Fair to Middlin'

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me this is some kind of joke."  After his first response – You did WHAT?! – to her announcement, issued upon walking into their quarters, he had a feeling that he'd get no less provocative of an answer this time.  But he already knew the answer, by her expression.

"Romulans don't make jokes," she replied, cool.  "But then, I don't need to tell you that, do I?"  She calmly walked past him, to the replicator.  "Romulan ale, non-alcoholic, with cinnamon sprig."

Rampart turned in place, staring after her.  He briefly wondered why she ordered non-alcoholic ale.  When she wanted a drink, she liked it good and stiff.  Vor'ana could drink anyone under the table, even him – and he held his own pretty well, when it came to drinking contests.  "Are you crazy?  Is that it?  Did I marry a crazy woman?"

"Oh, please, Jordan.  Nina Black requested my help... so I helped.  This is not your problem."

"The hell if it isn't...!"  He started towards her, jabbing a thumb at his collar.  "I'm still a captain on this boat.  Maybe only second-in-command, but I'm still responsible."

"Second in command," she reminded him, leaning on the wall after her drink materialized.  She lifted it to her lips, regarding him.  Light from the blue liquid made tiny sparkling stars in her eyes.  Vor'ana had tied her black hair back, tight, in a long tail.  It accented her severe Romulan features, somehow making her even more attractive.  There was a... glow, about her.  She seemed suddenly more healthy than Rampart had ever known.  Vor'ana had stated she needed a purpose, that she felt useless on this ship.  Was this what one little 'mission on the side' did for her?  He couldn't fight the feeling that it was something else.  For a moment, he couldn't even think.  Rampart felt his eyes drawn to the subtle heave of her chest as she breathed, staring at her.

He shook it off, and looked her in the eye.  "How did you do it?"

"Do what?" she said innocently, sipping her ale.  The light danced playfully in her eyes.  She was grinning at him, without moving a muscle in her lips.

"Stop that," Rampart said, stepping in front of her.  Romulans carried latent esper abilities, inherited from Vulcan ancestors.  Over the centuries, that ability declined, fell out of use and seemed to disappear – but they still had it, deep down, some more than others.  Some were born gifted.  He had long suspected Vor'ana of that gift.  It explained partly why she was once a Tal Shiar agent – an effective one, to be put in charge of the operation where they met.  It might have even played a part in Rampart's 'choice' to stay with her on Romulus, until she recuperated.  Her father, Vronak, speculated that she had reached out to Rampart, along a subconscious tether that bonded them since Beta Rykhis.  Vor'ana never really confirmed it – nor did she deny it.  All Rampart knew was, somehow, she was usually able to get her way with him.

"Jordie..."  Her tone turned sweet, casual... almost sensuous.  Holding the drink in one hand, she reached up, running a warm finger along his temple.  "Don't you remember when I told you... once Tal Shiar, always Tal Shiar?"

"Oh, no.  Uh uh."  He tried to pull her hand away; she retracted it out of his grasp until he stopped trying, then resumed stroking his head again.  "Don't give me that, Rahn."  A shiver passed through him – she knew his pressure points.  "Don't," he said, and moved his head.  "There is no more Tal Shiar."

"But I'm still here, am I not?  Other, former Tal Shiar agents live, out there, across the worlds.  Old habits die hard, Jordie."

Her sweetness made him angry.  He wanted to snarl at her.  "You said you were through."

The playful glimmer faded slightly, replaced by a harder glint, gleaming strong in her black eyes.  "When did I ever say that?  Tell me."

Rampart had to think.  "Okay, technically, you never said it, but you insinuated it.  Don't try taking the fence.  You know you implied it."

Vor'ana sighed, took another sip and pushed off the wall, past him.  "Are you angry because I still know Tal Shiar 'tricks'?  Or because I made a decision and took a course of action, without your permission?"

"Because you took matters into your own hands, Rahn!  You're a civilian – and a Romulan!"

Halfway towards the bedroom, she stopped and whirled on him.  "What does that mean?"

"Rahn... you've only been a Federation citizen for less than a year.  When, not if, but when, Starfleet finds out about this, you could have your citizenship revoked... I could lose my commission... not to mention if they hear you have Tal Shiar contacts – they'll go through the roof!"

"Hmm.  Well, I have news for you, my Terran husband."  She patted him on the shoulder.  "Sometimes one must risk all for a greater cause."

Rampart snorted.  "Spoken like a Romulan."

"You believe it also, do you not?"

"You took an oath when you married me, when you became a citizen—"

"Yes.  That is exactly why I've done what I've done.  That group of... 'zealots', of religious fools," she practically spat the word, "are the latest incarnation of your people's so-called Humanists – who by your own accounts," she said emphatically, shaking a finger at him, "would have destroyed the Federation in the future.  They operated under the law.  They needed someone capable of operating under the law, to stop their unlawful activities.  Perhaps I've saved it once again, by all hopes.  I did it to save the Black sisters from what neither of them deserve.  Think, Jordan: All I've done is what you did for me – for someone else.  I hope that I made your world a better place.  And I absolved you of all guilt in the matter.  Is that wrong?"

Rampart sighed and trudged over to a chair, sinking down in.  "Ask the Starfleet JAG, when she calls."  He sat there, shaking his head, baffled.  "No... Rahnie... I know better."  He turned his head, looking at her.  "That's not like you – to stick your neck out for someone you don't even know?  You don't break promises – not even if you make one, to break another.  Slice it however you want, you broke a promise.  What are you not telling me?"

Vor'ana stood there for a moment, blank-faced, the symmetry of her posture disrupted.  She gathered herself and turned, carrying her drink into the bedroom – "I did it for you." – and closed the door.

"So," April said, laying on a biobed in sickbay, studying Rampart's report on a palm-padd, "Earth security police rounded up the group... arrested most and assigned them to social rehabilitation... and moved this..."  He paused, gray eyes peering closely, scanning for the name.  "...'Tina Black', to a new medical facility."

"That's pretty much it; yes sir."  Rampart had followed up and verified the news with Federation Central.

"Tina... and Nina," April murmured.  What kind of parents named their children Tina and Nina?  Maybe they were twins... but, no, the report indicated they weren't.  He turned his gaze to Rampart.  "And your wife did all this?"

"Not so much did it herself, but... she... made a few calls."  Rampart's jaw twitched, involuntarily; he hoped to hell April didn't press him for more details than that – but it was a stupid wish.

April's demeanor was suspicious.  "So I probably don't want to know who she... 'called'."

Rampart grimaced.  "I don't want to know myself, to be honest..."

"I see."  If anything, April was quick; he could read between the lines.  He already knew all he needed to know about Rampart and his Romulan wife.  "And you had nothing to do with this?"

"Absolutely not, Admiral; I swear.  That's how I'll testify, if it comes down to it."

April observed the padd, ruminating, then returned it to Rampart.  On the other side of the Arcadia's chief CO, Tabatha Brisk performed medical scans, glancing between readings on the console beside April's bed, facing her, and a manual medical tricorder.  Alongside, the new nurse, Maraquin-Brock, looked on, standing by, assisting as needed.

"I don't think it'll come to that," April decided.

Taking the PADD, Rampart nearly did a double-take.  "Pardon?"

April, about to say something, stopped, let out a breath, then said, "I've seen enough political intrigue in my career to last two lifetimes.  I'm sick of it – as simple as that.  I won't deal with it if I don't have to.  Besides, from the sounds of it, Earthgov already took care of it.  I'll make a few calls of my own, take care of the rest...  Consider it done.  This is a ship of exploration.  Where we're going, we don't need to be saddled with the likes of Reverend... whatever his name is."

Crackpot, Rampart thought, but kept to himself.

"Keep your eyes on the horizon," April said.  "That's my motto."

"I thought it was 'Be prepared'," Rampart ventured, recalling the meeting in April's San Francisco office.

"That too.  Are we clear, Captain?"

Rampart felt nonplussed.  "But... if you don't mind me asking, Admiral, how will you—"

"RHIP," April said, and glanced sidelong at Brisk.  "Aren't you done yet?"

Tabatha tossed her head, almost smiling, but didn't.  "I think that means you're dismissed," she told Rampart, then added, respectfully, "Captain."

"O-kay.... Thank you, Admiral... Doctor."  Rampart went to leave, biting down his private shock – totally not expecting this.  April surprised him.  He didn't see that coming.  Over his shoulder to the new nurse, Rampart said, "Good to meet you, Mandie."  Maybe it was Rampart's way of trying to pass along the surprise, using her personal name, after just meeting her.  She would learn that the Arcadia had developed a relaxed atmosphere, for what was arguably still a Starfleet ship.

"Well?" April said to Brisk following Rampart's exit.  "What's the prognosis?"

Tabatha eyed him over the edge of her medical tricorder, and lowered the instrument.  April came in earlier, walking stiffly, complaining of leg cramps.

"This is a little more complicated than muscle strain," she said, and glanced at Amanda.  "Amanda, please excuse us for a moment."  The head nurse obediently retreated, recognizing a need for privacy.  She had seen their files, of course – she knew Brisk and April had a mutual history, while she was the relative newcomer.  After she was out of earshot, Tabatha leaned on the edge of the bed, flipping the tricorder shut.  It dissolved in a shimmer.  "Stephen... I don't know how to tell you this... but... you remember what happened three years ago."

April laid silent for a beat.  "How could I forget."

Tabatha rubbed the backs of his fingers with hers, an affectionate gesture carried over from their time together, on Earth.  "The treatment I used to restore your mobility...?  Your body is rejecting it."

April propping himself on his elbows.  "Are you sure?"  It was his own turn to manifest shock.  "How—?"

Tabatha shrugged.  "It just happens.  It's rare that it does, after this long; usually if it won't work, we'll know within the first few days or weeks – but it isn't the first time."

"What are you saying?" April blurted, voice raised, drawing glances from sickbay staff.  April sat up, swinging his legs off the bed.  Massaging the affected limb, he winced at another spasm.  Lowering his pitch, he said, "Am I going to be stuck in a hoverchair again?"

The intensity of his stare made Tabatha hesitate for an instant.  Stephen had pretty eyes, for a man, but when they were angry, she had always felt a bit frightened.  Part of her was intimidated by Stephen April.  It was the younger heart of her, still with her after all these eyes.  Adding to it, she felt a bit of culpability in this matter.  "No," she pushed out, quickly.  "No.  I promise you, that won't be a problem.  But I need to see you in here regularly, over the next few days, Stephen, while I investigate your options."

"I can't do that.  I have to be on Memiklon when we arrive.  Can't you... give me something, to keep me on my feet, until it's over?"

Tabatha made an impatient gesture.  "Well, you know, Stephen, I could... but..."

"Tab..."

Tabatha sighed, looking down at her feet – noticing his, hanging, almost touching the floor.  She knew it would be pointless to argue.  They had been down this road before.  When Stephen had a goal, a mission... when he wanted something done, it got done – period.  All she could do was try to help him along the way, and watch out for him, the best she could, like she always did.

She met his eyes again, kindly.  "It's the fact that you're getting older, Stephen.  You're young by today's standards – but you aren't a young man anymore.  My normal prescription would be rest – taking it easy, staying off your feet, doing whatever work you have to do in your quarters, until I develop a new treatment."

"A 'new' treatment?  Paralysis is easy to cure – we do it every day.  Why a 'new' treatment?"

"You haven't been in space for two months, Stephen.  You—"

"That's not true; I've been—"

"If you'd kindly let me finish," she said, feeling her own patience tested.

April closed his mouth, and waited.  Tabatha opened hers, and he said, "Sorry."

She closed her mouth, fixing him with her big dark eyes.  She waited in turn.  "Well?"

He gestured for her to go ahead.

"You don't quite have your 'space legs' anymore," she continued.  "Coming and going hasn't made it easier.  It probably accelerated it.  Before that, you traveled more than most.  The cumulative effects... constantly shifting gravity, subspace conditions, transporters, all of it, combined with natural cellular stress as a result of aging... makes it, in my medical opinion, inadvisable to apply a standard treatment without first checking you out, thoroughly, and running some simulations.  If I could just apply a standard technique, I could have you out of here today.  But because of what you've been through... it won't be that simple."

April sat silent, unmoving.  She could not guess what was going through his mind, but it might have had something to do with Romulans, after hearing about Vor'ana.  A Romulan attack had paralyzed him.  Yet they had been manipulated by the Usurpers, as they all were.  It rent Tabatha's heart.  After all the hardships he had suffered, bad news just kept coming his way – but this did not necessarily have to be bad news; there was still time to change it.

She had a thought.  Trying to lighten the mood, she offered, "Can't you send one of your holo-clones in your place?"

"To Memiklon?  No.  They... well, let's just say, holograms aren't a good idea, with them."