Musings & Snippets

The touch-sensor felt too warm.  Lieutenant Vincent Movasi sat back, the subspace channel to Phi Orlairgan closed, idly regarding his fingertip.  No, not the sensor.  He.  Elevated body temperature.  Agitation.  An old feeling, the punctuation of stress, bonded to one specific word he had not heard in years, and which had changed his life.  A word still semi-occasionally spoken in Starfleet, where it had even greater impact – especially in the Academy classrooms, a lesson to all future graduates: This is what you ought not to do... what you'd better not become.  Ten years gone, and they still uttered it only in hushed tones, in secluded conversations, with tabooed reverence.

He sat back, one hand pressed firmly over his lips, eyes glistening.

The moisture in the African officer's eyes caught the gaze of another.

Warrant Officer Jad Esum studied him with a surreptitious glance.  The Rutian had learned to spot important details in expressions.  Reading body language, capturing an image in mind and holding it there without thinking – That was the oldest trick of the trade, a necessary first for writers and reporters, in order to describe and convey what they saw.  Lieutenant Genova in Flight Ops, a serious writer, taught him that.  But it didn't take that skill to see something disturbed the African almost in tears.

Esum focused on his terminal in the ship's library.  Some of the Arc's crew deemed the library redundant, when they had the ability to access any file, in any medium, on the spot, anywhere.  But the library presented a quiet refuge.  Their sentiment didn't stop those like him, and Movasi, from frequenting the facility.  Esum liked it for its quiet, the relaxed, soothing environment away from duties and buzz of shipboard activity.  He came to read crime novels and news reports from Rutia.  Why did Movasi come here?  Esum had seen the blue glimmer on his dark features, evidence of a holoscreen over the terminal in his cubicle, now off.  And now he saw Movasi... like this.

Esum looked about.  Across the room, the Denobulan ambassador occupied a corner cubicle, engrossed in her own terminal.  They were alone.

"Lieutenant?"  Esum broke the silence, low volume, to not disturb the ambassador.  "Has something happened?"

Movasi's dark eyes locked on him, and he dropped his hand.  He slowly refocused on his terminal, gathering himself, touched the screen off and got out of his chair.

"Something you want to talk about?" Esum said.

Alex Crimson strode down the hall in a huff.  What was wrong with April?  She couldn't believe the captain – no, the admiral – would do something like that.  Total lack of respect for individual rights.

It was wrong, what Chromus did to her – and she didn't care to repeat the experience.  But it violated Starfleet and Federation principles!  Didn't it?  Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth – this was not their way.  Admiral April had ordered Doctor Brisk to... to... reprogram his mind!  How could he learn from his mistakes, if he couldn't remember them?  What did that say for the future of diplomacy and cooperation between states and species?  If the Federation didn't like what they did or how they acted, would they just reprogram them?

Crimson entered the security block, scan-cleared on a diplomatic pass.  Of course – why would they block her?  Chromus was no longer a threat.  Why keep anyone away from him?  Why keep him locked in the brig at all?  Once she got to his cell, it was empty.  Chromus was gone.

With a sigh, she queried the computer for his location, as she should have already.  He had been taken to see B'Eryn, the ship's counselor.  A Romulan, with a Klingon therapist.  How ironic.  But again, he was no longer a threat.

She left, heading up to deck five.  If only she had done something sooner... before it was too late.  Intuition warned her, in sickbay, as did that nurse, Amanda Brock.  At such a moment, Crimson wished she could have used her complant, and just... eavesdropped, a little.  Brisk knew what an L-21 was.  It could have been as simple as plucking it from the CMO's mind.  Unfortunately, the technology didn't work like that.  Every transmitted communication passed through ship's computers and umpteen layers of encrypted security.  Furthermore, complants were wired to not transmit thoughts so easily.  Using them required concentration, practice and above all, skill.  It was not telepathy.  Maintaining the privacy of individual thoughts was the point.  But Arcadia had telepaths on board.  Crimson had contemplated a thought to contact Ty'amra.  The Andorian owed her a favor.  But, no – that would have been wrong.  Security could trace it as well, and Crimson didn't want to be known as someone who got into trouble for doing what she knew she wasn't supposed to do.  Female intuition was strong, however... and hers had been telling her that whatever was being done to Chromus... was not right.

It did not take long to realize there was nothing wrong with him.  Nothing different.  Nothing had changed.

Chromus stepped out of Security, relieved.  He did not know how, but their conditioning, their L-21 treatment, had failed.  Certainly he did not tell them.  They believed it had worked: They were releasing him.  However, he noted the guard who had entered the brig, and now followed along behind, keeping a personal eye on him.  When he asked where he was being taken, the answer was, "To see our ship's counselor."

He wanted to retch at the thought – not only at being forced to such depths, sharing feelings with a counselor, but at Arcadia's particular assignment of counselor.  He had consulted personnel files when he arrived, those to which the ship's computer granted access.  The position had not changed since the last time he came here.  The counselor was still that Klingon deviant, the woman B'Eryn.

Captain Jordan Rampart walked out of his quarters, where he'd just had three experiences quality-sealed to make this an interesting day.  It started with a revelation from his wife:

"We're pregnant, Jordan."

Back in his quarters, Rampart's brain had somersaulted.  "What?"

Vor'ana studied him with her expression, then looked down.  "You're disappointed."

"What—?  No, not – I'm not disappointed.  Not at all.  I'm ecstatic.  Thrilled!  Just... surprised, that's all."  He stepped around the table in their quarters, taking her in his arms.  "Are you sure?"

Vor'ana nodded.  "Doctor Brisk is certain."

"I didn't think... I mean, I thought we needed... help... you know.  Medically speaking."

"As did I."

"I guess humans and Romulans are more compatible than we thought."

"So it would seem."

"Hey, this is great.  We're going to have a baby!"  As he embraced her, Rampart knew immediately something was wrong.  She wasn't returning the embrace with her usual, subtle affection.  She felt tense... stiff.  He drew back, and looked at her.  "Rahn... what's wrong?"

Vor'ana sighed.  "I can't tell you."

"What do you mean, you can't tell me?  Of course you can.  I thought we could tell each other anything."

Vor'ana hesitated.  This was difficult for her.  "Jordan... I don't want to have a baby."

"What?"

"I don't want to have a child.  I do not want to be a mother."

Rampart took a turn hesitating.  "I think it's a little late for that now.  If you didn't want to—"

Vor'ana fixed him with her gaze, darkly.  "I know.  If I didn't want to become pregnant, I should have taken injections.  I did not think it was necessary, between human and Romulan physiology."

Rampart's lips quirked in a grin.  "I guess life finds a way."  Vor'ana's gaze grew darker.  She was not amused.  Rampart cleared his throat, trying to recover.  "Why not?  Why don't you want to be a mother?"

"You would ask me that?  Then you would not understand."

"I wouldn't?  Why wouldn't I?"  Vor'ana didn't reply.  "You don't know that for certain until you tell me.  Tell me, Vor'ana.  Make me understand."

Vor'ana grew incensed.  "Jordan, have you forgotten what I... what I did to you?"

Rampart turned sullen, serious.  "Of course not.  How could I.  But what's over is done.  It wasn't real."

"It felt very real, did it not?"

"Yeah..."  Rampart nodded.  "Yeah, it did."

"It was real... to us.  Your 'children' were mine as well."

When she announced her intention to abort the fetus, it broke out into a fight.  Rampart barely convinced her to wait until after the away mission... but wasn't sure that she would.  Vor'ana did what Vor'ana wanted to do.  Rampart would have deferred the outing, if possible, or delegated it to another.  April couldn't lead it, that was for sure.  When it came down to it, the decision was not his: It was hers.  But that didn't make it right.

More bad news came from Security.  Lieutenant Booker had done something he should not have done.  Or, more accurately, had not been doing what he should have been doing.  Booker had the task of coordinating security systems.  One hand wasn't watching the other, and as a result they had the Chromus incident... which could have costed Alex Crimson her life.  That earned Booker a negative mark in his record.  It wasn't a simple mistake anyone could have made.  It was negligence.  He was the chief of security.  They couldn't afford mistakes.

Laziness seemed to have infected the ship's security department – maybe because they didn't understand their duties, in this computerized, automated environment, where ship's systems prevented, supposably, troublesome individuals from getting out of hand or harming others, or themselves... barring the Chromus affair.  Since they were ship's personnel, it was the exec's job – Rampart's – to deal with.  Junior-Grade Lieutenant Griff Tryce had been spotted napping again on duty, and just generally trying to be as lazy as he could get away with being, when he thought no one was watching.  It didn't last long.  That just wouldn't fly, on any ship Rampart was captain of – on any Starfleet ship, period.  But it didn't seem restricted to Tryce.  Lieutenant Booker had also been negligent in his duties, not doing his job.  Other officers in security (except Tryce, who tried to be left alone) were up in an uproar, mentioning it repeatedly in reports, getting no response, until finally one stepped outside the chain of command, skipped a link and went over Booker's head, bringing their concerns to Rampart directly.

Rampart would have promoted from within the ranks on board.  Except there was a problem: Tryce was the next highest-ranking officer in the department.  His record was not spectacular – in fact, quite the opposite.  His I.Q. had been highly rated, yet he was idle and uncooperative, always trying to slide off, shirk work, nap when he thought no one was looking.  He seemed unresponsive to attempts to help him climb the ladder, preferring apparently to just be left alone.  How did an officer like that make it to lieutenant, even if a junior-grader, let alone out of the Academy?

Nonetheless, Rampart would have offered him the job, a chance to turn that around once and for all – repayment of a sort for a debt Rampart himself owed, and took every opportunity to honor.  Admiral Richmond Fitz took a chance on Rampart after he essentially thumbed his nose at Starfleet and washed himself out... when Rampart didn't deserve a chance, for behavior worse than Tryce's.  It turned out to be what Rampart needed, to finally find himself and get back on the horse.  Rampart would have been willing to take a similar chance on Tryce, if he had simply put forward some effort.  If he thought he could do the job of the chief of security, then it would have been his.  Security needed a coordinator.  No doubt the rest of the security personnel wouldn't take it too well... they were all getting tired of having to pull Tryce's weight with theirs, pick up his slack where he was slouching... but the way Rampart saw it, maybe it had gotten to the point where Tryce was that way because no one wanted to take a chance on him.

Rampart was prepared to take a leap of faith, hoping that faith would not be a slap in his own face.  But in the very act of locating Tryce to talk it over, Rampart found him hunched over the monitoring board in the security office on deck six, fast asleep.  That nixed the idea.  Rampart put Tryce on report then contacted Starfleet HQ to requisition a new chief.  Commodore Blaisdell, the Starfleet Security Command administrator, promised Rampart he'd have one before the day was out – a young woman from the Providence, named Stasia Nyerko.  Their new Bartokian crew-member would beam in at the same time Booker beamed out, mutually reassigned.

Chromus stepped into the lift.

"Please state destination," chimed a computer voice.

His mouth stopped, open; he was about to do that.  This was unusual.  It hadn't been like this, the last time he was here: The computer asking, beforehand, for the destination?

"Bridge," he said.

Chromus glared at the overhead panel.  "I don't want to go to another destination.  I must go to the bridge."

"Unable to comply."  The doors slid open.  "Please exit the turbolift."

Chromus held his ground.  "Take me to the bridge!  I command you!"

"Unable to comply," the computer repeated.  "Please exit the turbolift."

"Take me to deck three!" he snarled.

To his surprise, the doors slid shut.  He expected the lift to move, delivering him to deck three.  Instead the computer announced, "Security has been notified.  Please stand by."

Chromus' glare intensified.  When did Starfleet finally introduce security precautions, to block personnel from sensitive areas?

Moments later, two security officers came down the hall – red-haired Tori Thuban, and the mysterious Magenta.  When the door opened, they looked down and found Chromus, unconscious, in a heap.

Bron Marlang locked his poise, staff raised behind his back, across his shoulders – one hand around Ensign Norr's throat.  For a moment he snap-shot the image in his mind, an instinctive moment, a mental freeze-frame.  It stirred his blood.  No thought, no feeling – just the image, and the instinct.  It was pure.  It was honest.  It felt great.

Realizing what he was doing, and whose windpipe he was on the verge of crushing, he relaxed his grip, released his fingers.

"The Dominion trained you?" he said, impressed.  "Not ba—"

In the second he let go, Norr knocked his arm away, seized the staff by its free end and pulled, spinning her weight into it.  He came down forty-five degrees, backside impacting with the mat.  Before Marlang could get his senses, she mounted him, knee against his throat – his arms somehow pinned with the staff behind her, in a way he could not see, and could not even imagine.

"The Jem'Hadar taught me.  Not the Dominion," she said.  "There is a difference.  You cannot find better tutors in the art of personal combat.  Their most important lesson is never let your guard down, Acamarian."

"Bron," he squeaked out.  She was always calling him that.  If not a rank, nor was it a name.  She kept a personal distance from everyone around her.

~Stop trying to show off, Bron~, he heard inside his head.  Without looking – without being able to look – he sensed the nearby presence of his wife.

~Who's showing off?~ he thought, gasping.  "You mind?" he choked out.  Norr jumped off of him, and was out of reach before he could rise or obtain a visual lock.

As he raised his head, she twirled the staff appreciatively, making a whoosh in the air.  "I thank you for the 'lesson', Acamarian.  Perhaps next time I shall teach you."

"Plenty more where that came from," he joked, sitting up, rubbing his throat.  Sure enough, his blue-skinned Andorian love stood by the door, arms crossed, giving him 'the eye' – that look a wife gives her husband.

"Manhandling my husband?" Ty'amra said, giving Norr an even look.

"It was an exercise.  I would not have hurt him," Norr stated in no uncertain terms.

"Oh that's all right," Ty'amra said, turning her gaze on him.  "He needs the practice."

Marlang flashed his wife a look of sour appreciation.  "Thanks.  With a wife like you, who needs friends."

Shaar was having a time with X'el.  The nuances of referring to a Xelatian presented linguistic difficulties.  Language could be such a barrier....  Communicating with this Xelatian involved using the reference, 'X'el', verbally, at different pitches and intonations, added to the problem of conveying certain concepts, in a manner that implied higher notions.

"Plur-RAAAAL," she insisted.  Then "Markerparticles!" zipped off her tongue.

The Xelatian cocked its box-shaped head.

Relieved, Shaar started nodding, swaying a finger.  "Zip-pit-ee doo-dah..."  She paused, counted three beats – necessary; he was Xelatian, after all – and plunked keys on the soundpad.  Piano notes sounded: Melodic minor F, E minor, harmonic G.  "...Zip-pit-ee-yay."

It was an ancient Earth song.  Once she heard it, she got hooked on the hook.  She couldn't wait to get to the part, 'My oh my it's a wonderful day', hoping to teach the Xelatian what 'a wonderful day' meant.  But to do that, she had to pull his appellation, his identity, into the verse – a peculiarity of Xelatian parlance, like telling Admiral April, 'Admiral April, it's a wonderful day'.  That obstinate Behenw't started it: E'quabsizata, from Engineering, overheard her humming.  The five-member lifeform started that typically Behenw't line of questioning, then X'el came along.  Shaar ended up trading one for the other: E'quab departed, leaving X'el who now persisted, trying to understand.

But the Xelatian just wasn't getting it.  The bronze-like metal mask twisted sideways.  The blue slit faded and flickered.  "Ngah-kik-kul."

Shaar sighed.  This was becoming too much even for her.

Fortunately, she had "Querulin" alongside.  The blue-eyed alien's lips parted, and she jerked, lifting her jaw, neck twitching.  Shaar barely heard the beginning of the sonic pitch before it shot out of Shaar's tympanic range.

X'el quivered, then settled as Querulin closed her mouth.

"I-get-it," the alien droned in his metallic voice.

"Thank you!" Shaar blurted, at the end of her rope.