I stare at the night sky, white stars suspended against an indigo background. Geordi has just informed me that people who’ve never been on starship bridges - like me - think this is what they see on the main view screen, as if they’re all looking out a giant window.
“It’s not?” I ask.
“No. It’s all reversed. Space is white and planets and stars are dark masses. Like a map on paper.”
“Can you change the view - see what is really there?” The idea of a map intrigues me a little, but seems cold and sterile, too. Space travel has become so commonplace. We take off for Centauri or Vulcan and treat it as if we’re walking down to the corner store for milk. As a reporter, I’ve done my share of travel, as a writer, I’ve always fought against the blasé tone we all take. I shake my head, clearing those thoughts. I’m not a reporter any more, at least for now. I turn my attention back to my…friend. Lover. Geordi. I watch the lights glint on the metal of his visor, listen to the warmth of his voice…
“Oh, we do, if we’re in orbit around a planet, especially if it’s a familiar place, or home for any of the crew. Right now, for example, there’s no question that the view-screen on the bridge is showing a real-time view of Earth.”
I’m leaning on the cold metal rail of the balcony, and he is behind me, his arms reaching around to brace there, too. I feel the heat of his body, look down at his hands - I love his hands - and notice that he’s back in uniform. “The Earth from space has been a compelling image since the late twentieth century,” I note. “Art, science and wonder, all tied up in a neat package.” I hesitate then add, “Your leave is over.” It’s not a question.
“Yeah,” he says, and the word is like a sigh, but rougher. “Kat…”
I hear in his voice all the things he doesn’t have words for yet. I want to turn around, but I don’t. Instead, I move my hand to cover his on the railing. “You know, I’ve done my share of leaving, after an assignment. It’s kind of new being the one left.”
“I’m not leaving you. Not that way…”
“I know,” I say. “You’re not. And yet you are.” We’ve been friends forever, so we don’t have the luxury of the polite lie to cushion such things. No breezy goodbyes followed by instant forgetfulness. “Call me, when you can.”
“You know I will.” He pauses, and I hear him swallow hard. “You could visit the ship, you know. Next time we’re at a starbase.”
I open my mouth to protest, and then realize that since I’m ’suspended indefinitely’ from work, I actually can take time for such a trip. My lips curl into a smile he can’t see, “I’d like that,” I say. What I really mean is I love you, but I don’t have the words yet, either.
It’s a sunny morning, and we’re sitting in my breakfast nook, each of us with a cobalt blue mug of coffee. His is black, mine liberally laced with milk and sugar. “Not cream?” he asked, as he was bringing the mugs to the table. “You loved cream as a kid.”
“Whipped cream, yes,” I corrected. “Blue whipped cream, the way my dads did it at their restaurant, remember?”
He grins, and I can tell he’s caught the same memory trail that I have, and that we’re both thinking of the first time I brought him home, introduced him to my father and his partner, showed him what it was like to step from the vault-sized cold-storage unit to the hot sun outside and watch the condensation steaming off your skin in the sunlight.
“You were nervous about me meeting your father,” he says, and I shake my head.
“No,” I say. “I was nervous about you meeting Ben. I mean, he and my father have been together for ever, but Mars Colony was pretty conservative, and some people get freaky. Besides, you were a fleet brat.”
“So were you,” he points out, waggling a spoon at me.
I stick out my tongue at him, because I’m oh-so-mature. He doesn’t expect it, and it makes him laugh. I love his laugh. I love the way it makes his face glow. I love the way his fingers flex when he’s happy. I love…. “My mother was on a science scout ship. It’s different. They’re way more relaxed than you big starship types.” I’m teasing him now, to deflect my own feelings. “Y’all are stuffy.”
“Stuffy?” he puts so much feeling into one word: amusement, irritation, disbelief. “Stuffy? I’ll give you stuffy.” And before I know it he’s found the canister of whipped cream I keep in the stasis unit for ice cream emergencies, and he’s aiming it at me.
“Don’t you dare!” I abandon my mug on the table and get up to try and grab the container before he can press the button that will spew blue cream everywhere.
But he’s hit the trigger, and because I grabbed his wrist we’re both covered in the stuff.
An hour later, we’re both dressed in fresh clothes, sitting on the sofa and watching the FNN headline news. Border skirmishes along the Neutral Zone, political races on four worlds on the outer rim, and a proposed ban on press presence at the next Congressional Assembly are the topics of the morning.
“Does it bother you?” he asks, referring to the broadcast. “You’re suspended - but you don’t seem upset.”
“I haven’t really had time to wrap my head around it,” I confess. “Been sort of absorbed by other matters. It’ll hit me about an hour after your ship breaks orbit and I’m forced to return to the real world. ”
He covers my hand with his, and I feel the tension in his grip. “This is the real world, Kat,” he says. “You and me…” he trails off, and I turn my hand beneath his, and twine our fingers together.
“I know,” I say, my voice low. “It’s real. We’re real. And I’m - can we not talk it to death just yet? Can we just enjoy it for a little longer.”
He gives me the sort of look that would be truly devastating without the visor masking his expression, but is still pretty pointed even with it, and even though he hasn’t moved, doesn’t move, I feel him withdraw a little.
I move closer. “I’m sorry,” I say. “You’ve been my best friend forever. My brain hasn’t caught up with my heart yet, is all.”
He leans forward, silently, and I can tell he’s about to kiss me, but I see a flash of white near his ear, and I move my head past his, dart out my tongue, capture the errant cream.
“Problem?” he asks, amusement and affection tied together in the word.
“Nope,” I say. “Just missed a spot, when you were cleaning up.” My voice sounds smug, even to me. It should. I’m the Kat who got the cream.
I’m not sure if I am already awake because my bladder is insisting I empty it, or if it’s the erratic, half-mumbled speech tumbling from Geordi’s mouth, but either way I sit up in bed, and stare into the pixilated darkness of my bedroom. I squint more out of habit than need and the soft green light across the room resolves itself into a time display. Two am. Oh-two hundred. Whatever. Either way it’s late, and he’s dreaming.
At a loss – do I let his dream play out, or do I wake him? – I ease myself from the bed. Practicality kicks in: first, empty bladder, then deal with boyfriend’s nightmare. My mind races in circles, talking to itself. Myself. Boyfriend? Is that what he is? I mean, I’ve known him since we were ten, but this is only the second time we’ve slept together. I don’t close the bathroom door, choosing to keep an ear out, in case something changes. From this perspective I can’t see the clock, but I see another pair of twin green lights just above the foot of the bed. Perry, my Chihuahua, named after the fictional editor of a fictional newspaper from a twentieth-century comic book, is also awake. Typically, he’s staring at me, and won’t leave his spot on the bed unless there’s the prospect of food or a walk. Can’t say as I blame him.
I finish attending to nature’s demands, and wash my hands with cool water, splashing my face as well. My apartment has a sonic shower, which is great on mornings when there isn’t time for hair to dry, but water always feels cleaner somehow. The sinks are all water. I like it that way. I pause near the end of the bed and scratch Perry behind the ears. “Go back to sleep, little man,” I tell him. He emits a doggie sigh and lowers his head back to his paws.
Blinking red diodes on Geordi’s temples catch my attention. Normally, I don’t notice them, either because I’m just used to them, or because I don’t generally stare at him in the darkness. I look past him, to the nightstand on his side (it’s already his side) of the bed, see the blinking green lights of the matching connections on the VISOR he takes off to sleep. Memory flashes, and I remember sleepovers of a different kind, when we would each be in a sleeping bag on my father’s living room floor, or his father’s, or in an old-style tent pitched in the back yard, when I would see those same blinking lights, the same gleaming metal reflecting them. I slide back under the covers, and realize he’s still muttering.
“I can’t see, I can’t see,” I can discern the words now, and I freeze, horrified. “Romulan, Human, what does it matter if we die down here. Work with me, man.” The reporter part of my brain wonders if there is a story here, and then my conscience and heart remind me of who I am, who he is, who we are together, and I reach out, touch his shoulder, and shake him gently.
“Geordi,” I say. “Geordi, wake up. You’re dreaming.” I keep my voice pitched soft, let warmth infuse it.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, and I rub two fingers together, and then realize he’s still caught in his nightmare’s web. “Or I am. Can’t tell. Even if I could see, couldn’t tell. Blood’s blood with this thing. Doesn’t matter if it’s red or green.”
I gasp at that, shake him a little harder. “Geordi, wake up, please?” The stress invades my tone; his words seem creepy to me in the dark. I could turn a light on, but I don’t. “Geordi, its Kat…”
Hearing my name seems to help, because he sits up, and rubs his eyes, then puts his hands to his temples, and massages them. “Kat?”
“Right here,” I say, and I move so I’m sitting right against him. I raise my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them. He’s sitting cross-legged now, fully awake. “You were dreaming,” I say. “Something about red and green blood and not being able to see.” I lift one arm, and stroke his face softly with fingers that are still damp. “If you want to talk about it, I’ll listen.”
I hear the sound of metal clunking against the nightstand. He’s reached for his VISOR, but it’s taken two attempts to pick it up. I see the ghostly outline of his hands as he raises it to his face, and hear the soft click as it settles into position. Only now does he turn to me. “I was dreaming.”
I laugh softly, stroke his back, and feel the warmth of his skin beneath the green t-shirt he wore to bed. “Yes,” I confirm. “You were.”
“It was last year,” he begins. “We were on a planet with violent ion storms…”
He settles his arm around me, and we sit together in the middle of the bed, with Perry the Chihuahua sleeping at our feet, and I listen to his soft voice as he spins the tale. It’s an hour before we go back to sleep, and even then I keep waking up, looking up, and finding comfort in the soft green glow of the clock.
is a somewhat disappointing fact that San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge is actually orange. Specifically, the color is “international orange.” I know this because one of my first local news reports for FNN was for the annual repainting of the bridge. I remember standing at the base of one of the towers with the wind whipping my hair. Tonight, though, I am not expounding upon the color, or complaining about the wind.
“I’ve always wanted to do this – walk across the bridge at night,” Geordi tells me, as we buzz through the pedestrian walkway and begin walking toward Marin. “We talked about it all the time at the Academy, but we never managed to do it.”
The subject had some up during the ball. It was one of the lulls while the band – a live band – took a break, and the Enterprise officers had been reminiscing about their Academy days. The reporter part of my brain observed that, for all they may be galactic heroes now, these officers had fairly typical college experiences. Good to know they’re mortal, I guess. But now I was trying not to shiver – my red dress got the expected, even hoped for, reaction from my companion, but strapless ball gowns don’t keep away the chill – as I answer, “It’s easy to put things off, take them for granted, when you see them all the time. I mean, I live in this city, but I hardly ever play tourist.”
My attempt at keeping the shiver out of my voice must have failed, because Geordi stops walking and stares at me. Well, not stares. But I can tell he’s not seeing my dress right now, but something else. “You’re cold,” he states.
“I didn’t bring a jacket,” I explain. “It’s warm in the flitter, and I knew we’d be dancing.” I pause then add, a little shyly. “I enjoyed dancing with you. I liked meeting your friends.”
He doesn’t answer right away because he’s unfastening the jacket of his dress uniform and shrugging it off. “Wear this, Kat,” he says, and helps me into it, holding it so I can slide my arms into the sleeves. “Better.” It’s not a question. I know he’s seen heat patterns on my skin, or some such.
“Thank you,” I say. We continue our walk toward the middle of the bridge, side by side, our hands brushing, almost connecting then moving apart. I can feel the slight upward slope of the arch, as we pass the first tower, and the wind is stronger.
He stops at a point equidistant between the two towers. I wonder if the Visor let him measure the distance, but I don’t ask. “We’re here,” he says.
“So we are,” I say, and then I add, “Moon’s out.”
“What does it look like to you?” he asks quietly.
I look at him, startled by the question. “Moonlight? Or Moonlight on the water?”
“Either. Both.”
“Mmm.” I am quiet, composing my description, and the nearness of him is distracting. I can feel his warmth. “Most people describe moonlight in cool colors. Silver and white,” I begin. “But to me it’s always felt like soft warmth. Not silver, but the finest, palest gold, spun out like floss. And when it strikes the water, there’s almost – almost – a sheen to the waves, but it’s so dark that they’re really just shapes. Indistinct.” I stop there. And then I say: “Tell me what it looks like to you.”
And he does. “It’s more like textures and temperatures,” he says. “Solids are dense, and deep, the ocean has movement, but it’s warmer, not a lot, but a hint, where the light strikes it, and the intensity lessens. Moonlight is thin. Sunlight…sunlight’s all heat. Moonlight’s an echo of that heat.” He pauses, and in that pause I slip my hand into his. His fingers lace themselves with mine, as he laughs softly, and apologizes, “It loses a lot in translation.”
“Try something different,” I say. “Tell me how it tastes.” It’s a game we played as kids. Using a sense we both had to better communicate different ways of seeing.
“Kat!” He laughs, but his hand stays twined with mine. “You first.”
I close my eyes, breathe in. “Salty, wet, something sweet, just a hint of sweetness. A dash of something floral, but it comes and goes so fast.” I open my eyes, and find his gaze directed at me again. “Your turn.”
He doesn’t speak. He ducks his head, and hesitates, and I look out at the dark expanse of ocean, black and alive, and faintly lit when the moon strikes the waves. I speak his name, and his head comes up, and while I can’t read an expression, I can tell that he’s come to a decision. His other hand comes up to caress my face, and I lean into it, into his warmth, and the strength of his fingers. He does speak, then, just one word, “Kat…” and I squeeze his hand.
“Yes,” I say.
It seems to be the permission he needs, for he bends his head just a little, and his lips find mine. We’ve kissed before, but it’s been casual. This kiss holds meaning, and goes deeper. I lean into it, kissing him back, and then our tongues are dancing, much as our bodies had in the ballroom, earlier.
The need to breathe separates us, and I step into his arms. We stand there in the wind, on the orange-painted bridge, bathed in moonlight for a long moment. When the silence is broken, it’s Geordi who speaks. “I’m on leave for the next three days.”
“I’m sort of…suspended…” I admit. “Which means I’m free.”
There’s an unspoken agreement that he’s coming home with me tonight. And I’m fine with that. Mostly. He kisses me again, and breathes my name against my neck.
I laugh softly. “Geordi,” I say. “Let’s go someplace warmer.”
I don’t remember the walk back to my flitter. I don’t remember the ride home. “Thank God for autopilot” becomes my new mantra.
I’m sitting in my flitter in the parking bay at Starfleet Academy, nerves jittering like proverbial butterflies in my stomach. I keep thinking that I should have said no to being his date, or that, once accepted, I should have let him pick me up. I mean, my apartment’s not that far away, and he has a freaking starship at his disposal.
Okay, that might be an exaggeration. But here’s what’s not: I’ve known Geordi LaForge since we were both ten, and I’m hiding in my flitter because I’m afraid of what my feelings for him really are. And I’m equally afraid of what they aren’t. I mean, what if he really does want to take our relationship into adult realms…and what if he doesn’t. And there’s still the whole traipsing around the galaxy thing. As long as we’re just friends, I’ll never have to deal with the agony of worrying when the Enterprise is out of communication, never have to refuse to cover a story about the ship or her crew because I can’t be objective, and… I bang my clenched fists against the controls, and mutter out loud, “Dammit, Kat, just go IN there.”
“Please restate your desired coordinates,” the navigation system requests in too-calm tones, the way computers do. I press the button to power down with a little more gusto than is really called for. And I take a deep breath. Then, I smooth my hair and exit the flitter.
I’ve been told where to meet him, of course, and I’ve been here before – years ago for his graduation, when I sat next to his sister and we rated the relative hotness of the male humanoids in his class to kill time. Ariana has a wicked sense of humor, while her brother is a little kinder in his witticisms. And then, when there were rumors of a conspiracy in Starfleet, I was one of the reporters sent to cover it. So I know where the arrivals lounge is, and I’m not weirded out by the full-body scan to determine if I’m packing weapons (though in this dress, I’m not sure where I’d put them. My purse holds a lipstick and my identification, not much else).
A cadet stuck on door duty recognizes me, and welcomes me by name, and I thank her, as I walk into the building. Lots of glass and steel and combinations of the two, just enough stone to ground the place. They’ve decorated for the occasion by hanging festive banners, and bringing out flowers in Starfleet colors. I’ve seen worse. I walk the short distance down the main corridor to the arrivals lounge, and enter, and the noise of so many conversations is a bit jarring after the heel-clicking silence of the corridor, but I just take another deep breath and look around.
I recognize a few faces. Captain Picard, of course, because he’s been interviewed a lot. Never seems to age, which is criminal. He’s talking to a petite blonde in admiral’s stripes. I think she’s got a Russian name, but don’t bother racking my brains for the knowledge. Davis T’laren, a reporter from a rival news syndicate is talking to a bearded officer in red, but notices me, and waggles his eyebrows – apparently the dress is effective – but I just smirk. Then I turn, and I freeze.
Geordi’s off in a corner, engaged in animate conversation with a man who isn’t merely dressed in the mustard-yellow ops color, but actually echoes it with his skin. This, I think, must be the infamous Data, who’s supplanted me as LaForge’s best friend. I’d seen his image before, of course, but it’s nothing compared to the actual person. And Geordi…Geordi’s also in yellow, and…is that another stripe? I can’t decide if I should yell at him for not telling me or merely be glad that someone’s seen how talented he his.
My name, being shouted (in as polite a manner as possible) breaks me from this line of thinking. “Geordi!” I answer back, and weave through the crowd, exchanging only brief greetings with people I know on the way. “Sorry I’m late,” I say.
He’s staring at me, at my dress. He’s…riveted, even. “You look amazing,” he says. “Worth the wait.” For a moment, something heavy hangs between us, as he watches me and I stare into his VISOR. Then he bends to kiss me on the cheek, and whispers, “I’m glad you came, Kat,” and it’s such a familiar gesture that all is well again.
“Yellow?” I ask softly.
He actually blushes. Well, sort of. “Yeah,” he says. “I meant to tell you, but there wasn’t time. I was promoted.” His expression is a mixture of shyness and pride. “I’m chief engineer,” he tells me.
I want to whoop or shout or dance, but I resist the urge, and simply hug him. It’s a little more enthusiastic than our hugs generally are, and it lasts a little longer, and I tell him softly, “Congratulations. I’m so beyond proud of you.”
“Ahem.” A voice behind me makes an extremely artificial coughing sound, and I pull away from my friend, smooth my skirt, and turn to find it’s source.
Mustering all of my professionalism, I extend my hand, and say, “Commander Data, I presume? Geordi’s told me a lot about you. It’s good to finally meet you.” I add, in case he’s unsure. “I’m Kathryn Rossi, from FNN. Call me Kat – all my friends do.”
“And I am just Data,” he answers, and I wonder if he, too, can feel the worry-waves emanating from Geordi, who has to be hoping we’ll like each other, at least a little. “Geordi speaks of you often, Kat.” He gives me an appraising look, as if he’s trying to decide how a polite android can say, ‘If you hurt my friend, I’ll kill you.’ And then that also passes, just as a steward (another duty cadet, of course) is circulating a tray of champagne.
Geordi hands me a glass, keeps one for himself, and nods at Data, who’s taken one as well. The three of us form a private circle, and Geordi lifts his glass, and toasts, “To friendship.”
I raise my glass, too, but I don’t speak, because I’m busy noticing that Geordi looks good in yellow. Really good. He catches me staring and catches my hand, squeezing slightly and letting it go, and then I want to say something, but we’re called into dinner before I can.
Here’s hoping Starfleet parties aren’t as excruciatingly speech-heavy as news net shindigs, because some things are better conveyed on the dance floor.
RED
“Kat, I need a favor.” These are the words which begin my weekly com-chat with one Geordi LaForge, who’s been my best friend since we were both ten years old.
“I’m not revealing my source on the Jotar dilithium smuggling story, even to you,” I tell him, and mean it. “I mean, friendship goes a long way, but my career is important, even if I’m not gallivanting around the galaxy playing hero every other week.” I’m half-teasing, half-serious, and just a little bitter that these weekly transmissions are the sum-total of our relationship, and have been for about ten years now.
“You know I’d never ask for a source,” he assures. Then, because he really is one of the sweetest guys ever born, his tone softens. “Is it true you’re in danger of being indicted?”
“You heard that, all the way out there?” I shouldn’t be surprised. He keeps telling me that rumors travel faster than starships, but somehow it still rocks me that he knows.
“It’s not common knowledge,” he explains. “I just…heard it.” The unspoken information is that he’s been following my career, and if he weren’t wearing a VISOR his expression would probably confirm it. As it is, it’s enough to give me a moment’s pause.
“So, you need a favor?” I ask, running my hands through my hair. I’ve hated my hair ever since I got too old to twist into braids every day, and I tend to play with it too often. I’ve been told it’s one of my ‘tells’ – that I play with it more when I’m nervous – which is why I always stick it in a pony-tail before I play poker.
He hesitates, fiddles with something out of my line of sight, then looks straight at me, or rather, at the camera beaming his image to me. “The Enterprise is returning to Earth for a couple weeks. There’s a conclave of captains, and some other functions at the Academy. There’s also an alumni ball – a bunch of officers are being honored.”
He says it casually, but I guess that he’s one of the honorees, though I don’t confirm it. Not yet. Instead I say. “You need a date, and want me to fix you up with one of my friends.” I make it a statement, as this is a recurring theme with us.
“Not exactly.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Oh?”
“I need a date, but I’d like it to be you.” There’s something odd in his voice when he says it.
“You’re kidding.” But he’s not. I know he’s not. “Geordi…?”
“Kat, you’ve - we’ve known each other forever – I’m one of the people being honored.” He lowers his voice even more. “I’d like you to be there.”
For a moment, a long moment, I think about declining. But then I remember that I have this great red dress hanging in my closet that I haven’t had a chance to wear. Also, it’s been too long since we’ve seen each other in person, and I’d really like to be able to talk to him without counting minutes. “Okay,” I say. And then, “Hey, is your dress uniform still red?”
The question rocks him. “Yes, why?”
“No reason,” I tell him, using my best bet-you-wish-you-knew voice. “Text me the details and I’ll clear my schedule – but you’re paying for the hotel.”
He laughs. “Fair enough,” he says. And then, “You’re not dating anyone who’s likely to beat me up, are you?”
“Jared and I broke up about a month ago. He decided dating interns was more his style,” I share. “What about you – why do you need me? Ensign Martinez not all you hoped?”
“She’s…nice…” he hedges.
“But…?”
“But we didn’t click. Not enough.”
We chat for another ten minutes, he gives me the capsule version of his week, and I give the bullet points of mine, and then I get ready to sign off.
“Wait,” he says.
“What is it?”
“The indictment?”
“No worries,” I tell him. “It hasn’t actually happened, and if it does, I have an excellent attorney.”
“But if it does?”
“You’ll be my second call, Geordi. I promise.”
He watches me – or my image, rather – for a full minute before he says anything, as if he’s trying to discern my pulse rate or whether or not I’m overheated, to determine if I’m telling the truth. (Actually, he probably is doing just that.) “Alright, then,” he says. “Talk to you next week.”
“Same time, same station,” I quip, and then the screen goes dark, and I’m left to contemplate the notion of going to a ball with my oldest friend, and wondering if it’s wrong to hope that the red dress in my closet might actually get a reaction.