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“Malcolm! Over here!” Captain Archer’s call came from the front row, and Malcolm groaned inwardly; he wasn’t given to sitting right up front if he could help it, still less at these shows that the captain insisted on having every few months “to boost morale” and showcase the crew’s talents.
Not only had he been hoping he could slip out unseen and enjoy some downtime before his birthday, if he sat in the back row; but he knew from experience that sitting too close to the stage often ended up in being called up as part of the show, especially if the ‘talent’ in question was stand-up comedy. Not that many tried their luck with the ship’s security officer as comedic fodder, but there was always that one person who didn’t necessarily engage brain before pulling a senior officer on stage - or making them the butt of jokes.
Still, at least tonight’s show wasn’t comedy, not to mention that it was his superior officer calling, and he couldn’t exactly ignore a call from his CO. So, reluctantly, Malcolm headed over to the front row, where Doctor Phlox, Captain Archer, T’Pol, Trip, and Travis were sitting. The seat between Trip and Travis was empty, and it was clear that that was where he was meant to sit. With an inward sigh, he sank into the seat, nodding at the others as he did so.
The cheerful helmsman grinned. “We thought you weren’t going to make it. Glad you did.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Malcolm deadpanned, and winked. His friend knew just how he felt about these events, and Travis chuckled.
“Hoshi would have been upset if you had missed it.”
Malcolm tried not to perk up too visibly at mention of the communications officer. “Oh? Why? Where is Hoshi, anyway?”
“She’s in the show,” piped up Trip from his other side. “Been practising for weeks, so I’m told, so the bridge crew had to be here to support her, of course.”
“Really? I knew nothing about her performing.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it in particular,” came the enigmatic reply, and with that Malcolm had to be content, as the lights went low and the performance began.
The dancers were quite accomplished, he had to admit, all of them clearly having practised diligently to ensure they performed to the best of their abilities. He was happy to give credit where credit was due, after all, applauding along with the rest of the onlookers after each performance.
But where was Hoshi? Why hadn’t she mentioned to him that she was performing? He knew she was uncertain about some of her abilities, outside of her linguistics and shooting or combat skills; they’d been working on the latter two for a couple of years now, and she was generally comfortable in that regard. Practising for a performance explained her recent absences from their regular meals with Travis, Trip, and others like Esk, Janelle, and Anna; but Hoshi hadn’t told him that she was performing, and he wanted to know why not. He fretted internally until at last, the final act of the night was announced.
“And now, to close out the performances from our esteemed colleagues, senior communications officer Hoshi Sato will perform the Raqs Sharqi with a sword solo.” Janelle’s voice bore a note of delight; Malcolm scarcely noticed. He’d heard the words "‘Hoshi’ and ‘sword’ and sat up straight in his chair, not even noticing the quiet chuckles from either side of him.
The lights dimmed, and for a moment there were only silhouettes to be seen in the light entering from the viewing port. A soft light began filling the stage; not a spotlight, but something warm and inviting. Something that evoked thoughts of a warm voice, dark chocolate—like a pair of deep brown eyes, he thought—and comfort.
And there she was.
She stood in the middle of the stage, one hip cocked forward. Malcolm gulped; this was not the colleague he knew from across the bridge or dinner table, or even the gym and combat drills. She wore a halter-necked brassiere in a shimmering, deep red fabric trimmed with silver thread, leaving her finely-toned arms and belly exposed down to her hips. A band of tiny silver bells topping long silver fringe hung from the waist-band of matching tight pants that stopped halfway down her thighs and were joined by garter-like bands to loose, silky fabric that flowed down to the tops of her bare feet.
Silver bands arched over the tops of her hip-bones and under the red waistband; a double layer of red chiffon swept down the backs of her legs to her ankles, and to mid-thigh in front. Silver bracelets wound around her upper arms and wrists, connected to each other by delicate chains. Her eyes were dark with kohl, her lips stained blood-red, and in her hands she carried a deadly-looking, curved scimitar.
And she was looking straight at him.
The music started, a deep, throbbing sound that had one hip jolting up, then down, in perfect unison with the beat. That shining silver blade twirled in her right hand, down at her side and across her body, up and back and around her head, where shining black strands flowed down to her shoulders, held back by a silver tiara with blood-red garnets, more silver chains connecting to ear-cuffs that shone against her dark hair.
The blade twirled and Hoshi’s hips moved sharply up and down, side to side, in staccato movements, before strings and drums in a driving Arabic beat turned her gyrations softer, more fluid. Malcolm watched, mesmerised, as her wrist turned and twisted, whirling the length of steel in shifting patterns around her frame. Her hips stilled and shoulders took over, lifting and raising her torso in perfectly controlled beats that took her from side to side, her belly hollowing as she made her stomach muscles roll down and then up again, demonstrating her absolute control over her body.
And still she looked at him.
Malcolm was transfixed by that stare, by the flashing of the blade, by the soft jingling of the tiny bells around her hips as she moved. Then the sword slowed and stopped, now held in both hands as she lifted it by the bottom and carefully placed it across her head, seating the blade to balance across the top of her hair just behind the tiara.
The beat slowed, then resumed at a faster pace, and Hoshi’s body responded. She made the sword stay in place even as she gyrated, her hands coming out to form intricate patterns before and beside her, hips and torso moving sinuously as she stepped from side to side, her face still and calm. She was no longer looking at him, but staring into the distance, concentrating, as she turned on the spot. Her head didn’t move as she undulated, top to bottom and side to side, the sword turning with her, somehow staying put despite her movements.
Completing two revolutions, her back to the audience, suddenly she dropped to her knees, arms going out wide as she leaned backward before writhing her torso upward again. Malcolm gasped as the sword stayed where it was; how had she done that? She shuffled her knees around in wide arcs until she was side-on to them, then undulated backward, almost touching the stage with her shoulders, her head upright so the sword stayed in place. Her hands came up and lifted the sword from her head before she dropped back fully, her shoulders touching the floor this time, her hands moving the sword down over her torso to her throat and back again as she rose before getting to her feet one leg at a time.
And then she dropped again, into a fighting stance, one knee low and the other leg outstretched to the side, left hand on the ground for support, right arm swept behind her, sword ready for a deadly, slashing blow. Her eyes found his once more and she rose slowly, the sword brought forward and twirled, tossed from one hand to the other, criss-crossing her entire body as she showed off her mastery of its weight and length. It couldn’t be easy, he thought; that certainly seemed to be an actual sword, not a prop, which meant it was heavy and had to be perfectly weighted to allow for the hilt to balance the length of the wide, curved blade as it came to a wickedly sharp point.
The music slowed; Hoshi’s movements followed suit, and the sword came to rest, flat on the palms of both hands. She stepped forward, sinuous, graceful as a large cat. The blade was an offering, a gesture of peace, her movements seemed to say. She stepped forward, off the stage, up to him, holding it out. Malcolm stared at her, then at the blade, before meeting her gaze again. Her eyes were calm, deep pools reflecting the soft light from the stars outside. He saw the light sheen of sweat covering her arms and cheeks, and knew how much the exertion must have cost her.
Reaching out, he took the sword on the flats of his hands, as she laid it down carefully on his fingers. “Careful, it’s sharp,” she said, sotto voce, and he looked down again and saw a thin line of silicon across the edge of the blade that would protect from inadvertent cuts but would not blunt the edge if it were pushed. Taking it reverently, he looked down at Hoshi as the final beat sounded. The hall was silent; a pin would have been heard dropping, as the audience held their collective breath.
“Happy birthday, Lieutenant,” she said clearly, and around them, their colleagues erupted in cheers and clapping. For just a second longer, their eyes held, a spark of awareness flashing; then she stepped back as others crowded in, quickly lifting the sword from his grip and turning it so the flat of the blade rested along her leg, safe for the moment.
He was engulfed in cheers and back-slaps and hugs from those around him as they all began wishing him a happy birthday; accurate enough, he thought, as the chronometer on the wall told him it was just gone midnight on 2 September. All he saw, though, were dark brown eyes staring at him through the melee; then the captain clapped him on the shoulder, and he looked up to respond; when he looked back, Hoshi was gone.
The congratulations continued for a while, everyone filled with cheer as they shook his hand or patted him on the back. Thankfully, no one sang, or he might have taken his chances and run anyway. Kiva, Janelle, and Liz kissed his cheek, though most of the other women shook his hand, wary of the stern tactical officer. Anna and Esk gave him fist-bumps and wry looks, making him laugh; T’Pol, as was her wont, simply wished him quietly and with a nod.
“No pineapple cake ready right now, Malcolm, but Chef has promised that the man of the hour will receive the first slice when you get here for lunch.” Captain Archer was smiling, happy at having caught his security officer off-guard with the joy and well-wishes he surely wasn’t expecting. He’d achieved his goal of helping Malcolm be celebrated without a fussy party; now he could release his introverted, reserved officer for some well-deserved quiet time.
“Okay, everyone, let’s let the birthday boy get back home so he can sleep in. And remember that some of you are on shift not too long from now!” He clapped Malcolm on the shoulder once more, guiding the smaller man toward the door. “Enjoy your day off, Lieutenant.” He winked, giving Malcolm a gentle push toward the exit. Grateful for the understanding that the sudden attention might lead to overwhelm, Malcolm nodded back at his captain and fled, with a final wave to those watching.
He headed straight for his quarters, a little dazed by both the unexpected celebration—short though it had been—and the memory of dark, kohl-lined eyes fixed on his while creamy-gold skin swayed sinuously before his gaze. As he reached his room and punched in the code, he heard a sound and turned sharply, all senses going on alert.
“I brought you your sword.” Hoshi’s voice was low, those dark eyes heavy-lidded. She still wore her dancing outfit, with black slip-on sandals this time, though she'd removed the tiara, arm-bands, and ear-cuffs. “And I wanted to wish you properly. Happy birthday, Malcolm.” Soft lips pressed against his cheek, catching the corner of his mouth. He caught a glimpse of sparkling eyes before they were hidden by long lashes.
His eyebrow rose, a silent question; she smiled, giving a sidelong glance in return. Stepping backward into his room, he reached for her unresisting hand, and drew her into the darkness inside.
