Tetrishead

Posted on 06 Mar 2013 @ 1:18am by Lieutenant JG Kestra Orexil & Trija Natyal

7,239 words; about a 36 minute read

Mission: Episode 03 - Frontier
Location: USS Galileo: Main Sickbay
Timeline: MD04: 0500 hrs

ON:

Trija huffed a breath as though she'd been running around ragged. She blinked, the anvil of consciousness still beating against her head. Deities, she was seeing stars, now. "Liyar, by the Four, where'd you -" the computer kept giving her differing, convoluted answers. Or maybe she was too muddled up to understand it. "Go..." she finished awkwardly to herself. She found herself standing on the deck where support operations was set up. A row of offices. What time was it?

She winced, frowning at the headache building in her mind. It wasn't unusual given the level of mental contact she'd had. And Liyar - well. He was an unknown variable. Deities only knew what kind of lasting effects that would have. She felt her heart squeeze in her chest as she recalled the last eleven hours. So much pain. So much grief. Kestra's. Hers. Liyar's. Planets dying. Nightmares crawling in from every corner of the ship. The crew's, she'd figured out. Spikes in her chest. Buildings falling. Families dying. Bonds breaking, an elastic snapped, coiled, broken. Ripped to shreds. Blood. Trauma and torture and Klingons. She breathed in suddenly and stalked down the hall, unconsciously finding herself at Liyar's door. There was hardly any reason to knock, anymore. "Sickbay. Now." She disregarded the preamble.

Liyar looked up from the console he was vaguely typing at. He wasn't even sure if he was inputting words, or if his fingers were moving at random. He swallowed. Before he could answer, she spoke again, striding through the threshold and approaching his desk. "Sickbay. No arguments. Come on. Kestra's there, and she's awake."

"Kestra - is she -" Liyar blinked up.

"She's awake."

"Yes. I see." He did see, although he didn't know what to do with that sight. Judging by what he could sense from Trija, they too had seen. Far too much. He'd gone deep. More than a mind meld. Less than a bond or a permanent tie. It had been a call, pulling his mind down. Just like Romulus. Only it hadn't taken him down and under, submerging him in death and swirling backholes for months. He'd been spit back up. Trija had stabilized them. He unconsciously stared at his hands, where the psi-monitors rested, a reminder of cold metal. He could still hear the whispers, the slick, slimy tendrilthings waving over his consciousness, faded inandout. Scrape scrape scrape. He resisted the urge to look behind him, always behind him, being watched -

"It's fine. You're fine. Nothing is here. Sickbay. Let's go. Meds." She slid forward a hypospray. Lexorin. Tarinol. So she had perceived enough.

Dumbly, Liyar took the hypos and deposited the first, the only important one, into his neck. "Yes. I would - see if she is well." He stood up and straightened out, taking a few moments to shake off the illness that had built up once Zaren left and the mind connection dissipated. A purely Vulcan thing, or maybe just a sentient thing. He could feel Sekhet and Neo, tapping his mind. Hello. Good morning. Still-here.

***
The sickbay was mostly empty, save for Pola scurrying about, the effects of having a patient wake up from a coma, Liyar assumed. Trija followed in behind him. He had the Tarinol hypo still in his hand and he discretely deposited it in the reclamator by the door. He didn't want that, not now. He gingerly approached Kestra's bed, not certain what exactly to do. If she was awake. If she was even cognizant. Trija had said, but... Liyar wrapped his hands around the rail of the biobed, allowing his presence to gently nudge her, remaining otherwise silent. He was straight and rigid in posture, in reality a much better Vulcan than he'd been in his mind, severe and harsh.

Kestra had been slipping in and out wakefulness for the last several hours, but it was a healthy transition. Her dreams were her own, cleansing. She didn't wish to keep her eyes open, even during her waking hours; the lights were necessarily bright, she understood, but still uncomfortable for her eyes. She didn't need eyes. She could feel him there, a relative stranger familiar as her own reflection. Welcome, brother. She didn't even seem to be awake, laying still and cool on the biobed as machines monitored her heart rate and neural activity. The ventilator had been removed, which was a great relief physically, but beyond that she was largely under physiological surveillance. I am, indeed, cognizant, but I won't tell, she thought of the image in his mind, the Tarinol falling into the reclamator.

Trija resisted the urge to laugh. Nice going, in a room of Betazoids. You couldn't hide much. You're here, she swept through the room much less awkwardly, without any apology. Clear relief tinged her mental words. Welcome back, Kestra. Her mind had open arms awaiting, bathing them in warmth.

I would prefer that you did not, Liyar sent mentally in response to Kestra, accepting her mental reaching as what it was without censure. Unlike Kestra and Trija whose mindvoices were smooth, easily understood, his own had the sense of being translated into something understandable. He supposed that they had greater control than he, to have such an easy transition between thought-language. Or perhaps they only dealt exclusively in the realm of Intent. He walked over to the replicator and procured a glass of water and a straw. Can you sit? Drink. He placed it on the edge of the tray in front of her, focusing and sending through an image of the sickbay outside.

Kestra opened chapped lips, but remained where she lay. I am here, she answered, humor and warmth in her thoughts, though her expression remained serene. And very pleased to be so. It is a great Tears. Laughter. Exhaustion. Embraces. The bathing of feet in cool water. Wine poured. Songs sung. relief to be free of that place. I am grateful. She poured her sense of rejoicing over them in a thick wash, a gentle rain of warmth and comfort.

Drink. He lifted the cup and rested the straw against her lip. Flashes of training and knowledge passed through for a moment. Nutrient supplements. I.V hydration. TPN. Stasis fields. Weakness. None were as effective as the simplicity of water.

Trija sat down on the edge of the bed and held Kestra's hand in her own. I didn't know you were trapped. I would have come sooner. Raifi-Zaren-FNN-Rojar-reports-MS1-No-Yes-No-Yes-Fine-Resigned-boardingdock. I would have made an effort to come. Sincere-guilt. Relief reflected.

Kestra's fingers flexed weakly against Trija's, the contact instantaneously doubling her intensity in the room. As carefully as she could, she closed her lips over the straw provided and attempted to sip. Suction was difficult. Her lips and tongue still didn't remember how to work properly. She hadn't known who Raifi Zaren was, but now she had a picture of a strange tattooed man in her head from Trija overlapping Liyar's battlefield training. She didn't need to ask about their health. Trija was strong as ever, relieved, and headsore. Kestra rolled her consciousness through her cousin's mind - rain on the rolling hills of a Betazed valley with starshine peeking through the gentle storm - hoping to alleviate some of the tension. Liyar, however, needed to sit down, brother, and rest. His had been an eventful morning. Overtaxed, stressed, and unresolved. She wrapped his mind in the cocoon of her own and exhaled a steady, benevolent pressure to center him. They had brought her out of her prison. The least she could do was provide them comfort.

He sat, as though guided by invisible string, his legs giving out under the dissolving pressure to drop him down unceremoniously into the unoccupied chair beside her bed. Instinctively he tensed. Even despite the fact that he'd just spent a good eleven hours lodged inside her mind. Let it go. He quelled the instinctive reaction and focused on regulating his breathing. Unbidden, Trija's words from within the connection rose up in his head again. You live here. / I live aboard Galileo. / No. You live here. Dark-flickering-lights. Vessel beaten down. Was this how it was for Betazoids? Did they all Know one another as he had been suddenly known? His mind withdrew back, like running a hand through the flame, gas melting away to burn and burn. Shields were nothing. There was nowhere to hide. Not from them. Or himself. His fingers gripped one another tightly. Otherwise, he was quiescent, a perfect picture of calm from without. He continued holding the glass up to Kestra steadily, while she worked to regain enough strength. We have a new chief of security, he sent instead, blurting out the thoughts, guiding them away from the past.

The water bathed her tongue and soothed her throat. Kestra pressed her lips together, wetting them around the straw, then made another effort to sip. She knew of the new chief. It made sense to her. Time, she had lost. Liyar was trying to hide, poor thing, his wounds were so raw. He had been through so much. Distraction wouldn't work, but they could let him find peace in the moment. He did not have to live in those memories right now. He had earned a respite. She couldn't see him, but she could feel his attempt at cloaking his pain with a steely expression. Be calm, brother, she poured her trust and faith over and through him. You are safe crackling fires of scented wood in fireplaces, the soothing lap of lake water against a shore, stars glittering unphased in the night sky here.

You call me brother. It was after a long moment that this registered. Lush grass, wet with morning dew. Luminescent moons of Kestra's namesake. How could she offer comfort now? How could she give of herself when so much had been drained away? Did it not hollow her out? She was whole, even now. And she called him thus. Reaching and accepting. He could not do such a thing. He could only awkwardly do useless busywork. Keep his hands busy so they did not shake in idleness. He could only offer what was left. If it would help. If it could. The transition, from hell to the harsh lighting of sickbay. His mind was a fissure, an empty wound, raw and jagged. It could not soothe much. It could not bring any peace. But it was there. He allowed that acceptance to suffuse him. As any Vulcan who had shared such a thing with another might have. They had shared almost as much as he had with his own family. Surely more, for what she had seen. In those hours he had learned more about her than he had his own brother in fifty years of living. And she, perhaps, knew the truth more than anyone. At least, in these recent times. Vijak vré. The meaning resonated. I am here.

Trija listened, standing apart in mind from them like an observant hawk. Not out of any sense of loneliness, or even duty. It was simply who she was, in heart. Thirteenth to the core. And this reflected in Kestra, she could see it through the contrast of souls next to one another. Not allowing the pain to keep its purchase, taking joy in the relief of freedom from tenure. It was a quality she'd always admired in her cousin. The way Kestra could accept an experience, gain from it, feel so deeply and so vibrantly that she felt her heart would crack, and not allow it to change her fundamental core. Not allow it to seep in and mold bitterness, resentment. You've made it back, she sent, to them both, fuzzy pride and affection where they couldn't Hide. She squeezed Kestra's hand lightly.

Your presence is a balm, she thought of both of them, guiding hands, good intent, truth-filled and loyal centers. Brother, cousin, family. I am not a healer, but you can take comfort in my mind if you wish. The walls are gone. Only the dreams remain, passing and scattering. She sipped more of the water, grateful for its temperature and the way it soaked into her dry skin. Fortunate. Blessed by the Deities and the Angels to have them both here, before and now, to join, and be as one unit against the intensity of that mental landscape. Try as she might, she could not understand how it had happened. She remembered forming a shell to protect against damage to her psyche as her body went into shock from the burns. It had been of her own control: soothing harps and the songs of nightfall. Then something had changed; shadows. Pola had said weeks. It felt like years. Why? How?

Ever the analyst, Liyar's mind supplied the answers, popping up in numbers, floating in gold, winding through them all. Equations and neural patterns. Guesses, and facts gleaned from the Galileo's crew logs available to him, and what he'd seen in her own mind. You had thought of this crew - k'war'ma'khon, shion, connection, together - Perhaps due to your mission. Your mind attuned to theirs. Injury. Vega IX. He transmitted some image-sound-thoughts of the Sienna effects, crew disturbances, his own role - feeling their thoughts and aches and health as his own, the transporter quantum regeneration procedure. You were relocated to a medical facility, when you were injured. But the effects of the Sienna device and the combined telepathic shock from the crew had created the link from your mind to all of theirs. Separating from the crew and the Galileo physically harmed you. I postulate that affected the dreamscape. So they had brought you here.

I felt you, when we arrived. Felt her calling out. Approached Liyar. Rejected.

Caution, he corrected her. Not rejection.

Trija exhaled impatiently. Return. Reject-- caution --meditate. Low cords. Enough. The sound of her voice. The singing, loud roar of redvibrant soul threads through the air, a tuning fork, the sound of bells, driving them through. Connection. Amplification. Explosion. Silence. And now they were here.

Sienna. Had that been it? Kestra's brows lifted slightly on her otherwise still, straw slurping face. Not to be spoken of, cousin. Not to be shared. By word and bond. She couldn't rescind the knowledge, but she had a responsibility to the crew and to Starfleet that her cousin did not share. She didn't believe Natyal needed to share it. But in this case, this truth had to be protected.

Trija tilted her head, leaning forward a little. Snatches of thoughts, quick and furtive, arguments dissipated. I'm a reporter. / That's my job. / I search for truth...

This truth would harm the crew of the Galileo, Trija. And the Federation, were it to be public knowledge. Liyar's voice was the ironic steady calm. Klingons. The Empire. Cloaked and ready, flying daggers in the wind. The Galileo. Damaged, venting plasma, floating adrift. Tortures, and tortures. He'd seen them all, and so had Trija. He willed her remember. She must understand.

The other Betazoid sagged. She didn't want to. But she had to protect her cousin above anything else. Family came first. It was the Thirteenth way. It was her way. By word and bond.

Liyar picked up Kestra's opposite hand and helped her grasp the glass, recalling muscle-memory, down from his own mind, through her wrist and fingers. Movement. Brain to motor neurons to flex and pull. This way, he taught her hand for now, to grip enough. She was weak in body if not in mind. He could not help her mind. He could help here. Busywork. He moved in awkward pauses, obsessively fixing a corner of the sheet lining the biobed once he made sure she wouldn't drop the glass. I will find you sustenance. And get the lights. He stood up and swept away.

Awkward little man, Trija's mental laughter rang.

Not awkward, Kestra surmised with an internal, appreciative sigh. Nor little. Large in heart and mind. Too large, perhaps. No training. He needs guidance. He is too open for his own good. She felt her own gaping chasm of openness and recognized the reflection in herself. She knew how to bring it back. Could, she thought, when she had the strength again. For now her shields were like anchors and the only way to breathe was without them. Not so for the Vulcan. He would benefit from the knowledge she and Trija had learned since they'd been children. Holding the glass hurt. The muscles in her hand were not strong enough for prolonged gripping of anything. But the lights were dimmed above her, giving relief to her eyes where they hid like frightened children beneath her lids. She was grateful for that. So much kindness. He owes me nothing. A strong, good soul. Trija, she flexed her hand on her cousin's. I would not ask you to keep silent were it not imperative; you know that. This is something that cannot slip, cannot be mentioned, thought, hinted at.

He talks to his plant, Trija deadpanned flatly. Kestra, her mental voice had its usual air of impatience, but it wasn't at the woman in front of her. I wish I'd known. I have a whole team of reporters here and I know they're dying to get the story. I'll just have to give them something else to focus on. It was contrary to her nature, to hide, and her discomfort was clear. But it was even moreso to endanger her kin. She had given her word. She would honor it.

Liyar returned moments later with a nutrient pack and a bowl of soup. He doubted she'd be up for eating now, but maybe in a while. He placed both of them on the table over the bed and took the glass from her hand again, stabilizing it. He dumped the packet in the bowl. Soup. I am told most find plomeek unpalatable, but it is an extremely efficient source of vitamins and -

You're rambling.

Eating is the best way to replenish nutrition. It is more effective than any hypo. He stared at the ground awkwardly. Sarai puts lemonade in it. She states that it helps. With the taste.

It smells like old socks, Trija griped, a reluctant smile tugging at her face. Old socks and lemonade. Fight the good fight. Vulcans were weird.

Kestra thought of a bowl, a spoon... too much. Too difficult. She could barely even hold a cup in place. It was terrible to be so weak. So alive inside. So close to the opposite without. Maybe with the straw. Was it warm? She couldn't tell. She'd never eaten plomeek soup. She would have eaten pickled Terran testicles if they'd have given her the nutrients to get out of this bed. The hypo had helped some; she wished for something for the pain, but that would dull her mind as well. Her mind was all she had at the moment. Rambling was fine, was wonderful. Nice to hear something different, something other than screams, crying, clash of swords, rush of engines, snapping of metal, firing of phasers. She pressed her lips together, exhaling the memories away as they came. Team? she wondered at Trija. New? she wondered at Liyar.

Team, Trija confirmed. She stuck the water-straw into the bowl and replaced the glass with soup instead. It may have looked like musty rags but she trusted Liyar when he said it would help. The FNN has a contingent here. We're covering the discovery of a new star system, Rojar.

From Liyar's side of the bed, a new string of numbers popped up. Resources. Federation allocation. Colonies. MS1. Miran. Links into links. Numbers devolving, estimations, future impacts, decisions, choices, responsibility, feeding into more and more swirling mathematics. He blinked and they cleared away, running along in the background. New?

Stars. Kestra pictured them, close and far. Warm and cold. Beautiful and deadly. Life-giving and life-taking. Rojar - a destination close at hand. A story. Yes. That should be enough, more than enough surely, for something Trija could take back to her network, shouldn't it? Deserts, warm and dry, home. Stars overhead. Red clay beneath boots. So many numbers. They were disorienting: a whirlwind of mathematical acuity. She flinched, sucking the soup with the straw and attempting to find the intent. There. Thoughts of purpose, not only numerical values. Quantifications had never suited her. Responsibility. What choices? What decisions? Old pains scabbed over; she wouldn't pick at those. The soup tasted less bad than it smelled, but she wasn't picky. It was good for her and wet the insides of her cheeks. Some dribbled out over her lip and she couldn't catch it with her tongue. Overeager. Something was coming. Something had happened. There was a sense of origin. A discovery. The star perhaps? That felt wrong. Something hovered on the edge of her consciousness. She couldn't quite place it. There was so much filtering in. Someone was falling into dreams, fresh alive dreams, not dreams of death. She saw grass and smelled it. Another was grumbling in his head about the coming day. Jellied worms, who wants that for breakfast. So alone. Tired. Hyper. Someone had far too much caffeine in their system and Kestra winced at that as well. More soup. More focus. More about the stars.

He is not overfond of them, Liyar rose up to cognizance again after swimming through the hazy numerical stream within. T'Nira and Sekhet floated in his mind, stabilizing links. We're here. Go see that counselor-lady. Take your meds. Drink some raktajino. He shut T'Nira out. That was always her solution to everything. Klingon soup. Klingon coffee. Klingons in his ears and out the door. Jellied worms. She never did understand that Vulcans were vegetarians, half-Vulcan even as she was. They were whispers, popping up in interference as his brain adjusted to the idea that the bonds did exist, that they hadn't been torn away in the nightmarezone. The ever-present steady beating of clan ties, the Consciousness, never alone. But yet, it still rang through him. A shield, protecting him against the quietly peeking eyes and minds of everyone around him. Protecting him from letting them in. A vicious, ironic circle. He set it aside. Up and away. He recalled an image of the Rojar system he had been studying for his trade calculations. Rojar I. Rojar II. We will be studying this over the next few days. Planets. Life. Potential colonies. Green and blue and white and gold. Flying in the sky, the Galileo a manifold dropping downwards and out, sitting on the edge of a planet, kicking their legs over the edge like children.

And some good press, for once. About Starfleet, Trija added primly.

Your thoughts? Liyar asked after a while. She was doing quite a lot of reflecting. He extended his shield outward, protecting her from the random buffeting, meandering pokes and prods much as he had done in their internal world. His own shields were strong, deceptively so, considering his own lack of control, giant columns of light and sound, vibrating quietly. They repelled and sent outward. Quiet.

Her own thoughts were leaves buffeted by the winds. His shields were a reprieve but he needed them for himself. Kestra knew that. She knew it because he knew it. And he knew better. Always giving of himself, too much. Take care. I will care for you. Was there not good press about Starfleet, Kestra wondered. How could there not be? They brought peace. Protected where they could. They tried, as hard as they could, to embody the ideals of the Thirteenth House. What was there to be said poor of them? Potential life. Green. She wanted to see them for herself. She could barely open her eyes in the dimmed lights of the sickbay. Family. They were family, that explained why they'd felt close and far at the same time. Voices like tin echoes in her mind. Rojar. She gathered them to her, collecting them both like roses to cuddle and sniff in pleasure. So many thoughts and feelings about these places. Anticipation. Yearning. It was so nice to feel something other than terror. There was fear, here, around, yes, but so much less, dissolved in the general zeal of discovery.

They are a military organization, Liyar rattled off the first complaint that he often heard. Trija continued. They're too peaceful. / They're not peaceful enough. / Not giving aid. / Giving too much aid. / Too lenient with the Dominion. / Not lenient enough. / Romulan problem. / What Romulan problem? / Earth First. / Fighting for the Cause. / Dangerous and risky. / Not exciting enough.

As you can see, there's a lot of problems. Trija grinned as they listed several more reasons back and forth. Where there's people, there's complaining. Starfleet and the Federation have been getting a raw deal since the Dominion and since Romulus went supernova. They've largely dialed back missions of exploratory nature and focused on diplomatic and intelligence operations, people are noticing. Rojar will be an opportunity to see that Starfleet hasn't changed from its fundamental mission, Trija explained.

Peace. Liyar finally found the calm inside, the one that could deal with these types of situations. The one that was beyond quiet, beyond serenity. An odd otherplace. White and without form. A deflector, an extender. Stabilizer. He could do that. While they spoke among themselves. Peace. Your ordeal has been rather immediate. My shields are perfectly capable of sustaining your mental integrity until you can do so on your own. Eat. Be calm. It is well.

You do realize that you're not leaving this sickbay, right? Trija sent over sweetly.

I think not. I have duties to attend. I shall stay until I am certain Kestra is functional.

We'll be sickbay's new residents. She helped Kestra swallow down more sock-soup.

Functional, Kestra mused as she sipped. She couldn't feed herself soup. She didn't know when she would be fully functional again. 'Soon' was a word that meant next to nothing when murmured in a doctor's encouraging tones. Although it would be nice to be in the air, to breathe fresh, maybe without so much light. To feel life, more life, not just machines. Moving. She would work on that again. Soon; that word again. She'd known all those complaints. Not all. Many. Heard them before. But the front lines were busily at work. Meaningful work if not always good. Well-intentioned. Support and tolerance. She was proud that Trija was attempting to remind her viewers of the benevolence inherent in Starfleet's intent. There had been no right course during the Dominion War, no. Her heart ached for Betazed. Also, for the Terrans, Klingons, Vulcans, Andorians, Romulans... every soldier who'd lived and died for the sake of others. For freedom. Freedom was air and music, summer sun and yellow feathers filtering down from the sky.

You will not coalesce for long, Liyar awkwardly assured her. Between the doctor, who he'd been assured was competent despite his own discomfort with the woman, and the technology on board the ship, he suspected she would only be kept here a day or two and then put on monitoring. Even if he hadn't known her at all, even if he hadn't been a telepath in any way, it was clear the distaste she held for being left helpless and immobile, dependent. He dissolved the fluid, meaningless state of soon. She would not. It was not a prison. Freedom was here, and now. No more confinement. If nothing else, he and Trija would see to it.

Her eyes shifted in his direction beneath closed lids. 'Helpless' had triggered a whole string of thoughts and most of them were not her own. An anthem of grief playing at high decibels from so many sources and he was a touchstone for many. Like called to like, wherever it could be found, sometimes healthy sometimes not. Protect yourself. All open nerves. Empathy is positive, but everything is detrimental when mismanaged. She showed him gates, not doors. Slats, not walls. Peek through. Taste with care. Caution. He couldn't care for others if he didn't care for himself. She thought of the hypo falling into the reclamator. Differing opinions on the matter. Whose was whose? Liyar? Pola? Sekhet? T'Nira? After his peace, the others. All those voices that had cried out for so long. She was no longer trapped with them, could feel them filter past her like particles of dust in the air, but they were there all the same. Such fear, so present, seeming real. They needed guides. For the safety of the ship and everyone on board, they needed to be relieved of whatever it was that was causing it. Sienna - perhaps. But how? And how to stop it? Root fears, irreversible, but the dreams could be smoothed and filtered by the mind as they ought to be rather than rolling on and on palpably. Not a story, love, no. Perhaps in a hundred years. Put it in a file. She wanted to cup his heart in her hands like a bird and teach it to fly safely. She wanted to tuck all the precious minds who harbored their secret fears into their individual beds with warm blankets and cups of tea.

It's going to be okay, Trija added her assurance to his. As brusque as it was, it belied an undercurrent of steel determination. Everyone will find their path to healing. These are strong people.

Liyar forwarded her an image of the restructured arboretum. Life. They have trees there now. He had found it the most pleasant area on the ship. And it was an easy comparison. Heavily damaged in their last mission. The molecules clung to death and misery like a child clings to a favored teddy bear. But they had rebuilt. Reshaped. Regrown. New. It was different, now, but whole. Alive. Not now, he sent at the returned image of Tarinol. It didn't matter if the edges of paranoia and scraping metal dipped themselves into his mind with greedy fingers. He couldn't. It... limited him. It made the numbers that came easily begin to fade. Perception in two dimension. He didn't want to see like them. He wasn't childinsaneunstable. T'Yron's strange, distant mental warmth, a laugh in any other species. Now I know why you did not pursue Healing. It would destroy you. Take of you, and you would let it without limit. He shut it down coldly. Not now. He told her things instead. Updates. Trivialities. Anything. Everything.

We have many new crew as well. Jeremy Stone, Your-chief. Most dislike him. Liyar had no real opinion on the man, aside from the fact that he found Stone to possess a disappointingly limited mind. Maenad Panne, science chief-disorienting piano notes I play it well. The sight of - love. To be loved - surely you have an imagination? I will never understand your fascination with this archaic - Cyrus Kiwosk, sec/tac ready acceptance. Friends. Dawn Meridian, clashing-will with will. Counselor. Poking small holes in angry cages. Jared Nicholas, rageseething how-dare - science officer, Jessica Wilson, unknown, medical. Tavish Hunter, unknown, engineering. Athlen how is it he functioned? Genuine-calm, ready explanations. But still the Rage was there, somehow, it existed in harmony. Promotions. Lilou calm-down deeper down through snowglobes slow and magical, steady, strange. it's nice - Music. I can hear it. Calm, needs it more than I is chief engineer. Ensign. Dr. Ni Dhuinn discomfort-unsettled-unpleasant lieutenant commander. Commander Coleman it has been one hundred twenty four years, eight months, fifteen days, four hours and five minutes... red-blur, yellow-blur is a Vulcan science ship blackout. No. Next. She is the second officer. Departures. Shifts. He matched names with faces. The ship itself was a living thing, moving and changing.

Names, images, impressions poured into her; Kestra lay as an open vessel to all of it. She absorbed others too. People the Vulcan had not yet met, other who did not feel as though they belonged on her ship. Not mine. Not mine, she reminded herself. How much time? Weeks upon weeks. Chief engineer? How had that happened? Markum Quinn - was he alive? Pola hadn't mentioned - and Rishi. Tarishiana Barel - you remember her, cousin, yes - my age, we would play in the gardens. She had been chief science officer - was she gone too? This new one sounded interesting, intriguing - archaic? - something curious there, but she was more concerned for the welfare of those she knew. Security was never an easy job - many tended to worry/hide before they knew you, making assumptions, scared of their own potential guilt. Much like being an observer/absorber/telepath/empath - everyone had something to hide. Usually it was healthy to let them do so, unless it threatened others. Hard to tell, always a balance. Curiosity on both counts. As was counseling - similar still, he should know - always prodding, seeking, yes, for good reason, so much needless deception - aid cannot be given without first having knowledge of the root quandary. Treating symptoms, not sources. Pola - steady, strong will, good intentions, lovenewfreshvibrant. Nicholas - rage? she wondered, slipping on and past. Thoughts of Lilou made her worry as she had since she'd first boarded the Galileo. Fear, palpable, why, don't look, don't tell, promises. Coleman - a good choice, living experience.

Alive, Liyar agreed.

Rishi - she was here? Trija's surprise spilled over into faded-gone. Known and then departed in the span of a second.

Within the mind, arguments, semantics, debates, they didn't exist. Liyar absorbed her impressions of those he'd given as she'd absorbed his, offering her own view instead. He saw, and could only wonder how she had managed to capture those impressions, where he had only found - metal against metal, steel, sparks. Poking. Prodding. Find. Strive. Seek. Deception is necessary.

Never necessary, Trija maintained. Never, not unless harm

Necessary. Liyar's posture stiffened again. Move on. On and away.

It harms you. To think about it.

Vulcans do not feel. Do not worry. I have seen some. This back to Kestra. Of course, he was him. It was tough to hide from him. His mind was a beacon. Strive. Seek. Find. Absorb. Unconsciously. Doors slammed, rude, uncertain, wrong, don't do that. Unnatural. I would not break confidence.

Kestra flexed her hand against her cousin's again, a weak squeeze, And yours? Friendly?

Trija sent forth a pulse of her own, the comforts of her office and home in San Francisco. The network, familiar and not. Working long hours, but worth it. Her ragtag band of reporters and personnel, each strange in their own fascinating way, a similar clash, but in the end they all stuck together for one purpose: Truth. Friendliness, in her mind? Not so much. Friendliness and harmony in her opinion, overrated. Sparks. Bright things. The light of truth and fight and ambition, power. Excitement. Standing in front of the gate like a stone statue, poised to defend. Her life had never been meant for friendliness, she mused wryly.

Not meant, no, for neither of them, but solace was found in connections. Kestra's lips curled into a mild impression of a smile around the straw. The impulse to protect was one of heart, not mind. Thoughts could be turned in any direction; right and wrong were solid things in the core of one's self. Different. Here. Different, she thought again of the both of them on either side of her. Perspectives, visions, dreams, fears; dissimilar minds forged great things when in tandem. Friendship was not the liking of another person. It was knowing another soul so deeply and continuing still to love despite. Love, she knew quite well, was an entire beast away from like. Harmony was everything, but harmony required two halves of the same whole. Not two of the same half. Bind, seek, strive, absorb- why rage? She could feel her mind like a willful child nudging and budging at the shields he'd drawn around them. Come back, calm, center pool, mother's vase, father's portrait. Everyone feels. Her senses didn't lie on that count; even the Ferengi, who appeared empty and hollow to her empathic senses, felt. She was not blind, hadn't been- carefully she opened her eyes. The light did not burn now, but neither was it comfortable. Comfort was not a necessity at the moment. The sickbay was a blur: bright spots and shadows, shades of grey, forms on either side, more grey, tones of blue, amorphous shoulders, faces misaligned, collaged from self-perception, perception, and memory - inaccurate. Unless the world had become an abstract painting. Many things were possible.

Impertinence, Liyar's shields rumbled outward in answer, even while he did not. Finely crafted and strong, as they had been since the beginning. Warding away terrors and monsters. Real and non. It had been a game he'd played as a child, staring up at the ceiling, house filled with quiet and calm, but the Rage clung to the walls, under the floorboards. Nothing Can Get In Except: and his mathematical mind went away. Water. Oxygen. Blanket. Warmth. But not fire. Just warm. Cold, but not freezing. The most optimal temperature. No rage, but motivation. No anger, but justice. No fear, but protection. And food. But not poison. And on the list went, building and fortifying his mind. The gossamer thread of a spider's web, bearing force. But here, it was meaningless. Translucent. How strange, that Vulcans said so clearly, we cannot lie. The thought came to him unbidden, out of order. Deception is natural to me. There was surprise there. He had found his way to that path without ever realizing it. He blinked as sickbay came into her view, shapes and blobs, the odd angle. You are nearly there.

Trija, meanwhile, had found a spoon and tentatively decided she wanted to try the sock-soup. She grimaced, face twisted awfully. "Agh." I don't envy you, Cousin.

Small wonder. The soup was neither delicious nor abhorrent. She'd learned to like the taste of bregit lung. She could learn to like this. Perspective was everything. Perspective, acceptance, and honor. Intent. Content. Impertinence. Deception and truth mingled. No. They never did. And yet and so there was truth and there was transparency. Some shadows protected delicate petals from the harsh light of the waking star. Not to say to the sun that there were no petals, only to preserve their nature against its ruthlessness. Truth in shades then. Like this room. On the verge of monochromatic yet not. Blue. Green. Yellow. Tints in the blur. It was nauseating, the constant shift. She shut her eyes once more and slurped more soup. Dribbled. Rolled her eyes beneath her bruised lids. A child. Perhaps she needed a bib. The one she'd worn when she'd been young, a bright blue bird, wings outspread to wrap her shoulders, changeable, as she was. She'd fought alongside Klingons and could barely drink without gurgling on herself. Plasma was an unkind companion. Every thought was open, always, she rarely hid except when absolutely necessary, but she could almost hear them returning to her light shouts and echoes. Loud. Projection? She had no sense of distance, closed, open, limits - the ship was so small, but there was another near to. How near? She couldn't tell. She felt more minds, hundreds, and now that she'd glimpsed them they were beating against the walls of the shields. A hailstorm against a linen tent. She swallowed, breathed, and let them burn past her and away. Not alone then. Others. Starfleet. Protected. This time.

It would come back. Eventually. Trija's amusement at Kestra's memories was a light, peaceful thing. Her unwavering faith that things would settle crept up alongside them like a longtime friend. Spring. The gentle plucking of harps what's a ka'athrya? Vulcans were still weird. No need for distance. Safe to let go here. They had seen it all. The shields would hold. They would. Not just Starfleet, but people. Distinct wills. Charging toward a great, wonderful unknown. They had kept her, on board, in heart, and would continue to do so. It wasn't Liyar's ship. Homeless, wandering, rootless. Nor Trija's. The feel of earth and the sky above her. A more preferable fate. Not really. Not yet. But it was Kestra's. And it was safe.

Ours, she thought. Safe. Family. Brother and sister of my heart. Mindsaviors. She took another last slurp of the soup and visibly sagged. So much work staying awake. Using her lips, her mouth, swallowing exhaustion. Ka'athrya? she thought wearily.

The soup was finally lifted away. Reprieve from socks at last, Trija thought humorously. Beats me. Mental shrug.

Like your harp. Only it is tuned to different harmonic resonances. Psionics in particular. Sounds of the Betazoid hymns he'd been given by T'Nira wafted through his mind, experiments in numbers, sounds, headsets, hologrids with light and color, invention. Creation. Music popped up from numbers, phasing back and forth, the whole universe a song. Some more efficient than others.

Trija smoothed over a lock of Kestra's hair. Rest, spiritsister. We'll still be here.

Rest. Yes. Rest was good. Clean slumber. Her breath deepened into even bows; as the music in Liyar's mind drifted, she succumbed.

OFF:

Lieutenant (JG) Liyar
Diplomatic Officer, VDF/SDD
USS Galileo

Lieutenant (JG) Kestra Orexil
Former Chief Security Officer, SFS
USS Galileo

Trija Natyal
Assistant Producer, FNN
USS Galileo
(PNPC Liyar)

 

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