Prologue - 2401

There was a cold breeze on his face.

That can't be good. Reluctantly, Shaw opened his eyes.

Directly in front of him, a bit more than arm's length away, was a window. Not a nice solid space-worthy window, but an old-fashioned double-pane glass and wood window, the kind that were common on Earth way back when dinosaurs still roamed.

No, that wasn't right. It looked like an antique by design, but the window was far more modern.

It was open just a finger's width at the bottom, and cold air rushed through the gap. It brought the smell of rain with it, and the sound of the ocean.

"Oh." Shaw knew, suddenly, exactly where he was.

Beside the window's wide oak-looking frame, the wall was painted pale green. It was daylight outside the window, but dim, the color of a cloudy afternoon. Beneath him, a down mattress snuggled him into the firmer mattress below. A heavy comforter covered him; except for his exposed face, he was perfectly warm.

So this is heaven, he thought. Didn't really think I'd end up here.

But if there was a heaven, it made perfect sense that for him it would be this place. He could not think of a single place in the universe he would rather be.

He wondered when she would join him here. Or even if she would. He hoped it would not be soon. She deserved a long life. But some day, it would be nice to see her again.

In heaven there are unlimited perfect naps. Shaw sighed and drifted back to sleep.

Chapter 1 - 2368

Shaw had washed out on his first assignment after the Constance. They didn't say that, of course. They said gentle things about his being withdrawn, about him not fitting in with the crew, about how the disaster was still too fresh and of course no one had gotten the full therapy that they needed because with eleven thousand dead, any warm functional body was back on duty much too soon – but the bottom line was, they had to move him on.

So after fourteen months they gave him a promotion and sent him to the U.S.S. Alder. She was an ancient ship who had literally made a U-turn on her way to the scrap yard when 39 ships were lost the year before.

The Alder was in Sol dock when he arrived. He made his way to Engineering and met the Chief, a short, solid woman named Leona Carr. "You Shaw?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

"You're early. Thought you were supposed to be on leave."

"I wanted to get a head start." He looked past her to the largely dismantled mains. "Looks like you could use more hands."

"What I could use is my damn parts. Until they get here, all the hands are just scratching their asses."

"Well. I can get started on my quals, anyhow."

Carr scowled. "Shaw, your reputation proceeds you. All work, no play. Doesn't get along well with others."

"I hope they also said that I was good at my job," Shaw bristled.

"Said you were excellent." She ran her hand through her short hair. "Look, I'm not saying your crew has to be your brothers and sisters and all that happy crap. But you're going to make an effort to get along here. You're going to go out for drinks, you're going to socialize a little, you're going to build some relationships."

"But …"

"Captain's orders. He's heard your reputation, too."

This is so fucking unfair! Shaw managed to shut his mouth, just barely.

The chief turned and barked, "Lubar!"

A crewman roughly Shaw's age loped over. "Yep."

"This is Shaw. Lonnie's replacement. Show him to his quarters, and then take him on shore leave with you. I don't want to see any of you until Tuesday when the parts get here. You're all driving me nuts."

"Yes, ma'am." He gestured to Shaw. "Right this way."

"But I – I need to get started on my quals."

"Shaw," Carr said firmly, "I'm not much of a babysitter. Don't make me babysit you."

"Yes, Chief." Fuming, he followed Lubar to the turbolift.

"Don't mind her," the crewman said. "She's just pissed about the parts. They were supposed to be here a week ago."

Shaw nodded absently. He was still stewing over the babysitter crack.

"So we're hitting the bar tonight, basic shore leave, San Francisco, but we're thinking tomorrow we'd go hike in the mountains."

"Great."

"You can't wear your uniform though. Too close to the Academy."

The lift stopped, and Lubar led him down the corridor. "I'm right across the hall, so if you need anything, just give me a yell." He stopped in front of a door. "Here you go."

"Thanks," Shaw growled. "That's all I need." He went into his new closet-sized quarters, looked around quickly, then picked up a PADD from the side table.

"So, uh, get changed and I'll meet you out here, okay?"

"I'm not going," Shaw answered.

"You have to go," Lubar protested. "Carr said."

"I'm not going!"

Lubar looked over shoulder, then entered the room fully and let the door shut. "C'mon, lighten up."

"I don't need a babysitter, I don't need shore leave, I just want to finish my quals and get to work. Can't anybody get that?"

"Man, what is wrong with you? You met me like two minutes ago and you're yelling at me for something I had nothing to do with. Damn, you just got here, get the stick out of your ass!"

Shaw glared at him. But the crewman was right. And he was starting down the wrong road all over again. "You're right," he admitted. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"What is your problem?"

"I –" I shouldn't be here. I should have been dead a year ago. There were dozens of men who deserved that seat more than I did. He couldn't say any of that. "I was on the Constance," he finally said, very quietly.

Lubar's attitude changed immediately. "Oh, fuck."

Please don't pity me, Shaw begged inwardly. I don't need it, I don't deserve it.

"And they just threw you back out here," Lubar guessed.

"Basically."

"They're doing that to everybody. It sucks."

"Any warm body," Shaw agreed.

"Fuck." Lubar took a deep breath. "Okay. Okay. What do you need?"

"What?"

"What do you need, to be okay here?"

Shaw didn't begin to know how to answer. "Space," he finally decided. "Time. I guess."

"Okay." Lubar nodded emphatically. "Here's what we're going to do. You gotta come out with us tonight." He raised his hand before Shaw could protest. "I know, but if you don't Carr's gonna climb straight up my ass and straight up yours. Just listen. I know this bar, it's got these booths in the back that are always empty. It won't be quiet, but bring your PADD along, you can get a beer and sit back there and study quals or whatever the hell you want to do, you don't have to even talk to us. Then when Carr asks, I can say yeah, he came out with us, he had a couple drinks, and you can say the same thing, nobody has to lie. Don't ever lie to Carr. She can smell it. Okay?"

"What if she asks the rest of the crew?"

"It's just us grease monkeys, I'll talk to the others. We all lost friends, Shaw. We got you."

Shaw exhaled slowly. It wasn't what he wanted, but it was the best he was going to get. "I appreciate it."

"Whatever we can do."

Lubar went and changed into civs, and so did Shaw. He holstered his PADD. They met in the corridor a few minutes later. They still both looked undeniably like Starfleet, but wearing enlisted uniforms this close to the Academy was asking for a fight with some stuck-up ensign.

Shaw braced himself for questions – there were always questions – but Lubar stayed silent until they left the ship entirely. Then he said, "We'll give you all the space you need, but, um, when you're ready? We're a pretty good group to run with."

I don't want friends, Shaw thought grimly. I don't even want to know your names. But that wasn't realistic, or healthy. "I can tell," he answered. "Thank you."


The bar was everything a Starfleet crewman could hope for – tacky, crowded, and loud. The Alder engineering crew had claimed a table in the center of the room. Lubar introduced Shaw to them and poured him a lager from the communal pitcher, then gestured to the promised booths in the back. He felt like an asshole, but Shaw nodded and went.

He sat in the corner booth with his back to the wall and watched while Lubar explained his situation to his new crew. A couple looked his way, nodded, but there wasn't any fuss about it. Relieved, Shaw sipped his beer and brought out his PADD.

Before the quals tutorial even loaded, a girl walked over to the table. "Can I sit here if I promise not to talk?"

Shaw looked at her, annoyed. She was roughly his age, and she was wearing civilian clothes, but she did not look like un-uniformed Starfleet. She did, however, have her own tablet in one hand, and a stout beer in the other. "Um … "

"Thanks." She slid onto the bench against the other wall, scanned the crowd quickly, then focused on her tablet.

Shaw looked to Lubar, suspecting him of a set-up, but the other man shrugged, clearly surprised as well.

He focused on his screen. He was absolutely certain the woman would not keep her promise not to talk, and he ran through an assortment of appropriately cutting remarks to send her away. But to his deep surprise she was completely silent and focused on her own tasks. Whatever she was doing seemed to involve a fair amount of text editing.

Okay, weird. But as long as she stayed quiet, he couldn't very well just tell her to piss off.

It didn't hurt that she was fairly pretty. It didn't hurt that his brand-new crewmates were eyeing the two of them, not very subtly. They were wondering how he'd gotten the girl to sit with him. He was wondering the same thing.

Perhaps half an hour passed without either of them saying another word. Shaw was making decent progress. The bar grew louder, but no one bothered them.

It couldn't last. Suddenly a loud voice said, "Look, she's here!"

Three women and a man crowded enthusiastically at their table. They were all roughly his companion's age, clearly students, and already a little drunk. "We found you! You're here!"

"I'm not here," his study mate said firmly. "I'm in my room working. You do not see me. Go away."

"But you've been working all week! Put it away, come drink with us."

"Go away or I'm going back to my room."

"You don't love us anymore."

"I will love you when my thesis is done. Go away."

"But Becca … "

She smiled apologetically at Shaw and reached for her tablet case. "Sorry. I'm going."

"Hey," Shaw leaned toward her friends, "you see that table over there?" He pointed toward his shipmates. "Starfleet engineering crew. All bored out of their minds. They would love to make some new friends."

They turned in unison to look. One of the women looked back at him. "You sure?"

"I'm sure."

There was a little more muttering, but they moved off. As Shaw expected, the Alder crew greeted them with moderately drunken warmth.

"Thanks," the woman said, settling back. "Sorry about that."

"It'll keep my crew off my neck, too."

She gestured to his empty glass. "You want another piss water? Or a real beer?"

"Do you only consider stout to be real beer?"

"I do, and I only consider Guinness to be real stout. It's a FDC thing, we're encouraged to develop our minor snobberies early in our careers."

"Ah." So she was a Diplomatic Corps student. "Well, you've made a fine choice."

She gestured to the bartender with familiar ease, and shortly a waitress brought them each a glass of stout. She also dropped off a bowl of snacks, small puffy white-ish squares with what looked like a coarse salt sprinkling. Curious, Shaw picked one up and popped it into his mouth.

He immediately regretted it. It tasted awful.

There were no napkins, nowhere to spit it out except on the bare table. He tried to breathe through his nose to avoid the taste. He saw the woman scrambling with her case and realized that she'd taken one of the snacks, too. She came up with a tissue, spit into it, then held it open to him.

Grateful, chagrined, Shaw spit out the morsel into the tissue. She wrapped them both up and set the parcel a safe distance away on the table.

"If you left bleu cheese in the sun for a week …" she ventured slowly.

"… and then threw it away and splashed some grit solvent on the plate …" Shaw continued.

"… and then licked it …"

" … it would not taste that bad," he completed.

"St. Guinness, deliver us." She took a long drink of stout and held it in her mouth, swirling it to remove the taste before she swallowed.

Shaw followed her example. It did help, though he had the feeling that traces of the taste would linger for a while. "I don't think Guinness was actually a saint."

"Only because all religions are inherently political."

He considered. "That sounds like sacrilege."

"Technically I think it's heresy."

"Ahh." He wanted to say something more, but she was already focused on her tablet again. Shaw took another drink and went back to his own studies.


The bar was loud, but suddenly two men's voices were carrying over the rest. Shaw looked up. It was not his crew and their new friends. It was some guys over to their left, in the midst of an argument.

"Four minutes to the first punch," the woman beside him predicted.

Shaw studied them. "Nah. They're just chest-bumping."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"We'll see." He set a timer on his PADD.

At precisely four minutes, the device beeped politely. He looked at her. "See? No fight, just –"

TWACK. The unmistakable sound of a fist meeting a jaw, and then of a man falling over a chair.

Shaw sighed and put his device down, ready to wade into the fray. His companion put her hand on his forearm. "Thomma's here, it's fine."

"Who's Thomma?"

She nodded.

Thomma was a mountain of a being, roughly two heads taller than Shaw, twice as wide at the shoulders, and probably four times his mass. But he moved through the crowded bar smoothly and quietly and grabbed each of the combatants by their collars before another punch landed. Then he glided back out, half-carrying them, and scooted them out the door.

"Oh," Shaw said.

"If he has to toss you twice in the same week, he knocks your heads together on the way out the door."

"And then what?"

"I don't remember." She rubbed the side of her head. "But I woke up with a hell of a headache."

Shaw laughed out loud. The idea that this studious young woman had ever been in a bar fight – no, actually, it wasn't that far-fetched, somehow. "I'm hungry," he realized. "Do you think they have food here?"

She gestured toward the bowl of abomination snacks. "Would you trust anything they served?"

"Uh … no."

"You like roast beef?"

"Yes."

"Let's go next door."


'Next door' turned out to be out the side door, down an alley, and up a fire escape two floors. Shaw was convinced that he was about to be either pranked or mugged when his companion opened an unmarked fire door and led him into a brightly lit room that was indeed a restaurant of sorts, though it looked very temporary. There were folding chairs around tiny tables covered with red and white checked disposable picnic cloths.

But it smelled fantastic, and his stomach rumbled in anticipation.

"Ah, pretty lady, you came back!" a man called through the open window to the kitchen. "The usual?"

"Two, please," she called back.

"Triangles?"

"Yes, please."

"Right away."

She gestured and Shaw picked a table. He looked around as he sat down. Three other tables were occupied, and all of the people were eating what looked like delicious sandwiches. There were no windows, only the door and a second door to the kitchen, the pass-through window. Some old prints on the walls, some fake flowers in vases on the tables. "How did you ever find this place?"

"Asked a professor where the best place to grab a sandwich was."

Shaw took a deep breath and prepared to wade into small talk. He was painfully aware that he wasn't good at it. But they were out of the dark noisy bar now; he had to make the attempt.

Then, blessedly, she went right on talking. "I'm Rebecca Radford. Becca will do."

"Uh. Liam. Shaw. Liam Shaw."

She gestured vaguely toward his PADD. "What are you studying?"

"Oh. Quals. For my new ship."

"I want to pretend I know what quals are, but I probably don't, so say more."

"In Starfleet, any time you come to a new ship – or station, any new assignment, you have a set of quals – qualifications, or qualifying knowledge, that you're required to demonstrate. Stuff you need to know so you can do your job."

"Okay."

"It comes in tiers. General knowledge is – have you ever been on a starship?"

"Not a big one."

"General knowledge is what all hands – all crew members – are required to know. Things like how to activate emergency fire suppression systems, hatch locks, where to go for an all-hands. It's nearly all safety related."

"Where the lifeboats are."

"Lifeships." Shaw grimaced. "Yes."

"Makes sense. Then what?"

"Then there's primary quals. That covers everything in your department. If you're Culinary, it's everything in the galley. If you're Engineering," he gestured to himself, "it's everything in the main engine room and any auxiliary systems. And then there's secondary, which is anything to do with your department anywhere else on the ship."

"Which I'm guessing in Engineering means literally the rest of the ship."

"Pretty much."

"That sounds like a lot."

Shaw nodded. "It's a lot."

The man bustled out of the kitchen and set sandwiches down in front of them. Roast beef on toast, sliced in triangles, stacked so high that Shaw wasn't certain he could take a bite of it, with lettuce and tomatoes in the middle of the meat stack. Chips on the side and a pickle spear. The man gave them wrapped cheap dinner wear from his apron pocket. "To drink? Cider?"

"Yes."

"Sure," Shaw agreed. The man hurried away. "I'm not sure how to eat this."

Becca took her knife, inserted the blade between the tomato layers, and flipped the sandwich open. Half-thickness, it was manageable.

"Ah, of course." Shaw followed suit, took a bite. The beef was perfectly done, tender, delicious.

"Good?"

"Perfect. It'd be better with an onion."

"My fault, I always order mine without because I don't like them. Hang on." She turned toward the kitchen window. "Hey, Rosu?"

"No, never mind," Shaw said quickly. "It's fine."

"You sure?"

"Can't risk it. I might get a chance to kiss you later."

She raised an eyebrow. "Well, I do appreciate a man who plans ahead." She chewed a bite of her sandwich, swallowed. "How long do you have to acquire all this knowledge?"

"Technically? Three days for general, three weeks for primary, three months for secondary. It varies department to department, but that's the general guideline."

Rosu brought them tall glasses of amber liquid. Shaw took a sip; it was tasty and cool and probably a bit alcoholic.

"How long have you been working on them?"

"I, uh, got to my ship this afternoon." Shaw stuffed a big bite of sandwich into his mouth, desperate to delay, even for a moment, the explanation. It was complicated. No, it's simple. You don't want to make friends because your friends die. Easier to dive into quals than deal with people.

She said, "Are the technical deadlines and the actual deadlines different?"

"Yes," he answered, grateful. "You spend three weeks knocking out your primary quals, you might as well just announce that you don't give a shit about your job. You gotta at least be making big progress. And even then, you can't do any real work until you get them done. You end up handing tools to people, or you get sent to your quarters to study."

"Sounds frustrating."

"It's incredibly frustrating." If that wasn't the whole explanation, at least it was true. "And right now the chief is fit to be tied anyhow because they're waiting for engine parts and it looks like they've done every single thing that can do without them, so the whole crew's just standing around pissing her off. She sent everybody on leave for days just to get them out of her hair."

"Ah. And that's why you're trying to study in a bar instead of on your ship."

"That's why."

Becca nodded thoughtfully. Shaw could see her gearing up for another question, so he jumped in. "What about you? What are you working on, and why are you working on it in a bar?"

"I've been shut in my room for most of a week and the walls were closing in. And you know how you work on something so long that you can't see it anymore? It just kinda slides by your brain and doesn't stick?"

"I know that feeling very well."

"I thought a little noise and Guinness would help."

"Did it?"

"Not sure yet. But since I wasn't making any progress anyhow, it doesn't hurt."

"What's it about?"

"History."

Shaw waited. "Kind of a broad subject," he finally prompted.

She chuckled uneasily. "Just one little bite of history, of course."

"Hmmm." He put his elbow on the table, propped his chin in his hand. "So probably nothing that a grease monkey could understand."

"No, it's not that, I don't …" She caught the little quirk of his mouth. "Are you always this much of a brat?"

"Always. Tell me about your thesis."

Becca took a breath. "Fine. It's called So How Are Things at Home: An Examination of Personal Factors in Negotiations that Fail Unexpectedly. That's a working title, I need to pump the back half up with some longer words."

"Agreed. It needs a little scholarly weight." He took another bite, and around it said, "Say more."

She regarded him skeptically. He waited. Finally she sighed and waded in. "Once upon a time, the Federation was very interested in convincing the Vangrac system to join."

"Doesn't ring any bells."

"Insignificant now and well within Federation borders. But at the time it was between us and the Klingon Empire. Which we were at war with."

"Ah."

"The Klingons wanted to invade them, the Federation wanted to sign them up and use them as a base. The leader of the one inhabited planet just mostly wanted to be left alone. His name was Goaw. The Federation got him to agree to sit down at a summit, but it didn't go well. He wanted a thousand things they wouldn't give him, including his own personal starship. And he wouldn't budge."

"Gotta admire the ambition."

"Agreed. So day four, morning session, everybody's fighting, and Goaw just gets up and walks out. Leaves the room, leave the building, gets in his transport and goes. The negotiators wait a while, have lunch, probably take a nap, finally decide he's not coming back. They start to pack up. And then suddenly Goaw's back, with his wife. He sits her in the corner, sits down at the table, gives up his personal starship. In two hours they have a preliminary treaty signed and everyone's home for dinner."

"Why? What changed?"

"That's what everybody wanted to know. And there were no answers. Best guess was that the wife had talked some sense into him, or was afraid of a Klingon invasion. But she never said a word the whole time she was there. So –" she shrugged. "We didn't know. From the Federation's point of view, they got the treaty, all good. From the historical point of view, it was annoying as hell.

"So. Eighty years later, Goaw dies. Historians get word that he'd kept a journal his whole life, and they ask politely if they can see it. His descendants say no. Much gnashing of teeth. And then three years ago a young man gambling in a Ferengi bar goes broke, so he asked the bartender how much he'll front him for his grandfather's journal. The Ferengi doesn't know or care what it's worth, but it looks old, so he throws the kid a little cash for it and then he trots off to find someone to sell it to. And blessedly, the person he finds is a Federation historian who does know what it's worth. So – we end up with the journal after all."

"I'm guessing this caused some excitement."

"I can't even count how many little historians were conceived that night. Then we found out it was encrypted and that kinda threw a damper on the orgy, but then we found out we could break it so it was back on. Anyhow – when we finally sobered up and found our clothes, what we learned was that the day Goaw went home unexpectedly, he found his wife and his brother in quote congress together unquote."

"Does in congress mean in bed?" Shaw guessed.

"Maybe. Or it might mean in cahoots."

"Oh, that's a great old word."

"Isn't it?" Becca sipped her cider. "So, in bed or in cahoots or both, which gets my vote because there's nothing I love better than a nice pillow-talk conspiracy. Goaw figures out on the spot that he can't fight the Klingons, the Federation, and his wife and his brother. So he cuts the deal."

"Nice. What happened to the wife?"

"Excellent question. Later in the journal we learn that she went on a spiritual retreat, and she's never heard of again. The brother simply vanishes."

"Come for the king, you best not miss," Shaw quipped.

"Exactly. So, learning this story got me wondering, how many times when negotiations went pear-shaped - or got resolved - for no obvious reason could the explanation be one of the participant's personal life?"

"Is that searchable? Can you review after-action reports or something?"

"Diplomatic Interaction Summaries," she said, "but same thing. And yes, they're searchable. Mostly. So I weeded out initial negotiations, low-level meetings where there wasn't a clear expected outcome. The prelims. And for higher levels, as expected, most of the time when negotiations break down there's a very obvious reason." She paused. "Am I boring you yet?"

"Not even a little bit." Though Shaw found the subject matter itself dry, her enthusiasm for it made it enjoyable.

Becca took another drink. "Systems get invaded, or they invade someone else. Natural disasters happen – earthquakes, floods, solar storms. Man-made disasters happen. Ships crash. Elections happen, the people at the negotiating table lose power. Or die, in several notable instances. Had a prime minister die and had to put the whole thing on ice for a year while they observed burial protocols. All kinds of reasons talks can grind to a halt, all perfectly easy to explain. But there were nearly three dozen that just didn't have reasons.

"Now, four of those involved the same Federation ambassador, and with some reading between the lines and a couple off-record conversations, I found out that he was such a jackass that even our side couldn't stand with him."

"So they promoted him out of that job," Shaw guessed.

"Oh, have you met him?"

"No, but I know the drill. That's how Starfleet gets admirals."

"Ahhh. Hadn't thought of it that way."

"Not all of them, of course. But many."

She nodded. "The rest, I dug around. And for nearly all of them, there was some aspect of the representative's personal life that had impacted their behavior at that particular moment. Several had their partners leave them. One poor man's three sons drowned in a boating accident. Some were sick, or had family members who were sick, one had a raging gambling problem, several were serious substance abusers – all but three of them I have identified some personal aspect that serves as a possible explanation."

"If it can be identified," Shaw asked, "why isn't it in the reports?"

"Because we're diplomats. Historically, we don't like calling each other out. Unless we do, which is a whole different can of worms."

"Politeness at the expense of complete accuracy."

"Exactly. Does that happen in Starfleet, too?"

"All the damn time," Shaw admitted. "And ships and lives have been lost because of it." He took a much-too-big bite of his sandwich and chewed slowly, giving himself time to try to swallow his anger as well. Because it was easier to swallow it than to explain it, even now.

He fully expected her to pursue that conversation, and for the second time she simply didn't. Instead she chewed her own sandwich and then said, "Do you plan to make a career of it?"

"Of Starfleet? I guess."

"With what goal?"

"To be Chief Engineer of a starship." Shaw grinned self-consciously. "Might as well aim high. And you?"

"Aiming high? To be a full ambassador."

"With a nice cushy post somewhere like Betazed?"

"Not Betazed. I'm afraid I'd shock them on a regular basis."

"I think they're pretty hard to shock."

"Maybe. But what I really want is to be an early contact ambassador. To bring new systems in."

"Damn, I thought I was ambitious."

Becca looked away. "I know. It's a lot."

"Uh-uh," Shaw said firmly. "Don't do that. Don't back down. You want that, go get that. Or get as close as you can. Sure as hell don't let some dumbass grease monkey discourage you. You're way too smart for that."

She met his eyes, studied him, finally smiled wearily. "Thank you. But I'd feel a lot smarter if I could finish my damn thesis."

"Tomorrow," he answered. "Neither one of us is going to get anywhere trying to study any more tonight."

"Mmm. You're probably right."

"'Course I am." He took a long slug of his cider.

"That being said, can I take you home with me?"

Shaw choked, coughed, and blew cider out of his nose. Great. Way to impress the girl. Very smooth. He grabbed a napkin and wiped his nose and mouth, tried to speak, coughed again.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

She was trying not to laugh, and only barely succeeding. Shaw couldn't blame her. "It's okay," he managed to gasp out. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I wasn't startled."

"Really?"

"Maybe a little."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm just, uh, I'm not used to being, uh …" Chosen, Shaw thought, and that's not true, you were chosen to live and the others weren't and just stop thinking about that right now. "…pursued," he finally finished. As if that sounded any less needy and lame.

The woman raised one eyebrow. "I suspect that you're pursued more often than you notice. By women who are less willing to be startling."

"Pretty sure you're wrong."

Becca shrugged, smiled. "In any case, I'm sorry I misinterpreted and made things awkward. I really enjoyed meeting you. Good luck with your …"

"Wait. Waitwaitwait. I wasn't saying no."

"You weren't saying yes."

"I wasn't saying anything, I was just stalling for time while I tried to get the cider out of my nose."

"Sorry about that."

"Can we try that again? Without the beverage?"

"It won't be as fun if you're not startled."

"I'll pretend to be startled."

"Can I take you home with me?"

"Me?" Shaw pretended, as promised, to be startled. He put his hand to his chest. "Why, this is so unexpected. I'm very flattered, really I am. But … no."

The woman laughed. "I deserved that."

"Yes, you did. And yes, you can take me home with you. If you still want to, after the whole nose thing and all."

She stood up. "That may have been the best part of the evening so far."

Shaw followed her out the door and down the stairs. "Really? And here I thought it was the rotten bleu cheese and grit solvent crackers."

"Oh, see, I'd managed to block that memory already."

"I wish I could."


Rebecca Radford led him across the street and down the short block to the line at the transporter station.

"Um," Shaw said, "I thought we were going to your dorm."

"Have you ever seen a FDC dorm room? It's like a noisy closet, and I've spent the last week in mine. I have something much better in mind."

"I see."

"I'll have you back for breakfast, I promise."

There wasn't technically anything against regulation about it, if they had active transporter codes. Shaw had several. He shrugged and moved up with the queue. There were about ten people ahead of them, but they were processing quickly.

"We have a choice," Becca said. "Three minute walk, but about a fifty percent chance of an awkward encounter with one of my family members, or twenty minute walk through the woods with almost no chance of such an encounter."

Shaw patted his stomach. "I could use to walk off that sandwich a bit."

"Good choice."

He looked around. The street was busy, but he saw no sign of any of his shipmates. Not that he would have recognized most of them. It's not against regs, he reminded himself. As long as I'm back when the engine components come in, and I study quals tomorrow, this is fine. He still felt uneasy.

When they reached the desk, she presented no credentials and no coordinates. Instead, she said, "Hey, Prater, how's it's going?"

"Hey, Becca," he returned. "Heading home?"

"For a bit. To the station, please."

The man at the controls – older, a little stooped to his left, still with the Starfleet air about him – gave a quick glance at Shaw. "Of course." He waved toward the platform and they stepped up.

"Don't we –" Shaw began, and then his voice and the rest of him dissolved.


"—need to …" He stopped, because they were completely alone. The 'station' at this end was a standard eight-person transporter pad and a dark powered-down console, enclosed in an octagonal building that consisted entirely of a roof and eight transparent sides. Outside it was fully night and there was not another living being to be seen.

Shaw had another moment of queasy vertigo. He wondered if he'd been beamed to a holodeck somewhere. If this whole evening had been some new kind of therapy Starfleet was trying on him. Or an elaborate prank by his new shipmates. Or something else. If he'd been abducted for some reason – well, no, not abducted, he'd gone along willingly, hadn't he? But there was a definite sense of unreality about everything here.

"Need to what?" Becca asked. She did not seem to notice the uncanniness around them.

"Nothing," Shaw answered faintly. Who the hell are you that you don't need credentials? The President's kid? Some admiral's mistress? Some top secret undercover – what? What have I gotten myself into?

He followed her out the swinging door. It was chilly, and it was windy as hell. Becca gathered her hair and then tied it into a loose knot somehow. It was a smooth, habitual gesture, and with the next wind gust Shaw understood why: the wind still whipped stray strands into her face.

Chicago was windy; so was San Francisco. But this was a whole new level.

"Oh," she breathed, "I needed wild air."

"Wild air?"

"As opposed to domesticated air, which is what you get basically everywhere."

Wild air is not a good thing in space, Shaw thought, but yeah, this is nice.

Outside the station was a paved space large enough to park about ten ground transports, and beyond that a road. There were a couple old lights on poles on the perimeter, glowing sick yellow. One made a humming sound that made Shaw want to climb the pole and tap it until it quit. Beyond their half-hearted light there was darkness and there were trees and nothing else.

Shaw pulled his jacket shut and fastened it. There was a sound, over the wind, subtle, like a ship's engine, but irregular, loud and soft in about ten-second intervals. He couldn't get a good fix on it; every time the wind blew about ten thousand leaves rustled all around him. He looked up, hoping to get a quick dead reckoning, but the sky was half obscured by patches of gray clouds.

"Where the hell are we?" he finally asked.

"Newfoundland." The woman started off not toward the road – of course not, why would she take the road? – but toward a barely distinguishable dirt track at the back of the pavement.

Shaw stuck his hand in his pocket and curled his fingers around his comm badge. He was a full continent away from where he'd been, but they would be able to find him if he didn't turn up in three or four days.

A lot could happen in three or four days.

He followed her into the woods.

The track was actually a fairly well-worn dirt road, with two distinct parallel tread paths and a small berm where the trees had been cleared. There were very occasional pole lights along the way, as anemic as the ones at the station had been. Shaw felt uneasy, closed in. In places the tree limbs closed the canopy over the road, but in others it was clear and occasional moonlight showed when the clouds passed. The moon was three-quarters full, as it had been in San Francisco. At least someone was paying attention to the details.

The rustling leaves kept him from hearing much of anything.

"Are you okay?" Becca asked.

Shaw wondered what he'd done to give his discomfort away. "Fine," he assured her. "Just, uh … I'm from Chicago. Did I mention that?"

"No."

"Yeah. Chicago. It's a city. A big … city."

"Ahhh," she said. "Not a lot of old growth forest there?"

"Not much, no."

"Well, for what it's worth, all of the large carnivores have already heard us coming and they're headed the other direction."

"Large carnivores," Shaw repeated.

"Bears, wolves, wolverines. The occasional bobcat. They want nothing to do with us."

"That's comforting."

"Omnivores, largely the same. If a raccoon comes at you kick it in the chest. They bite, but they can't bite through your boots. Don't let them get close enough to climb up your leg."

"Well obviously."

"Biggest threat here is probably the large herbivores. Deer because they're stupid. If they see you they'll freeze and then they'll try to run away from you, but they're so dumb that sometimes they get turned around and run at you instead. Just make yourself big," she threw her arms out wide to demonstrate, "and yell real loud and they'll usually change course."

"Usually." Despite his caution, Shaw found himself amused.

"Well, bucks in rut are a whole different ballgame, but it's not the season for that."

"Of course not." He had no idea when bucks were in rut. Or even precisely what that meant, though he had a pretty good general idea.

"The biggest danger is moose."

"Moose."

"Moose just don't give a shit. They're huge, they're cantankerous, they won't get out of your way. They will charge you without provocation. Or completely ignore you. And you can't ever tell which they'll do."

"So the whole arms and shouting thing won't work?"

"It will make it worse. Your best bet is to climb up a tree higher than three meters, or to get a big tree trunk between you and the moose and kind of dance around to keep it between you until the moose gets bored."

Shaw looked over at her. "You're just screwing with me now."

"Not yet I'm not." She blinked innocently. "Seriously, moose are bad news. We call them Murder Ponies for a reason."

He shook his head, not sure if he should believe her. "Why three meters up a tree?"

"Because that's how tall they are."

The wind died and the tree leaves shut up, just for a moment. Shaw listened intently to the second, irregular sound. "Are we by the ocean?"

"We are," Becca confirmed. "A real ocean, not that calm Pacific nonsense. C'mon, I'll show you."

She took his hand and moved to lead him off the questionable safety of the dirt road onto what looked like a game trail between the trees.

Enough, Shaw thought suddenly. I have let this woman transport me across the continent, drag me into the woods, surround me by who knows how many dangerous animals – and I haven't even kissed her. Enough. He tightened his grip on her hand and pulled her back towards him. She came willingly into his arms.

And then something growled.

Shaw turned sharply, hooked one arm around Becca's waist and moved her behind him while he faced the direction of the sound. He couldn't see a damn thing, but it was in the brush to their left, low – and then the moon broke through and he could see it, large and white, low to the ground. He looked for a branch, a rock, anything –

"And that would be a dog," Becca said quietly in his ear.

Shaw froze. The – dog? – came out of the brush and stalked up the path toward them. It was massive, dirty white, head down, still growling as it came. "Biggest damn dog I ever saw," he muttered.

Becca said, "It's me, Badger."

The dog stopped, then lifted its head, relaxed, wagged its tail, and trotted toward them.

She stepped out from behind him, crouched and rubbed the dog's ears. "Hello, sweetie. Miss me?"

"That's your dog?" Shaw asked.

"My brother's, sorta. She looks after the sheep."

"The … sheep."

"Or chickens, or children, whatever needs looking after at the moment. She likes to keep busy."

"Well who doesn't."

Becca stood up and took his hand again. "Badger, this is Liam. He's invited." He extended his hand and let the dog sniff it. When she seemed satisfied, Shaw hesitantly patted her head.

Then the dog turned and vanished back into the brush.

"Shouldn't she … be on a leash or something?"

"Can't look after things if she's on a leash."

"Right."

"You were about to kiss me, I think."

"Yeah. But I'm not in the mood anymore."

Becca laughed. "C'mon, let me show you my ocean."

She pulled him off the road and onto the path. It was darker and only wide enough for them to walk single-file, but at least the surface seemed smooth. He kept hold of her hand; she seemed very confident of the way. It wasn't far until the trees suddenly fell away and they were at the edge of a broad clearing. The ocean was louder here, and Shaw felt very fine spray on his face. It was still fairly dark, but at least he could see a horizon. Becca kept going and he followed.

She stopped where the rough grass gave way to stone underfoot. Shaw could see a drop-off a few meters ahead of them, and to each side he could see the rocky cliffs that dropped steeply. And below – below the ocean. Angry and powerful and magnificent.

Becca had been right: By comparison, the Pacific, or at least the parts Shaw had seen of it, was a mere pretender. This ocean was furious. It slammed itself against the rock walls that contained it, retreated only far enough to gather steam, and charged again, relentless and untiring. He could feel the force of the waves through the soles of his boots, through the rock. Spray rose, wind-driven, and shattered into mist. Its rage would never die, never exhaust itself.

He closed his eyes to better hear her, feel her, taste her. This ocean understood him. Spoke the rage that he fought so hard to silence. This ocean screamed in fury, and if he screamed back into the wind she would welcome him. She knows me. She's been waiting for me.

Something in him cracked, and he shivered.

The light shifted and Shaw opened his eyes. In the moonlight the ocean was even more magnificent. The swirls, the waves, the crests and hollows, the whites and the infinite variety of grays. He watched, entranced, trying to memorize her.

She was cold, he knew. He could feel it in the spray. She would be merciless to anyone foolish enough to get too close. She would crush them against the sharp rocks, drown them, freeze them. Likely never give their bodies back. She would be cruel. But properly respected, she was beautiful beyond words.

She was like Space.

"She is my favorite thing in the whole world," the woman beside him said quietly, reverently.

Shaw nodded without looking at her. He swallowed, tried to speak, but his words were gone. No matter. Thank her later. This was worth the trip.

"I see her in your eyes," she added.

He blinked. All of this unspeakable beauty she was sharing because of his eye color? That was – disappointing. And then, listen up, dipshit, she just said it was her favorite thing in the whole world. Take the compliment. And goddamn it, kiss the girl.

Shaw turned and put his arms around her. He was half afraid now that she would vanish into the mist, like some sprite of the sea, but when he kissed her she remained quite solid. She kissed like she spoke – straightforward, undemanding, inquisitive. Like he was the most interesting person she'd ever kissed and she couldn't wait to learn more about him.

Which was a frightening idea, because Shaw knew that once she knew him better she might not want to know him at all.

But she had brought him to her ocean. Now his ocean. "But …"

"Hmm?" she asked, her lips still close to his.

He hadn't meant to speak aloud. He covered with the first question that came to his mind. "But where do you live?"

"Oh." She pulled back just a little and called, "Cottage, evening lights please."

Behind them, a single-story building appeared. It was, as far as Shaw could see, an actual cottage. Stone walls. A roof that curved at its edges. Though he couldn't see it, he was certain ivy climbed those walls somewhere, or roses. Old-timey double-paned windows that showed lace curtains and antique lamps softly lit within. An honest-to-god cottage.

Deep in Shaw's bones, an Old World ancestor who remembered such things stirred and spoke warning. D'ye let food or drink pass ye lips inside those walls, ye'll never be free of it.

A far older and much more urgent voice answered, So be it.

She kissed him again, long and deep, and then she held his hand and ran for the door. Shaw followed willingly. More than willingly. There was a funny little lean-to addition to the back of the cottage. The door clicked open ahead of them and they went into a tiny room, then up three stone stairs to another door.

Air lock, Shaw thought, and then, no, that's not right, what's the word? It didn't matter. They half-ran through a little galley kitchen and around a corner and then they were in a bedroom pulling off each other's clothes and words ceased to matter for a while.