Id-Entities

Information.  What is the universe?  Information; information everywhere.

Information is everything.  It rests.  It flows.  It takes form, and pattern; shape, and substance.  It discorporates, and reassembles.  Information circles everywhere, and comes back to itself.  No information is ever truly lost.

The bridge holosphere filled with data – course, position, astrometrics, add-ons from the galactic sensor grid.

Coming out of slipstream treated those on duty to a special sight – not the first, but rare:  An eclipse.  Ahead waited the planet Müar, against the rim of its sun, a dark disk inside a yellow daffodil of solar flux.

Stephen April sat on the edge of his seat, with detached interest, his mind in another place.

It was quiet out there.  Silent.  Peaceful.

Sound didn't travel in space.  The vast, black, silent void... from here to the end of the universe...  Occasionally he could lose himself in it.  At such times, he found himself pondering what lay beyond.  He had seen it, once: The beyond.  The space beyond the universe.  Beyond all universes.  It was more than his mind could bear – more information than his brain could hold, or retain.  He came back with only an echo of the journey... a memory that he had been somewhere, without remembering where.  Once in a while, he saw glimpses, pieces, tatters.  Most of it eluded him.

But he never entirely forgot.  And ever since, he had a special insight... a perception of the beyond.  A sense when something was happening.

Something was out there.  Waiting.

Waiting for him.  He could feel it.

In the recent time-jump, the place transcending universal boundaries, he... touched something.  Thought he... heard something.  His name, being called.  A hearing, a feeling...

Colors and images sliced through the scale of his senses.  Colors and sights he could feel, physically, almost touch.  So intense.  So vivid.  So real.  If he concentrated... if he reached out... could he touch it?  Could he bring it into physical contact?

Eyes closed, he lifted a hand, then pushed, palm out, into the world behind his eyes... extending his arm.  Reaching.  Reaching for contact.

Cadie.  He thought it was Cadie.

Where?  Where was she?  Where was the being who went by that name?  Timespace?  Was she in trouble?  Needing help?  His help?  What kind of trouble could threaten her?  What kind of help could she possibly need?

Was it a warning?  Was it her at all?  How could he know?  How could he ever find her again?  Was it even wise to consider...?

He looked towards the ready room.  Inside that door, he had met her for the first time.  Through that door she had walked, with him, the first time he unveiled her to the crew of this vessel: The woman who believed herself the "soul" of Arcadia... hence the diminutive, "Cadie".  Artificial intelligence... extradimensional entity... A question-mark on the map of his life.

And she was gone.

Arcadia, once the love of his life, felt, ironically, empty.  She had become what he once, and always, thought her to be: A mere machine, a vehicle for going places which no longer excited him with anticipation.  In forcing Cadie out, he had robbed his love of her heart... his ship of her soul.  And in so doing, lost part of his own.

He never thought he'd miss her.  With Brenda gone....

Regret was a terrible weight to bear.

"Captain," Berkowitz cued through his distance.

April blinked.  "Assume standard orbit."  He nodded to the first officer.

Simone Berkowitz rose from her chair alongside.  The away team, scattered throughout the ship, had been pre-selected.  At a moment's notice they beamed out from their respective locations, joining her.  Assembling in transporter rooms as exit points was no longer a necessity, a thing of the past.

~Keep it routine, Simone,~ April sent after her, back in the here and now.  ~We have a busy week.~

April swiveled in his chair and cocked an eyebrow at the man on tactical – if he could be called a man.  Speaking of question-marks....

His name was Topaz.  He met April's gaze.  "The ambassador's on board.  In the back."

April had given up on trying to figure him out – how he always anticipated what others were thinking or about to say... sometimes before they knew it.  He rubbed his face with both hands, took a breath and got up.  He wasn't looking forward to this.

"Captain?"  Celina Corgan approached, with a purposeful glance towards tactical, impossible to miss.  "About Mr. Vallien..."

For once, April felt he shared Topaz's intuition.  She wanted to know what happened.  She was not the first to ask – surprisingly.

He didn't miss a beat.  "He resigned.  For personal reasons."

April regarded her.  Corgan's face barely moved... but April saw it, inside: The fallen expression, the regret.  The hurt and the loss.  Why would anyone do that to a person?  Just up and walk out on them, with barely a goodbye?  Especially someone they trusted, who cared about them....

"Captain... he's been here six years."

"I don't know the details, Celine.  I'm sure, whatever his reasons are, they're good enough for him.  That'll have to be good enough for us."

April had gone to bat for him.  Defended his status as an officer, claimed he had done nothing wrong... stuck up for his rights.  But in the world of bureaucracy, he was only a captain.  He was not God.

He put a hand on her arm.  "I'm sorry.  I know you were close.  He didn't tell you anything?"

She shook her head.  "No... no, sir.  Nothing."

He knew what she was going through.  His wife had divorced him... never giving him a word of say in the matter, or a choice.

Probably the same thing Vallien felt.

He continued to Corgan, "We won't play guessing games, talking about him behind his back."  His voice was firm.  Best to cut this off now, before questions got asked that he wasn't allowed to answer.  "Will we?"

Corgan gathered her professional composure.  "No, sir."  Starfleet discouraged rumors and gossip, especially within the ranks – and every individual in Starfleet knew it.  It was a matter of respect to those being discussed.

April nodded, satisfied.  He supported that rule, with iron conviction.  If no one understood that, then they didn't belong in Starfleet.  "As you were.  Excuse me."

"Master."

Hurra Necco was a walking abstract art painting, on a pole-shaped body a third of a meter thin.  He wore big diamond rings on all thirty calico fingers and a rust-colored silk suit on the limbs connecting them.  Blue tentacles splayed at the creature's base like neatly organized spaghetti.  The anterior limbs carried shakers, instruments resembling gourd-shaped shekeres of Africa on Earth, jostling at regular intervals to produce a sound like spattering rain.  Mr. Tambourine Man.  April recalled an old Earth song.  Play a song for me.

This was going to be tricky.  Müar social intricacies challenged even his intuition, and he had been exposed to more alien cultures than he could count.  Many races saw themselves as superior to the Federation and/or the various races in the Federation.  But the Müa Rakhd'dakua Muam – "Müar" for short: Totally opposite.  They bowed to the Federation–a superior force, as they saw it, outnumbering them with hundreds of worlds and races to their one.  At first contact, with the USS Terrell in 2367, they enslaved themselves to the UFP.  Of course, the Federation refused to accept such an arrangement, but the Müar attitude persisted for the forty years ever since, despite all attempts to convince them that the Federation did not enslave or conquer intelligent beings.

Without taking advantage, Starfleet managed an amicable relationship with the Müar government, trading goods and services and treating them as an equal partner in all matters, although the Müar did not see it that way.  Many an officer, visiting Müar for the first time, having to deal with them on their terms, found it shocking–and uncomfortable, as April did.

It started rather simple.  After addressing April, the Müar representative folded down and spread itself on the transporter room floor.

Swallowing his personal reticence, April placed his foot on the creature, as custom required.  It was no use trying to argue the relationship; rather, best to just get this done and be out.  The Müar displayed an obstinate inability to understand.  He removed his foot and told the representative to rise.

He noticed Vallien inside the door, leaning against the wall.  The Vulcan regarded the Müar with interest.

"Curious," Vallien said.  "I've never seen one before."

"Lieutenant?"  April wasn't sure if he said the word aloud, or thought it.

Vallien's gaze switched from the rising Müar to April.  The Vulcan's lip curled into the barest hint of a sneer.  His eyes flashed, full of anger, defiance.

April's return look spoke volumes: Don't make me sorry I stood up for you.

Chin raised, Vallien pushed away from the wall, turned, and left.

In the corridor, there was no sight of him.

The Müar's doting humility tested his patience.  April held his calm.  It was a small sacrifice – not even that, really – for a valued Federation member.  It took all kinds... a lesson humanity learned well, over the past few centuries.  Most of humanity.  The Humanists had yet to give up.

Sticking to formality, and resisting engagement of the ambassador in any conversation that wasn't utterly necessary, allowed diversions to creep into mind.  April contemplated Vallien.  He should have seen the signs.  Should have paid better attention.  The Vulcan had been getting worse.  He had been too preoccupied the last few weeks since Skinoki to notice just how bad.  But if Corgan didn't notice, how could he?

It seemed nothing could be done.  He wished Tabatha was here.  She had known Vallien.  She'd worked on the man... might have achieved some insight into his affliction.  The new doctor, Ross – April didn't know her yet.  She had worked little on Vulcans; he knew that much.  Regardless, he didn't know what either could accomplish, if the Federation's finest medical minds fared no better for the last twenty-plus years.  Then again, April wondered how hard they tried... how many actually knew about the emotion virus.  Whoever knew, had known about it at least that long.  The virus had existed for much, much longer.

Thinking of Tabatha brought up other uncomfortable thoughts.  Faces.  Echoes.  Memories and impressions... unfortunate developments.  His own dark past.  They'd never quite seen eye to eye, after the Chromus affair.  April recalled what the Romulan envoy did... and what he, April, had nearly done in response.  The L-21 procedure.  The fallout effects.  He had tried to do the right thing–what seemed right, of so few options at the time.

And now Tabatha, Tabatha Brisk, the woman April trusted with his life... the one constant in his life, a mainstay aboard the Arcadia for years, in whom he had confided, whom he thought he knew and could count on... She was gone.  Requested reassignment, before the Arc left 2387.  He knew why she left.  It was obvious.  She did not have to explain.

Life was supposed to be easy in the Federation.  Somehow, that wasn't always true.

There was an old saying: The road to hell is paved with good intentions.  Everyone's past caught up with them, sooner or later–and if it didn't, it dogged them, fervent in the attempt.  When Chromus left – not allowed to accompany the ship's relocation to 2407, nor to even know of it – he had left April with a recorded warning, to that effect.  If there was one thing April knew about Romulans: They did not forget... and they did not forgive.  He wondered where Chromus was, now–if he still harbored that grudge... if he would seek revenge.

It did not begin or end with Chromus.  It was not the first time someone made a wrong decision, for the right reasons.

How much more would change?  How long would it be before it all caught up with them?  And how many more people would April lose under his command, as a result?

What made it worse: He couldn't talk about it.  Politics.  Classified documentation.  Covering up for the Vulcan government's dirty laundry – the deeds they committed... what some called "crimes", others called "necessity"... but wanted to pretend never happened.  Vulcan: Also a valued Federation member.  A founding member, as every bit important to it as Earth.  Couldn't upset such a valued member, oh no.  Thousands had paid the price... not Vallien alone.

Corgan was correct.  Vallien had served this ship for six years.  April had known him for close to ten.

He hated to think it... but he could not have protected him forever.

"Yes," B'Eryn said, standing beside the recently assigned doctor.  The counselor had long since become a normal sight, despite the fact that she was Klingon.  Ross, however, still adjusting, carefully avoided looking at her directly.  A lot more Klingons were in Starfleet these days – but still very few as counselors.  "There."  Through her comtacts she highlighted areas around the amygdalæ.

Ross sent more instructions through her complant, once lifting her hand to rotate the view manually while she concentrated.  She was an attractive woman: Native American, with long black hair, tied back, hanging over her blue overcoat.  Officious.  As someone once said, she looked like a doctor.

Before implementing the final command, Ross said, "You're certain?"

B'Eryn nodded.  "Adjusting synaptic responses in the lateral nuclei will quicken his recovery."

"You're right."  Ross made the adjustment.  Technology made everything a simple procedure.

B'Eryn wondered if the woman was testing her.  "Being a Starfleet counselor isn't all matters of the mind."  Everything involved a degree of science.  That was something other counselors formerly assigned to Arcadia have failed to understand.  Hence, they were gone... and she was still here.

"What a world it would be," Ross mused aloud.

"I'm sorry?"

"If not for the Federation," Ross said.  "Millions of minds, thousands of years of learning and resources, from hundreds of planets.  I can't imagine what kind of world it would be otherwise."

B'Eryn stayed focused on the holo, but detected a... tone, in the doctor's words.  She had seen the file on this new chief medical officer, Lily Ross, when she was assigned.  The psych-portion, of course, concerned her.  She knew of her past.

After a moment, B'Eryn said, "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable."  Ross ignored her.  "We should talk," B'Eryn said, and sent a mental command to her planner, scheduling an appointment.

"Counselor's orders?" Ross said, still rapt on the holo-brain.

"The chief medical officer isn't the only one in charge of crew fitness."

At that, Ross turned, for just an instant.  She outranked B'Eryn by one grade, though both were lieutenants.  "All right."

Meanwhile, across sickbay, laying on a biobed – not really a necessity, as far as he was concerned; they could have done this sitting up... in fact, he didn't even need to be in sickbay – Stephen April waited, the victim of his own appointment.

It was not the first time he had ended up in sickbay.  It used to be Brisk's voice he heard, telling him.  Then it became Ross:  Captain April, your readings are still showing fluctuations.  I'd like to see you in sickbay.

He hoped he wouldn't have to get used to hearing it.

As soon as Necco departed Arcadia, and Arcadia departed Müar, April kept the appointment.  Whatever Strat did to him was not something that could be cured with medical tools, instantly.  She had woven herself into his thoughts – left permanent scars on his brain... psychological, if not physiological.  That much use of the word 'logical' made April wish he'd never heard of Vulcans.  No one used the word April kept trying to avoid, while trying to deal with it, at the same time:

Rape.  He had been mind-raped.  Violated, against his will.

He could still hear her.  ± Your feelings are intense.  Potent. ±

Strat exhaled, an ecstatic purr over the thrill... warm fingers of flesh and bone clamped to his face, probing him with another set of fingers.

Stop....

Stop!  He never knew mind melds could hurt so.  Stop!  Stop, stop....

He laid there in sickbay and closed his eyes, trying to pick out the murmuring shapes behind his eyelids.  He saw no more of Vallien.  It was just an illusion.

Stars, April, what have you done?  You let them take away one of your officers – a man you've known for years – he was counting on you –

Manifestation of a guilty conscience, haunting him.  Trying to haunt him.  Distractions.  Useless guilt.  Cast it off, he heard Admiral T'Urla say – the voice of his old Vulcan mentor and sponsor at Starfleet Academy.  She retired in 2380.  She died since then, more than 200 Earth-years of age.

The virus affected different Vulcans differently.  Vallien, it robbed of balance, harmony... making him rebellious, given to impulses and desires, no matter how wanton or aggressive.  Like an addict suffering withdrawal: An emotional junkie.

Strat behaved in a similar fashion.  It had turned her into an emotional vampire.  She gained strength by taking it from others... along with their emotions.  And she could not get enough.  She wanted potent emotions.  Intense feelings and desires... like April's.  And she wanted more, and more.

He knew what was coming next.  After sickbay, time with Counselor B'Eryn.  That would not be the first, either.

But there was more to Strat's invasion of his faculties.  She had not just been after gratification.  She was looking for something.

In retreating from his mind – being forced, ripped, out of his mind, by a psi-kinetic energy pulse... a special weapon carried by the agents of that special division of Federation Security, who unceremoniously stomped onto his ship via subspace transporters – who were so special they didn't even have a name... When that happened, Strat was prepared.  April had been given a cursory report on the situation.  He was not her first victim, and would not have been her last.  She had mind-raped others, and was not the only Vulcan to do it, by far.

The virus had been infecting Vulcans for centuries... almost ever since Surak's reforms took root on the Vulcan homeworld.  Twenty-two years ago, on the planet Vulcan, thousands of Vulcans had suddenly died, wiped out overnight by a mysterious illness.  April had seen the news reports.  It was an epidemic, according to the media, but afterwards, contained.  Everyone bought the story.  For the most part, it was true.  It was an epidemic.  But the true, horrifying cause of death was not the disease.  It was the cure... executed by the Vulcan government.  They were so afraid of the virus, of not being able to stop it... of what it would do to their civilization – a total stripping away of all emotional control... that they killed the infected thousands, to contain it.  An entire province, obliterated.  No one could be allowed to know the truth, after the fact.

The virus survived, as secret as the actions taken against it.  A secret war.  Within the last twenty years, it mutated.  The same virus robbing them of emotional control somehow enabled them to draw strength from each other, when they were in the same vicinity... the strength they needed to slip through the cracks.  Strat and Vallien were serving aboard the same ship.  They reciprocated, able to function, hiding the biological danger-signals from sensors programmed to recognize them and alert Medical.

Strat imparted this to April, before breaking contact.  The details slowly unfolded in the time since... the truth – if what she imparted was the truth.  Humans could not contract the virus.

The J'naii agent wanted to take April back, with Vallien and Strat... "for monitoring"... and probably would have.  Turned out, they did have the authority.

But it would have made no difference.

Thus, here April remained.  Not allowed to discuss it.  With anyone.

Truthfully, he didn't want to.

Strange, how it didn't bother him anymore.  He could remember most of it... but the fear he'd experienced was fading, enabling him to look at it more objectively.  Now he just had to analyze it.  Understand it.