Strat (post)

And he had reopened himself to it, again.

Mind melds could do many things... Be used for many purposes.  Via mind meld (depending on the skill level of the one melding – usually, Vulcan), one could leave a mental 'impression' of one's self in the mind of another... plainly evident, on the conscious level, or rooted deeper, into the subconscious.

Strat apparently aimed somewhere in-between.

Klethaal, she called him.  Klethaal, klethaal.  A word denoting vengeance, in the name of someone wronged.  Of course, most Vulcans these days did not live for vengeance, or strike out in its name, so it was not a common word, nor easily understood.  But its use, in the context of the assault meld, finally made sense when April saw the bald-headed, black-eyed, Zytmn Chromus... the former Romulan ambassador to Arcadia... standing there, alongside the younger-looking Vulcan, one arm protectively around her.  The relationship suddenly seemed clear.  Father and daughter.

But there was a rule that proved valid repeatedly, time and time again: Appearances can deceive.

In the make-believe briefing room of the UFS Arcadia, which was not a briefing room, April traded looks between the Romulan man and Vulcan woman, waiting for what happened next.  Maybe Chromus would attack, as he once attacked Alex Crimson.  Maybe they would team up in a sandwich, degrading him further by both having their way with him.  (April was slightly horrified at himself, for being able to conjure such a thought.  Perhaps it was no surprise, after what she did to him.)

It was not that simple, however.  Mind melds could deliver thoughts, feelings and impressions, as well as take them.  April received a subtle impression, from somewhere, that all was not as it seemed.  Layers.  Everything existed in layers.  Peel away a layer, and you'll find another underneath.  Strat's anger seemed hard, raw, honest and simple.  But he had seen a side of her a bit more complex.  And now, more complex still.  Just as the feeling filtered through April's perceptions, that Chromus did not exactly belong here, the room dissolved, and Chromus was gone.

Who was Strat?  The question kept running over and over in his mind, like she was someone he should know, though she said he didn't.  But an undeniable familiarity crept in around her image in his head; he had only subconsciously been aware of it when they first met.  The Federation security agents took her.  They didn't say where they were taking her, and if he had asked, he felt certain they still would not have told him.  The Vulcan government wanted to make this problem disappear, and pretend it never existed.  If he could believe current assurances, they were to be treated, not euthanised.  That was not inhumane of them.  Their initial decision, twenty-two years ago... that was inhumane, and an action borne of near-panic-level fear and desperation.

A long dark corridor stretched before them, under a row of buttressed stone arch-ways.  Strat walked ahead, without trepidation.  He followed.

Passing by a pool of dark water, smooth as black glass, he noticed his reflection, and stopped.

Blond hair... pointed ears... a youthful male face.

Vallien.

He looked down, checking himself over.  No, he was April.  In Starfleet uniform.  But in the reflection, he saw Vallien looking back, just as puzzled.

Strat began to fade into the tunnel.  He rushed to catch up.

Rooms with open doors branched off between the arches.  Darkness filled some.  In the flicker of torches mounted along the walls, he saw something... vague, undefined... shapes, within.  Moving.  He heard whispers, hints of sound, undecipherable.  He kept going.

One room's interior resolved as he passed, instantly clear, though he could not see until he passed: Strat and a Vulcan man, in a clean, well-lit domicile – one or the other's home, perhaps – touching hands... Two forefingers extended, one pair pressed to the other; a Vulcan affectionate gesture.  As the scene resolved, Strat suddenly clutched the man's hand in full, trying to pull him close.  He – her betrothed, maybe a husband – yanked his hand loose, stared at her momentarily, then turned and walked out of view.  Strat did not or could not hide the pain on her face – a pain April knew well: The pain of rejection.

Other scenes came and went – a young Vulcan girl underwent schooling, in one; in another, she stood among Academy classmates, at their graduation.  Glimpses of faces, Vulcan and not.  Snippets of the woman's life.  She grew younger in each succeeding image, as though they were walking backwards through her life.  The last clear image was of another Vulcan woman, soaked in sweat.  Her face filled the chamber, staring at him with an exhausted yet serene, satisfied expression... much as Strat appeared, in the New England woods, earlier.  April imagined birth-cries, somewhere.

He dared to venture a personal wonder, of what existed in the dark rooms where he could not see.  But they did not resolve or grow any more clear.

A new scene coalesced, and they were out of the tunnel, in a large round room.  More wall-mounted torches threw an effervescent glow over the old stone architecture.  Vulcans, male and female – he counted eleven – stood in a circle, paralleling the curve of the single wall behind them.  April looked around for a door but could not see one, not even the way he came.

Strat stepped into an empty space within the ring, apparently reserved for her.  No one said anything; they stared at the empty space between them.  A distinct impression struck April: Communicating mentally.  Telepathy.  Beyond the impression, he heard none of the words.

Then they turned their heads, looking towards him.  He felt a bit uneasy... hesitant to speak.  Walking around, he watched as their eyes followed him.  Finally he asked, "Who are you?  What is this place?"  No one answered.  He looked to Strat, now watching him as well... impassive, guarded.  "Strat," he urged her.  "If you meant to bring me here, tell me why."

One of the Vulcan men spoke: "It is your desire to understand."  He was old, gray-haired, in a red robe of ancient fashion, like the rest.

April reacted as he recognized him.  He had seen images.  Who would not know the face of the man who transformed Vulcan?

"My god."  A chill ran over April.  "You're Surak."  He looked at Strat... then, Surak, or the thought/memory/impression that appeared to be Surak.  "What is this?  An imagined fantasy?"  He gave Strat another expectant glance.  "This can't be a memory.  You couldn't have known him.  He died thousands of years ago."

"Vulcan death is not absolute," Surak said.  "You know of what I speak."

"Okay, yes, I know all about katras, and the Hall of Ancient Thought," April said.  "But—"

"My body died, but my katra was not placed into the Hall of Thought," Surak told him.  "There is a development within Vulcan society, which has been suppressed from the general populace."

"The emotion virus?"

"In a manner of speaking.  To be specific, the ultimate effects of the virus are known only to the men and women you see before you.  Each of us has died, and been reborn.  The virus which killed us mutates before complete and total death.  We returned to life, to reunite with our katras."

"You're saying... you're alive?  Now?"

"We're uncertain.  The massacre twenty years ago took the lives of many infected Vulcans.  We were among them.  Possibly our bodies are in stasis.  Or perhaps we were killed.  We are, indeed, essentially memories... Impressions of the people you see."

"I was the only one to escape," Strat said, joining the conversation.

"I don't understand.  Are you the daughter of Chromus or aren't you?"

"Chromus is not a true Romulan, by their definition," Strat said.  "He is half Vulcan.  He is my son."

That stunned April.  "Your son."  He shook his head.  "I find that hard to believe.  Vulcans may live longer than humans, but you're still too young to be his—"  He stopped.  "Wait... you said you die, then you're..."  He glanced at Surak.  "...reborn?"

Surak gave a single, deliberate nod.  "We return to life, immortal.  We age, but we do not die.  I survived long beyond the era of my purported death."

One question they did not answer, through all of this: Why they were telling him.  But they did not have to.  April strongly suspected he knew the answer.

Denial is pointless, Strat whispered inside his head, lips not moving.

No more denial.

The year was 2374.  The Dominion War raged across the Federation's borders in the Alpha Quadrant.  The Jem'Hadar had captured multiple key planets.  Casualty reports numbering in the thousands rolled in daily.  Intelligence forecasted Romulus and the Breen joining the Dominion.  Cardassia had already joined.  The Federation and Klingon Empire anticipated defeat.

Dark days.  Those were desperate times.  Everyone was uncertain what to do.  In some sectors, there were outcries, demands of peace, negotiation... appeasement, to the Dominion.  Some would have surrendered.

Some would have... and some tried.  Tried defecting.  Taking critical knowledge of Starfleet operations, or anything they thought might be useful, across the battle-lines, to the Vorta supervising the war effort.  Some became spies for the Dominion.

There was a Vulcan ship.

April commanded the Questor then.  He didn't know where or how the virus originated, but he knew of it.  He had orders to stop those renegades.  Bring down their operation, any way possible.  Casualties... acceptable.

One of the Vulcans serving on his ship had contracted the virus.  It was believed to be fatal.

Her name was T'Plasio.  She would not volunteer to intentionally infect other Vulcans – despite the fact some were selling out the Federation.  She understood their reasons.  It was only 'logical', they felt.  The Dominion appeared a superior foe.  Defeat seemed... almost inevitable.  But she took her duty seriously.  April knew she would follow orders, down to her last breath.

He ordered her to do it.

There was some kind of mix-up.  Intelligence reports regarding the ship's heading indicated the Vulcans were on course to the Delb system... 'neutral' ground at the time, a crossover point into Dominion territory.

The ship returned to Vulcan.

April had been living with the guilt... trying to ignore it, suppress it, put it behind and pretend it never happened, ever since.

Then he learned of the 'incident' in 2385.  The sudden deaths of thousands of Vulcans.  He had wondered... unsure.  Not until he made admiral in '86 and gained access to certain records, did he discover the awful truth confirming his suspicions.

He had unleashed the emotion virus.

And now here he was, eyeing twelve possible victims of his act.  Surak.  Surak himself, amazingly, among them.  Vallien... yet another.

Klethaal.

"So."  He looked at Strat.  "Raping me... violating me... What – payback?"

"Yes," she answered simply.  "However, the desire for vengeance was not entirely for the reasons you believe.  Chromus left your ship in disgrace.  His political career on Romulus was over.  He had no future.  He committed suicide."  She stepped out of the circle, coming to stand before April.  "Before he did so, he came to me one last time, and shared all that transpired between you.  The attack on your officer... the effects of Hon Jurmol's holo-language."

April studied her carefully.  Something still remained... hidden, beneath the surface.  That sense of familiarity returned, as if he knew her somehow.  "What do you know about that?"

"A mind meld left an impression of Chromus upon me, just as I've left an impression of myself in you.  Thus, he passed into you.  He blamed Starfleet, and you, for his downfall.  His desire for vengeance upon you partly compelled my own actions."

Chromus.  It was Chromus who made April act like that, earlier, in the ready room.  Just as Chromus claimed something made him act aggressively... out of control.  How utterly embarrassing, for April.  He was glad Berkowitz kept it a secret, for the sake of dignity.  April hadn't known what came over him... just like Chromus tried to tell him.

"That explains some of the things you said earlier.  It was Chromus.... things he would have said, acting through you."

Strat nodded.  "Just as he did through you, by way of our meld.  But he did not know what he was doing when he laid hands upon Alex Crimson.  And you did not know whether to believe him.  Do you understand now, what made him do it?"

April contemplated.  "The virus?"

"It is as capable of infecting Romulan cells as it infects Vulcans."

"But if he had the virus, then..."  April's mind started to race, latching onto a puzzle about to be solved, instinctively eager to see its resolution.  Everything was clicking, falling into place.  "The virus and Jurmol's holo-language... interacted somehow.  And it made him attack Crimson...?  But why?"

"You must understand what the virus truly is."

"It's intelligent," April suddenly concluded.

"It's more than a virus," Strat told him.  "It's a subatomic lifeform.  It merely propagates using a viral carrier agent.  It is our future.  It will transform the Vulcan species, and others.  We were not to meant to live forever in suppression of our emotions.  Emotions reveal our true nature.  Release yours: Release your guilt.  You did not sentence us to extinction.  You started our road to liberation.  In time, we will be free."

"How do you know?"

"You know.  The Federation possesses technology to see across space and time.  How much more difficult, then, would it to be send one's thoughts through time?  To communicate mentally, by that route?"

"Space, time and thought are interconnected," April finished, nodding, recalling what Neria – the future version of his daughter – told him, about the Tau Alphan "Frank"'s role in the Nexus mission, 2382.  Tau Alphans purported the same interrelationship.  "What are you saying?  Someone in the future gave you pre-knowledge?"

"No.  But we have foreseen it.  We also saw, before you did, that you would release the virus among us."

"And you let it happen?"

"In fact, we took steps to ensure that you would succeed.  Do not worry: There will be no more casualties, as before."

"You sound sure of that."

"We are."

"Admiral T'Urla assigned us that mission," April said.  It was becoming clearer and clearer.  Then it dawned on him, staring at her.  He gaped: "You're T'Urla...!"  He saw that now.  Strat appeared very much as he once imagined T'Urla, in her youth.  Curiously, he had never seen an image of her in her younger days.  T'Urla... who supposedly died in 2381... but, he now saw, experienced a very different fate.  He didn't know which surprised him more – that, or Surak, in her circle.  "You were older than 200 when you died."

"Incorrect," she stated flatly – not about her identity.  April knew he was right.  She wasn't denying that part.  "I am much older.  I lived in Surak's time.  I have not died since, but rather, regenerated periodically, after the effects of aging caused my body to fail."

"You said we never met."

"We didn't.  As I said, you are not the Stephen April I once knew."

"But you don't mean that metaphorically."

"I meant it quite literally.  Something happened at Memiklon.  I have seen the logs.  A runabout went missing from the Arcadia.  Afterwards, no one bothered to question it.  Why not?"

April didn't have to give it much thought.  "Jurmol's language.  It has a... hypnotic effect.  It influenced them."  He frowned.  "It made them forget?  To not even bother to question why it was missing?"

"Just as it influenced Stephen April to leave in the craft... and leave you in his place: A perfect, genetic duplicate."

"A clone."  April looked at her... looked away... looked at her.  "A clone," he repeated, not quite believing.  Yet, somehow, it made sense.

"A very sophisticated copy.  Your cells are virtually indistinguishable.  Your most advanced sensors would not detect the difference, not even at the quantum level."

"And you can."

"I've seen beyond," she said.  "I've been there."

He didn't know how he knew, but realized: It was true.  Everything had been leading up to this.  He'd felt it for some time... the niggling suspicion.  His conscious mind had tricked him.  Betrayed him.  Told him it was his imagination, while his imagination was telling him something else.  It was as if he was psychic... possessing an extrasensory perception about it: a universe beyond the universe.  It was true.  It felt true.  It defied science, rationale, logic, and even common sense.  Yet somehow he had always known.  That was part of the reason it frustrated him so.  Ever since he... died?...

...And was reborn?...

He had been cut off from something.

Once gone, but never forgotten.

Cadie.  He knew it was her.  It was the only explanation that made sense.  She had the ability to take form from raw DNA, from several sources, recombining the organic components and molecules into a new body, repeatedly.

He stared at Strat.  "I saw your memories."  He looked over his shoulder, at the wall where he imagined the door had been.  "Those were—"

"Millennia ago, by Earth measurements."

"Yet still fresh in your mind."

"We have found that formative memories never completely fade.  Just the importance we place upon them.  Vulcan memories are as potently intense as our emotions.  They seem vivid to you because you were just made privy to them.  But they... dulled, for me, after a few centuries."

"Emotions," April said.  "You're telling me, all Vulcans will regain emotions?  Give up the ability or willingness to suppress them?"

"Not all."  Surak spoke, rejoining the conversation.  In the dreamy world of mind meld, and drugged, April had momentarily forgotten that he was 'there', so to speak, and so in fact for that duration, he wasn't.  The thought of him had evaporated.  But now he came back, as real and clear as day.  "Some will continue to cling to the ideals I established for our society."

"And you don't have a problem with that?"  April found that just as hard to believe as he first found Strat/T'Urla's claims.

"The reforms of logic were meant to provide an alternative to destruction of our race.  We were in a brittle time, when war threatened.  Logic was not meant to deprive us of feeling, or morality, nor to become the single, all-consuming goal of Vulcan life many of my people adopted.  One can never control an idea, or the myriad combinations of diversity in which it will be expressed.  Logic enabled us to survive.  It has taken us this far.  But you have seen how even logic can be twisted into an evil force, Stephen April.  The annihilation of the infected.  It was committed out of fear, and devotion to logic.  A fear that contracting the virus would end a logical way of life.  Your reasons for unleashing the virus: You acted logically.  Logic is not evil.  Nor is emotion."

"But what if—"

"You have no more time for your philosophical interest," Strat/T'Urla said.  "Your doctor is preparing to revive you."

April wondered how she knew that.  "What's going to—"

"Captain?"

April blinked, eyelids fluttering open.  In sickbay.  Ross, B'Eryn and the nurse stood alongside the biobed.

"How do you feel?" B'Eryn asked.

"Pretty good," April said, without hesitation, and sat up.  For the moment, he thought... but did not say.  One never knew what the future held.

Maybe.

He sent a quick thought to Berkowitz: ~Simone.  Status.~

The Arcadia was on course for Tarkova, which she told him, then inquired of his health.  April looked to Ross, running final biochecks.

"You look all right to me," Ross said.

"And me," B'Eryn agreed.

"I want you to take a little time off," Ross told him.  "Rest.  Relax.  Find a way to enjoy yourself... before I clear you for duty.  We'll be monitoring you, but if you experience any feelings out of the ordinary, I want you to let me or the counselor know, immediately.  Do you understand that, Captain?"

April took a breath.  "Yes.  Understood."

"Okay.  Get out of here... sir."  She grinned, then walked away.

April slid off the biobed, heading for the door.  He needed a good stiff coffee.  Black, straight up.

Strangely enough, he did feel good.  He meant what he'd said.  He hoped this feeling lasted.  Angst could be so... erosive.

He realized why: A goal.  He had a goal again.  Other questions remained to be answered.  He intended to find those answers.

Though not allowed to resume duty without Ross's say-so, he could give orders.  As he strolled out of sickbay, pondering what he'd learned... about the past, and his particular role in it – and furthermore, his role in the future... he came to a decision that needed to be made.  The right decision – he hoped.

There once lived an American general, in the Revolutionary War for independence.  His name: Francis Marion.  In a speech to his men, before they attacked Doyle at Lynche's Creek, Marion said, My friends, if we shall be ruined for bravely resisting our tyrants, what will be done to us if we tamely lie down and submit to them?

Thirty-three years ago, April did his duty.  He followed orders.  Twenty-two years ago, he submitted to a tyrant of an idea.  A tyrant, and an idea, of fear.

He had lain down and submitted for too long.

He could not take a runabout out, on his own.  He could not settle for letting others act in his stead.  And unfortunately he could not divert the ship on a mission of such personal interest, though it had the potential of greater ramifications for the entire Federation.