"Don't do anything stupid," Commodore Geordi LaForge told his daughter sternly as they walked across the lush, green garden of the great-grandmother's home in Mogadishu towards the shuttle.
"I don't intend to." Sidney told her father.
"There will be lots of people around," Geordie said. "Including gamblers. And where there are gamblers, there will be gangsters and other criminals. Keep your wits about you."
"Dad, I'll be fine," Sidney said exasperated. "Thousands of people go to the race every year – it's not a big deal."
"Don't separate from your friends," Geordie continued, using every bit of parental dominance he could muster with his oldest, wildest, child, "You're safer together."
"Right."
"How many people are you going with?" Alandra asked, every bit the annoying little sister, as she followed them through the garden.
Sidney turned her head and scowled, "It's just two of us – he had one extra ticket."
"Wait he?" Geordie said, stopping in his tracks. "I thought you were going with a group of girls."
"I never said that," Sidney pointed out.
"What guy is this? Do I know him?"
"Yes you do," Alandra answered.
"Alandara," Sidney growled, turning to glare at her sister.
"What?" the younger girl demanded, holding her gaze.
Sidney took a deep breath and swallowed her pride, "Look, I'm sorry I lost your sweater. I will get you a new one."
"That is all I wanted," Alandra said with a satisfied smile. "Now have a great trip."
"So, which friend are you going with?" Geordie asked as he tapped the entry code onto the shuttle's access panel. He'd learned long ago to ignore his daughter's squabbles.
"Does it matter?" Sidney asked. "I'm a grown woman."
"You may be a grown woman, and a Starfleet officer, but you will always be my little girl," Geordie told her as the hatch lowered. "I will always worry about you. "
"That is not the comforting statement you think it is," Sidney said.
Geordie sighed. "What I mean to say was have fun, but be safe."
"Thanks Dad," Sidney said, leaning in to kiss her father on the cheek before she jogged over to the transporter pad. "I'll see you guys in three days."
"Bring me back something nice," Alandra said. "And a new sweater!"
"I'm going to watch the race, not go shopping."
"You ready?" Geordie asked, as he activated the transporter controls and the pad lit up and began to humm.
"Yup," Sidney said, her anticipation and excitement was clearly visible in her smile.
As a loving father, Geordie couldn't help but smile with his daughter. "All right," he said, once the transporter's start-up auto-diagnosis had cleared. "Entering coordinates – Earth, Mediterranean region, Monaco, Monte Carlo Visitors Center . . ." He looked up at her. "Love you Sidney."
"Love you back," she replied.
"Transporter engaged," Geordie said, drawing his fingers down the transporter controls and sending his oldest daughter off to adventure.
"All right," he said a moment later, his eyes still on the controls. "The Visitor's center confirmed her arrival."
"Ok," Alandra said. "I guess I should go help Auntie Macay with the Basbousa."
"Yeah," her father agreed, following her out of the shuttle. "You know, Sid never did tell me which friend she was meeting. Do you know?"
"I do."
"Is it a secret or something?"
"I don't think so," Alandra said, pausing while her father closed the shuttle hatch. "She just didn't want to deal with your nagging."
"I've liked every friend she's ever introduced me to," Geordie said. "Why would I nag?"
"It's Jack Crusher," Alandra told him.
"What?!" Geordie demanded, stopping in his tracks.
"I think that's what she wanted to avoid," Alandra muttered as she picked up her pace on the way to the kitchen.
The dim, familiar interior of the family shuttle dissolved into a brilliant, exciting Mediterranean vista. The visitors center was a large open structure made of transparent aluminum so a vibrant blue sky and the sparkling waters of Port Hurclue were the first thing arriving tourists saw. Sidney felt her heart hammer in her chest – she was really here – standing in Monte Carlo to watch the Grand Prix.
"Sidney! Oi!" Jack called. He was standing behind a short wall that kept the general public off of the transporter pads, grinning ear to ear and waving. She waved back and skipped down the platform. When they met at the transporter exit, excitement was radiating out of her.
"I can't believe it," she squealed, engulfing him in an enthusiastic hug. "The Monte Carlo Grand Prix!"
"And I thought you'd be happy to see me," Jack joked, hugging her back.
"I am," she said, stepping away from him. "But I have dreamed of being here my whole life. I want to see everything!"
"Well, then, you're in luck," Jack said, offering her his arm. "I have an absolute banger of a weekend planned."
Sidney accepted it and let him lead her out of the visitors center. To her surprise, the white buildings, blue sky, and shimmering sea were even brighter outside.
"I thought we'd have lunch at a café on the harbor," Jack said. "Then spend some time at the pits so you could get a look at the cars."
"Ohh," Sidney cooed. "Combustion engines! You know, I've never actually seen one. I wanted to build one for my 6th grade science fair project, but my mother said they were too messy and made me construct a 3-D diagram of the Bajoran wormhole."
"Absolutely crushing," Jack commented dramatically before changing the topic. "Does Sol seem especially bright to you?"
"It's always like this on the Mediterranean," Sidney said. "That's why I'm wearing a hat."
"I thought it was just to look fetching."
"Well, thank you," Sidney said.
"I think I'm going to be blind by the end of the day," Jack muttered.
Sidney laughed, "Have you never been to the coast before?"
"I've been to Bath," Jack said defensively.
Sidney took a deep breath, "Ok, like, a nice place by the sea; sun, surf, and sand?"
"My mom took me to water park by the Sea of Tranquility when I was eight," Jack offered.
Sidney sighed. "Our family spends a week in Kismayo every summer," Sidney said. "Rule number one, always wear your sun hat."
"So, I need a sun hat?" Jack asked.
"Your nose is already starting to get a bit red," Sidney observed. "Hat. Pronto."
"Here we are," Jack said, opening the ancient wooden door to reveal a tiny, tiny room. "It's not much, but it is a place to hang our hats."
They'd spent hours in the pit area, looking at the meticulously recreated combustion engine vehicles. For the official Grand Prix, the cars had to run on a combustion engine and be engineered and manufactured without the aid of AI. Similarly, the cars had to driven by humans for the official grand prix. An AI Prix was hosted on the same track in late June, and a Prix Extraterrestre at the beginning of September. But the Grand Prix was a great Earth Tradition that had carried on, almost uninterrupted, for 500 years.
"Saying this is 'Not much,' is generous." Sidney observed. The room was only two and a half meters wide and three and a half meters long. When you opened the door, a narrow wardrobe was on the right. Beyond that was a bunk bed made of black metal rods, set against the right wall. It filled the room. On the left wall, there were several screens displaying the weather report, local tourist attractions, and a live feed of race news coverage. Against the far wall, which was a dull grey, there were two petite upholstered swivel chairs with a low circular table between them. The bathroom, which was shared by the hostel's other guests, was across the hall.
Sidney had been looking forward to relaxing in the room after a day of walking. In the late afternoon, they'd wandered up the steep streets from the harbor, at sea level to the Place du Palais. It was only an 8.5 kilometer walk, but it included 161 vertical meters. Then once they'd reached the hostel on the Rue de Ramparts, they'd had to climb another 4 flights of stairs to get to the room. She was worn out, and let down.
"I figure, hotels are for sleeping, but . . ." Jack said excitedly as he tapped the room's control panel next to the door. The short gray wall dissolved into a crystal-clear window facing north, providing them a breathtaking view of Hercule Port, Monte-Carlo, and the white mountains north-west of the tiny sea-side nation.
"Oh my gosh," Sidney said, dropping her bag on the lower bunk as she rushed to look out the window. "We can see everything."
"Well, not everything," Jack said. "From turn 3 to the end of the tunnel is pretty difficult to see at this angle. And, with people in the bleachers, the view will be even more obscured."
"Look, there," Sidney squealed. "The reconstructed Astin Martin is doing a test run!"
Jack followed her gaze and saw the old-fashioned vehicle speed through the S shape of turns 10 and 11 at breakneck pace.
"Think of the torque required for that kind of turn at that speed," Sidney marveled. "I mean, most people think that top speed is what's necessary to win a race – the fastest shuttle gets the gold. But that's why a course like this is so fantastic. There are a few straight-aways that reward the highest horsepower - that's how they measured peak performance capability for motorized land vehicles - "
"Yeah, I picked up on that," Jack interjected.
"But to succeed here, your vehicle needs to change speeds safely: slowing as you approach the turns and then accelerating out of them. It's fascinating, but the wheeled vehicles actually have an advantage on a course like this. Without the friction of the wheel against the ground, the amount of side-thrust required to change course so quickly is likely to throw the vehicle off balance – and it definitely precludes spectators watching along the route. In fact, they had a demonstration run of an impulse pod in 2156 before the official race. Hundreds of spectators were injured from thruster burns, collapsed bleachers and, towards the end of the route, the press of people trying to get away from the track before the pod got there. They had to delay the race for a day and there was a huge scandal."
"Was there?" Jack asked.
Sidney looked up at him, and her exposition seemed to get caught in her throat. "I'm sorry," she stammered. "I know the technical aspects of land-based racing aren't exactly interesting."
"No, it's fine," Jack said warmly. "It's fun watching you have fun."
"What?" Sidney asked, looking at him curiously.
"I mean," Jack stammered. "I like seeing how excited you get. Your eyes light up and you talk really fast about things I've never thought about before. Its . . . . like a little adventure. Where is Sidney going, and can I keep up?"
She looked at him suspiciously, "Your too smooth, you know that right?"
"Most girls like it," Jack said.
"Least attractive quality, " she told him, but her stern expression was subverted by a twinkle in her eyes and smile in her voice.
"Look," he said, deciding to change the subject. "As we were trudging up this mountain, I noticed a pasta place a few doors down. You stay here and enjoy the practice laps. I'll go get something for dinner. And maybe something for after dinner. "
"Cannoli?"
"I was thinking, whiskey, but we can do both."
"Well, no whiskey for me," Sidney said. "I've wanted to see this race my whole life. I don't want to risk a hangover."
"Fair point," Jack said. "Maybe whiskey is for tomorrow night."
"That I can do," Sidney said.
"Are you opposed to wine with dinner?" Jack asked, reaching into his bag and pulling out a bottle of Chateau Picard. "My father gave me this to share."
"And you carried it around all day?" Sidney asked taking the bottle from him and examining the label. "Wasn't it heavy?"
Jack shrugged, "I didn't have much choice – he gave it to me right before I left."
"What goes well with Cabernet?"
"Well, having spent the last month in a vineyard I can say with certainty that Cabernet is a red wine – and the rule seems to be you drink red wine with red food. Pasta sauce is usually red, so . . ."
"So, I guess that's perfect," Sidney said.
"I'm back!" Sidney said as she opened the door, then quickly added "Oh, you're still sleeping, sorry!" in a much softer voice.
"What time is it?" Jack groaned from the top bunk.
"0900," Sidney said. "I brought back coffee."
"Coffee?" Jack groaned. "That's the native version of Ractichino, right?"
"You have to be kidding me," Sidney asked, horrified. "Coffee is one of earth's treasures. Raktajino doesn't even come close."
"It has a higher caffeine content, lower acidity," Jack argued. "And doesn't require a sweetener."
"Ugh, Cardassian sympathizer," Sidney chided. "Have you ever had real earth coffee – not the brown water the replicators make?"
"I don't think so."
"Ok, well, I made sure to get real coffee," Sidney said. "So why don't you get out of bed and give it a try before it gets cold."
Soon Jack was sitting in front of the open window, watching the sunlight dance on the ocean and breathing in the pungent aroma of black coffee. He was unshowered and unshaven, in pajama pants and a robe, feeling embarrassingly underdressed. Sidney, in comparison, was wearing a bright magenta outfit. It was like a jumpsuit, but it was cut as shorts instead of long pants and ended in a ruffle before it reached her collarbone, leaving her shoulders bare. It was cinched at her waist with a black belt that matched her strappy black sandals. Jack didn't know what that piece of clothing was called, but she looked amazing in it.
"I wonder if they have a knife at the front desk," she said, looking at the baguette she'd purchased during her early morning shopping spree. "I suppose we could just rip it."
"Ripping it should be fine," Jack said. "How long have you been up?"
"Since 0500, give or take," Sidney said, tearing a chunk off the baguette before handing it to him. "I really tried to sleep in, since it's a day off, and the race isn't until 1400, but I'm just so excited. So, I decided to get up and walk around the city."
"Dressed to the nines," Jack observed.
"You like it?" Sidney asked. "Alandra picked it out for me. I'm no good with clothes."
"How can people be good at clothes?" Jack asked. "Aren't they just . . . things to keep you warm?"
"That's what I say," Sidney said expressively. "But Alandra has opinions. Still, I would never have picked out this romper – and now that I'm wearing it I kind of love it."
"Romper?" Jack observed. "That sounds like children's clothing."
Sidney chuckled at his observation. "Anyway," she continued. "Since I had so much time, I thought I'd find a place to buy Alandar a souvenir."
"Shops were open at six in the morning?" Jack asked, baffled.
"Eight in the morning," Sidney corrected. "But I found this great sweater for her," Sidney said, pulling a red blob out of her bag to show him. "It's kind of tangled in itself," she said, as she fumbled with the fabric.
Jack decided his brain was not caffeinated enough to think about sweaters or rompers. He turned to the coffee and took a deep swig. As expected, it was hot, and acidic, and bitter. But under that there was a richness that raktajino didn't have. It was, he realized, like the wine his father was trying to teach him to appreciate. The slower you drank it, the more time you spent with it, the more you could find.
"How's the coffee?" Sidney asked anxiously.
"Better than I thought it would be," Jack said. "I'm not a convert yet, but I can see the appeal."
"Someday I'll take you to Uncle Rasti's coffee farm," Sidney said. "He'll convert you."
"That sounds like a treeeeat," Jack said, the last word stretched into a yawn.
Sidney laughed, "You're still tired?"
"I don't usually get up this early."
"0900?" Sidney asked. "When do you usually get up?"
"Around noon," Jack admitted.
"What?" Sidney asked, flabbergasted.
"There is no reason to," Jack insisted. "My father doesn't get up until around 10 a.m.. Laris is always up and about – but she's perfectly capable of doing her job without me in way – demanding to help like some sort of impatient two-year-old."
"So, what do you do all day?" Sidney asked.
"Not much. Ever since we returned to Earth, I've been," he paused, searching for the perfect word. He settled on "Unmoored. With my mother back at Starfleet, I can't go back to the way things were - but I don't see a path forward.
"Of course my mother said it's ok to do nothing for a bit. I should get to know my father, learn my family history, and all that. And, I have to say, there are times with Jean-Luc that are . . . fantastic. Sometimes we play chess, and one night we stayed up until three debating the merits of the Prime Directive.
"Another time he gave me a tour of the tunnels beneath the Chateau. He said his father told him that there were a hundred ways to die in those tunnels, so we decided to count them. We only came up with twenty three – and some of them a real stretch. For example, we had to count the borg people Raffi had transported into the walls since they had literally died in the tunnels, but honestly, that's not really a danger for an eight-year-old boy who wants to explore."
"Borg people in the walls?" Sidney asked.
"I'll show you sometime," Jack said. "It's a bonkers story."
"So that's your life now?" Sidney asked. "Sleep in, play chess, look for death-traps in ancient tunnels?"
"Oh, lord, I hope not," Jack groaned. "But, honestly, I have no idea what other option I have."
"You don't strike me as the kind of guy to stay home and mind the farm," Sidney observed. "Have you considered following in your parent's footsteps and joining Starfleet? We have a few openings."
"I thought about it," Jack admitted. "But, that was a long time ago, when I graduated from prep school. I came home with a flier talking about adventure and exploring the great unknown; gave my mother a panic attack. She burst into tears and said she needed some time. And that's when I decided that I would never join Starfleet. She'd lost her husband to Starfleet and my brother . . ."
"Wait," Sidney interjected. "You have a brother?"
"We'll, half brother, from my mom's marriage with the first Jack Crusher. But I've never met him because he's with a bunch of aliens traveling through time or something. The point is, she lost everyone she loved to Starfleet. How could I put her through that again?"
"Of course you couldn't," Sidney said empathetically.
"So," Jack concluded. "To satiate my thirst for adventure, we hatched a plan to procure a decommissioned federation medical vessel and go where Starfleet wouldn't go to do what Starfleet couldn't do."
"But now your mom is Starfleet again," Sidney observed.
"And the Eleos was destroyed," Jack added. "So I can't go back, and there is no path forward. "
"You'll find one," Sidney assured him. "Or you'll make one."
"I hope so," Jack said as he drank the last dregs off his coffee and winced as the smooth black liquid suddenly became gritty and much more bitter. He instinctively spit the liquid back into the cup. "That does not finish smooth."
"Oh, sorry," Sidney winced. "I should have warned you."
"I think the universe is telling me to brush my teeth," he said, still grimacing from the coffee. "Give me ten - I'll pull myself together and we'll start the day."
There was a carnival atmosphere on the streets of Monaco. Everyone seemed deliriously happy that it was the day of the race. The narrow streets leading to the race tracks were full of street vendors and race enthusiasts. People crowded the streets and filled the balconies, both human and alien. Jack counted twenty-four distinct species just sitting on the bleachers with them on turn 18. The Ferengi two rows down should have invested in a hat. Their species developed on a world with far more moisture and near-constant rainfall. They were not well adapted for the blazing Mediterranean sun. The Antedians in the back row had it worse. They had tickets for the front row, but the security officers had forced them to relocate because their large umbrellas, necessary to keep the sun off of their moisture sensitive skin, were blocking other spectator's views. The large group of Caitian's standing in the open space below the bleachers had a different problem. Their homeword of Cait orbited an F-type star, which may have burned hotter, but gave off a cooler, white light. They had evolved with thick fur to live in a much colder climate, and they were overheating even in the cool ocean breeze.
Soon, the large holographic projection over the race track at the La Rascasse turn, and, presumably, over all the other parts of the race track where spectators were gathered. It was a projection of an old man, with curly white hair wearing a formal, quasi-military outfit. Jack recognized him as the Prince of Monaco – an ancient hereditary position that came with ceremonial obligations, a huge house, and no political power.
"Welcome, everyone, to the 2401 Monaco Grand Prix," the Prince's hologram announced exuberantly. The crowd went wild, people screamed, bells were rung, vuvuzelas were blown, and Caitians yowled. Sidney joined in, clapping with bubbly excitement. The hologram continued to address the crowd, but people were too excited to listen. Through the non-stop-cheering, Jack could catch snatches of the pompous speech; . . . "over a thousand years of tradition" . . . "dedication to pushing the limits of human possibility" . . . "Creativity and excellence in engineering" . . . . "ecstatic drama of the race."
Eventually, the cheers had died down, and the Prince's address was clearly audible. The prince, probably from years of experience, seemed to have anticipated when that moment would happen. "So now," he said, once everyone could hear him. "It is both auspicious and necessary for us to remember and honor those whose sacrifices have allowed us, the living, to celebrate our unique traditions and deeply held values. So, please join me in a moment of silence for those who lost their life in the Frontier Day Massacre."
Jack felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. As people around him bowed their heads, or looked up at the crisp blue sky mournfully, as if it were a graveyard, his body threw him into a full-blown panic attack. His head spun, his heart pounded, and his throat constricted so he couldn't breathe. He imagined himself in the Borg Cube, hearing her voice order "Eliminate the unassimilated" then hearing his own voice repeat "Eliminate the unassimilated." He remembered the pleasure he felt when he was connected, and it sickened him knowing that some of it was the Queen's pleasure at killing so many people.
With great effort, he forced himself to remember Counselor Troi's observation: "My mistake, however bad, does not diminish their malice and planning." If it was true for her – it was true for him. He'd been weak when he needed to be strong – but that was not the same as choosing to hurt people.
Intellectually, he understood that position. Most of the time, it helped him live with the guilt. But, on this erstwhile perfect day, he had not been prepared to confront his trauma. He was surrounded by thousands of people, many of them, no doubt, remembering the hell he'd put them through. Right next to him, Sidney might be recalling murders he'd forced her to commit with his voice. The shame burned in his chest and spread through his body. He wished that the inward immolation would become real flames that could consume his guilt, even if it meant being burned alive. That was no less than he deserved.
His destructive thoughts were suddenly interrupted when he felt a soft hand on his, and heard Sidney's concerned voice: "Hey, you OK?"
"I'm . . ." he said shakily, forcing himself to turn and look into her eyes. He used her touch, her voice, and her gaze to ground him in reality. He took a deep breath. "Just a bit gobsmacked" he said. "I'll be fine."
"Yeah," Sidney said, nodding empathetically. "You're all up and excited and then – bam – crash." He heard a slight tremble in her voice.
"Well, good to get the crashing out early," Jack said, trying to resurrect the jovial mood. "Better us than the cars."
"Really?" Sidney asked. "The cars are made to absorb the impact of a crash so the driver isn't hurt. The look in your eye's, just now . . . nothing absorbed that blow."
"Yeah, well," Jack said, looking away from her, towards the race track, then out over the bay where luxury yachts were lined along the course, searching for a distraction. "Oi, do you hear that?"
"I hear a lot of things," Sidney said.
"Engines revving," Jack said, turning to her excitedly; relieved that something more interesting than processing his emotions was about to happen. "They're getting ready to start."
Almost as soon as he said that, the projection of the Prince was replaced by the projections of a numeric count-down.
"Ten!" the entire city seemed to scream. "Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One!"
The crowd's cheers became deafening as the race started. The overhead projection showed the cars as they left the starting line, and occasionally switched to different views as they progressed along the track. Soon, the lead car cleared the 16th turn and sped down the Route de la Piscine towards their seats at La Rascasse.
"Blimey," Jack murdered, "It looks like they're going to plow right through us."
"No," Sidney said, obvious delight in her voice. "Notice them drifting to the left and slowing down?"
"Slowing down?" Jack asked in disbelief, as the car sped through the turn in a blur, followed closely by another car, and another.
"Not a lot," Sidney said, her eyes set on the track and the racers. "But enough to make this turn, and then 18 and 19 too. They want to start strong out of the pit -so the instinct is to go fast. But if they take this turn too fast or wide they won't be able to make the next turn. Of course, if they take it too slow, they won't have time to makeup the speed before the lap ends. This turn is critical. A minor mistake can snowball into a loss."
"Wow," Jack said. "You see a lot more than I do."
"I know what to look for," Sidney explained.
Jack tried to see what she had described, but the cars were moving so fast that they were gone before he could properly conceive what he was looking for. After about ten laps, Jack stopped trying to see the technical skill, and instead relaxed and enjoyed the festive atmosphere and the inherent suspense of not knowing who would win.
Around the 18th lap, a red and black car screamed up the street. The driver must have been anxious to makeup time in the straightaway because they were approaching the curve at a nerve wracking speed. "They're not going to make it," Sidney said breathlessly, grabbing Jack's arm. "It's gonna crash!"
"He could still . . ." Jack said as the car hurtled towards them. But before he could finish the thought, it became horribly obvious that she was right. The car's wheels squealed as the driver attempted to slow enough to make the turn, but it was too late. The front of the long car started to turn, but the back wheels, propelled with the momentum of the oversized motor, continued straight and crashed into the safety force fields directly in front of them. There was an explosion and a fireball bloomed from the wreckage. The force field protected onlookers from the physical force of the explosion and the flying debris. However, the waves of heat from the burning oil could not be contained by a forcefield, and an oppressive heat washed over the crowd.
"I should go," Jack said, jumping to his feet, "They'll need a medic."
"They have medics," Sidney assured him, pulling him back to his seat. Even as she spoke, the blare of sirens drowned out her words as nearly a dozen emergency response vehicles converged on the scene of the crash.
For the spectators in the bleachers, the moments just after the crash were horrible. It looked like there was a real possibility the driver had been injured, or worse. Rescue crews rushed to the scene and started spraying the fire with a chemical foam that put it out nearly instantly. Then, the driver appeared from under the wreckage. Her helmet and jumpsuit were stained with the gray foam, and she was obviously shaken. But, with the help of the paramedics, she walked to the middle of the track, took off her helmet, and waved to the spectators.
The crowd roared, which seemed to revive her somewhat. She smiled and waved, to more applause, for nearly five minutes before the medics convinced her to walk away.
"Look at the way she's holding her arm," Jack said. She's got a broken collar bone."
Sidney glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Are you trying to show off?"
"Me? No," Jack replied. "You were just so clever, calling that crash. I'm trying to keep up."
"Excuse me," a high-pitched voice called loudly from the side aisle. Everyone in the section turned instinctively to look at the source of the voice, and Jack was surprised to find the speaker was looking directly at him.
She was a tall, thin, human-looking woman with large brown eyes, pale skin, and frizzy brown hair, cut short and smothered by an old fashioned circular hat with the crest of the Royal Security forces of Monaco over the shiny black brim. The rest of her outfit matched her hat: gold buttons on a tailored white collared shirt, navy pants with a red stripe down the legs, and white kid gloves. She was security. She was authority. And Jack knew in his gut that she was trouble.
"You two," she called, pointing two fingers at Sidney and him. "I'd like to talk to you!"
"We have tickets!" Jack called anxiously, holding up the back of his hand, which had been temporarily marked with his seat number.
"I just need to ask you something," The officer said flatly.
"Sure," Sidney said politely, and moved towards the row where the officer was standing.
Before she took a full step, Jack grabbed her arm and whispered into her ear. "Last I checked, I'm still wanted on twenty Federation planets."
This seemed to give her pause, but only for a moment. "It's not like you could run in this crowd," she reasoned. "If you don't act suspicious, she has no reason to suspect you of anything."
Jack looked at her bewildered, "Have you ever met a cop?"
Sidney sighed with frustration and pushed past him, muttering "Stop acting suspicious."
Helplessly trapped in the gaze of a hundred of his fellow spectators, Jack had no choice but to follow.
"I'm Officer Lambit of the Royal Monaco Security Service," she told them once they'd reached the isle. She showed them an ornate bronze badge and holo ID. "I overheard you say that you knew the car was going to crash?"
"It was obviously going too fast," Sidney said calmly.
"Would you be willing to make an official statement to that end at the security office?"
"Well, I suppose . . ." Sidney said, glancing behind her to the race track.
"Is it really necessary?" Jack asked.
"Don't worry about missing anything," Officer Lambit said. "It will take an hour to clear the wreckage from the track. Then they will send the safety car around for a few laps. The office is only fifty meters away and I only have a few questions."
"And what kind of questions would those be?" Jack asked.
"All crashes have to be investigated thoroughly to ensure the safety of the drivers and spectators," the officer explained.
"Right, of course," Jack agreed, hoping to appear agreeable. "But, by crash investigators, right? People who look at the recordings of the incident from different angles in slow motion . . ."
"This race is very important to the city. The investigations must be thorough. If you will -" she said, motioning for them to go down the stairs. The tone in the officer's voice implied that that the her unfinished sentence was: come with me without protest or I will force you.
Officer Lambit had been honest about one thing; the security offices were very close to the race track. They took up part of the first level of an old four-story structure built across from the port along the Quai Antoine 1er. The entry was under a traditional portico, so, from the yachts in the harbor it would look charming and historic. Under the portico, on the other side of the columns, it looked modern, efficient, and soulless, with a transparent aluminum front showing an orderly waiting room full of gray chairs and a large gray processing desk. Behind that was a bullpen full of messy desks and hallways leading to more offices and, if Jack knew anything about law enforcement, interrogation rooms. The office appeared empty except for an old female officer sitting at the desk, watching a holo projection of the race – or rather, the race highlights they were playing while the track was cleared.
There was no door to enter the security offices, just a large opening that glistened slightly from the low-frequency forcefield and, undoubtedly, universal scanner. Jack's hope of avoiding recognition died. His open warrants would pop up on the system computer as soon as he walked through the archway. His only hope was that the local officers would not want to deal with the complexities of turning over a prisoner to the interplanetary authorities.
"Please enter," Officer Lambit said, pausing at the door and indicating they should pass through. Sidney did without hesitation. Jack followed, grimacing as the slight electric charge of the scanner pricked his skin. He didn't know what would come next, but he didn't think it would be pleasant. The best-case scenario was that his father's renown would aw the small Monaco security services and they would release him without charges out of deference. It was a tad degrading, to be saved by your father's name. On the other hand, Jack had always been willing to fully exploit any advantage given him.
"Now follow me into the back," Officer Lambit said, as she led them through the empty chairs of the waiting room towards the bullpen.
"Yalana," the officer at the desk called to Officer Lambit. "You gotta flag."
"Of course," Lambit replied with a sigh. "Send it to my PADD. Do I have to do anything?"
"Ehhhh," the old woman shrugged.
"I just wanna ask them a few questions," Lambit said frankly. "What if we don't process?"
The old woman laughed, "No skin off my nose."
Sidney glanced back at Jack and smiled, as if to say, See, no problem.
Jack didn't smile back. Cops breaking the rules was rarely a good sign.
"Thanks Bella," Lambit said to the other women. Then turning to Sidney and Jack; "Please deposit your personal items, hats, communicators, anything you might have in your pockets in this box." She pulled a large box out from under the reception desk and held it out to them.
Sidney took off her wide brimmed sun hat and Starfleet communicator and put them in the box. Jack put his new straw trilby hat in the box, then pulled his civilian communicator out of his pocket. It was a fairly weak device, limited to planetary communication. It also required manual input of communication lines before they could be used. Since his father was off-world, it was currently only able to call the Chateau's main line, Laris, his mother, and Sidney. All told, it wasn't a particularly useful item. But he didn't like the idea of giving up his connection to the people who cared about him – even temporarily. "Why?" he asked.
"It's standard procedure," Officer Lambit said dismissively.
"But you just decided not to follow standard procedure," Jack pointed out. "Why be a stickler about this?"
"Do you want to be booked for obstructing and investigation?" Officer Lambit demanded as she thrust the box towards him.
"Come on, Jack," Sidney said. "It's no big deal. Let's just get this done with and go back to the race."
"Right," Jack said, forcing a smile as he placed his communicator in the box. "Sorry, I've just had some bad experiences before. Might be a bit paranoid."
Officer Lambit did not seem to care about his past experiences. She shoved the box back under the reception desk and said, "You two, follow me."
She led them through the empty bullpen and into one of the dimly lit hallways that led to the bowls of the building.
"Where is everyone?" Jack asked anxiously.
"It's race day, all hands on deck," Lambit explained. "Everyone is out keeping the peace."
"But you're in here, questioning us?" Jack said.
"It will only take a moment," she said. "If I can have you go into this room, ma'am," she said, motioning to an open door that led to a dark room with no windows. "And sir, if you would go here," she continued, motioning to a similar room on the other side of the hall.
"Sure," Sidney said, stepping into the room she'd been shown and triggering the automatic lights. It was painfully plain, containing a square table and four chairs, bare white plaster walls, and a soft white light source overhead: nothing more.
"No," Jack said firmly. "We go together."
"Jack, calm down," Sidney said casually. "It's not a big deal."
"Everything about this is off," Jack insisted. "If these questions are so simple, why did we have to come here?"
"So I could record your answers for investigators while the crash is fresh in your memory," Officer Lambit explained calmly.
"Why do we need to be separated?" Jack demanded.
"It's standard procedure for any formal questioning," Lambit said. "Your individual perspectives of the situation are more valuable than a shared memory, where one person's misconception can inadvertently alter the valid observation of the other person." She was starting to sound impatient.
"Jack," Sidney interjected. "The sooner we start, the sooner it's over."
Jack glanced from Lambit, to Sidney and back. He had no ground to stand on. Before, in such a situation, he would have run. But, there was nowhere to run to. There was no ship in orbit with an empathetic mother waiting for the word to transport him away. He could only flee to a chateau, a mere 500 kilometers away, where everyone would insist that he should give in to the polite officers' very reasonable requests.
"Fine," he said, and forced himself to smile. His charm had saved him in tough spots before; there was no reason to discard that tool. "I'll just wait in here for you then."
