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Rochelle Riker

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About Rochelle Riker

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  1. Rochelle's Story: Autobiography of a Survivor SD 10305.07 FAIR WARNING: Adult content, scantily clad in innuendo and word play. This log is not critical for furthering the action of the story--read only for your own interest, and at your own risk. (Comments always welcome.) "You think I don't know what it's like? You think I don't know exactly what you're going through?" She laughed humorlessly. "You, my little cousin, are once again confusing empathy and compassion. I have enough of one to know how futile the other is. Has it ever occurred to you to wonder how I know so much about the slave trade? You could say, I was apprenticed. I learned the business inside out, from the inside." The look of surprise on Samantha's face, and the compassion the poor fool seemed unable to contain, resounded in Rochelle's gut. For reasons she didn't take the time to question, Rochelle put aside thoughts of the evacuation and the two unconscious bodies at their feet, and decided to answer Samantha's unspoken question. And she told Samantha her story. You may find this hard to believe, but the fact that you and I look appear to be identical is actually just a fluke, a big joke played by the universe on us both. If we were to measure along the time continuum in which you've lived, my existence wouldn't be possible. Time moves differently in different dimensions, though. Thus it is that my chronological age is three years more than yours, currently--and before you ask, no, I can't even begin to explain how or why. Should you have occasion to meet him again, you might pose the question to Zar Alces. It would at least be entertaining to watch him work on the answer. You knew about my father's existence. Well, he never got over the fact of your father's existence. You had heard, I think, about his arrest by the Cardassians? It was no coincidence that the Cardassians came for my father at the same time that my mother took up with Jacqualier. Jacq promised Deandra that he could give her the life of luxury that she had finally, bitterly, realized Thomas Riker would never be able to provide. So she betrayed my father, and as a reward, Jacqualier brought her into the 'family business.' I'm not sure what it was that initially attracted them to each other, or that kept them together. It's certainly not possible that anything resembling what you would call 'love' could have been involved. But Jacq did claim that he loved her, for her beauty and for the ruthless brilliance of her mind. He never told my mother that he 'loved' me, too. I was so stupid. I was ten years old; I'd just seen my father dragged away by the Cardassians, I felt like my life was falling apart. So when Jacq pulled me onto his lap, to comfort me, and he held me, and said he'd always wanted to have a little girl-- Of course, loving my mother didn't lessen the business's need for capital. And Deandra, a woman of extremely modest means, had no liquid assets. But she had something even better than that--she had a beautiful little girl, just on the brink of womanhood. The lure of an 11-yr-old virgin brings in an awful lot of money from those so inclined. Jacq decided he couldn't afford to keep me off the market, but he wasn't ready for that big one-time sale. So for the first two years he sold me, he sent a guard with me every time I went to a client, to make sure no one took advantage of his largess. During that two years, I built up quite a following. The forbidden has always had its own kind of fascination. They could have me--but not entirely. "Exquisite agony," one of them called it. He said the next best thing to relieving his frustration was being able to take it out on me. Of course, Jacq couldn't keep them waiting forever. And once he'd created such a stir, designed such a fantastic build-up, how could he choose one buyer, settle on the one price that would take the prize? So instead, he sold me in an auction. It was quite an event, as I remember. My mother had a beautiful red gown, and she'd personally supervised my preparation all day long. My hair was down, and shining, in lush auburn waves with little curls around my face. I wore only the barest hint of make-up, and my dress was designed to look like an old-fashioned Earth wedding gown, simple but elegant, and pure, snowy, virginal white. Jacqualier served champagne, and delicacies from dozens of worlds. The strongest emotion in the room, apart of my own terror, of course, was my suitors' boorish pride. And at the end of the evening, I ended up being sold for 500 bars of latinum. Stupid male pride. He was too young to realize that he was grossly overpaying, especially for someone as utterly inexperienced as I was--inexperienced, and trying desperately to appear disinterested. I do remember feeling some small satisfaction that in the final count, he had paid about 100 bars of latinum per second that the entire encounter lasted. I remember that, It, hurt, but that I barely noticed. By this time I'd had two years to practice disassociating myself from my reality, sending my mind away, stepping aside from the pain. Being forced to... add to my repertoire with my clients was more of an inconvenience than anything, because the preparation between clients became more... involved. Eventually Nei'llazao, the one who bought me that first time, decided that he loved me. It was ridiculous, of course, but he was young, and his father was stupid enough to give him free access to the family's assets. Of course, Jacq always made Nei'llazao pay highly for me; he made everyone pay highly for me, simply because he could. It became a point of pride with my step-father that he not accept less than a certain figure to allow someone the privilege of time alone with his 'best girl.' One day I worked up the nerve to ask Nei'll to give me money, on the side. He knew that I never saw any of the latinum he paid Jacq, and it amused him, made him feel powerful and generous, to leave coins, tokens, little remembrances with me. If Jacq had suspected that I was holding out on him, he would have had me killed, or at least disfigured, main attraction or not. But it was Nei'll's money that eventually bought my freedom. I saved for a long time. I tried to escape twice before I succeeded; both times, I was brought back, and both times, Cabazon--who was the Compound Master even then--punished me. The second time he beat me until I lost consciousness. But he never told Jacq that I had tried to escape. And I didn't give up I waited, and finally my time came. That's an Earth expression, isn't it? "Third time's a charm." That time I had enough money to buy the help of two guards, so I made it out of the compound. And then--. Altogether, they sold me for just over four years, until my mother and 'step-father' died in an... unfortunate accident. Jacqualier was the sole survivor of his family, and the sole owner of the entire organization. When I asserted myself as the new owner after he and Deandra died, no one dared to dispute my claim of ownership. And then I rescued my father, and then this and that, and now here we are. And I'm ashamed to think about how much time I've just wasted on this banal melodrama. But now you have a nice little story to contribute, the next time you're at a big family gathering, and everyone's reminiscing about the family legacy. Yes, I know you still have unanswered questions--some big ones, hmm? But storytime's over. Now it's time for recreation. And you and I are going to take a few laps around your universe. Rochelle Riker Second-in-Command on the planet beneath the orbit of the independent vessel Blue Note
  2. Rescueus StarDustus Interruptus SD 10305.06 There was no time to spare. On the heels of her father's transport, Rochelle started giving the orders that set the compound evacuation in motion. It was an emergency plan she and her father had worked out just before their temporary return to Federation space, in anticipation of just the kind of incursion by the "do-gooders" as was now forcing them to put their escape strategy to work. The most important thing was to get all of their 'guests' to their cloaked holding station on the other side of the Gateway. The thought of the Gateway made Rochelle swear under her breath. Undoubtedly, this little temper tantrum of the Fleeters was going to result in Rochelle and Tom losing Zar Alces, that gorgeous, befuddled, sublimely brilliant and delightfully dry engineer... scientist... whatever. Rochelle pouted, although she did turn her attention to a transport manifest. She had been so looking forward to... enjoying Mr. Alces' company. Well, perhaps he wouldn't be lost to them after all. Removing the spoils of the battle to the higher ground didn't mean that the war was over. Rochelle gave additional orders regarding the transport and storage of various of their guests, and then turned the operation over to the trustworthy Cabazon. "I have someone to look in on, personally," she announced, handing her padd over to the compound manager. Cabazon smiled mildly. "Of course, my lady. And will your guest be... relocating, as well?" "I'll take care of her. You just get everyone else out of here. We've got a ship-full of crazy do-gooders up there; how long do you think it'll be before a few more shiploads show up, riding their white horses, to restore liberty and justice for all?" The disgust in Rochelle's voice made Cabazon's smile widen. "As you command, my lady," he inclined his head to her, holding back his admiring chuckle until she was safely out of earshot. Rochelle strode purposefully toward the room Samantha was supposed to be in, entertaining a client. Rochelle had seen this particular client before; calling him a "gentleman" would definitely require a stretch of the imagination Coldly shrugging the being's image aside, she paused outside the room's door long enough to knock, and then entered. The sight that greeted her was far more startling than simply the fat green Rhmadian's bulk. Ziggy StarDust was wrestling with the creature. A wave of fury swept over Rochelle; her body moving automatically, she stepped in to engage the lanky do-gooder. The fight that ensued was brief but violent, uncomplicated by the Rhmadian, who, thanks to Rochelle's phaser, was oozing unconsciously in a pool by the door. Ziggy and Rochelle traded blows, her phaser having fallen beyond her reach after Ziggy's first attack. Eventually, connecting her sharply-heeled boot with his head, Rochelle brought Ziggy to the floor. She was breathing heavily from the adrenaline, but she felt so alive! Her triumph was interrupted by something tickling inside her mind. Rochelle looked up and saw Samantha standing over her, phaser aimed at her heart. Their eyes met, and for a moment neither of them so much as breathed. Rochelle recovered first. "You're not going to fire it," she said quietly to her double. "If you meant to, you would have by now." Samantha gestured threateningly with the phaser. Keeping her eyes on Sam's, Rochelle came slowly to her feet; Sam dropped the phaser in defeat. "You probably won't believe this, but I don't think less of you for not being able to shoot me," Rochelle admitted candidly. In response to Samantha's look, Rochelle laughed. "No, I wasn't being sarcastic, I meant that. Our resemblance really is uncanny. I imagine that hitting that button would feel oddly suicidal." Still Samantha said nothing; Rochelle looked at her closely. "You haven't been damaged, have you? I know you can speak. Are you silent by choice these days?" Samantha's eyes spoke volumes, chapters of anger, grief and curiosity. "I did that once, too," Rochelle nodded companionably. "Getting me to talk again became a kind of game, eventually won by a rather large Erikkan trader. You don't want to know how." Samantha's eyes communicated her confusion, her mouth her struggle to understand. Rochelle meet the look with scorn. "You think I don't know what it's like? You think I don't know exactly what you're going through?" She laughed humorlessly. "You, my little cousin, are once again confusing empathy and compassion. I have enough of one to know how futile the other is. Has it ever occurred to you to wonder how I know so much about the slave trade? You could say, I was apprenticed. I learned the business inside out, from the inside" The look of surprise on Samantha's face, and the compassion the poor fool seemed unable to contain, resounded in Rochelle's gut. For reasons she didn't take the time to question, Rochelle put aside thoughts of the evacuation and the two unconscious bodies at their feet, and decided to answer Samantha's unspoken question. And she told Samantha her story. Rochelle Riker Second-in-Command on the planet beneath the orbit of the independent vessel Blue Note
  3. Daddy's Little Girl SD 10304.23 NB: this log takes place at the end of the sim two weeks ago, before the Arcadians took over the Blue Note "Only one life you're focused on, eh, Daddy?" Rochelle turned to face her father as soon as they'd materialized on the planet's surface. Tom looked at her blankly. "You were talking to that doctor from the Arcadia. They never cut your comm link to me. So which life were you referring to, Daddy--yours, or mine?" Tom automatically glanced around, pleased to see that their only audience was the guard who had been sent to escort them to their compound manager's location. "You *are* my life, sweetheart," Tom said smoothly, taking hold of Rochelle's arm and propelling her in the direction of the guard. "Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, the child of my body." Rochelle swore, an oath so blue that the guard leading them turned and shot a startled glance at her before he could stop himself; quickly, he turned his eyes forward again. "Watch how you speak to your father, young lady," Tom Riker chuckled through a broad, unrepentant grin. "See what happens when you miss your child's formative years?" "I know. She starts swearing like a Klingon; then, speaking to the hired help, she makes her father look like a liar." Tom's grip tightened uncomfortably on Rochelle's arm. Her face revealed nothing, but the young woman felt a warning thrill through her, could feel the veiled anger in her father's gesture. "It's no wonder," he continued genially, "that a man might start to question just what else his little girl isn't being completely honest about with him." "Well, Daddy," Rochelle picked up smoothly, "perhaps after we see Mr. Cabazon, it would be a good idea for you and I to discuss a few--" "Oh, we're going to talk, sweetheart. I think it's time that you and I had a very serious discussion, about a number of things," Tom said, pitching his voice for her ears alone. "This is what is known as being 'called on the carpet,' Rochelle," he hissed. "It's high time you and I came clean with each other." There was something in her father's voice that made Rochelle bite back her instinctive response. Her time, she realized, was now. She couldn't afford to play the devoted daughter any longer--Tom Riker's day in the sun was reaching its sunset, and now he would have to choose: support his daughter, or be eliminated from the competition. An unfamiliar pang squeezed her heart. Damn it, what was it about him? It wasn't that his blood ran in her veins. She had belonged equally to her mother, but that hadn't prevented Rochelle from looking Deandra directly in the eye as she pressed the button on the phaser and ended her mother's life. No, there was something else about Tom. Maybe it was his earnestly clumsy attempts at belonging in her world, a world of double-meanings and life-or-death relationships--a life which kept him always at war somehow with the morals of the world in which he had been born. She had often sensed that something held Tom back from the final commitment, the final willingness to sacrifice everything for the sake of his own survival. There had even been times when she had believed that he would have done anything to ensure that his daughter's safety. Rochelle's feelings for her father complicated, and were the closest she had ever come to feeling love. That word, that useless, empty word, 'love,' threatened to fill Rochelle's eyes with tears. She bit them back harshly, tasting the metallic tang of blood in her mouth. She had spent her lifetime's supply of tears years ago, and so many of them had been shed for her father. She refused to believe that she was cheating him of them now. They were within feet of Cabazon's door when both Tom and Rochelle's communicators both began to beep frantically. "Riker," the elder answered. "Captain, we have a problem up here," the monotone of the bridge security captain intoned. "Now what?" Rochelle snapped. "Apparently we have--wait a minute, now it's saying tha--" The guard's voice cut off abruptly, too abruptly. Rochelle and her father exchanged a glance, and in that moment all their uncertainties about each other were forgotten, they were united in their single cause. "Moose's people," Tom growled. "Damn it. I'm going back up to the ship." "Evacuation plan Riker-Omega?" Rochelle was already running the plan in her mind. Tom nodded. "We'll reassemble at the rendezvous point, go from there." He hesitated for only a moment, then put his hand back on her arm, more gently this time. "I know you've been doing this for a long time," he said with a half-smile, "but be careful, baby, okay?" He kissed her quickly on the forehead, then turned on his heel and left, already barking orders into his communicator. Rochelle stood frozen for five seconds that felt like an hour, watched him as he gathered a handful of guards to his side and ordered a beam-up to the ship. As his corporeal form faded away, she shook herself. She would have time to wax nostalgic about his farewell later. Right now, she had a major evacuation plan to initiate--and she had one very special 'guest' that she was going to take care of, personally. Rochelle Riker Second-in-Command on the planet beneath the orbit of the independent vessel Blue Note
  4. I know I'm hardly the only person to have trouble with the chat rooms at StarTrek.com, but last night took the cake. I spent 55 minutes failing to get in -- tried going through AOL and IE; rebooted twice; cleared my cache who-knows-how-many times -- no dice. I sent a note to [email protected] today, but all I got was an automated response. Moose said that it looked to him like the javascript was stalling before it could initiate the applet to create the room. so my next question is -- how do i fix or work around this?!? as background: i'm running Windows XP with Office XP, and my ISP is AOL 8.0. (it's absolutely impossible! to be effectively evil when your software turns against you.) any help and/or suggestions will be most gratefully accepted. Rochelle Riker's player p.s. -- the file attached is a Word document with a screen shot showing the error message -- for whatever that's worth. Thanks!
  5. Thanks for posting the log so quickly, Moose. i *really* missed all of you last night! by next week i will either have solved my logging-in problems, or maybe my evil twin will surface and take over the internet... ; ) Rochelle's player -- the good, the bad & the ugly
  6. Holding Down the Fort SD 10304.23 Rochelle watched her father's away team dissolve on the transporter padd before turning and striding out of the transporter room. Her father's rebuke about Ziggy's behavior still rankled her. Damn him--both of them, come to that--for making her look like a fool. Clearly she would need to take Ziggy much more firmly in hand, if she was to keep him--. A slow smile began to spread across her face. Perhaps the way to teach him a lesson about such undesirable behavior was to show him that it made him undesirable. Her cat-like smile stayed with her all the way to the bridge. "Contact Mr. Cabazon on the compound for me, and put it through to the Ready-Room," she ordered. "Uh, ma'am, the away team has already started to transmit from the Arcadia," a hulking man with a broad, innocent face pointed out. An expectant silence fell over the bridge. Rochelle looked in the direction of the voice; the man who had spoken felt himself shrink under her gaze. She gave him a disarming smile, moving smoothly across the bridge until she was nearly toe-to-toe with him. "How embarrassing," she laughed flirtatiously. "I know we've been introduced, but your name has simply flown out of my head." The giant swallowed. "Bizz... it's Bizz, ma'am," he stammered. "Of course," Rochelle purred. "Bizz. Well, Bizz, perhaps you can share with me the insight you possess which led you to conclude that the away team's mission and my comm call cannot take place simultaneously." "Um... I, uh, don't know. Ma'am," he added hastily, a flush rising up his face from his neck. Rochelle mimicked wide-eyed fear. "Well, Bizz, if you don't know, who does?" The blush on Bizz's face darkened. "Um. You, ma'am?" "I don't know, Bizz. Do you suppose that's a safe assumption?" "Ye-yes, ma'am," he blushed. "I'm sorry." She smiled demurely. "It's alright, Bizz. Everyone is entitled to make a mistake. And now you've made yours." She turned on her heel, raising her voice to say, "I look forward to your improved performance moing forward. Someone get me to Cabazon, and send that engineer my father procured to me. Shar, Khar, Sar--" "Zar Alces, ma'am," Bizz prompted helpfully. "Zar. Yes. You see, Bizz, your performance has improved already." She winked at him, and then the ready-room door slid shut between them. The screen on her father's desk beeped for her attention while she was in the middle of a delicious stretch; she flung out a hand and smacked the button to initiate the conversation. "Yes?" she called from somewhere near the floor. Cabazon cleared his throat quietly. "My lady Rochelle? I await your pleasure." Rochelle rolled deliberately out of her stretch, coming up one vertebrae at a time, before turning around to face Cabazon on the screen. "I need you to come up here and collect someone. As now is a phenomenally inconvenient time, you'd better transport up. Bring three security guards; this guest tends towards particularly ill manners." "And your instructions for this guest, my lady?" "Keep him in-house, on the compound, but see that he's put to work as soon as possible. And under no circumstances is he to be within 10 kilometers of our little Princess." "I'm sorry, my lady, our...?" "Cabazon." Rochelle frowned. "You disappoint me." "Ah," understanding swept his face, "I beg your pardon, my lady. Of course, you refer to our particular young lady." "Of course. Mr. StarDust, whom you are coming to collect, is not to hear, see or even smell the idea of her. I'm sure you can facilitate that arrangement." The ready-room door chimed. "Come," she called to it, then turned back to Cabazon. "Beam directly to transporter room 2; our guest will be patiently awaiting you in the storage closet." She caught just the beginning of Cabazon's amused smile as she clicked off the screen, then switched her focus to the person of Zar Alces, standing halfway between the door and the desk. "Please, come all the way in, Mr. Alces," Rochelle gestured to one of the chairs in front of the desk. "Yes, I definitely would have noticed you." "I beg your pardon?" Zar shook his head, as if clearing his vision. "Nothing. Sorry, just thinking about a conversation I had with your father." Rochelle smiled sweetly. "Daddy was very impressed with your work, Mr. Alces. He thinks you're quite possibly the most brilliant engineer he's ever met." "Scientist." "Whatever. Tell me, how if your work progressing?" "Oh. Well," Alces paused briefly, as if organizing his thoughts, and then plunged in, "clearly the first thing I had to do was to isolate more precise readings. Five decimal places may be sufficient for theoretical experimentation, at least during the preliminary stages, but--" "I beg your pardon, Mr. Alces," Rochelle sat forward, her hands folded primly on the desk, "let me simplify my question. When will you be ready to run your first trial?" "My first--" "On the stabilization of the gateway. Surely my father discussed the details of the project with you." "Well, yes, but he told me that--" "So when do we start?" "When do we--" This time Alces cut himself off. "Young woman, if you were given the impression that this was a, what is it called?, a Wham-Bam kind of job, you were grievously misinformed. The number of variables to be calculated is astronomical. I use the word in its original sense, meaning extremely large, or vast, although that particular term lost much of its impact with the broad dissemination of warp capacity to even private Federation citizens who--" "Miss Rochelle," a voice on the comm broke into Zar's monologue. That was the moment Rochelle realized she was grinning at Alces. "Go ahead," she said, her eyes remaining fastened on the engineer. (Scientist. Whatever.) "The Captain has ordered that his comm channel be patched through to you. He said to tell you to prepare for company." Rochelle's smile soured, then turned apologetic. "I'm so sorry to have to interrupt you, Mr. Alces," she stood and moved around the desk to him, "but as you can hear, other duties call me. I certainly hope we can speak further about your work, very soon. I have the greatest respect for," she leaned toward him, one hand on his arm, "scientists." "Sci-thank you." Standing, Zar tried to back subtly away from Rochelle's obviously-flirtatious advance. "If there is anything I can do to make your time with us more, pleasant, please--call me immediately. I would never forgive myself if you suffered the least inconvenience." "I... thank you. I think I need to go." When the door had shut behind Zar Alces, Rochelle laughed aloud. Oh, that was fun! "Put the Captain's team through on my personal unit," Rochelle said aloud in the empty office; her order was received, though, and in only seconds her comm transceiver began to speak. "Your crew is unconscious. You have no shields. I can start harvesting them at any moment," her father's voice boomed into the room. Rochelle listened carefully, noting names, potential uses, and logistics on a padd. "Eject your core and come with me willingly," her father's voice said. Rochelle took her cue, sending orders to Engineering to stand by on the tractor beam, and to initiate locks on the Blue Note crew and the Arcadians identified by name, as she made her way to the transporter room to greet the group. As they shimmered into life before her, Rochelle smiled graciously. "Welcome aboard the Blue Note, Captain Moose, Commander Dacotah..." she hesitated before finishing, "and you must be, Doctor Ren. A pleasure to meet one of Father's friends. Captain," she turned to Moose, "I must apologize for my deception the last time we met, and introduce myself properly this time. It's a pleasure to meet you--I'm Rochelle Riker." Rochelle Riker Second-in-Command on the independent vessel Blue Note
  7. Inside the House that Jacq built Several months ago… “Put her down over there,” Rochelle ordered Rualfo, nodding in the direction of a small bed against one wall. “Wait for me outside, and send Cabazon in.” Rualfo bowed out of the room, leaving Rochelle alone with her most recent acquisition. She stood over the body, staring at it with a mixture of fascination and contempt. “My lady Rochelle,” Cabazon broke her reverie as he entered with an extravagant bow and a broad smile, crossing the room to kiss her hand. His accent and the depth of his eyes made the gesture at once sensual and distant. From anyone else, such behavior would have seemed like mockery. Rochelle had known Cabazon long enough, though, to know that this was simply the affectation he had chosen to adopt, a personality inhabited long before he had come into her life. “Mr. Cabazon,” she smiled graciously at him. “It is, as always, a pleasure to see you.” “And you, my lady, are as beautiful as ever.” The shallow flatteries thus discharged, Rochelle gestured toward the body on the bed. “I’ve brought you someone new,” she said, wandering away from the bed with affected ennui. Cabazon correctly interpreted this gesture as an invitation to more closely inspect this new merchandise. Rochelle watched him closely as he took the prostrate girl’s face in his hand, turning it to look her fully in the face. Whatever his reaction to what he saw, his body language carefully concealed it. When Cabazon turned to face her again, his features were carefully composed. He bowed. “You never fail to surprise me, my lady.” “I expect you to take very good care of her. She is for in-house use only, to be kept on the compound at all times. And you are to make exquisitely clear to her clients that any marks they make had best be temporary, and her face is completely off-limits.” “My lady—does she know?” “Know what? Of our mutual existence, or of her recent relocation?” “Either, my lady.” “Of the former, she certainly must have some notion. Of the latter, no, she does not. And she will not learn about it from you, or from any of your staff.” “I understand, my lady.” “And if and when she does manage to deduce where she is, I want you to notify me immediately—you, come to me personally. Not a messenger, not to the Captain. You, to me.” “Lady Rochelle, may I ask—does the Captain know?” He bowed obsequiously in response to her dangerously narrowing eyes. “I would not ask, my lady, had we not known each other so well, and for so long.” It was a card he played so rarely, Rochelle allowed it now. “And I would not permit the question, if not for the same. No, my father does not know. Should I be concerned that he might learn about it from you?” “My lady,” Cabazon scolded gently. “I’ve known you since you were barely more than a child. What cause have I given you to mistrust me now?” Rochelle laughed. “Mr. Cabazon, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone squeeze quite as much use out of charm as you do. When pressed, I imagine you make a rather formidable enemy.” “Ah, lovely lady, that is nothing you will ever need worry about.” “Why not?” She asked the question bluntly, directly, dissipating the congenial air of banter. Cabazon shrugged. “Because I am content, my lady.” “For the moment.” “For a long time now, my young lady. I live comfortably, for the easily-paid price of my loyalty to you. And you understand, as your mother and Master Jacqualier never did, that loyalty rewarded, endures. I would have nothing to gain and everything to lose by raising a hand against you, Lady Rochelle. So it contents me to bow to you, instead.” Rochelle stood silently for a long moment. “I will leave this in your capable hands, then. Thank you, Mr. Cabazon,” Rochelle inclined her head regally, accepting the man’s courtly bow and kiss on the hand before sweeping out of the room. She had trusted him before, when she had been the one with everything to lose. She would see that the reward he had slyly hinted at was delivered to him, and then she would rest assured—as much as she ever did—that he would manage this business for her. She would tell her father, herself, when the time was right. Rochelle allowed Rualfo to lead her back to the shuttle Pontchartrain. As the shuttlecraft was returning Rochelle and Rualfo to the Blue Note, Cabazon was turning his thoughts to his newest human woman. Woman, hah, hardly more than a girl, he thought to himself, beginning the mental checklists of what must be done to prepare her for market. Still heavily sedated, Samantha Riker lay, silent and still, on the bed before him. Rochelle Riker Second-in-Command aboard the independent vessel Blue Note
  8. Dog Eat Dog SD 10303.30 Immediately after the explosion of the shuttle Zeta Jones, on board the Blue Note [NB: this logs fits in right after Rochelle's log, "About Face"] "Come." Thomas Riker sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, studying a schematic drawing of the Arcadia provided to him by one of his lieutenants. He looked up as the door to his ready-room slid open to admit the most recent petitioner for his attention. "Ah, welcome home, sweetheart," he said, smiling at the sight of his daughter. Rochelle Riker glided into the room and elegantly folded herself into one of the chairs before her father's desk. "How was your trip?" "Fruitful. Annoying. Just as you'd imagine. My report will be on your desk in an hour. I don't know how you could stand living there." "Sweetie, it's a difference in values. They just don't value the same things we do." "That's a mild way of putting it." Her eyes narrowed as she looked closely at her father. "Especially coming from someone who once numbered himself among 'them.' Tell me, how do things seem to be going from your side of the desk, Daddy?" Rochelle asked pointedly. "Has your crisis of conscience started yet, or were you saving that for my return?" Tom's eyes narrowed. "What are you trying to say, Rochelle? You don't trust your old man anymore?" "Look at me. I'm not her. I live in reality. She may think her daddy is Superman, but mine is just human, and his human flaws are all too apparent, especially under duress." Tom's jaw tightened. After all these years, he should be used to the communicative currency being violence; it seemed like every time, though, he found himself fighting it all over again, needing to nurse his anger to fan it into the flames he used to fight back. He had made the choice, freely, to stay in this world, to stay with his child. And he had hoped to raise that child with the compassion native to his own world, an emotion completely unknown in this one. Rochelle's mother had made that dream impossible. Tom knew he would never forgive himself for trusting her, for unwittingly colluding in the plan that had sealed his daughter's fate and put her far beyond his reach when she needed him the most. By the time they had been reunited, the damage had been well and truly done. Rochelle had survived the violence and the cruelty by making them her own weapons of choice. Now Tom's only choice, if he wanted to remain a part of his daughter's life, was to pick up his own weapons and fight alongside--and occasionally against--her. "Be careful, little girl. You don't want to make Daddy angry." "Oh, yeah, the Gods forbid. What are you going to do, Daddy, spank me and send me to my room? The big, strong captain of the ship. You'll show me who's boss." Thomas shot forward, leaning menacingly over his desk, his eyes narrowed in anger. "You're damn right I'm the boss. Sounds to me like you need a little refresher lesson on the chain of command. You're my second. That means, everyone else takes their orders from you. And you take your orders from me." Rochelle stood, leaning on the desk to bring her face within inches of his own. "You remain the Captain of this ship at my pleasure, Daddy. Tell me again, who it was who, in this very vessel, showed up to get you out of that Cardassian prison they threw you in? Who ran the ship before you did? And who relinquished that command to you out of... some, some comical notion of nostalgia. Remind me exactly what it is that you know about the slave trade--aside from the profits you count up every few weeks. Remind me how you earned the right to sit in this office. Who taught you by example, selling you when you couldn't fight for yourself?" Tom's anger was burning freely. With a roar, Thomas Riker stood and struck his daughter with a backhanded slap, paying out the currency that would buy him the victory in this argument. The force of the blow whipped Rochelle's head around and dropped her to her knees. Seeing her fall to the floor cooled the hottest of his anger; Tom rounded the desk like a shot, reached out to gather her into his arms. "Oh, baby, I'm sorry." "Don't touch me." Rochelle slapped at the hands offering her comfort. She sat back on her heels for a moment, gently probing her teeth with her tongue. He had never hit her that hard before; begrudgingly, she gave him credit for having won the argument. She was lucky he hadn't broken her jaw. Carefully she lifted herself up, sitting in the chair she'd vacated for a moment before managing to stiffen her spine and stand erect before him. Tom stood, too, anxious to reach out to her but refusing to give her another chance to reject him. He hardened his features into a mask of cool superiority. That was how this game was played. "I apologize, Daddy, Captain, for questioning your command." Rochelle's voice had changed completely; Thomas knew that this respectful tone was sincere, if destined to be short-lived. Her life, at that moment, was in his hands; had she been in the Captain's place, she would have had the unlucky insubordinate tidily, and permanently, disposed of. And though Tom knew Rochelle wouldn't believe that he would have her killed, the force of the blow he had given her had apparently reminded her that even he had his limits, and to push him could have dire consequences. Thomas allowed himself the grain of satisfaction that he felt at seeing her humbled this way. "I accept your apology, Rochelle. And I'm doing so at face value--that means, I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt as to your sincerity. I'm sure you won't give me cause to regret that choice." "No, sir." Rochelle had yet to meet her father's eyes; he reached out, took her chin gently in his hand, and raised her face so she had little choice but to do so now. "Go have that cut taken care of," he said gently, nodding toward the trickle of blood seeping from the right corner of her mouth, "and then go get some rest. Your report will wait. And so will your pet, who I assume you brought back with you. And Rochelle--you hold your head high when you step out of this office. You bow to me, but they all bow to you." He indulged himself then, leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead. "You're dismissed, sweetheart," he whispered, letting go of her. Rochelle nodded her head respectfully, then turned toward the door. Pausing only long enough to wipe the blood from her face, she held her humiliation tightly inside herself and strode forward wearing her accustomed confidence. She did not deign to speak to anyone on the bridge--certainly not because of any pain in her mouth, but because she was under no obligation to do so. She didn't let her guard down again until she was back in her quarters, with the door locked behind her. She would send for Ziggy later, after she'd repaired this damage, done what she could to prevent any tell-tale bruising. She hadn't expected her father would ever have hit her as soundly as he had; and she knew, despite the violence of this blow, that there was yet more strength in him. She would have to make very, very certain that she was in a position of power before she let him find out just what she had done to put Samantha Riker 'safely' out of commission during this little fishing trip. The twinge of pain she felt as her lips curled up in a smile was worth the feeling of triumph which wriggled faintly inside her. She didn't know why she had such a soft spot when it came to her father. But regardless, the man couldn't live forever. She could afford to humble herself to him and wait for her own turn. The anticipation and the wait would just make the reward that much sweeter, when her time came. Rochelle Riker Second-in-Command aboard the independent vessel Blue Note
  9. About Face SD 10303.30 "Welcome aboard the Blue Note; I'm Rochelle Riker." "If I were to judge by the looks on your faces, I would guess that you, Colonel Quest, have heard my name before, and you, Lieutenant Zukko, feel like you've missed the first half of the show. Am I close?" "What do you want from us." Ziggy's voice was hard and cold. "Ziggy. After all we've shared, need you ask?" "You have Sammy, don't you. I swear, if you hurt her--" "Then you'll what?" The amusement was gone from Rochelle's eyes, replaced with a burning fury. "Gods, you really are still hung up on that prissy little bi**h, aren't you? You know, over time most people *grow,* Ziggy. I had so hoped that you would be one of them." "So what is it that you want from us?" Dana Quest asked, indicating herself and Marlene Zukko with a nod of her head. "I, uh, assume it's not the same.. interest that made you bring Ziggy back here." Rochelle laughed, a rich throaty sound. "No, you're not my type. In all honesty, the three of you were bonus material. Now instead of one 'dead' Federation officer, I have four. Not bad for a day's work, mmm?" She shook her head when Ziggy opened his mouth to retort. "Uh-uh. There's oh-so-much to talk about, but on this ship, as on your own, the Captain has dibs. And Daddy gets cranky if I keep him waiting. Mr. Rualfo, Mr. Ledogar, Mr. Novak--please see our new guests to appropriate lodgings." She turned her hostess-smile back to the Federation officers. "I know, you space types call them 'quarters,' but I grew up on a planet, not in a vacuum. Now if you'll excuse me, there's so much to do. I have GOT to get out of Pollyanna's polyester pantsuit, and bring my Captain up to date, and have someone look at this shoulder. You remember, Ziggy, don 't you? I carry all my tension right here." When Rochelle turned to walk away, it was clear that she'd left her masquerade as Samantha Riker behind. Her stride lengthened and her hips swayed, and she pulled the clips out of her hair and shook it loose, enjoying the feel of it as it tumbled down her back. "I'm sure you'll all think of a million questions. Well, just try to keep them in mind-we'll speak again soon. And don't worry, darling," she added with a last glance over her shoulder at Ziggy, "you'll be seeing more of me, very soon, too." When she had left the transporter room, Rochelle allowed herself to stop for a moment and simply enjoy what she had accomplished that day. Things had gone absolutely as well as she could have desired. She hoped her father had thought to chill a bottle of champagne. Tonight, she wanted to celebrate the fact that all the pieces were coming together, at last. Rochelle Riker aboard the pirate ship Blue Note