcan delegate had been... well, the only way the delegate's behaviour could be interpreted would be as deliberately tactless as possible, under a thin veneer of emotionless logic. The Andorians had, obviously, been offended. Weapons had been drawn, things had been said, threats and curses had been hurled (though that bit had been admittedly rather one-sided.) All the while the Vulcans valiantly maintained a droning chorus of "I find this behaviour most illogical" and "Irrational behaviour will achieve nothing," interspersed with the odd "Perhaps the Andorians are not ready to forget past grievances," (which, naturally, made things worse) against the torrent of noise from the Andorian side of the room.
Dagmar shook her head internally, remembering the chaos and the mess. She'd been present as an observer on Ambassador Thoris' command; all the better to see the system she was working with in action, apparently.
What bleak prospects she had...
"There is no need to explain!" The Minister snarled, startling Dagmar into the present. "This is an inexcusable offence! Blatant, crawling cowardice!"
Thoris stood his ground, calm and unaffected. "I believe otherwise."
Shral shifted, off to the side, catching the redhead's attention briefly. Dagmar tried to ignore him because if she didn't, she'd start to wonder about his antennae-gestures and his expression. She'd stop and ponder his posture and the way his hands unclasped from behind his back. The way fingers twitched and moved towards her in a way that made her think that Shral didn't even realize he was doing it.
Because if she didn't ignore him, she'd forget what she wanted to say and start wondering about honey and blood and harmless endearments and the soft touch of leather and calloused hands-
The ghost-sensation of cool fingers between hers.
Shral's hand twitched again, fingers clenching and relaxing.
Impossibly green eyes bored into hers from across the room and her mouth went dry.
Dagmar fought to focus on the task at hand and forced her eyes away.
Swallowing nervously –angry Andorians never failed to set her on edge, adrenaline seeping into her system like a poison- the translator hastened to obey Thoris' command. "What I mean, sirs, is that relations between Earth and Andoria are still very new, and therefore fragile and unstable. People are nervous about that. What you view as an insulting failure to observe the proper etiquette, the author probably viewed as a way to earnestly express as desire for a strong and stable bridge. Humans use humour to diffuse tension and endear ourselves to others; it's part of how we make friends."
It never failed to throw her, how an Andorian's mood could swing from one extreme to the other. Where rage had blackened the Minister's expression, suddenly perfect calm reigned. Indeed, interest, polite and eager, suddenly showed through in the soft curve of the Andorian's antennae and the steeple of his blunt blue fingers. Dagmar fought not to lose her proverbial balance but it was like standing on the dry sand of a beach one moment, and then finding herself up to her gills in seaweed the next, with no recollection of how one transitioned to the other.
"This... politician..." The Minister began uncertainly, indicating the PADD in her hand, which bore the translated message. Bewilderment was the only word that could describe his expression. "Wishes to befriend me? To achieve further relations between our people?"
Not knowing what else to say, the redhead answered simply, "Yes, Minister."
"Intriguing..." The Minister mused thoughtfully. Turning to Thoris in an obvious dismissal, robes swishing about his ankles, he stated with the typical sort of imperiousness, "I will share this with the other Ministers."
Was it really such a novel concept? Thoris had likely employed her much for the same purpose, after all.
Dagmar might not have been a genius, but she could figure that much out.
A salute –curt and formal and everything Andorian politics were on the surface- and a long moment later, and the Minister swept out of the office without another word, long-legged strides under a proud, broad back. Dagmar let out a quiet sigh of relief that was probably like the wail of a siren to her boss and co-worker.
A Human boss would have commended her for handling things so well and sorting out such a serious misunderstanding; Thoris dismissed her with a grunt and a negligent wave of his hand, followed with a faint wiggle of his bowed antennae in her direction.
She beamed, as though he had sung praises, because by then, Dagmar had learned that Andorians didn't say all that they meant to say -they showed it...
And then she left, because Shral was still staring and her heart beat a nervous, uncomfortable tattoo; a new, unsettling development that made her wonder if she should go find a medic.
Dagmar spent the rest of her work day hiding behind stacks of PADDs in loneliest section of the building archives that she could find. The dark-eyed curator didn't question her habit of working there sometimes; perhaps the aging Andorian matron thought that it was an odd Human quirk, perhaps the woman somehow understood. Either way, the resident pink-skin relished the quiet and the solitude. It let her work quickly and in peace, away from sharp eyes and keen antennae.
Except the curator, that is.
And the ghost-sensation of another set of eyes.
The one thing that Dagmar loved about her brain –really loved- was that, while she wasn't a genius or a revolutionary or any of those great things, her mind had this trick of turning off all of the background programs and just letting her work. Emotions? Sleep mode. Inner turmoil? Switched off. Wild speculations and paranoia? Shut down.
It was only a temporary state, of course – but Dagmar would take whatever peace was given to her.
