Let Them Have Peace

Posted on 18 Jan 2013 @ 8:32am by Amril
Edited on on 18 Jan 2013 @ 6:35pm

1,432 words; about a 7 minute read

Mission: Episode 03 - Frontier
Location: USS Galileo - Mess Hall
Timeline: MD -01: 2300 Hours

ON:

As usual, the mess hall was fairly empty at this late hour of the night, and as usual, the Galileo's diplomatic officer haunted the hallways like a ghost. He entered through the back doors of the empty kitchen and replicated tea and a small bowl of soup. Although he easily could have taken end-meal in his quarters, like always, he preferred not to. Even the empty mess hall was preferable, it seemed.

He sat down at the nearest table and forced himself to consume the thing, looking down at a PADD he'd brought with him detailing the finalized reports on Tharin II and the beginning pages of a book Athlen had given him, a work of fiction to counter The Wizard of Oz. One Wicked, an interesting allegory, he supposed. (He lingered at the door, and said, 'The Lion wants courage, the Tin Man a heart, and the Scarecrow brains. Dorothy wants to go home. What do you want?'...She couldn't say forgiveness, not to Liir. She started to say 'a soldier,' to make fun of his mooning affections over the guys in uniform. But realizing even as she said it that he would be hurt, she caught herself halfway, and in the end what came out of her mouth surprised them both. She said, 'A soul-'. He blinked at her.") It wasn't logical, not really, but works of fiction he decided operated by their own logic, another way of observing, another language to describe the universe surrounding them, a way to connect as surely as one could touch the mind of another, immortalized in pages hundreds of years old. (Still, he suspects, Athlen could probably use a good visit to the counselor, too.)

Engrossed as he was in the words, he failed to recognize the entrance of the Galileo's chief of operations, a man he'd decisively put out of his head and out of his mind, with the sole intention of never interacting with him, ever. Logical? Maybe not. Practical? Highly. Liyar would never call himself prejudiced, but his experiences at the hands of the Vorta had, he would never admit it, deeply affected him. To the point where quite frankly, he barely acknowledged they had a chief of operations at all.

Amril, on the other hand, seemed at times to be the one most oblivious to the presence of a certain Vorta on the ship. He spotted the profile of the diplomatic officer and, having taking pains to recognize every key member of the crew, identified him. "Ah, plomeek broth, if you please," he told the replicator, waiting as the required meal materialized. "Thank you." With broth in hand, he approached the table at which Liyar sat. "Might I join you, Lieutenant?" he asked affably.

Liyar looked up slowly, and blinked at Amril's features swimming into his vision. He stilled, placid and blank, a column of irrefutable logic and rationality. Emotionlessness. He rose the mug of tea and took a deliberate drink, eyes locking with the Vorta's, before lowering the cup and flipping the page on his PADD, still staring at Amril coldly. "As you wish. Lieutenant."

"Thank you," he said, sitting down and taking a spoon to his broth. "I must thank you," he began, pausing for that to register before he explained, "your presence reminded me that I had intended to try this dish of yours. I believe it is more of a breakfast food though, isn't it?" He looked down at the spoonful of broth, "I hope it is not a breach of etiquette to eat it now." Bad etiquette or not, he popped the spoonful in his mouth. "Mmm, hmm, I'm afraid I cannot really taste it." Despite his observation, he dipped his spoon again.

Taking a measured breath, Liyar pressed his hands into a pyramid over the table, fingertips touching. He did not respond verbally to the Vorta's comments or acknowledgments, instead continued to stare at him, willing him to reveal the reason he had come over, or to get up and leave entirely. He surreptitiously reached his hands over and removed two metallic cuffs at his wrists, folding them together and placing them off to the sides before placing his hands back in front of him, unblinking.

Amril noted the movement, a quick flick of violet eyes showing that his attention was drawn to the Vulcan's actions for a brief moment. "You are the diplomatic officer, Lieutenant Liyar?"

The man nodded briefly. "Affirmative," Liyar replied monosyllabically. He decided he didn't want to delay this particular interaction any longer than he had to. "Is there something that you require of me." It was a question, disguised as a statement in his usual clipped tones.

"Conversation, Lieutenant," came the ready reply. "I would like to get to know you Vulcans. I'm sure you would find a conversation with me equally enlightening. It would be logical for us to have a conversation, you might say?" He knew Vulcans better than they knew Vorta, though he was not sure how much use invoking logic would be in this case.

Liyar felt something in his jaw tense, unaware that he'd ground his teeth together as the weight of Amril's words sunk in. ("Tactical advantage?" he hears in his head, a smug, superior voice belonging to this same smug, superior race. Vorta, haughty and amused.) "I seek no enlightenment from you," Liyar said dangerously, grabbing his mug and taking a drink, firmly satisfied with the fact that he hadn't shown an expression of outright disgust or hatred. He was in control of his emotions. (Tor du kup, traveksu. C'thia. Katau ha-kel fal-tor-plak...) "If you desire to learn of Vulcans, I suggest you utilize an LCARS terminal."

"Ah... I see," the Vorta observed astutely. "You've suffered at the hands of the Dominion as well." He might not know what was going through the Vulcan's head, but he observed the clenching of the man's jaw, the subtleties of his words, the way he grabbed his mug. He was silent for a moment as he took in all those details, considered them, and carefully selected a response. "I do apologize on their behalf, Lieutenant, and I won't ask you to tell me what the Dominion did to you, but I trust that you will come to recognize that though I may be a Vorta, I am no longer a member of the Dominion..." He patted the gold shoulderpad of his Starfleet uniform for emphasis and started to rise, lifting his bowl of plomeek broth as if to go.

Liyar offered only another sighing inhale, blinking and leaning forward over his tray. The logical, sensical thing in his mind at the time was only to end this conversation as soon as sentiently possible. It was logical. He had no, absolutely no reason to doubt himself in this decision. Up until then though he'd been staring the Vorta in the face, he hadn't really considered Amril anything but a mannequin, a reflection of death and destruction. Now that he was looking at the table, it occurred to him, that whether or not he wanted nothing to do with him, it was inevitable. He was a senior member of the crew. Before Amril got up to leave, Liyar cut him off coldly, his response not nearly as careful. "You defected." He looked up. "From the Dominion. You left them. As you say. You are not programmed to leave. You are programmed to obey. And you did not, you are telling me. What is it, then? An unlucky coincidence of birth, that you are a Vorta?"

Amril smiled just slightly, "Oh, I would not say that it's an unlucky coincidence of birth. My situation is a bit more complicated. But I cannot blame you for your... distaste, I suppose."

"No," Liyar agreed, taking a bite of soup, swallowing and looking back at his PADD. "You cannot."

"Well, I don't," Amril assured him graciously. "I will let you eat in peace, though." With that he turned and made his way out.

It was too late for that, Liyar thought, but he offered a stiff nod in return while Amril left. Suddenly completely without appetite, he stood and stalked out shortly after, leaving his tray on the table.

OFF:

Lieutenant Amril
Chief Operations Officer, SFO
USS Galileo

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

RSS Feed