Bloodthirst (21 page)

He staggered off to the bathroom. The flu, maybe perhaps he was coming down with the flu. He would go by sickbay before going on duty and get something for it. He could tell he already had a bit of a fever, because the light hurt his eyes.

He went to the toilet and then closed himself in the shower stall. A water shower, this time he indulged in them only rarely, since they wasted time, but today it was therapy. And he
was
twenty minutes early. He stood under the hot water spray for a long time, letting it run directly on his face, to clear his head.

It did, a little. He began to feel more himself, to remember the day before, though the weakness stayed with him. More than just a rough night. He was definitely getting a cold.

He hoped to be out of the cabin before Acker got off duty. There was still a good chance he'd make it. Certainly, it wasn't Acker's fault; Acker hadn't done anything, but Stanger still was in no mood to talk to him this morning. He could still see Tomson's mistrustful expression, could hear her saying,
I can't trust you not to screw up.

No, you can't
, he told her, silently, angrily.
I'm too damn much of a fool not to. Too damn gullible, too damn willing to trust people I thought I knew.
Tomson had the right idea, after all. Why trust your underlings? Why give them the chance to turn on you, to damage your career when you weren't looking?

He made himself stop the train of thought immediately. He'd gotten very good at that lately, to keep from getting too bitter about things. He was very conscious of the fact that he was
not
thinking about Rosa.…

He turned off the water spray and pressed the control for dry, starting just a bit as the warm blast of air touched his skin, evaporating every last bead of moisture.

He stepped from the shower feeling tired and defeated. Tomson was not going to give him any kind of chance to redeem himself. And maybe she was right; maybe he didn't deserve one. Maybe he had to learn his lesson the hard way.

He squinted into the mirror. He was not looking all that well, either, the skin beneath his eyes was gray. He decided against using beard repressor and went over to the closet to pull on a uniform.

He refused to feel guilty about breaking it off with the Andorian. (It was easier to think of her that way if he thought of her by name, it was somehow harder to maintain his distance.) It simply wouldn't do. There was no saying how long he'd be able to stay aboard the
Enterprise
, the way Tomson felt about him or even, for that matter, how long he'd be able to stay in the service. Because if the
Enterprise
refused to keep him, he might as well just get the hell out. It was actually kinder to Lamia this way. (Damn. He'd let himself think her name, which always evoked her face.…)

It was stupid, damn stupid to let himself get involved with someone else, even if it was as platonic and one-sided as his friendship with Rosa. Besides, she wasn't even human. It was rough enough trying to work things out with your own species, without all the added intercultural headaches.

You fool, you miss her, don't you? Then it's a good thing you stopped before it got any worse.

He dressed, pulled on his boots, and left feeling very weak. On the way out, he noted with distracted curiosity that the electronic door lock had been canceled. He reprogrammed it in before he left and reminded himself to ask Acker about it.

QUINCE WAVERLEIGH PASSED through the anteroom to his office with barely a glance at the aide already seated at the terminal. He was nursing a spectacular headache this morning, no doubt due to the tequila he'd consumed the night before and the fact that he hadn't taken anything to prevent the hangover. It'd gone this way the past several days, each time with Quince telling himself that he wasn't going to be drinking that night, ergo the pills were an unnecessary precaution. And each night he drank anyway, punishing himself for it by not taking the pills.

He might as well admit that he needed to talk to the staff psychologist about Ke. Maybe this morning he'd get Rhonda to make an appointment for him. She'd been after him for weeks to quit pretending it had been a breezy transition.

“Morning, Rhonda,” he croaked without looking at her. He'd ask for the appointment later. First, to the synthesizer outlet in his office for a cup of coffee. Rank, after all, had its privileges.

“Good morning, Admiral.”

Quince stopped and turned his head—slowly, to keep the pain to a minimum—to stare. Rhonda had just answered in an uncharacteristically baritone pitch.

“You're not Rhonda.”

The man in Rhonda's chair swiveled to face him. “Ensign Sareel, Admiral.” A Vulcan male, young—at least as far as Quince could guess; they all looked young to him until their hair began to silver—with a broad, square jaw and pointed chin. He had the typical Vulcan coloring—dark brown hair and eyes. “I am Lieutenant Stein's replacement.”

“What, did she call in sick?” She'd seemed fine the evening before.

“It is my understanding that Mr. Stein was transferred.”

“
Transferred?
Are you sure?” Now, what kind of major screw-up had Personnel pulled
this
time? Rhonda had been on temporary assignment, but he'd made it clear that she was to stay with him until his regular aide returned. “I want her back in this office immediately!”

He realized he was yelling and stopped himself. The Vulcan blinked twice, his face absolutely devoid of expression, and said, “Perhaps you should take this up with Admiral Tsebili.”

“I'll do that.” Quince stomped into his own office. The rise in blood pressure did nothing for his mood or his headache. He slumped into his desk chair and swiveled to one side to unthinkingly punch the code into the synthesizer.

Great. Just great. As if things weren't rotten enough, now he was going to lose Rhonda, too. The synthesizer panel rose and he picked the coffee up, cradling it in both hands. He let the steam rise into his face before taking a reverent sip.

Rhonda was one of the most efficient aides he'd ever worked with. Hell, after a month here she was as efficient as his regular aide, Bazir-om the Aurelian, had ever been. Quince had been sorely tempted to ask her to stay on permanently—but that wouldn't have been fair to Baz. Every officer had the right to take parental leave and come back to the same position, even if Baz
had
been sitting on those damn eggs for three months now.

Still, Quince wished he could figure out a way to keep her. It was more than just her efficiency. He got along with Stein. He could
talk
to her, and God knows he didn't have anyone to talk to, these days. Damn Personnel! He turned in his chair toward the aide's office.

“Ensign” He'd already forgotten the man's name. “Do you know if Admiral Bili's in yet this morning?”

“Yes,” the Vulcan answered clearly.

Wait a minute Quince paused to rub his temples. Vulcans were so confounded literal-minded. Did that mean yes, Bili was in, or yes, he knows whether Bili's in? He couldn't deal with a hangover
and
a Vulcan aide in the same morning.

The ensign apparently picked up on his dilemma. “Admiral Tsebili is in this morning. Shall I raise him for you?”

“I can do it myself.” God, he hated the kind of coddling that some brass insisted on. Bili was a good man, but he loved that sort of pomp and circumstance. Maybe Quince could find out where Stein had been transferred and talk Bili into taking this joker.

“Get me Admiral Tsebili,” he said to the dark screen.

Bili's round head and shoulders appeared almost immediately on the terminal in front of him. It was still early enough for the admiral not to be tied up.

“Admiral Tsebili,” Quince said respectfully, since Bili was a full admiral, two grades above him. It was an act. Bili had a pudgy, pink face with three chins, a thick crown of silver hair, and innocent blue eyes. He looked more like an aging infant than head of star base operations, and because of it, people had a tendency to forget his rank and not take him very seriously. But Bili had ways of making them do it. He earned his reputation as a stickler for regulations. Just last week, he had fired his aide for bringing Romulan ale to a staff party.

Quince learned early on that if he reminded Bili once a day of his superior rank and otherwise knew when to defer to Bili's opinion, he could generally get away with murder.

“Quincy. You seem to be moving slowly this morning.”

“Got one whale of a headache. And the fact that a stranger is sitting in Rhonda's chair isn't helping. You know anything about that, Admiral?”

“Lieutenant Stein, yes.” Bili brushed a hand against one plump cheek as if stroking his memory. “The aide in your office. She asked for a transfer.”

“She
asked
for one?” His voice came out harsh, and he softened it and added the rank so Bili would not be offended. “Admiral, are you
sure?
Rhonda said nothing to me”

“Positive. I'm the one who put it through for her. She's starting in Personnel this morning.”

“Personnel,” Quince repeated, dumbfounded. He knew he'd been terribly moody since Ke and the kids left, but he'd thought Stein understood. He'd thought they were friends. Had he misread her so completely? Yesterday, she'd said good night same as always, in a perfectly cheerful mood. If she'd been hiding something, he would have known. Surely she knew how impressed he was with the job she'd been doing. In fact, just last week, didn't he say to her that if Baz didn't hurry up and hatch those eggs”

“Don't let it worry you, Quincy. Lots of temps request transfers. Speaking of temps, I was wondering if you'd mind if I borrowed your Vulcan from time to time. They're awfully efficient, you know”

So was Rhonda.

“‘and I haven't been able to find a replacement for my aide yet.”

“Sure,” Quince said unenthusiastically. “Use him all you want. Something about him gives me the willies.” That was typical of Bili, taking forever to find a replacement. He would interview for weeks until he could find someone who would be able to put up with his compulsion for detail. “Say, have you interviewed him?”

“Oh, I couldn't take your aide, Quincy.”

“Well, he's just a temp, Bili.” Quince tried to sound altruistic. “I'm used to having them in and out of here, anyway. Baz will be back sooner or later.”

“I appreciate that. Maybe I will.” Bili's cheeks rose upward as he smiled, hiding all but a narrow slit of his eyes. “By the way, I'm glad you called. I had meant to tell you—that symposium set up for this weekend has been canceled.”

“Oh.” Quince felt mildly disappointed. Before Ke had left, he'd hated weekend symposiums. Now, they gave him something to fill the empty time with, something to keep from being alone, even though they were generally boring at best. What was this one about? Something to do with Mendez, in fact. That's right the installation of a new sensory and weapons system for star bases. Protection, of course. God forbid Starfleet should ever admit to designing offensive weaponry. “Why's that, Bili? Some glitch in the design?”

“Actualy, no. We wanted to give it a test run somewhere. Rod's going to give me a demonstration.”

“Well, that ought to be interesting. Why doesn't the symposium just take place out there, on the base?”

“Too late to reschedule. And we do, heh-heh, want to be sure it works before we get too many brass out there.”

“Makes sense. Where you headed?”

“Star Base Thirteen or thereabouts.” Bili smiled again. “Look, give the Vulcan a fair shake, will you? You're lucky to get one.”

In his mind's eye, Quince saw the pleasurable but unlikely image of himself grabbing the ensign by his gold tunic and giving him a good shake. “Yes.” He suddenly thought to ask if Bili'd had a chance to look at the Tanis file; but Bili was the sort who would have mentioned it if he had. He wouldn't take kindly to nagging from a subordinate, and besides, he'd been working hard to prepare for the symposium. Now that it was off, maybe he'd have a chance to glance at it today. “Yes, I guess I'm lucky. Well, thanks anyway, Admiral.”

He let Bili close the channel first, and then he called Personnel.

Just as he suspected, Stein's face came on the screen first. “Personnel. Admiral Noguchi's office.”

That made it easy. At least he wouldn't have to get switched through half a dozen morons who'd never heard of Stein and didn't know she was working there. He opened his mouth to say something and realized he had no idea what to say. He stared.

She stared back guardedly. “Admiral,” she said. She was terribly young, probably twenty-four at the outside, attractive, dark hair pulled back with a clip at the nape of her neck and no makeup. Innocence and youth personified. Had they gotten to be
too
good friends? Had he said something she had misinterpreted to mean he was attracted to her?

Seeing her, it occurred to him that maybe he
was
attracted to her.

What the hell are you doing there?
he wanted to ask.
Why didn't you tell me?

“So, Lieutenant,” he said. “You're in Personnel now, I see.”

“Yes.”

“Don't you think you're a little overqualified for reception?”

“Yes.” Stein opened her mouth just enough to form the answer and then pulled her lips back into a thin line. Her expression reminded him of the Vulcan back in his office.

Damn
it. Enough tiptoeing around. He'd never had the patience for it, anyway. “Stein, you're mad at me. Why?”

“Isn't it
obvious
, Admiral?” Her voice rose with barely controlled anger.

In the midst of his hurt feelings, he felt a twinge of admiration for her. Only Stein had the guts to let a superior officer know outright what she thought of him. She was wasted in a bureaucracy; what a hell of a starship captain she'd make. “I guess I'm a little thick. What exactly did I say?” Quince asked, eager to make things right. Whatever it was, he'd apologize.