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post the conversation with Will
Apr. 16th, 2007 04:27 amShe'd been in a contemplative mood all day. The conversation with Captain--Admiral, for another few now elapsed hours--Kirk was one reason, views of history, fates known and unknown, possible topics for research and all. The research itself was decidedly another. The day's earlier bridge shift had happened, eventually--fruit, conversations, starcharts and lavender tea notwithstanding; she'd walked back into the second she'd vacated, spent a blissfully uneventful time at the helm (no explosions, anomalies or sudden blips on the sensor array, today) and had come off duty mellow, if thoughtfully so.
She couldn't. quit. thinking.
She'd known precious little about the legend of Robin Hood before the incident with Q and her ship's senior staff. their reports and remarks after it was over told a fragmented tale at best, a handful of disjointed details confined to the situation rather than the story itself. Not exactly helpful. and she hadn't had reason to ask, before--it had been their ordeal, not hers, and from her viewpoint the event simply sounded like yet another attempt of Q's to infuriate Captain Picard, a distorted reality at best and not much else.
That was before.
She ended up in her quarters as the ship's evening wore on; mellow, still, in a smallish room scented with cinnamon and melon. Part of her knew that some people wouldn't call them much--quaint, personal, home. Framed photographs on one wall--dark-skinned adults and a child in curls, half a dozen friends in varicolored uniforms, an aerial view of an island beach--a deeply green quilt on a narrow bed, a palm-sized model starship on a bedside table, galaxy class but carved and wooden, handmade to it's core.
And a computer terminal with a chair at it's front, occupied by a frizz-haired woman in red staring broodingly at the blank screen.
she hadn't honestly been that curious about the legend, even after Q's last visit. the stories she'd grown up with had been different, Caribbean and French, blurred British and alien and even with the connection to England, the men who robbed from the rich to give to the poor hadn't factored in that strongly in her childhood. Or later.
But now even 'later' was 'before': before Will calling her Mistress Sariel; with a crossbow bolt in his arm and accepting even her clumsy assistance; bearing lash scars across his back--and at the image, one palm was pressed instinctively flat against her own right calf and the tracery of marks left there by a hazily-remembered and jagged-edged blade. She had to know.
"Computer?"
She. had. to. know.
Bleep.
"Library search. Information on the legend of robin Hood, specifically... Will scarlett."
She couldn't. quit. thinking.
She'd known precious little about the legend of Robin Hood before the incident with Q and her ship's senior staff. their reports and remarks after it was over told a fragmented tale at best, a handful of disjointed details confined to the situation rather than the story itself. Not exactly helpful. and she hadn't had reason to ask, before--it had been their ordeal, not hers, and from her viewpoint the event simply sounded like yet another attempt of Q's to infuriate Captain Picard, a distorted reality at best and not much else.
That was before.
She ended up in her quarters as the ship's evening wore on; mellow, still, in a smallish room scented with cinnamon and melon. Part of her knew that some people wouldn't call them much--quaint, personal, home. Framed photographs on one wall--dark-skinned adults and a child in curls, half a dozen friends in varicolored uniforms, an aerial view of an island beach--a deeply green quilt on a narrow bed, a palm-sized model starship on a bedside table, galaxy class but carved and wooden, handmade to it's core.
And a computer terminal with a chair at it's front, occupied by a frizz-haired woman in red staring broodingly at the blank screen.
she hadn't honestly been that curious about the legend, even after Q's last visit. the stories she'd grown up with had been different, Caribbean and French, blurred British and alien and even with the connection to England, the men who robbed from the rich to give to the poor hadn't factored in that strongly in her childhood. Or later.
But now even 'later' was 'before': before Will calling her Mistress Sariel; with a crossbow bolt in his arm and accepting even her clumsy assistance; bearing lash scars across his back--and at the image, one palm was pressed instinctively flat against her own right calf and the tracery of marks left there by a hazily-remembered and jagged-edged blade. She had to know.
"Computer?"
She. had. to. know.
Bleep.
"Library search. Information on the legend of robin Hood, specifically... Will scarlett."
