Chapter 33 - 2400

Ambassador Radford was not eating again.

Seven watched her in her periphery. The woman had a plate in front of her, next to a tablet. Some sort of yellow fruit was loaded in her fork, but she was looking covertly around the mess and the fork was not making it to her mouth. Seven watched for a long moment before she realized what the diplomat was looking for.

She stood and dropped her own plate into the recycler, then went over to Radford's table. "May I offer an observation, Ambassador?"

The woman seemed surprised, but pleasantly so. "Please do."

Seven leaned closer, lowered her voice. "Everyone in this room – everyone on this ship – has enough to eat, or can readily obtain enough to eat."

The ambassador regarded her quite seriously, and for a bad moment Seven thought she had overstepped. Then Radford said, "Have you had your lunch, Commander?"

"I have."

"Did you get enough to eat?"

"Yes, I did."

The ambassador didn't smile exactly, but there was a twinkle in her eyes that told Seven she was playing. "Did you have some fruit? Or a vegetable? That's very important."

"I – had juice."

"It's not the same. It doesn't have the fiber."

"Noted."

The woman gestured with her head, and Seven settled into the chair across from her. "Was I being that obvious?"

"No," Seven admitted, "I have a tendency to scan every room I walk into, so I'm probably more attuned to someone else doing the same thing. Also you're waving your fork again."

The fork was still hovering in front of the ambassador. She sighed and put it down on her plate. "I think I'm going to be self-conscious about eating forever now."

"My apologies if I made it worse."

Radford shrugged. "I get it from my mother. The checking on everyone, not the fork waving. I grew up with a huge extended family, and my mother could walk into a room with a hundred people doing a hundred different things, look around and say, that baby needs changing, that toddler needs a drink, that man needs to take his frostbitten toes to Medical, and that kid needs someone to hug them and tell them the world isn't ending because their first love dumped them. It was the most remarkable talent. I always wanted to be like her."

"A useful skill for a diplomat. I think you're exceptionally adept at knowing what people need," Seven answered sincerely.

"Thank you. Find out what they want, give it to them if you can. It's forever a work in progress." The ambassador nodded, maybe to herself. "You're not happy about Trielle," she said bluntly.

Seven was caught off guard. It was true, of course; she wasn't happy about leaving the colony the way they had. But she'd had no intention of bringing it up to the ambassador. Still, if it was on the table – "I'm not second-guessing your judgement. I understand that we can't interfere with a nonaligned world. But it feels like we abandoned every woman there."

"I agree. I wish we could have pushed them further."

"We didn't push them at all!" Seven immediately regretted her tone, if not her words. As approachable as Radford seemed, she was still a Federation ambassador. Who is also probably sleeping with your captain, who already hates you. Just shut up.

But the ambassador seemed unbothered. "You don't think so?"

Seven got her voice under control. "I don't see how we changed anything. The men will still be in charge. The women will still be powerless."

Radford picked up her fork, actually put the fruit in her mouth, chewed, swallowed. Put the fork down. "Where I'm from," she finally said, "we have this moss that grows all over the yards. It's nice. Soft to walk on, cushion-y. Makes little flowers in the summer. And it interlocks, makes like a carpet and chokes out all the weeds. Chokes out everything, for that matter. We have to tear it out of the pastures so grass will grow for the livestock, but for other areas it's great stuff. Zero maintenance.

"Now the squirrels have figured out that it's a great place to hide things. So if they have a nice nut or a bulb that they want to store, they cut a little slit in the moss and tuck it underneath and close the moss back up."

Carefully, Seven asked, "Are we … the squirrels in this scenario?"

"No. Bebeen was the squirrel. We're the corvids."

"The …?"

"All bigger birds, really, but the crows are best at it. They see the little spot where the moss was disturbed, and they know there's something tasty under there. So they peel back the moss, and eat the nut or whatever. But then they think, well, there was one treat here, maybe there's more, so they'll peel back even more of the moss looking for it. And sometimes then another bird comes along, sees the bare spot, thinks there might be treats, makes the hole even bigger."

"And we're the birds?"

"The moss will try to grow back over the spot, of course, but it doesn't grow very fast because it's never had to. And in the meantime, everything that was trapped under the moss has a chance to grow. Sometimes it's just weeds. Sometimes it's flowers that the deer eat as soon as they sprout. But sometimes it's a really beautiful flowering crabapple tree. You never know. The point is, once that moss is disturbed, the things underneath have a chance to grow. And once they start growing, sometimes the moss can't smother them out again."

Seven sat back. She understood the analogy. It even made a kind of sense. But she still didn't like it. "We don't know if anything will grow. Or survive."

"Of course we don't. That's up to them." Radford shrugged. "I can tell you how it will play out, if you want."

The commander nodded.

"First they'll have several months of panic. Investigations, trials, a snap election. Then, when they've got things put back together, they'll become reactionary. Very conservative. Repressive. Because that's what frightened societies do. They step on the things that frightened them." Seven started to speak, and Radford raised her hand. "But that repression? That's the bullshit the fertilizes the tree that's trying to grow. Bebeen already disturbed the moss, questioned the status quo. When we broadcast our meeting with her, all her arguments were heard. They'll be discredited, of course; she'll be tried and convicted and called a crazy person, but the ideas still got out. They didn't just get heard by the elected representatives."

"They got heard by everyone," Seven realized.

Radford nodded. "And those that didn't hear it for themselves, they'll be told. Whispers, at first. But they'll grow louder. The women will look at themselves, look at their daughters – not all of them, of course. But enough. Maybe."

"And maybe they'll get to have a voice." Seven couldn't keep the scorn out of her voice.

"Maybe. We gave them a chance. That's all we can do."

"But it's not all we can do," Seven argued. "We could get involved. We could help them. We could –" She threw her hands up, because she knew: Federation law forbid all of it. "We should be able to do something."

"Societies change slowly, or very quickly. And when they change quickly, you usually end up with mass graves."

Seven had seen that, too. "Still …" she began, and then stopped.

The ambassador's younger aide, Darovich, and the shuttle pilot Vogt came into the mess together. Radford nodded to them, but did not invite them over, and they settled with their meals at a table in the far corner of the room. Seven watched the ambassador, and though her face remained neutral, she got the impression that Radford didn't like the girl. Interesting.

The ambassador's attention returned to their conversation. "It's incredibly hard to be patient when you know just a little push would make a big difference," she said. "I know, believe me. And it must be even more difficult for someone with your background."

"Because I was Borg?" Seven snapped.

The ambassador blinked. "Oh. Hadn't really thought about that. I was thinking, because you were a Fenris Ranger. Because you've been on worlds that are ready, that are asking, are begging for our involvement – worlds that would thrive if the Federation gave them even a thimbleful of attention and protection and help."

"What would you know about them?"

Radford sat back, her hands folded on the table. That was too far, Seven realized. She's let you run your mouth, but now you're over the line. But the woman didn't look angry. She looked hurt.

"Not enough," she finally said, quietly. "I don't know enough."

"Apologies, Ambassador. I didn't mean –"

"You're not wrong. None of us know enough about the frontier worlds – except maybe the Rangers. n ten or twenty years when the Federation finally pulls their head out of their ass and starts to consider those worlds, their first question will be why are they so mad at us?" She took a deep breath. "We like to think we're very advanced, but we're still learning, too. And we hate it when somebody pulls up our moss."

Seven sat very still for a moment. She'd had a firm idea what a Federation Ambassador was – and this wasn't it. This woman who was clear-eyed and plain-spoken and willing to criticize the organization she was a part of. This woman who was intelligent and compassionate and yet somehow still crawling into Liam Shaw's bed.

This woman who actually gave at least a passing damn about the frontier worlds. This woman who refused to be her adversary, in spite of Seven's sharp words.

A breath of intuition brushed the back of her neck. She'd heard a story, second- or third-hand. A ship full of pilgrims, refugees, attacked by pirates. An old colleague from the Rangers had taken command of the ship, fought them off. Mortally wounded, he'd piloted the damaged craft to the nearest Federation outpost - and the commander, under orders, had turned them away.

Except. A high-ranking Federation diplomat, carefully unnamed, told the commander to let them off-load. Had ordered the outpost to care for the refugees. Had very likely saved all their lives.

"Have you met a Ranger named Ciuni?" Seven asked bluntly.

Radford did not react, except to take a slow breath. "Do you know the story of the S.S. St. Louis?"

"No. I don't think I've ever heard of it."

"She was an ocean liner on Earth, several centuries ago. You should look her up."

"You didn't answer my question."

The ambassador picked up her fork, put it down again. "Yes, I did." She took sip of coffee. "We try not to make the same mistakes twice."

Seven waited, but she knew that was the end of the conversation. "Thank you," she finally said, "for being straightforward with me."

"Honestly, after Trielle it's kind of refreshing."

"Lieutenant Toth, there?" Seven gestured as she stood up, "he has a small daughter at home."

The ambassador cocked her head.

"If you need someone to make shuttle noises for you, he's most likely to be proficient."

Radford laughed out loud as Seven made her way out of the mess.


Captain Shaw raised an eyebrow at her when Seven joined him on the bridge, but he bit back whatever smart-ass comment he was considering. He's so much easier to get along with while she's onboard, Seven thought. I wish she could stay forever.

She settled back in her chair. "My apologies, Captain. I was reminding Ambassador Radford how forks work."

"Again?" He did a passingly good job of pretending to be only mildly interested. "Were you successful?"

"I believe so."

"Good." And then, very quietly, "Thank you."

"Of course."

He fussed with his reports. She surveyed the bridge slowly. Everyone seemed comfortable. Alert but relaxed. Nobody seems hungry, she mused, and smiled to herself. That was going to get added to her surveys now, she realized. Are they armed? Are they dangerous? Are they lying? Are they hungry?

Shaw held out for eleven minutes. Then he stood, straightened his jacket, and said, "You have the conn." He left the bridge without explanation.

At the helm, LaForge twisted around and grinned at Seven.

"Steady as she goes, Helm," Seven said firmly. But she returned the grin. They all knew damn well where their captain was going.

LaForge turned back to her station. "Steady, aye."

Seven stood and shifted into the center chair.


Shaw scanned the room. There weren't many people left in the mess. In the far corner Becca's young aide was giggling at the shuttle pilot. Zarzour wasn't in the room. Becca was alone at a table against the window, her back to the wall. She was frowning at something on her tablet. Her plate was pushed aside. While he watched, she picked up her coffee mug with her free hand, brought it toward her mouth, then looked at it, frowned again, and set it back down.

He got two cups of coffee, resigned to the fact that it would be average, carried them to the table, and dropped into the chair across from her. "Hey." He pushed her fresh coffee across to her. Her plate, he noted with satisfaction, was mostly empty, with only a half-dozen chips abandoned on one side.

"Hey." She shut her tablet off. "Thank you." She smiled, but only briefly, distracted.

"Didn't mean to interrupt."

"It'll wait."

"I am thinking we should have our much-delayed Captain's Dinner tomorrow night."

"That would be lovely."

"Anything special you'd like on the menu?"

She shook her head. "Captain's choice."

"Okay." No one was close, but Shaw lowered his voice anyhow. "I also thought maybe dinner in my quarters tonight?"

Becca's eyes flickered to the window, then dropped to her plate. "I don't think so. Thank you."

"Oh." He gestured to the tablet. "If you're still working, of course …"

She looked up, but her face was unreadable, distant. "I don't think we should be alone together. I'm sorry."

"Oh," Shaw said again. He felt stupid. It had never occurred to him that she would say no. It was so sudden it barely had time to hurt. Like being knifed with a very sharp blade. But. I've been dumped before. Just like this. I know how to do this. Walk away. Don't make a scene. Just walk away. "I see. Well. Enjoy your coffee." He stood up, took his coffee, and walked to the door.

You've done this before. Just keep walking. You've done this before. The place behind his sternum that only she could touch – it had never occurred to him that she could stab him so neatly there, so bloodlessly. It still didn't hurt, but he knew it would. He couldn't breathe.

No.

He turned before he let himself think about it, walked back to the table, and sat down. "No." He clasped his hands loosely on the table around his coffee, kept his voice low and calm. "Maybe I should know, but I don't, so you need to tell me what I did wrong."

Becca gazed at him. Her shields fell; he could see her pain and regret in her eyes. He hadn't expected that, either. "You didn't do anything wrong. This … is on me. Can we just leave it at that? Please?"

"No."

She looked at the window again.

"Is there … someone? Is that it?"

"I …"

For one instant, Shaw was absolutely sure that she was going to say yes. He almost hoped she would. That would have made it simple for both of them. I'm sorry, I should have told you, I have a husband, a wife, a finance, a boyfriend, a girlfriend. He would have been disappointed, but it would hurt less than anything else she might say. He could wish her well, and they would both know that he was thinking, well, maybe next time, and that would be the end of it. He hadn't seen her in nearly five years. It would be perfectly reasonable. Even if it wasn't true. Even a lie would have been better …

But they had checked in, when she first came aboard. Like they always did. Are you on your own?

Although, in fairness, she had still be half-delirious.

Or –

Fuck, did my XO just poach my lover? Because Shaw would have been mightily pissed if she had, but he'd also be grudgingly impressed. It would still be better than any other explanation.

"No," Becca said finally. "Not in the way you're thinking."

"Okay." Then Shaw did the thing that she was so good at, but that had never come naturally to him: He waited.

Becca looked out the window. At her tablet. At her plate. Around the room. Out the window again. Desperate to seem casual, Shaw snagged a chip off her plate and popped it into his mouth. It was a mistake; his throat was too dry to get it down. He chewed slowly, thoroughly, trying to build up a little spit. Finally had to sip his coffee.

At length, Becca met his eyes again. "I told you before I was out of favor with FDC," she said quietly. "I think now that my career is over." She tapped her darkened tablet. "It hasn't fallen down yet, but I'm pretty sure it's dead. And I don't want to drag yours down with me."

She's protecting me? From what? But at least the knife in his chest stopped twisting. "I don't understand, Becca. What did you do?"

"I … called them out on their bullshit."

"Which I'm sure they deserved." Shaw suddenly found it easy to breathe again. She's not dumping me. This is just politics. Okay. Okay.

"Repeatedly, publicly, and too loudly for them to ignore."

"They're not going to reach into Starfleet over some internal tiff –"

"One of the people I called out was Admiral Shelby."

That gave Shaw pause. Briefly. Then he shrugged. "That doesn't matter. She hates me anyhow."

"Liam …"

"Becca. I don't care."

"Then I'll care enough for both of us." He started to answer, and she raised just her fingertips to stop him. "The last time you saw me I headed a delegation of a hundred and forty-seven. Now my delegation is two. Three if you count the borrowed flyboy. I don't want you to end up as captain of some garbage scow because of me."

A couple things became clear to Shaw. The first was that Becca was more emotionally fragile, more unsettled, than he had ever seen her – except for the night she came aboard. That made sense, actually. She'd beamed up starving and delirious with thirst. By morning, after sleep, food, a shower, she'd pulled herself together. Straight back to work. Solve the mystery of their abduction, arrange justice for it, dispense a little wisdom. She'd done the work. But now it was done and exactly as he'd expected, all the emotional shit that she'd been holding down was rising. She hadn't dealt with it; she'd merely stood on its neck for as long as necessary. But now –

Her fears were not completely unreasonable. They had obviously stripped her of her team and probably most of her authority. But he was certain she was exaggerating the risk to both of them.

And one more thing: She was letting him see it. She could have lied about being in a relationship. She could have made up some other excuse. She could have shown him nothing but the Serene Ambassador. She hadn't, because despite her fears, she didn't want to chase him off. She couldn't straight-up ask for what she wanted, what she needed – and that was a sign of how jangled she was – but she was certainly signaling loud and clear.

What did I need, he asked himself again, when I was her?

On his back, in his bunk, trying desperately not to fall asleep. The nightmares came when he slept. A young man stopped beside him. Uniform, but Shaw couldn't see up to the pips and didn't care. He had a PADD in his hands. "Shaw?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm with Medical. Came to see how you were doing."

"I'm okay," Shaw lied.

"You sure? We could, uh, schedule you in for some counseling. It would probably be a few days. But it's perfectly normal if you were having some trouble dealing with, erm …"

"I'm fine," Shaw said.

The young man sighed softly, apparently relieved. "If you change your mind, you can just let us know, we'll schedule you in. Or you can stop by Sick Bay. There's usually a line …"

"I bet there is."

He started off, then stopped. "Look, Shaw, um, we're all real sorry about …"

"Don't," Shaw said. "I'm fine."

"Okay."

The man scurried away. Shaw went back to not sleeping.

If I had known Becca then, Shaw thought, would it have made a difference? If I had been able to talk to her right after it happened, after I was safe and clean and fed. If I had been able to talk to anyone who wasn't some overworked, overscheduled medic who had trauma of his own. If she had been there –

It would have made all the difference in the world.

If she doesn't want to be my lover, that's fine. Well, not fine, but I can get over that. And maybe being lovers right now is a bad idea anyhow. But I'm not going to let her throw thirty years of friendship overboard because of some asshole bureaucrats and an admiral who hasn't been in a command chair in decades. Fuck that.

There isn't even a damn regulation against this.

They are not going to take my ship.

"Becca," Shaw said, "listen. They already know we have history. Vice-Admiral Sirpa asked me about it when we picked up this mission. It's not going to be news to anybody if we spend time together. And it's not like anyone on my crew would tell them anyhow."

She looked at the window again, but this time added a little head nod. Shaw followed her gaze, saw that she wasn't looking out the window but at the reflection. She was watching Darovich. "Her?" he asked quietly.

"She sends a subspace message to her 'mother' every other day. They go to Des Moines and then mysteriously get relayed to San Francisco."

Shaw felt a little touch of caution. If they actually had a team member reporting on a senior ambassador, they were seriously pissed. "She doesn't know much about starships, does she?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Fine. We'll shove her out an airlock, claim it was an accident. Problem solved."

Startled, Becca laughed out loud, then bit it back. At least the horrible regret in her eyes broke for a moment. "Liam …"

"I appreciate the warning. I do. You gave me a heads-up. I understand the risk. So – my quarters, oh-nineteen hundred, dress casual."

"I don't …"

"If you're late I'll come looking for you. And I will not be discrete about it."

She still hesitated. "Your dining room, not your quarters."

Shaw started to argue.

"Please."

"Fine. See you at dinner." He stood and walked out of the lounge.