Disclaimers:  seaQuest characters and concept are property of their creators.   No copyright infringement intended.   Original story is property of the author.
Setting:  2nd Season (Bridger, not Oliver).
Rating:  PG; Romance.

Desperate on DSV

© 1996 Grace Macy

"Torrador to  seaQuest," said a voice in O'Neil's ear.  It was soft, slightly husky, and very, very feminine.  He calmed his heart and responded.

"Torrador, this is  seaQuest.  You're a little early.  We weren't expecting you til fourteen hundred."

The voice chuckled softly, but O'Neil thought he detected a note of bitterness in it.  "I got bored.  There was nothing left that needed doing, and I don't do too well sitting in one place."  There was a slight pause and O'Neil could almost hear the mischievous smile creep in.  "Even if I am waiting for my ship to come in."

He smiled.  He was definitely going to like working with her.  "Well, Launch Bay 12 is the only thing clear now, but it would be pretty cramped.  If you want to wait we'll have Number 3 ready soon -- that's the one we were going to give you."

"That's all right, Com," she replied.  "No use wasting time.  I'm already here.  Besides," a soft chuckle sounded over the line, "I'm sort of used to cramped quarters at this point."

While he tried to figure that one out, Tim absently said, "O'Neil."

There was a confused pause on the other end.  "Pardon?"

He reflexively looked up at the ceiling.  It was a habit he had acquired after years of speaking to people he couldn't see; he found it easier to do if he had some fixed point where he could imagine their image, even if he didn't know what it was.  "My name.  Tim O'Neil."  He smiled.  "As opposed to Com.  You're welcome to use my first name, too."

"Ah."  There was confusion, surprise and -- to Tim's own bewilderment -- gratitude in that sound.  There was a pregnant pause, then: "Callistan."  She seemed to debate over adding more to that, then continued, almost shyly, "Ah . . .  Calli."

Tim smiled "back" at her.  "Nice to meet you, Calli."

"Nice to meet you, too, Tim."  It was soft, barely audible, as if she were unsure of -- or surprised by -- the words she had just spoken.  "Bay 12, you said?"

O'Neil recognized the switch for what it was -- a defense for someone who wasn't used to personal exchanges -- and replied appropriately.  "Off the port bow.  I'll turn on the beacon."

"Thanks."  She paused for a moment.  "Tim."

"You're welcome, Calli," he replied sincerely, somehow knowing what he had granted her, without really knowing how he knew: friendship, a sorely needed anchor in strange seas.  "And welcome aboard the  seaQuest."

He watched her approach the bay, then dock, and realized what she had meant by "cramped quarters".  He had heard about the new Man'o'War strike ships, had known they were one-manners and packed full of systems, but he hadn't realized how small they really were.  All those systems packed in like sardines must barely leave room for its pilot -- it was a good thing Lieutenant Callistan wasn't claustrophobic, else she'd have gone crazy, encased in metal like that.  It must have been like a cocoon in that cockpit, even smaller than that of a Stinger.  He shivered just thinking about it.  He told himself that that was why he decided to watch her disembark by accessing one of the security cameras -- just to see the kind of person that could pilot such a vessel and still have a sense of humor.

The camera zoomed in on the water as the craft surfaced, and his first thought was that it certainly was an ugly little bugger, for all it's impressive design.  Then its hatch opened and all he could do was gape.  She was gorgeous.  Even half-cloaked in shadow, she was more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen.  Piccolo was apparently of the same opinion; he whistled appreciatively as she emerged from the vessel.  Tim barely noticed; he was far too engrossed in watching her.

Long brown hair was pulled into a tight braid that fell halfway down her back, bangs brushing across her forehead.  She reached up and pulled herself out with a facility that belied her tiny frame.  She must have been stuck in that thing for two hours at least, Tim thought in wonder, yet, as she leaped from the ship to its moorings, she moved with the fluid grace of a dancer -- or a leopard.  And the latter, Tim suddenly realized with a start as she stepped fully into the light, was a rather accurate physical description of the petite pilot.

Delicate striping ran across her features in the camouflage-like pattern that was the trademark of her people.  "Holy cow!" he heard Piccolo exclaim.  "She's a Dagger!"

Tim swallowed nervously despite himself.  Dammit, he thought, railing against his reaction, I just talked to her!  I know she's nice, and if I'm still getting this reaction, then no wonder she sounded so surprised when I was friendly.  And, he realized suddenly, no wonder she was eager to get off that base.  I've heard they're not too fond of Daggers.  A lot of them were on the mission to stop the uprising.

The Dagger uprising.  Mariah's uprising.  His stomach clenched in memory of that woman and he stubbornly shut out his corresponding anger and fear.  Calli was no more Mariah than Dagwood was, and he refused to allow himself to see her as anything other than what he had first assessed her to be: a lonely pilot, new to the ship, in need of a friend.  Genetically engineered or not, she was still a human being.

He watched her move towards the doors and remembered that that was probably where Dagwood would be this time of day.  He wondered what his reaction would be at seeing another Dagger aboard.  And what hers would be at the same -- and at seeing him swabbing the decks.  Would she think they had assigned him that duty solely because he was a Dagger?  Lord, he hoped not!  So, with a kind of morbid fascination he accessed the camera in the corridor.

Sure enough, there was Dagwood, as well as several other crewmembers.  As she appeared thorugh the doors, all conversation seemed to cease, eyes drawn inexorably to her, in a strange mix of admiration and wariness.  She walked by all of them as if she had been aboard the ship since the beginning, as if she didn't have to worry about fitting in.  Setting an example, Tim realized.  If she doesn't act as if it's not an everyday thing, they won't either.  What's that old saying?  Never let them see you sweat.  She certainly seems to be a believer in that.

Slowly, Dagwood became aware of the change in the atmosphere and looked in the direction everyone else was staring.  "Calli!" he exclaimed, enveloping her in a bearhug -- quite literally, considering his size.  But she didn't seem to mind in the least.  Then again, Tim thought, she's more built for it than we are.  "What are you doing here?" he asked ponderously.

She smiled up -- and up -- at him; she barely came past his shoulder.  Fondly, as if at a child, which, in many ways, he was, she replied, "I'm going to be living here, Dagwood."

"Really?" Dagwood looked so happy, Tim was reminded of a puppy who had been kept from its beloved sibling for too long.  Has he really been that lonely?  Tim wondered guiltily for a moment, then thought, Well, I love everybody here like family, but I still miss mine like crazy sometimes.

She smiled dotingly at him.  "Really, Dagwood."

"That will be good," Dag said, beaming at her.  "I missed you, Calli."

She hugged him again.  "I missed you too, little one."

Piccolo's eyebrows shot up.  "Little one?" he excalimed, "Boy, has she been away for a while!"

Tim turned and glared at him, simultaneously flicking off his screens.  "Don't you have something to do, Piccolo?"

Piccolo conjured up his best look of innocence -- which was to say, it was totally unconvincing and immensely irritating -- but Tim cut him off with a glare before he could speak a word of protest.  "Okay, okay," he muttered.  "I'm goin', I'm goin'!"

*

Lieutenant Callistan was a very atypical Dagger to say the least.  For starters, she was tiny; average height for a female Dagger was 5'9", Calli was barely 5'4".  She didn't mind; it made her able to do things that would have been impossible for most Daggers.  Piloting a Man'o'War class ship for one.  Most normal-sized og-humans couldn't fit in the tiny cockpits.  For Calli it was almost spacious, if not entirely comfortable.

Her thoughts snagged on the vocabulary she had used and she chided herself.  Og-humans.  That was the term most scientists used, the term she had grown up hearing when the comparison between Daggers and their unengineered cousins came up, because it was more polite than what was inferred if those who were not GELFs were simply called "human".  The "og" stood for "original-gene", pronounced as it was spelled.  It had long ago become habit for her to use the term and she still had to fight to refrain from using it in public.  The last thing any Dagger needed was for "og-humans" to be reminded of the extent of the difference between them.  The moments were precious few and far between when they managed to forget it.

That was another thing.  It was easier for her to be accepted by them when her stature made her seem so vulnerable.  She had lost count of the times that someone had forgotten that she was four times stronger and faster than the average person.  Of course, the average Dagger is six times stronger and faster . . .  She grinned suddenly.  Yup, that's me, the runt of the litter.

It was her favorite joke, one she used to diffuse tense situations -- especially when they were of the kind that came before a challenge.  Those she never answered unless she had no other choice, mainly because such attitudes had long ago ceased to do anything more than (darkly) amuse her.  Her smile at a memory of one of those times faded as others pushed themselves to the front.  More than once the challenger had been another Dagger . . . and those times had hurt.

She became aware of the tiny frown that creased her forehead and quickly banished it before the other people in the MagLev could notice it.  She spared them all a passing glance, just as she would have if they were all Daggers, or if she were an og-human like them.  Act like you belong and they'll think you belong.  Or, hopefully, realize that you do.  Her eye was caught by a darkly handsome man on the far end, who was playing a vidgame with the utmost of concentration.  She slipped automatically into the way of looking without seeming to look that she had gotten quite good at over the years, observing through a series of brief glances given with equal time to everything else.  And, after a moment, she reluctantly allowed herself to notice and acknowledge the fascination with which she was watching him.

Curly black hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it away with an absent gesture that bespoke a commonplace occurrence.  His eyes darted across the screen, following the main objective of whatever game he was playing.  So that was why he didn't join the rest of the crewmembers in watching me come on and find a seat.  Maybe, she thought wryly, those vidgames aren't so bad after all.  A smile tried to find its way to her lips but she fought it down.  She didn't want anyone seeing that.  They were going to have a hard enough time accepting her as it was.

Considering the brushes this boat has had with that damnable Mariah, the sight of any female Dagger, let alone one expressing interest in an officer, is probably enough to set them all on edge.  Besides, I shouldn't even be interested; interpersonnel "relationships" are against regulations, whatever they may have told us Daggers about trying to immerse ourselves in the og-human culture . . .  Pity, she sighed mentally as she idly thought of what his body must look like underneath the snug uniform.  I could definitely immerse myself in some of that.  Resolutely, she turned her gaze away from him.

Miguel only noticed her when the MagLev came to a stop at her destination.  He looked up from his game, checking to see if it was his stop, and froze, his eyes locked on her.  The Dagger looked back briefly, as if feeling his stare, and they eyes met for an instant before the doors closed again.  With a pang of sympathy and fascination, Ortiz thought to himself that he had never seen such beauty and haunted loneliness in all his life.

~*~*~*~

She lay curled up next to him, dark hair fanning out over his chest, where she rested her head.  One arm was draped across him, her hand meeting his on the other side.  His other arm was wrapped loosely around her waist, fingers gently stroking her thigh where it crossed his legs.  His cheek rested lightly against the top of her head.  He inhaled and all thought vanished at the light, rose-petal scent of her hair.

She sighed contentedly, the fingers of her outstretched arm playing languidly with his own.  He smiled, closing his eyes and savoring the moment, knowing that it wouldn't, couldn't, last for too much longer.  "Well," she murmured, "I guess this leaves only one question."

He placed a soft kiss on her hair.  "What's that?"

"How the hell we're going to keep from killing someone until our next shore-leave."

He woke up laughing.  And when he remembered the dream fully, suddenly stopped finding it at all amusing.  Ortiz swore under his breath.  It didn't help.  He swore a little louder.  This is the third time, dammit!!  And it isn't even the same dream -- but it is just as real as the first two.  Obligingly, the first two drifted to the front of his mind.  Her smile, her scent, her laugh, her . . .  He cut off the memories sharply.  He refused to think about that aspect of her.  Or him.  Or what it had led to, or . . .  Damn!  I'm doing it again!

Forcing himself to calm down, he jumped out of bed and stalked over to the sink, filling it with ice cold water and liberally dousing himself with it.  She's been aboard ten weeks, I hardly ever actually see her, I've talked to her four times at the most, and I've dreamt about her three times -- in the last week!   . . .  And it isn't just that part of it.  I really like her . . .  God!!!  This is making me nuts!  I don't even know if she likes me!  He grimaced sourly.  What am I talking about?  It doesn't matter if she likes me -- it would be against regulations!

Except, a little voice whispered, when you're both on leave . . .  And promptly provided the appropriate images.

Miguel slammed his hand against the wall in frustration.  And found himself thinking, She's right.  How the hell are we going to keep from killing someone until we're on leave?  He growled and his head took over where his hand had left off.

*

O'Neil winced as Ortiz almost tore the switches off his console as he flipped them.  He'd never seen the man this agitated.  Tim was getting nervous just looking at him.  And he knew exactly why Miguel was acting like this, too -- or he could make a rather well-educated guess.  If he only knew how she's been taking it.  I wonder if I should tell him . . .  Then he grinned.  Nah.  This is too amusing.  He glanced up at Lucas and saw the same expression on the younger man's face that was almost definitely mirrored on his own.  That ties it, he thought mischievously.  We wait and watch . . .  And laugh our butts off.

Lucas tapped a private line and connected it to O'Neil's.  "Hey, Tim.  What's that saying the Captain told us once?  Love is like sea-sickness.  You may be miserable, but--"

"-- everyone else thinks it's hilarious!"  They finished in unison, trying desperately to smother their laughter.  Ortiz noticed and looked up from his console to glare at them.  Which only made them laugh harder.

"I'm glad you're so amused, guys," he said acidly over a line to both their headsets.  "Because this is driving me crazy!"



"-- driving me crazy!" Calli growled to a sympathetic Henderson over the sound of pounding shower-water.  "And I could count the times I've actually spoken to him on one hand!  I swear, Lonnie, I could hit something!!"

"Don't," Lonnie advised her solemnly, her eyes twinkling.  "Any damage to the ship would come out of your pay, and you can't afford that much."

Callistan tried to glare at her, then realized the futility of it and chuckled.  "No, I guess I can't."  She was silent for a moment, scrubbing only a little less vigorously, then looked back at her friend with an aggravated sigh.  "Any other advice, Dear Lonnie?"

It was a long-standing joke between them.  In their first conversation about the distinct disadvantages about the rule concerning "interpersonnel relations", the Dagger had put her sentiments in the context of an advice column, with Lonnie in the role of the columnist and herself in that of the reader.  Henderson chuckled.  "'Fraid not, Desperate on DSV."  Calli chuckled and Lonnie frowned at the expression on her friend's face.  "Is it really that bad?"

Lonnie had no idea how bad and Calli knew it.  She nodded, not knowing how to put it all in words.  In the beginning of their friendship, she had joked about how sexually frustrating it was to be on a ship whose crew seemed, in Calli's opinion, "to have been picked from the cream of the UEO genetic crop" and who were all off limits.  Gradually, to Callistan's chagrine, that category had been narrowed til it was one specific man, but still she had never allowed herself to let on how much it really bothered her.  Now, however, she looked at Lonnie and let the other woman see just how much more there was to it.

Lonnie almost gasped at the amount of pain, frustration, and sheer loneliness she saw.  "Calli --" She didn't know what to say.  She reached over the separating wall and touched the other woman's shoulder.

Callistan seemed to shrink in on herself; the whirlwind of emotions, given rein, seemed to pull at all her energy.  She leaned against the cubicle wall and shook her head, and all the turmoil and resulting weariness she felt seemed to express itself in that one simple motion.  "I --" she started, then stopped and shook her head again, trying to find the words.  "It's just . . .  I'm so alone, Lonnie.  Not friends-wise, you understand.  Not at all like that, but --"

"Of course."  Lonnie nodded, frowning in sympathy and complete understanding.  "Friendships don't give you that kind of love.  Sometimes you need a different kind of companionship, the kind where you can just be with someone, not have to do anything or say anything.  And friends, however close, can't give you that."  Calli looked up at Lonnie in surprise at how accurately the other woman had described exactly what she was going through.  Lonnie smiled, ducking her head under the water to hide her blush as she recalled her last shore-leave.  "I may be innocent, but I'm not that innocent.  Besides, everyone's felt like that at some point."  She sobered and sighed thoughtfully.  "The only difference is you know who you want that from . . .  and that you can't get it."

Calli nodded sadly.  "Exactly.  " She sighed in frustration.  "Hell!  I don't even know if he'd offer it."

Lonnie suddenly smiled at her.  That one she knew how to answer.  "Ohhh, he'd offer it."

~*~*~*~

Calli maneuvered the little ship smoothly through the trenches, keeping up an easy banter as she headed back to the  seaQuest.  Hard to believe it had been almost six weeks since Lonnie had let her know that Miguel felt the same as she did -- or, at least, that Lonnie thought he did.  For the first week after that rather surprising -- not to mention relieving -- discovery, she had watched him a little more closely (at which Henderson had laughed that she wouldn't have thought it possible).  After she had convinced herself that it was true, she set about trying to figure out a way of getting to know him.  It was harder than one would have expected, but no more difficult than she had known it would be -- mainly because she could feel her blood heat up whenever they were even in the same room together.

It had been so tremendously frustrating that she had found herself resorting to something to vent her anger that she hadn't had to use since she was a teenager: physical exertion to the point of exhaustion, which for a Dagger took a hell of a lot of time -- and busted punching bags.  Captain Bridger had finally told her that if she didn't stop destroying the equipment, he was tempted to throw Ortiz in the ring with her just to see her fume without an outlet.

She had been so surprised that it had taken her a full ten seconds to see the humor and sympathy in his eyes.  He knew all about it, she realized, and he wasn't inclined to say anything against it.  Whether it was because of how long he had known Ortiz or because she was adhering -- obviously very painfully -- to regulations, she wasn't sure.  Nor did she care.  Either way, he had told her when she asked, it meant that he wasn't going to try to stop them.  "But neither am I going to watch you tear the ship apart."

She had managed a smile, her sense of humor finally finding its voice again.  "Not the ship, sir," she had replied, mouth quirking into a semi-smile.  "Just the gym."

He had schooled his face into a mask of dead, grim calm and said: "Gym or ship, Lieutenant, the next broken item I see comes out of your paycheck."  He had turned and walked to the door.  Then, just as her heart had dropped into her shoes with the dread certainty that she had just ruined any chance she might have had on the  seaQuest, he had turned back, his eyes alight with a mischievous smile.  "And then how would you pay for your boarding on your next shore-leave?"  The next day she had seen her name on the same leave-list as Ortiz.  She was still getting over that particular shock.

So, for the past five weeks, she had been inching closer to Ortiz -- casually enough not to violate regulations, but overtly enough to let him know the possibility was there for . . .  advancement.  It was a game she was getting to play rather well -- and that upset her even more.  She was not the type who liked subterfuge -- especially when it had anything to do with her personal life, and most especially when it had to do with this particular aspect of her personal life.

God!  If I had known joining the UEO would mean that I would be this sexually frustrated, I would have told that recruiting officer exactly where to put it.  She thought about the way that meeting had ended and smiled wickedly.  Not that he needed any instructions on my part.  She chuckled.  Ah well . . ..  And now to the business at hand.  Miguel had better take the hint this time.  The Sensor Chief had proved surprisingly -- and aggravatingly -- dense as far as her subtle suggestions were concerned.

"SeaQuest to  Torrador," came O'Neil's voice over the com-channel.

"Go ahead, Com."

O'Neil sighed dramatically over the line.  "How many times do I have to tell you to call me by my name?"

Calli grinned.  "It's that macho voice of yours, O'Neil.  It just inspires one to decorum."

"I'm flattered.  I didn't think it was possible for anything to inspire you to decorum."

"Oh, but you do."  She said, making her voice into a parody of Scarlett O'Hara.  "You big, strong hunk you."

Lucas was grinning like a madman and Tim scowled at him good-humoredly.  "Get your own admirer, Wolenczek."

Lucas laughed.  "Oh, I intend to.  Why do you think I've been looking forward so much to this leave?"

Calli smiled.  I couldn't have asked for a better cue.  Thank you, Lucas!  "Got plans all ready, have you, Wolenczek?"

"You bet.  I'm following you guys to all the clubs on the Cape."

"Oh, really?" O'Neil raised an eyebrow in amusement.  "And who do you think is going to buy you drinks?"

"The girls, of course."  Lucas grinned.  "You know how they love a big . . .  intellect."

"I knew it!" Henderson laughed.  "You've corrupted him, Calli!  He's getting to be just like you!"

"And that would be a bad thing because . . .?" Callistan replied slyly.

Henderson shook her head, but she was starting to get an idea of her own.  "You're incorrigible!  I suppose you have some willing victim all ready for the second you step off the boat."  She continued, looking directly at Ortiz.

"I refuse to answer that on the basis that it would ruin the surprise."  Calli smiled.  And thank you, Lonnie; you must have been reading my mind!  Now if only he would do the same.  Come on, Miguel -- you've been waiting for this chance as long as I have . . .

Ortiz didn't let her down.  "I hope you won't be too busy to join up with your friends," he said, trying his best not to let too much eagerness -- or worry -- creep into his voice.

O'Neil caught on quickly and, subsequently, almost rolled his eyes in exasperation.  Come on, Miguel!  After the feelers she's put out over the past five weeks, do you really think she's talking about anyone else?

But Calli, as usual, wasn't in any danger of losing control.  "Of course.  In fact, I'm rather looking forward to spending some time with my friends.  Aren't you, Miguel?" she asked, the last soft enough to be walking on very thin ice with the rules.

Which was why Ortiz finally let himself believe that she was talking about him -- or rather, them.  And there was no way he could hide the grin that crept onto his face.  "Oh" was all he could think to say.

Calli smiled to herself in satisfaction.  "Oh," she agreed.

*

Miguel leaned back against the pillows and smiled.  With a contented sigh, Calli laid her head against his shoulder, her long hair slowly untangling as he ran his fingers through it gently.  She ran one finger languidly down his chest and he chuckled.  "You keep that up, we'll never meet up with them for dinner."

She chuckled and raised her head, eyes half-closed as she smiled provocatively.  "There's always breakfast . . ."

"Hmmm.  Tempting."  Then she kissed him and he wrapped his arms around her, rolling them across the bed.  When they pulled apart for a breath, he smiled at her.  "Very tempting."  And proceeded to prove just how tempting.  After, as they lay sprawled across the bed, he sighed.  "I guess this leaves only one question."

She smiled indulgently and brushed tangled hair away from his brow.  "What's that?"

He grinned.  "How the hell we're going to keep from killing someone until our next shore-leave."

finis

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