"And You May Ask Yourself..." (Morning, Before Takeoff)

There really are no secrets aboard a boat.

As the morning passed, so did the word. Gill had been most vociferous; Roose less so. Elle hadn’t said a thing, but the mannerisms of a silent person could also be recognized by a discerning eye. As one who made his living judging the tells of others, whether on his table, across a poker game, or at thirty meters on a high noon street, Dorian Adler felt that he’d become reasonably adept at the practice.

*And what about mine?* he pondered. *What do my tells reveal about me just now?*

Adler was alone in the infirmary. He sat upon his work stool, arms folded tightly, head bowed. He could feel the tightening of his jaw, even the unremittent furrowing of his brow. His body threatened to betray the sense of calm he wished to project, fight-or-flight stimulation beginning to spread its’ nervous energy throughout limbs he fought to hold in place. His right foot bobbed quickly on the stool’s bottom rung. The hands wanted action…as the mind attempted to weigh its’ options.

Vas Jat had chosen to vent his spleen, violating the old leadership adage “praise in public, criticize in private” with blistering rebukes for the crew…double doses for Gill and Marisol. To hear it told, Marisol apologized to Elle, assumed full responsibility for acting on her own to clean the black mold out of the ship’s ductwork, and then asked for permission to complete the job. Jat angrily refused, ordering her to commence preflight checks early. According to what he’d heard, she took a minute to inform Elle and Serena which ducts still required cleaning, before setting off toward the engine room. Apparently, her stop to greet Lyen and scratch Daisy while en route set the volatile crew chief off…

“Volatile…” The word escaped his lips. The teenager had been that, by all accounts, and not simply this morning. “…Only thing he’s scared of is being chewed out by Riley…” He’d heard that from a couple of different directions. As he whispered the comment, Adler’s memory presented a glimpse into the darkness within the boy, and worse, from without.

Marisol…gasping for breath as she hung by the neck in Jat’s clutch. The sight of her feet, dangling above the deck as the crew chief held her aloft in a choke hold. His abject refusal to obey Dorian’s commands to set her down. But now, as the memory played before him again, Doc was soon faced with the worst moment of the entire debacle.

Riley stood there, eyes dispassionately watching.

It had taken the medic’s suggestion that perhaps Marisol might answer the Lieutenant’s questions “if she could breathe” to persuade Thorne to dryly order “Release.”

*How could I have forgotten?* he asked himself. But he hadn’t. He knew all too well his motivations, and the reason he’d buried the whole nightmare scenario. His best friend had nearly been done in…and Dorian had chosen to weigh that against a budding romantic attraction. *My best friend,* he thought, now appalled with himself. He mused upon the woman whose introduction was the saving of his life, and who’d done it again, several times over. Now, she was out…and here he sat, dithering like an old skinflint who refused to put out the fire for the cost of water.

*My god,* Dorian shamed himself. *What the hell am I doing?*

...............................

“We should go,” Kate offered as the yard lift picked up the heavy medical equipment crate. She pocketed the receipt, and laid a hand upon Marisol’s shoulder. “She might have changed her mind.”

Marisol’s emotions had run the gamut over the past twenty-four hours. With each passing moment, the elation and swelling of the heart brought on by Lyen’s answer was beginning to ebb. “Let’s give her another few minutes,” the Spanic woman cast a lingering eye toward LV’s distant cargo bay ramp, her hopes of spotting the orange robe dawning forlorn.

Instead, she watched as Gill wheeled the second large crate down the ramp. He pushed it across the tarmac toward the women, accompanied by the Doc. “Now listen,” Adler spoke to the boy, “Ah don’t know yah true feelin’s fah Miss Serena, but Ah think Ah know women. She’s a special one, Mistah Gill,” Dorian waited as the boy pulled his jack clear of the crate. “Take good care of her fah me. And yahself,” he offered a firm handshake. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Marisol’s jaw hung open. “Dorian?” she asked. “What are you doing?”

His face bore contrition as he stepped forward. “What Ah shouldda done that day on New Kasmir, when yah left tha boat,” he replied. “Standin’ with mah friend. Marisol, Ah let yah down then, and Ah suspect in tha days that followed, as well. Can yah evah fahgive me?”