There are some really, really, really stupid things to do in the 23rd century among human beings, and some of the dumbest have been around for a long time.
Insulting a man to his face is in the top five.
Insulting a man's wife to his face is in the top three.
Fortunately for a particular former colleague of mine, my husband is a merciful man on one side, but on the other...
“Well, V.T., people never think: there are worse things that can happen to you than to be dead.”
The thing is, it's a big galaxy out here. No need to be all upset for nearly 20 years if the woman you want at the moment goes with another man – at this point, there are not only billions of human women, but billions of compatible humanoids and some mixes (including myself, a quarter-Vulcan).
But, a particular admiral had been mad from the day he was making advances on me at a particular party, and I instead left with a scrappy young commercial captain who happened to be a cousin of the most famous Kirk in the galaxy.
Of course, the men of high rank in my fleet of that mind tried to calm themselves down; surely nothing would come of “baby Kirk” and Admiral Vlarian Triefield, the highest-ranking science officer and woman in the fleet. I had turned down every advance for 35 years at that point – longer than “baby Kirk” had even been alive. They knew I hadn't slept my way up, so as long as I stayed single or settled down eventually with one of them, they could stand it.
However, Marcus Aurelius Kirk Jr. would not be denied his bride, come high water, a nebula full of gem-jellies, and the rage of a bunch of powerful men in the fleet who could make life hard for his then-young company. I responded to his earnest, genuine, powerful, true love, and married him upon his request, and that was the greatest decision I have made in the last 25 years.
Certain people have been mad for 25 years, but they stopped doing and saying stupid things about it in year 19, when a certain admiral who said something inadvisable in year 14 found out in year 19 why you do not mess with Marcus Aurelius Kirk Jr. any more than you mess with his famous cousin J.T.
It happened on this wise: said rear admiral retired in the 14th year of my marriage to Mark, and, on encountering us and our then four children in a park in San Francisco, knew that I no longer had ranking authority over him. We saw him coming from a quite ways off.
“Uh oh – he's been waiting 14 years to have something to say when I can no longer rip the stripes off of him for saying it,” I said.
“Y'all just beam on out – I got this,” Mark said, and I gathered the children and used my admiralty privileges to beam right back to our San Francisco home so that the children would not witness any foolishness.
Mark came home in an hour, having taken a long walk so he could come in calm for our little ones … but because I am a mild telepath, I knew that he had been deeply enraged by the encounter, and that he had already made up his mind what he was going to do about it.
Now, Mark and I have an agreement; there are certain things he knows I cannot tell him as a military officer of high rank, and he does not ask, and, there are certain things in his business that he need not tell me, and I do not ask. By year 14, I knew him well enough to know that he would not do anything to sully his reputation, his family's reputation, or his Christian testimony, but I also knew that he was going to deal with certain things as a man with men.
“I got this, V.T.,” he said, apparently feeling my concern. “You don't have to worry about it. I got this.”
Five years went by, and meanwhile, the retired admiral went into business full-time, importing luxury goods from the frontier back to the dense populations of humanity in the near-Earth region. The baby sling was the product that became an absolute rage – the above picture is the day version, and this is the night version, made by the surprisingly humanoid Ghythavians on the Ventanan frontier:
The Ghythavians have no trouble with premature babies because of this amazingly comfortable piece of bio-technology … the human breast fits as comfortably as the Ghythavian one into the proper place, and the baby's heat and oxygen needs are moderated by the “nurses” woven into the soft cloth. They are also gorgeous items to wear … the night one glows like soft sequins and the day one catches the light of every day star and radiates it back with soft splendor.
Human and humanoid women in the near-Earth region could not get enough of these – this was going to be the true retirement item for the retired admiral, the idea that triggered his exit strategy to live the rest of his life beyond the dreams of avarice.
There was just one problem. Upon receiving ten billion orders from near-Earth retailers who picked up the craze, this man suddenly could not find a shipper – his five-year contracts for shipping had all expired, and the new owner of all seven shipping companies he worked with had put all existing contracts on year-to-year to evaluate them, but had declined to pick his up.
It took another week for this poor man to even find out who the new owner of all of these companies was-- he kept hearing from the workers that they really didn't know, but pay had improved and morale had approved, and they were really very grateful. All seven companies were more profitable than they had been, and the new owner was on track to see strong return on investment.
Everyone was happy except this businessman with 10 billion orders to fulfill, and no way to do it.
Imagine his horror to at last discover that all seven companies had been bought out and were subsidiaries of Kirk and Dixon Shipping.
Imagine his further horror when he was told by the secretary at the Ventanan outpost for Kirk and Dixon Shipping, “I'm sorry, Admiral So-and-So, but Capt. Kirk does not have any appointments available. However, I might be able to squeeze you in.”
Imagine spending another week, waiting on a call every day only to be told by the secretary upon being called, “I'm sorry, not today, but I have told the captain you need to see him.”
Imagine remembering everything you said five years before about that captain and his wife, and realizing that each insult is going to cost you hundreds of millions of dollars unless somehow, you can get the man you insulted to forgive you.
Imagine remembering what had made you a good officer, and realizing you have to do what you have to do not only for yourself, but everyone depending on you to make that money and fulfill those orders.
Imagine, an hour after conveying to the secretary that there are some things you need to clear up with the captain at his convenience, getting the appointment that you need.
I was present to hear the end of the matter because it concerned me, and the exchange did not take long.
“Captain Kirk … I do believe I owe you an apology.”
“For what, exactly?”
The retired admiral gave a deep sigh.
“I called you an infant interloper hanging on your cousin's coattails with dirty diapers – I should not have said that, and I apologize.”
“And what else?”
The admiral breathed an even deeper sigh, and then went through the entire list until the last insult, and at that time, Mark came to me in the anteroom and asked me to come into the main office and sit down.
“Now,” Mark said to his interlocutor, “I want you to know that I didn't care one bit about your insults of me, but where you crossed the line was with what you said about my wife, the mother of my children. You're going to have to apologize to both of us to get that straight.”
My former collegue was already quite flushed, but he turned to tomato at that thought.
“Out with it,” Mark ordered.
“I said … I said, Madame Admiral, that you were the only woman in the fleet not to sleep her way up, but down, in marrying as you did.”
“Do you still have that opinion?” I said quietly.
“No, ma'am.”
“I bet you don't, given that I basically own everything you are trying to do by virtue of owning all your shipping,” Mark growled. “Now that we are clear, sir, on who we are, get on with it.”
“Yes, sir,” the retired admiral said humbly. “I apologize to you, and your wife, for what I said. I was wrong.”
“One more thing to bury the hatchet,” Mark said. “You've been saying 'baby Kirk' for 19 years. Today, I want you to say Uncle.”
“What?”
“Do it.”
The admiral sighed.
“Uncle.”
Mark pressed a button, and his secretary brought in seven tablets.
“We'll put your contract as it is with everyone else right now: year-to-year.”
Bloop-bleep-bloop-bleep-bloop-bleep-bloop – Mark hit the appropriate buttons with his stylus, and the seven contracts were good to go.
“Any nephew of mine will tell you, Admiral; you don't want Uncle Mark to have to speak to you twice about anything you did wrong. Go handle your business, sir, and be sure that you keep your mouth off off anything that has my name on it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The retired admiral literally ran – and little wonder, even at his age, for he had ten billion orders to fulfill, and was two weeks behind in doing it – but he made it, and the Ghythavian Baby Sling became the thing to have for humanoid mothers to have that year, especially if their babies were premature. Hospital loads became lighter because mothers could bring their babies home sooner; the course of post-natal care was changed forever.
Captain Marcus Aurelius Kirk, the father of five children, had shown clemency because he knew the importance of the product.
“No good uncle,” he said to me about it, “would throw ten billion babies out with the bathwater, for any reason whatsoever. I knew what your former colleague was developing with the Ghythavians five years ago. All that was necessary was to get across to him what happens when you mess with the wrong man. He got the message. Mission accomplished.”