Afterimage, Aftershock

Half of a humanoid stood silhouetted before the scene, from the waist up – his dark uniform and dark hair melting into the black, as if part of it... as still as death, motionless as stone, like the planet beyond.

The windows were an illusion – like so many things these days.  Relayed from hull sensors, the vantage they offered was not direct – yet it was comforting, to come here, alone, in the dark, and take it in.

Hands folded behind his back – a youthful pose, for the figure; not one of his usual, these days – he tried to ponder the universe, locked in a stare-down with the stars.  As usual, he ended up pondering his life.

His wife had divorced him, and he had a child he could not see.  Upsetting.  It should have been.  Yet it was starting to bother him less.  He couldn't figure out why.  When he left Starbase 514, and arrived on Earth to meet with Admiral Gunriver, he was still in shock, trying to absorb and accept it.  He had another child out there, somewhere... alive.  It almost seemed compensation for the bombshell Brenda had dropped on him.

The shock somehow dissipated by the time he rejoined Arcadia.  Why?  How?  Had he lost vital molecules, reassembling from long-range transport?  Transwarp conduits weren't Kahn wormholes – they used different subspace mechanics.  Did they have different effects?  Trace-pattern analyzers would have sounded off, if he came back less than the man he was – if they detected anything amiss, or out of place.  He felt intact... but there was always that one-in-a-million chance.  Instinct told him that wasn't it, but he was unsure if he could trust his instincts anymore.

He went back to wondering why he didn't feel angry, at himself – for thinking about the daughter he tried not to think about... as if he was insulting his first daughter's memory, by not-focusing on this second.  And for the way that made him feel: Excited.  Titillated.  Relieved. 

Stephanie.  Her name was Stephanie.  After him.

Poor girl.

He worried about her.  He felt scared for her.  He didn't even know her.  But that didn't matter.  Parental instinct, biology, genetic programming... love... Whatever it was – it was human.  He was human.  Would humans ever outgrow such feelings?  It was once thought – by humans – that such feelings were intrinsic to nature and the universe – but they were not.  Not every species loved their offspring.  Some ate them.  Some turned them loose to fend for themselves.  Some had no concept of love.

A flicker drew his attention to the starfield.  Against the distant lights, he blinked as he witnessed an event: What had been an indiscriminate stellar mass, no bigger than a pinprick at this distance, blossomed into an expanding ring the diameter of his finger.  A supernova.  Of course, it had happened millennia ago, and the image just now reached this system... but it served as a reminder, of the turn of tides and time.  That system's planets, if it had any, were gone... possibly along with the lives they might have once boasted.  Someday their molecules might become part of new planets... new life.

Staring at the shock wave, he traced a path in his mind – calculating the distance, travel-time at warp speed, at slipstream, or if any transwarp conduits reached there.  The inclination was instinctive.  He didn't even need the computer to do the math.

There were away-teams, planet-side.  He could leave them the runabouts – they'd hold the teams, if they needed to evacuate.  But Skinoki was unexplored.  If trouble arose, it was safer, and easier, to have the whole ship nearby... not to mention, a matter of regulations.

He could have taken a runabout himself.  But he was captain again, now.  His place was here, on his ship.  That, too, was a matter of regulations.  Too bad.  He would not have minded going down.  For now, responsibility for the away team fell to Simone Berkowitz.

Recounting the many places he'd seen – just flashes now, dim impressions of memories – Stephen April knew something had changed, in him.  Relinquishing the urge to get up, get out, and move, proved easier than he expected – age, deepening sense of responsibility, or both.  Something was gone, that had been there once.  Gone.... replaced with something else.

And yet... he felt, strangely, lighter, for the first time since he couldn't remember – as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.  Watching the blue-green half-planet, he almost felt... young again.  New.  Invigorated.

Peculiar.

Just as he started to wonder how many times he had been here, doing this, a different sensation took hold of his awareness.

Doors on Starfleet vessels opened soundlessly, with the merest whisper – sometimes not even... difficult for human ears to detect.  There had been considerable debate, since the earliest days of Federation starship design, over something so simple as the sound of a door.  Consideration had been put forth towards giving them a noise, however subtle – for the simple reason that some people tended to be jumpy.  Turn around, and there was someone you did not expect, in the room with you.

They opted for quiet doors, by Arcadia's time – realizing experienced personnel developed a sense of their opening, with barely a sound.  The longer one spent on board, the more acclimated one became.  April proved it.  He lived years in space.  It became second nature.

So it was that he heard, without really hearing, the door behind him, to his right.  The briefing room had three; two at either end, and a maintenance access in the middle, rarely used.  Someone entered the room.  Without lights, he couldn't see their reflection in the window.  Not wanting to startle them, he turned, silently commanding the illumination up fifty percent, through his complant.

At the end of the conference table stood one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.  The pointed ears indicated instantly that she was Vulcan, or an offshoot.  She wore lieutenant's pips – sporting one of the new uniform variants from this era; shoulders in armored red, with the special belt, their green lights subtle and steady in the darkness.  Obviously not one of his old crewmates – April knew everyone who had been assigned, from 2387.  She had short, dark hair, closely cropped; a Middle Eastern allure, bangs with a straight, Egyptianesque cut, almost covering her slanted eyebrows... and – he could not help but notice – a figure that a uniform couldn't begin to hide.  In fact, it only accented it – a figure so perfectly proportioned, well-endowed and just plain incredible, it should have been a crime.

Noting his own reaction reminded April that he needed to see Tabatha Brisk.  There was a reason Starfleet personnel weren't constantly getting it on.  It was called a monthly injection.  Work relationships were discouraged in Starfleet... unlike the old days, when everyone and their brother was... was....

April forgot what he was thinking about, staring at her.  Fortunately, she did not seem to notice, or did not mind.  She did, however, cross her arms, as though guarding herself.

"Captain.  Forgive my intrusion."  She had a smooth, even voice, between light and deep; words carefully measured, almost a monotone.  Probably Vulcan.  "I did not realize this room was occupied."

April could have accessed her file instantly, and learned her identity – but sometimes, getting to know a person, he thought, without knowing everything about them already, was better.  It could make them more... interesting.

"It's no bother, Lieutenant."  He thought to ask her name, but it didn't really matter.  Some cultures placed high importance on names.  He found it transient.  To him, the person, what kind of person they were, mattered more.

He glanced at the door behind her.  She came from the bridge.  "Aren't you on duty?"

"My shift just ended."

April checked his chronometer.  Shift change already?  He'd been in here that long?  "Come for the view?" he asked, returning to the window.

After a moment, she appeared alongside, a meter away.  Arms folded, she regarded the planet.  "Yes, in fact.  It has been some time since I've seen another world.  I find this view... relaxing."  After a beat, she added, "I take it you do, as well."

"That's why I'm here."

It seemed the time for a formal introduction – if he wanted to go the old-fashioned route.

He desisted.  He could not deny that he felt an attraction – but several factors immediately popped into mind, against it.  For one, if she was Vulcan – a traditional Vulcan, who suppressed their emotions – a snowball had a better chance of surviving in a million-degree furnace than he did of forming any kind of connection with her.  Second, there was no reason to seek a connection.  He'd had a bad run with relationships, and didn't need another.  For another reason, he outranked her.

For another reason, why was he even thinking about any of these things?

When he looked at her, out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn she was doing the same.

Monthly injection, he reminded himself.  Monthly injection.

Some people embraced life – and along the way, everything it offered, including emotions and biological tendencies... and sex.  Humanity used to have an unhealthy obsession with sex.  The urge was so strong in some that they made up excuses for it, believing it a necessary daily function.  It led to overpopulation, cheating, ruined relationships, divorce, disease, and diverse other problems.  Not that sex was a bad thing, in itself... but sexual attraction was merely a trigger to procreation – what nature built in, to perpetuate a species.  As a Vulcan would have calmly pointed out.

It wasn't until the age of genetics, on Earth, when someone took a good hard look and saw malfunctioning chromosomes at fault, that anything got done about it.  Like other sexual disorders of that era, it had been deemed a flaw of nature, and through treatment, largely eliminated.  Nature, however – though imperfect – was a powerful force.  Old imperatives died hard, and periodically resurfaced.  It was a constant battle.  Not everyone was victorious.

April ended the analysis by chastising himself, and squelching the temptation.  She was unattainable.  It did not matter if he had a chance – how dare he even consider it.  She was not an object for his gratification.  It was not about her; it was about him.  It said something about him: He had a problem.  He needed to suppress his... impulses.

As an afterthought, it occurred to him that Vulcans – most Vulcans – were masters at suppressing impulses.

"Well... enjoy the view."  He tossed her a perfunctory look then strode across the room, heading towards the door to his left.

Just before he exited, she said, "Captain."  He stopped, and turned.  Turning to face him, she said, "You seem... distracted."

April stared at her, harder than before.  Distracted.  What the hell...?  That was the same thing Berkowitz told him earlier.

He was only a bit more surprised when she said, "If something bothers you... perhaps I can be of assistance."

He should have been much more surprised.  Vulcans were an enlightened species – but no one could absolutely predict when they would go out of their way to help others, certainly not complete strangers.  Only those they considered family, or close friends.  That might have changed in the last twenty years – or this attractive young woman might have been part of the exception to the rule.

"I appreciate the offer, Lieutenant, but... I have to go."  April went to do just that.

"You are not alone," she said.

Again, April stopped, halfway through the door, frowning.  If he'd been staring hard at her before, he was burning holes through her now, with his eyes.  "What did you say?"  Before he knew it, he was back in, ordering the lights up to full, to better examine her – wondering what she meant.  Vulcans had telepathic ability.  Would she read his mind without permission?  That went against their principles... as a rule.  However, every individual was different.

"You find me attractive," she said, without fuss, preamble or inflection.  "It is evident.  But you are the captain.  You can't get involved with a crewmate."

April, taking steps towards her, halted in his tracks.  As he did, she also stepped forward... focusing on him, with a gaze that he began to feel with as much weight as his own.  More.  The Vulcan woman's Byzantine eyes sparkled, moving towards him in the new light, practically hypnotic.

"Lieutenant," April started.

"I can help you," she said.  "Allow me."

Forget mystery, he thought.  In seconds, he knew her name, her exact position on board, everything in her Starfleet personnel file.  "Lieutenant," he started again.

Before he had a chance to say her name, he felt the warmth of her hand on his face, touching him, blocking his line of sight.  Her fingers spread over his forehead, his cheekbones.  He stopped speaking.