"Mindspeak"

By Petty Officer 2nd Class Benedict "Max" Maxwell,
NCOIC Emergency Medical Response Team (Current Status: Prisoner #8813-E419M25)
USS Galaxy

DS5, The Brig

The haze which accompanied his descent into sleep thickened a bit, then began to coalesce into vague shapes and gray toned colors. Then they became definitive structures and the colors turned natural for the objects they were on. Max was standing on the sidewalk that led up to his family's home in New York on Earth. It was an early evening, and only one light was on in the old split ranch house. It had been restored several times over the past few hundred years, but retained that old school charm he loved so much with it's brown wood siding, broad living room window, single ground car garage, and the five steps that led to the front door off to the left side of the house. His father's sub atmospheric shuttle wasn't there, which didn't surprise him, for Horatio Maxwell was off in the Gamma Quadrant somewhere. But Max's old Mustang was still in the garage, he was sure.

He quickly made his way up the steps, painted an ugly green (what was Dad thinking?) and opened the door by placing his palm against the reader and punching in a code. He could have used the old fashioned metal key for the door, but he couldn't seem to find it. The steel bolt retracted audibly and Max proceeded to enter the house, where he heard to female voices arguing somewhere in the dining room. He made his way up the stairs, slowly this time so that he can see who it was before they could see him. The carpeting muffled his footfalls, and Max was very thankful that his father replaced the old wood that made up the staircase. He could clearly see two women, on in a Starfleet uniform, the other in a dark form fitting outfit, a one piece by the looks of it.

"If he speaks of the arrangement that was made with your bipedal friends, we will be finished," one was saying.

"He's my brother," a hauntingly familiar voice was saying, "and he was willing to give everything up for me. He's getting the truth, whether you like it or not. Remember, you're trapped in my body, not the other way around."

"Whatever." The first voice was now familiar to Max as well and his breath caught in his throat. At this point, he had already reached the top of the landing and paled several shades at the sight before him. Lucinda Benoit, RN, former nurse on board the USS Newark...and that thing that had caused the misery and pain both he and Lucinda felt over the past several months. Dahlia, that was her name.

"Hey, Benny." exclaimed Max's sister rising to go embrace her little brother. Max was frozen in place and didn't know what to do next. He felt Lucinda hug him tightly but took several moments before he was able to return the embrace. Then he abruptly broke off.

"You're dead," he stammered. "This isn't real, just a really bad fucking dream." He never saw Dahlia get up so of course he wasn't prepared for the slap she issued him firmly on his cheek.

"Is that real enough for ya? And watch your language," Dahlia was saying haughtily. She smoothed her hair and checked the hand that she smacked Max with. "There are ladies present."

"Get bent, douchebag," Max retorted. Dahlia's face grew dark and menacing but decided to let the insult go after a glance from Lucinda. "Lu, what's going on? I saw them pronounce you."

"We made a deal, and that's all you really need to know, " answered Dahlia.

"Max," Lucinda began, "it's a long story, but you need to know that I'm here with you...even though I have to bring some excess baggage with me," she added with a disdainful glance at her 'evil twin'. "You just needed to know that I was okay. Plus I wanted to see you."

Max was at a loss of words and showed as much with his lips slightly parted and an expression that clearly said 'huh?'. Dahlia made a disdainful sound and returned to the dinner table they were at originally when Max had come in.

"You two make me sick," she muttered.

"The feeling's mutual," the siblings retorted in unison. Lucinda turned back to Max and smiled in that shy way he had always known of her. Even Max had to crack a smirk at once again connecting with his sister. It seemed as if all the years of bad blood and posturing went right out the window. He was just happy to see her beautiful face again.

The room darkened suddenly and Lucinda's expression went from jovial to dead serious...the way Max remembered as well when she was displeased about something. "You have to wake up, Benny," she said suddenly. "Something bad is about to happen." Max was confused as he didn't immediately connect the dots and figure that she might know something he didn't already sense.

"What're you talking about, Lu?" He graped her lightly by the shoulders, his eyes pleading for a direct answer. There have been too many unanswered questions lately, too many riddles and vague statements between them. And that gut feeling was back with a vengeance, definitely telling Max that something bad was about to happen. Then Lucinda stepped aside (or was shoved aside) and Dahlia's menacing visage was in his face.

"WAKE THE FUCK UP!"

Max shot bold upright in his cot...and all hell broke loose.

"The Martyr's Revolution"

By Vennetir (James Corgan)
And Tellerie (Unknown)

Location: Lower decks, communal living area

The fires and the demonstrations and riots that followed kept the Socialists more than busy during the weeks. There was widespread chaos on the ship; a climate of uncertainty as to the population's upkeep was cultivated when the food started to get rationed. People's fears were growing as the rations got smaller and smaller, and the news of breaking off from the rest of the fleet and finding food was not enough to alleviate anyone's fears. The fear evolved into panic, restlessness, which brought demonstrations and strife.

Like every other dissident political faction, the socialists were coming up with their own solutions. As part of their philosophy, they put a communal effort to everything they did, for the greater good of their whole. They had their own distribution of food and supplies to help suppliment their rations, their own communal gardens, their own stashes. Communal kitchens helped stretch supplies, but it wasn't enough, not by far.

The response was to protest, always protest, and the Socialists were getting more vocal, and getting more supporters. Their ideas of governance and resource sharing was more appealing to the masses than 'let the rich horde'. Some of the more radical groups were advocating replacing the ruling class. It was becoming a more common theme as the rations got smaller and the police got more aggressive.

For the most part, the police caught lower members or those that used violence. The Socialists, despite their opposition to the established government on the ship, had done no harm as of yet and had in fact helped the lower classes. The police, some of them being in the same working class as the Socialists, left a majority of their members alone.

But with the fire, there were still some that went missing for days on end, and came back bloodied and talking about the police's interrogations. It put every Socialist on edge.

Vennetir was one of those that was taken in. For the most part, the police were respectful, even kind to him, and did not lay a hand on him. However, he felt as if he had narrowly avoided a messy interrogation, and he did not know why. If the cops knew how involved with the Socialists he were, he would spend weeks in their cells, being beaten with shock sticks and trudgeons, deprived him of sleep and sustinence until he confessed to any crimes they wanted him to be guilty of. He was lucky.

So it was his life. After work in the engines, he was the Chairman of the Treasury of the Rihannsu Socialist Movement (a grandious title that meant nothing about what he actually did). His jobs included being the whip during meetings, keeping the redshirts, the RSM's group of political enforcers (every dissident group had one) well trained and busy preventing others from undermining the Socialists' efforts, and being a military man, carried out the occasional muscle work such as fighting off strikebreakers and bringing violators of Socialist law to justice.

It was a rough job, and a perfect compliment for his husband Tellerie.

Tellerie was the Chairman Elect of the RSU, the leader of the entire movement since his start during the beginning of the exile. Over 50 years later he turned a small movement that believed in the equality of all into a popular movement for the downtrodden on the ship. It became very popular because it offered hope where there was one, and his passionate, catchy oratories encouraged those downtrodden masses to work together for a common good. If Vennetir was the fist, Tellerie was the gentle hand that nurtured his people. It was a complimentary teaming between the two lovers.

The fact that they were gay didn't enter into the picture, unless one was outside the Party. The RSU didn't care about orientation, and (thanks to Vennetir's insistence), considered its discrimination to be as unholy a crime as discriminating based on class. There was still some social stigma and those outside the RSU would mock them, but only because they had no other way to attack the RSU.

They were popular, strong, and thanks to events, very angry at the establishment. There was no help for the ship and the lower classes outnumbered the establishment.

The ship was overdue for a rebellion.

This was the point he wanted to argue with Tellerie, but unlike most times they were not in agreement.

"We have to do this." Vennetir insisted as he walked the corridors with Tellerie and an escort of the redshirts, their balaclavas covering their scowling faces, the pipes they scavenged from ship conduits that they used as improvised weapons of enforcement slapping against their thighs, "The time is now, Tellerie. Why don't you see this?"

"Why love?" He gave Vennetir that all serious look, as if his husband was once again missing a picture bigger than himself, "Because the establishment still wants to shut us down, and they have enough of an excuse to do it. We have the lower classes, but we don't have enough of the military's support. We have the unions on our side, but no guilds. The assassin guilds most certainly are on the side of the bourgeois. We have the numbers, but they have everything else. We are not ready for a revolution."

Vennetir did love Tellerie's compassion, but at times it made the political leader too shy to do much else than feed the poor. Even he spoke in speeches about the class struggle evolving to war, how the proletariat would have to fight for their fair share. Vennetir did not know why, even after years of marriage, he was so afraid to impliment that inevitable step? "But we still have the numbers and we have the means to fight. We we all demonstrate together, we can do this. We can make the new order, and it can benefit all! We can then control the ship and its destiny. We can distribute the wealth evenly and to everyone, as it should be! Already we are away from the fleet. Nobody will help the establishment. It must be now before we all run out of food and starve!"

"No!" He snapped peevishly, "It is a reactionary move. We are better than that! I know the people are going through hard times, and I feel for them, but it does not mean we give in to our baser needs and resort to violence! We must do it by appropriate means."

"My dear...." Vennetir halted in front of Tellerie, "What are the appropriate means?"

Tellerie paused, at a loss of words. "I... don't have a definate answer, but it can't be what you propose. You want to overthrow the ruling class, but that will mean violence. We can win over whom we need and make it as bloodless as possible."

Vennetir shook his head, "I wish I could believe that, but they won't give up power so easily." He placed a tender hand on Tellerie's shoulder, to let his love know that he wasn't angry or upset with him, that he was merely voicing his opinion, "They hold all the power and will not let it go. You said it yourself, we have to take it if we want a fair share, and I believe we have to do it now before we are too weak to take it, before the ship starves and the rich get fat off their own stashes. You know they have stashes, right?"

Tellerie very well knew what the upper classes had for stores. They were separate from the lower classes, better quality, and more of it. Tellerie read the same reports from the urchins they used as spies as Vennetir did, sometimes at the same meetings. Everyone knew the rich hoarded and did not share what they had. Tellerie knew, and in him it did stir a slight agreement with Vennetir.

"I know. But what they have would only extend our plight by a month."

"But it is enough." Vennetir pleaded, "Enough to buy time until we can get more supplies from that planet. But they are content to starve us to within an inch of our lives. That is not compassion, my love! Think about it! If they are not willing to share, we have to be willing to take, and to do that we have to establish our order, not theirs."

"I don't know..."

"And if we do survive and get back to the fleet, what then? We'll be back to the same old order, with us doing the work and the nobles growing fat off our efforts. Nothing will change, and we will regret not using the one time when we could have brought our dream, our dream of equality for all, as we are worked to death for a world our grandchildren will see, but never own a part of. What do you say to that?"

To Vennetir's astonishment, Tellerie actually gave his words some thought. Tellerie could be stubborn when he wanted to, a vexing problem in their relationship that was, for the most part, made up for the fact Tellerie had the political saavy. But Vennetir was also a subborn sort, and whilst not a dreamer, he tended to be an idealist. Another complimentary trait not shared by the two, but worked so well.

He had to prevent himself from blushing so openly.

"I am sorry, Vennetir, but I still think we are not ready." Tellerie calmly explained, "Later, soon, within the coming weeks, but not now. The moment has to be just right, where everyone is at their most desperate and we will be the only one with a solution. It is then we have to make our move. Not sooner, or we will lose the sympathy of the people and we will be rounded up by the nobles. Then, and if we somehow lived through it all, we would have to start from scratch what we started fifty years ago, and that is if we even have a chance at recovery."

To that, Vennetir's eyes watered. Tellerie's hand caressed his cheek, and looked deeply into his eyes, his own like smoldering ruins. "Be patient, love. We'll change our world."

"Yes... we will." Vennetir agreed.

They were interrupted by a cry from one of the Redshirt Guard. Authoritatively, he held his hand out palm forward, and bade for someone to stop where they were. He had his hand cautiously around the metal pipe he used as a weapon. Vennetir knew the guard, another old veteran of the Vulcan wars, and he brandished it more than once against Pinkertons and political rival groups. The old soldier and his retenue of younger, but no less experienced toughs cordoned themselves in a ring around Vennetir and Tellerie while the older guard leader approached.

The man that blocked his path looked young, and as a rarity he had silver hair to go with his flush green face and pointed ears. He wore a long cloak, bejeweled with a broach that signified he was a lot richer than the regular traffic in the lower decks. Vennetir could smell the man's perfume, see the smattering of small jewels in his ear and on his rings.

The cloak worried Vennetir. It was long, from neck to calf, and made of fine replicated silks, loud and pretentious, but one that was good at hiding secrets. Only one hand was out, waving to the guards as the bejeweled peacock tried to make a friendly face.

"He's a long ways from the upper decks." Vennetir scowled at the rich man.

Tellerie hushed, "Who cares about a stray noble that's on the wrong side of the levels? He'll just get robbed anyways."

Vennetir whispered, "I do not like it. A man carrying that much wealth should have been robbed by now."

"Good point. But worry not. We'll rough him up and send him on his way."

"Identify yourself." The guard leader ordered the pampered dandy, his hand on the pipe, walking forward cautiously as if the young man was a walking carrier of the virus that broke out in the lower decks last week. The dandly looked at the grizzled redshirt party guard with bemusement.

And a moment later, the lead guard let out a choking, gurgling gasp, as he fell to his knees and then to the floor. Blood pooled in a rapidly growing puddle around the body of the old guard. The body spasmed and spattered, but could not find itself the energy to move. The old guard had enough of his wits and strength to look up, see the long blade that emerged from the cloak, dripping with his own green blood, and see the predatory smile on the young killer's face.

Vennetir had to always deal with threats from assassins on the Socialists, but it was never this real, not this close. It was usually political rivals or the police, whom other than their own agendas kept the fighting away from their public lives.

This time was not the case, and it wasn't a simple thug that made a poor attempt. Now Vennetir knew why the dandy was so richly adorned and so confident below decks.

He was a bladeguild.

"RUN!" Vennetir bellowed as the redshirts moved in to attack the sword weilding dandy, their clubs brandished like crude mockeries of the swordfighter's own technique, the mass attack of four men, after seeing their comrade felled by the stab of a blade, wanting to extract blood of their own in the only way they knew how, crudely, brutally.

The dandy, the face of mockery itself, knew the futility of their defense. Out of his cloak came the other hand, while the rapier in his hand lashed like quicksilver to parry a clumsy swing to the back of his head. In his off hand were small slivers of steel, tucked between his fingers, flicking out like a serpent's bite to bypass the redshirts in the front. One of the blades connected to the stomach of one of the front attacking redshirts, his warcry cut off by a startled expression of agony, as he doubled over, his hand clutching the dagger that stuck to his lower torso.

Vennetir had his pipe in his hand and was ready to use it on the assassin, his anger for watching the old guard's death so enraging him he wanted to leap into the fray. It was then that the anger turned to panic, as he saw the dandy didn't just throw one dagger. There was a second one, and it was going straight for his chest.

Even with all his military training, it had been a long time since Vennetir fought such a close battle, and never with a duelist assassin from the Blade's Guild. The combat was going too fast, the dagger too close to hitting his mark.

The he felt his shoulder get shoved with a herculean effort. He lost his footing, his pipe clanging against the deck plates as he fumbled the weapon out of his hand. His knee was the first to hit the floor, its pain inconsequential, and he rolled from the shove, his head spun and dizzied.

It was during that time he felt a cry of pain next to him. He wanted to know what redshirt it belonged too, and while his head reoriented itself he watched with grisly detail what was happening to his party guard.

They were clearly losing the fight. Even three on one, the dandy was quicker than any of the guard, which had no more training than an average military private. Their shorter, cruder pipes would clash against the assassin's elegant rapier, their sparks an illuminating dance as the dandy darted, dodged and parried swinging club blows. He would eliminate the three redshirts one by one, his rapier flitting past reflexed and blocks that were better trained for brawls and not for actual swordfights. The rapier would thrust into a ribcage, withdraw, and trust again until all but one fell down in pools of their own blood. The last one was a young tough named Selkir, and for a brawler he was rather skilled. The youth was built strong like his father, a lifetime Socialist, and was holding his own, his pipe keeping the rapier away from his vulnerable midsection. He had his pipe and the duelist's rapier locked, the both trying to overpower each other.

"Tellerie..." Groaned Vennetir, as he looked to his side for his husband. He rolled over, nausea from his spinning head tumbling his equilibrium. He looked over for Tellerie, prayed to the Great Bird that he had enough sense to run away from the fight, melt into the local lower deck population, become unseen by the assassin, and make it to a sympathizer's safehouse, as they discussed before for contingencies like this.

He felt a body to his side. Fearing it was one of the mortally wounded redshirts, he dragged himself to turn over the body.

It was Tellerie, clutching a knife to his chest, his eyes vacant and lifeless, a trickle of blood running out of the corner of his mouth and leaking from the wound in his chest.

"No...." Vennetir uttered.

He felt for a pulse, but there was none. The blade smelled sickly and pungent, a poison no doubt that worked almost as quickly as a lethal stab. Tellerie didn't make a sound, couldn't now. His blood and his offal were thick in Vennetir's nostrils.

He could not believe Tellerie could die like this. He was their leader, and Vennetir was supposed to protect him. It wasn't the other way around! He could not believe their beloved leader, his lover and his husband, could have been so stupid as to shove Vennetir out of the dagger's path when he was more important to the movement. Vennetir could have died knowing he tried to protect his love and his leader, and would have been happy to lay his life out for the Socialist leader.

But not like this.

Tellerie didn't even get any last words, and neither did Vennetir. For a second of flash thought, Vennetir wanted to say so much to him before he had to die. How much he loved him, how he was so sorry about the argument a minute ago, how he was stupid to take the dagger instead of himself. He wanted to say so much, let Tellerie's last minutes have the assurance of friendship to protect his last moments and make them special.

But he was even denied that by the coldhearted assassin, and it filled Vennetir with a rage.

By that time, the duelist shoved off young Selkir, and was about to jam the rapier into the redshirt's solar plexus. Her was turned away from Vennetir and the already dead Tellerie, and didn't see that Vennetir was still alive.

It was the only opening Vennetir needed. He grabbed his dropped club, and almost blindly threw it at the assassin. It spun in a whistling straight line, and impacted on the assassin's temple.

It was enough to daze the dandy and save Selkir's life, but it wasn't enough for Vennetir. Getting up, he ran after the assassin blindly, tackling his shoulder in the assassin's chest. He lifted him slightly up in the air, and brought the assassin's body crashing down, causing him to drop his rapier and take another blow to the head as it bounced off the floor. Vennetir balled his fist, and as immutable as stone, he punched at the assassin's face, feeling the bones part and the blood stickily wet his fingers.

It wasn't enough for him. He wanted the assassin to die, and so he punched, and did not stop. He didn't care about answers, about how useful it would be to find out who sent the assassin or why, all he wanted was to atone for his failure for not saving his lover's life. The fists rained down on the assassin's head. He felt his fists go numb and hurt as he thundered into the assassin's skull. He didn't stop, he didn't want to stop.

Fifty years of marriage. Half his lifetime dedicated to their political cause, an endeavor he could never imagine doing without Tellerie.

It ended with an assassin's dagger in the lower decks, and he screamed all his rightous anger as he found the assassin dead, his face an unrecognizable mask of gore and twisted meat and bone.

He didn't even notice that he was cut in multiple places, and didn't care. He had one thought on his mind.

"Tellerie..." He wimpered, exhaustion taking over, Selkir's hands reaching out to support the spent Socialist. He let himself go in a fit of hiccups, his grief overwhelming him.

It was the first time he cried since he was exiled from Vulcan, and this time it felt worse.

********

When his wounds were treated at the local clinic, his work was not over. There was still damage control, and like a heavy burden he took it with sagged shoulders and silence. He ordered Selkir to get reinforcements to help take Tellerie to the clinic and to flush the body of the assassin out of the airlock. The assassin didn't even get the indignity of having his body looted of his valuable, so much he was a pariah that the Socialist redshirts wanted his body gone and forgotten. They had kept the rapier and the dagger that felled their comrades, Selkir insisting they keep them as symbols of Tellerie's martyrdom.

It a morbid way, Selkir's actions made sense, but he wanted to see none of them. It kept reminding him of his loss, repeatedly ripping his heart out.

When he came to his communal living space, he was meet by Tellerie's sister, Tellan and her grandmother Ogina. Both kept a stoic bravery, but could not stop the tears that fell before by their stained faces, and could not stop them when Vennetir hugged them both, sobbing like a newborn babe, feeling so sorry for their loss. He blamed himself, told them himself between cried, but in the hug they embraced themselves in the grandmother and the sister could only say they did not blame Vennetir. Ogina cried for the loss of her grandson and cried for Vennetir's loss of his husband. Tellan cried, but in her anquish there was a visible undercurrent of seething resentment, towards the nobles that sent the assassin (most likely), to the assassin that wanted her brother dead, to the whole system that Tellerie fought to change but would not see changed in his life. Like Vennetir, she wanted revenge.

All he could to was whisper to her. "Wait." He said. She shoved away angrily, demanded instant revenge, damned Vennetir for being so cold as to deny her brother rightful justice, and ran to her communal bunk to cry.

"Wait." He said again. In his sadness he grew an idea.

There was no doubt that Tellerie was the love of his life. Amano wasn't even close, and he had all but forgotten her all these ages ago. Tellerie saw him through a tough time in his life, helped him accept who he was. Tellerie never judged him harshly in the world that would have not wanted to see the two together. They not only were in love, but had the world recognize it through fifty years of acceptance, and even though it was not acceptable to regular society, they were able to create an environment where they both were free to be with each other.

From that idea grew the tenants of the Socialists. Equality for all, no matter whom or what they were, and equal prosperity for all. For fifty years he fought for that dream made out of one idea. He did it without resorting to terrorism like so many sects, without violence they premeditated. They fought, and fought hard, but never were they aggressive. They looked out for their own, and for the people they represented.

Tellerie's noble dream would not die.

An incident like this was more than a good reason to start the revolution. Vennetir would give Tellerie a funeral worthy of the love of his life and the love of so many of their comrades. He would hold a march in the main promenade area, through rich and poor sectors, the body of their beloved leader paraded openly, and in numbers so big it would be hard to ignore. He wanted the nobles to see what they did, and the working class to be enraged that their hero was taken.

He was a martyr of the cause now, and in his death would be...

...revolution.

"T'Karita, Part 1"

Ariennye (John Davidson)
Farmer

****
Jaeih's Family Estate
Vulcan
2.5 Years BL
****

It was something he hadn't expected; that Jaeih's father hadn't had him executed or thrown in the deepest pit after he had found them in bed together. In fact, he hadn't even raised his voice. And that had worried him more than if he had.

All he had said upon seeing the two lovers huddling under the sheets after being caught was simply for him to get dressed and meet him in his private study. And despite Jaeih's reservations, he changed hurriedly and walked confidently towards her father's sanctum. He loved her more than life itself and he wasn't about to let her father take that away from him. So with that in mind, he strode as 'royally' as he could, even though as a simple commoner, no one would see him worthy of Jaeih. All except her that was.

"Son," he started as he indicated the seat next to his, "you are a commoner. In the eyes of many, including myself, you are not worthy of my daughter, yet she is my only child, and her happiness is of most importance to me."

Ariennye was startled at his words, such that he didn't know what to say. So he just sat there.

"What I am trying to say is this.... As you currently are not of noble blood, there is no way you may continue seeing my daughter. I'm sorry." If his plan worked, the young man before him was not going to be a problem for long.

"Sir, I don't care that I am a commoner, nor does Jaeih. She loves me and I love her. That's all that matters."

Jaeih's father shook his head. "It is not all that matters. The people will not stand for it. Trust me, I know from experience. My first love was a commoner and the stress on the both of us from the people was too much for us to bear."

Ariennye shook his head. "Love is all that matters. There is nothing wrong with being a commoner."

"Son, if you truly love my daughter, you'll leave and never come back."

Ariennye sighed and sank back into the soft leather chair. "I can't do that. I love her too much to hurt her like that."

"What would you do to have her in your life?"

Ariennye looked her father in the eye. "Anything and Everything. I'd give my life for her."

Jaeih's father smiled. "If you truly want her, then you have to do something so amazing as to make the people forget that you are a commoner. And there is something that you can do." he paused, enticing him slightly. "If you're willing, of course...."

Ariennye was getting nervous now. "What do you have in mind?"

"Have you heard of the Orb of T'Karita?"

Ariennye shook his head. He had not heard of it before.

"Well draw your chair closer and I'll tell you about it."

Ariennye stood and pulled the chair closer before sitting back down.

"My great, great grandfather, a noble of impeccable character fell in love with a commoner once, despite his father's objections. And so in love with this woman was he that he defied everyone who would see either of them harm over her being a commoner. Much like, I would guess you. Something happened to the woman, which I'll talk about in a minute, but the ramifications were that he designed and built an amazing owl shaped orb of solid obsidian, and named it T'Karita; the Orb of T'Karita, after the woman he loved and lost." her father paused to sip his drink.

He continued, "Of such beauty was this artifact that any who bore sight of it were instantly transfixed upon it's beauty, much like he was to T'Karita."

****
The Farm where he works
TalValen
****

Ariennye toed his boot through the remnants of the crop. Flakes of ash and burnt crop broke off with every movement of his foot, billowing up in a small cloud before settling down upon his boot and the surrounding ground.

What a waste.

Six months worth of crop gone in the blink of an eye. Half a year down the drain. All that hard work... Ariennye couldn't fathom why anyone would want to burn the food crop. It was pointless. Without food everyone, even those who caused this horrendous deed, would starve. Sure they might have horded food to survive for a while, but eventually even that would end. Shaking his head, he wondered what would happen as a result.

Kicking the ground, a huge puff of dirt, ash and plant flew up, causing Ariennye to take a step back to avoid choking on the putrid material.

The entire plot of crop that he had been tending had gone up in smoke as a result of the fire and looking about, he could see large swathes of burnt crop as far as he could see. It was all ruined and he had no idea how anyone was going to survive.

****
The Wastelands
Vulcan
2 Years BL
****

Ariennye kicked at the rock strewn ground as he trudged along. For the last six months he had been trudging through the rocky terrain of the Fire Plains, and now the Wastelands as he hunted for the object that he needed to get back to the one thing in his life that meant more to him than anything else ever had; Jaeih Tei; the love of his life.

After her father had told him of how the artifact had been lost over the years as his grandfather and his commoner wife had been travelling across the Fire Plains, he had gone to Jaeih to tell her the news. Though skeptical of her father's dealings, she knew that, should it turn out to be true, and Ariennye could find the orb, that they would finally be able to be together as one, in love, life and harmony; never fearing what others thought. IF he could find it. And as far as she was concerned, it was going to be a hard task.

Still, not two days later, with a full pack on his back, he gave Jaeih a long parting kiss and turned towards the dusty swirling mass of dirt and wind that formed the Fire Plains. If he had known that Jaeih's father had sent his two best trackers after Ariennye, to observe him and make sure, if he did find the Orb of T'Karita, that he should not survive long for the world. That they would be paid handsomely for his death and the return of the artifact.

Watching a rock scuttle away, bounding over and over, he sighed. He missed Jaeih so much. Perhaps this hadn't been the best idea. Leaving her alone for months while he searched with no luck for an object that her father could have made up for their little discussion. Would it be better to just go back, and live a life of hiding their love for one another from the world? Would she want that? Would he?

He sighed again. No he had to carry on. He owed her that much. If only he could find a clue to the Orb's whereabouts...

****
The Farm where he works
TalValen
****

Crouching down Ariennye brushed the ash off a small green shoot. At least something had survived the flames and the heat. Though not much of an expert, he was pretty sure the small shoot was a small root plant that was often used in a broth like meal, rather than a weed.

He sighed. It wasn't like it was going to survive there by itself for very long. Especially not with all the soon to be starving families aboard the ship.

Pulling a small shovel from his belt, he gently pried it from the ground, ensuring to get a large quantity of dirt. Better to take too much than hurt the plant by taking too little he had been taught when he started his farming job. Gently placing the plant in a pouch, he drew the drawstring protecting it.

"Ariennye!" Someone called out.

He turned to look at the man who approached his location. It was his boss.

"Sir?" He replied, figuring that he wanted something.

"We need to talk."

"I'm listening." Something in his voice gave Ariennye a bad feeling. The next part confirmed it.

"Ari, I'm sorry, but the Fire has destroyed too much for me to keep the current level of staffing. And since you're one of the newer employees, you're the first to go." He stopped short of Ariennye, making sure that he would have to take several steps if he wanted to slug him. "I'm sorry."

Ariennye shrugged. "I figured as much given the amount of destroyed crop."

"I'm sorry."

Ariennye sighed. "Don't worry about it. When do you want me to end my tenure with you?"

"Is now too early for you?"

Ariennye stood staring at him. He wasn't mad, nor was he angry. He was just wondering what the man was going do with so much devastation around him. Reaching down, he unbuckled his tool belt, pulled his drawstring bag, containing the plant from it, and handed the tools to the boss before heading for the exit.

At least he was getting an afternoon off for once. Even if it was due to his losing his job.

****
The Wastelands
Vulcan
6 Months BL
****

Finally a clue had dropped into his lap, literally. An elderly man had tripped over a loose rock and stumbled into Ariennye as he sat in a rundown old bar taking a rest from his arduous journey.

A man who had seen the Orb not five weeks past.

{{OOC: Note that this take splace 90 years AL, when the Talvalen reaches the water-covered planet Dave mentioned in his OOC broadcast, whereas my ongoing plot arc with Dallas takes place 35 years earlier and shortly after the agrodeck fire.}}

"Wet"

Sotha, Az Shiber second in command (Saul Bental)
Eela, Assassin (Ella Grey)

***
Water Planet
Ocean of Valen
90 years after launch
***

The harpoon hit the water near the speedboat's stern, sending ripples and shaking the two Rihanssu. Sotha grabbed the stirring stick as though his life depended on it.

In fact, it did.

He sent the boat into a brutal left turn. The engine roared, its water jet creating a pretty greenish-white trail behind it.

"Sotha!" Eela yelled but her voice was barely heard over the noise of the engine.

"Hold on!"

He pulled the twin throttle handles. The boat protested, but it leapt out of the water and lost most of its speed at the same time. One of the armed crafts bypassed them. Sotha spotted the craft's surprised helmsman, trying feverishly to turned around his own boat. Eela took care of the problem by throwing a small grenade at the other man.

"Eela!!" Sotha's shout nearly vanished beneath the cacophony of waves, engines and weapons.

"What?!?"

"Is THIS a picnic??"

***
Talvalen
Two days earlier
***

"Will you be going down to the planet?" Eela asked Sotha. It was rare to spend time with the man these days - what with politics, fires, and untimely demises to distribute - and for some reason the absence annoyed her.

He seemed distant, absent minded, and the reply took an unusually long time.

"I want to." There was no point hiding it. Some people developed fear of open spaces in the decades that passed since the Talvalen launched, but the vast majority was eager to set foot on real soil. "I doubt my 'work' will take me there, so I will probably have to 'orchestrate' something. Yourself?"

Eela frowned. "I don't know. Maybe." If only to remember what a planet was like; she'd spent most of her life in space.

Sotha didn't seem to pay attention, though and the assassin made an irritated noise. "What is it? Stop brooding and tell me."

"What, people aren't allowed to brood now?", He snapped.

"Not when they do it constantly, no," She shot back.

"Is that so?!"

The truth was that the dilemma kept eating him from the inside, always present like a bag full of stones that is strapped to your shoulders. Some times he wished he had declined the Az Shiber director's command to infiltrate the underground.

He did not intend to share his inner thoughts with the assassin. She perhaps wasn't cautious enough around him, as she did tell him the names of the people which were important to her. But he was not going to make that mistake, despite the fact that he did not perceive her as an immediate threat.

"I'm sorry." He murmured. "You know what? You convinced me. Let's go to the planet together. I'll pull some strings, it shouldn't be difficult."

Eela crossed her arms. "What possible reason would I want to go down there with you? Unless there's someone going that you need me to kill, I don't see the point."

Sotha spread his arms with despair. Sometimes, his go-to assassin really acted like an updeck girl, with her pointy nose up in the sky.

"I'm offering my most pleasant company. Not many people on board this vessel will receive such a generous offer in their lifetime. No, I don't have plans to make anyone 'disappear' planet side. But if you prepare to go alone or with someone else ..." He shrugged.

The thought was almost laughable. Chulak would never leave his precious engines- unless it helped them - and who knew what Ahn'vahr thought about it. "What would we do down there? Take a picnic?"

"Picnic? What do you mean?"

The assassin rolled her eyes. "It was a joke, Sotha. It just means that I don't know what we'd do on the planet if we're not working."

"The same thing you were doing when I first met you. Surely you're curious about what's out there."

"I suppose," Eela said. "Yes."

"There you have it."

"A quick trip then," She said with a nod. "Sure, why not?"

Sotha bowed, perhaps too theatrically. "It would be my pleasure."

* * *
Water Planet
Landing Base Shiaro
* * *

"This is not my idea of a vacation," Eela said, wringing out her hair.

Sotha's watched her through semi-closed eyes. The sun was too bright for those who lived almost all their lives in the artificial illumination of the generation ship. The lights seemed to dim even more through the power shortages of the recent decade, leaving the Talvalen's passengers even less prepared to the searing light and burning heat.

"That's the best I could do." Sotha told her.

It was a lie, much like most of the things that came out of his mouth. As the second in command of the Az Shiber, he could arrange a much more comfortable voyage to the planet side. Instead, Eela and himself were now operating heavy mechanical equipment for the Talvalen's scientists. There were many worse forms of labor, Sotha reckoned, and this way he could also avoid the eyes of those who knew him both from the lower decks and the upper echelons of the ship's intelligence and security organizations.

"This is so different from home." He continued. 'Home' was but a distant memory, eroded in the winds of time. "I think I like it, so much water. And they taste salty too."

"Too much water," Eela muttered, throwing back her hair so that it slapped him in the face. She almost wished she'd kept it in the popular style, if only so that it wouldn't drip down her back. Eela turned to throw out another comment and then laughed at the expression on Sotha's now wet face. "You said you liked the water."

Sotha snorted. Both he and Eela were over a century old now, and still they seemed to act like small children when no one was watching. Perhaps, he thought, it was because they didn't have much time to be children when they were young.

Luckily, the raft was made of six interlacing plates, which meant that from his seat at the control of the crane, all Sotha needed to get to the water was to bend to the left. Old bones grumbled, but he ignored them and splashed his hand in a windmill motion, sending sprays of ocean water into Eela's face.

"Nothing in the contract prevents THAT." He murmured.

It was all out war after that and by the end Eela may have looked like something dragged up from the depths of the ocean but at least she had him pinned. The assassin grinned. "Admit defeat."

Sotha's eyes flashed. "Never!", his competitive nature kicked in.

"Come on, admit it!"

"Make me."

What happened next would have seemed inevitable to anyone else passing by but Eela couldn't have said what made her leaned forward to kiss him hard on the mouth.

Sotha collaborated, the tension in his body relaxing. He dared not to move his arms and wrap them around her, fearing that the moment would vanish. Her wet hair touched his face, tickling, inviting.

The assassin pushed away abrubtly, because something felt off. Namely the Loras in her head wasn't screaming in fear. "Huh."

"I admit." He smiled sheepishly. "Can we do this again now?"

Eela bit her lip - realized he had been right about the salt - and then slowly nodded.

"Good..." Sotha's words faded as he bent upwards, once again tasting the salt on her sweet lips.

And so it was that two of the most cautious people on board the Talvalen did not realize that they were being watched.

"Uncle James Wants You!"

By Petty Officer 2nd Class Benedict "Max" Maxwell,
NCOIC Emergency Medical Response Team (Current Status: Prisoner #8813-E419M25)
USS Galaxy

Starfleet Recruitment Center, Times Square, New York, Earth, May 2378

Traffic as always for the past four to five hundred years, no matter what the conveyance, was atrocious as one took their life into their own hands crossing the street. Which is exactly what Max was doing as he dodged taxi cabs and buses to get across the 7th Avenue side of Times Square. He made up his mind as to the next step in his life before he beamed into the Port Authority building just a block away.

Medics Without Borders had been a great experience, at times harrowing and even depressing. From Cardassia to Bajor and even into the Badlands, various colonies and worlds that have experienced disaster and disease. He's traveled a small part of the galaxy, but wanted top do something more, wanted to be a part of something bigger. Now he stood in front of a structure that was over four hundred years old. Max took a deep breath and went inside.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"So you'd like to enlist in Starfleet," asked the recruiter, one Chief Petty Officer Allen Wrigley. "Well, I'd like to first welcome you to an opportunity to see the Galaxy in a whole new perspective while exploring the outer reaches and helping protect our borders. There are several assignments and positions available that we can train you for." Wrigley paused to consider Max and saw that he wasn't just some young kid just out of high school. "Let me ask you, any idea of what you'd like to do?"

"Hmm," asked Max, caught off guard as he tuned the recruiter out during his monologue greeting.

The recruiter decided to make a mental note that Max may not exactly be the attentive type.

"I was asking if there was a particular job you'd like to have in Starfleet?"

Max seemed to give this serious thought and after a few moments looked the recruiter in the eye and replied, "Commanding a starship would be nice." Max finished his sarcastic answer with a smile and a wink. CPO Wrigley's initial response was to throw this guy out of the recruiting center, but he experience and wisdom tempered that desire into a laugh that Max joined in on.

"No, in all seriousness I was actually thinking of doing something in the medical field. Like a Medic or Med Tech, depending on what your equivalent is."

Wrigley nodded and tapped a few commands into the computer on his desk.

He nodded again and said, "Well we actually do have a program for basic and advanced medical technicians. You can either do the basic first and come back for the advanced program, or we can pipeline you and you spend a year and a half through both programs after basic training. How's that sound?"

Max nodded. "That sounds great, but I'm already a Paramedic. In fact I hold a Bachelor's degree in Paramedicine, and have about four years of operational experience, both here in New York and in space."

Allen Wrigley's eyebrows rose to full height, obviously impressed with Max's credentials. He held up a finger and turned back to his computer. A moment later he nodded and focused back on Max.

"We have a fast track equivalency program for people with prior training, education, and experience. It would only be for three months to bring you up to speed on our protocols, a short course in basic xenobiology, and an evaluation to confirm your abilities. But I doubt you'll have any problems with that, right?"

Max shook his head and pulled out a data PADD to hand over to Wrigley "I think this you'll need. It has my full educational and professional resume on it." Wrigley activated the PADD and quickly skimmed the information it contained. Then he seemed to focus on something, and then looked at Max with a shrewd look.

"It says here that you went to Stony Brook's school of Medicine. Why didn't you finish?"

Max hesitated. "I'd rather not talk about it, if that's okay with you."

"Uh-huh," murmured Wrigley, who then thought to himself, Probably couldn't cut it.

He probably thinks that I couldn't cut it, thought Max. The truth of the matter was he was doing well until the pressures and stress of his ex-wife Darla caught up with him, causing him to lose focus and drop out of school.

Wrigley already had his patented welcome smile back on his face and once again nodded. Max was beginning to wonder if the man had Tourettes or recurrent petit mal seizures.

"At any rate," Wrigley was saying, "I'm sure you'll do fine in Starfleet. Let me see when the next class goes in for basic training." A few more taps on his console revealed the information he was looking for. "Well we have a class going in on June 14th, and another going in on September 3rd. Which one would you prefer?"

"I'd like to go in June, if that's okay," Max answered. Wrigley nodded yet again. "Well, we just have to do some paperwork, verify your credentials and you'll be all set to go."

Twenty minutes later, Wrigley proffered his hand and said, "Welcome to Starfleet, son"

“Slip of the Tongue”

Kythus (Keldan), Civilian

Talvalen, 65 Years After Launch

Minister Yalak had spoken eloquently. Had it not been for Baran’s warnings, Kythus might have taken him more seriously. But now, every word that came from the man’s mouth seemed to belie some hidden truth or secret agenda. Now, as Yalak stood there lavishing praise upon Kythus’ work and reiterating to the nobles of House Methir what an excellent choice they had made, Kythus wanted only to vomit. He’d rather be back in his workshop, but realized that playing along with these pompous fools was going to be the only way to get to the truth.

The words of Baran, the would-be assassin, still resonated in his mind, though it had been days since their encounter in Kythus’ workshop. Baran had made it plain that Yalak was not to be trusted. In the intervening time Kythus had found no reason not to trust Baran’s words and had, in fact, verified some of what he had been told. Yalak, it seemed, did owe his appointment to the ministry through favors from House Methir. Several times during the sumptuous meal that had been prepared Yalak had made inquiries to Kythus’ father’s dealings in heading the civilian governing council, on pretense of being fascinated by politics. Kythus had thrown the inquisitive man a lead or two and given him reason to think that he himself was rather unhappy about the current state of civilian government affairs, just to see where the conversation would go.

“I take it you don’t agree with your father’s position on a lot of points, then?” he’d asked.

“I don’t agree with my father on most points, Minister,” was Kythus’ simple reply.

And apparently that was exactly what the good Minister wanted to hear, just as Baran had predicted.

During the course of the evening, Kythus made the rounds of House Methir, meeting what seemed like the entire household. It seemed like an eternity and he silently wondered if all of the noble houses were this disposed to such displays of gluttony and extravagance in their dealings. It was obvious after the first couple hours that the show they put on was mostly for each other…it certainly wasn’t for him. He did have the mild amusement of watching Minister Yalak becoming more and more inebriated as the festivities wore on, his speech becoming more and more slurred and incomprehensible, his gait like an infant’s. But when he saw that some of the other party-goers were having far too much fun at Yalak’s expense, Kythus steered him toward a table to get him out of the limelight.

“I told them you were the right person for the job, you know,” Yalak said, half stumbling into his chair.

“Yes, Minister, your speech was quite flattering. Everyone in House Methir seemed quite impressed by it.”

Yalak waved and shook his head. “Oh, that was nothing… I. Yes.” He straightened himself, trying to look dignified. “They said you wouldn’t, but I knew you would. They aren’t very trusting you… know.”

Kythus looked around at the throngs and nodded his assessment. No, there wasn’t much trust in this room. He imagined everyone in the room with hidden daggers in their clothing, just waiting for the right moment to pull them and strike.

“You’ve been very wise in your dealings with the artist so far, my Lord.”

Kythus turned around, expecting to see the head of house Methir behind him. Then he smiled, realizing that Yalak was so drunk that he had mistaken his identity. He decided to play along with the ruse. “I am sure his work will be a great asset to the House, Minister.”

Yalak waved off the comment and belched. “Still, he could pose a threat. If he does not play his part he may have to be dealt with like that security woman who was poking around.”

“Minister?!”

Yalak blinked twice. “Yes?”

Kythus was suddenly very aware of how tightly he was gripping the table, but did his best to remain composed. “What security woman that was killed? Who are you talking about?”

Yalak was obviously confused. “You remember, the security woman the Council sent to spy on you.” Suddenly Yalak looked flustered, then a little afraid. He looked around nervously, then dropped his volume by half. “Forgive me, my Lord. I know only what you tell me. There have been no reper… repra… repercussions. I think her removal sent the civilian council the message you intended.”

“Indeed. That is….as it should be.” It was the only reply he could muster. Kythus’ brain was awash in emotion and confusion.

How had the civilian council been involved with Salara’s death? What had she been doing that House Methir had decided to eliminate her? Kythus felt his blood begin to boil. It was time to find some real answers.

It was time to pay his father a visit.

"Waking"
Part 1

(Takes Place Immediately After 'The Color Of Life, The Color Of Death')

Chulak Vardek, Prime Engineer (Victor Krieghoff)
Sakonna Vardek, Chulak's Wife (Tarin Iniara)

****
Talvalen
~90 Years After Departure
Chulak and Sakonna's Quarters
****

Victor drifted in the hazy area between sleep and wakefulness, floating on the ocean of his thoughts, and wondered where he was. Not just in the immediate, physical sense, he could tell that: he was lying in a bed. And there were drugs in his system, he knew the signs well enough from all his trips to Sickbays around the fleet over the years. Pretty good drugs too, from the light-headed way he was feeling. The larger 'where' though, that was something he didn't know. Where was the bed? It wasn't home, it wasn't on the Galaxy; the brief glimpse of the room and its furnishings he'd had before passing out had told him that. The walls were different; they had structural reinforcements that no wall on the Galaxy possessed, and the furnishings were too opulent, not the clean designs that Starfleet used.

He mulled the idea of where over, and suddenly, as if he'd known all along and had just forgotten, he knew where he was: Talvalen. He was on the ship Talvalen. Except that he'd never heard of any ship named the Talvalen. But he'd lived and worked on her for over fifty years. Which, of course, was clearly impossible, since he hadn't turned thirty-five yet, much less the seventy or eighty he'd need to be to have worked at one job for fifty-odd years.

So why did he think that he had? And why did he know that he was on a ship he'd never heard of? And why did he know that his name was Chulak Vardek and that he was an engineer... no the *Prime* Engineer. for the ship he hadn't heard of? And that his father's name was Sulaed, and that his mother was dead, and that he thought that he was insane?

That last was at least something that Victor understood.

So why did he remember all these things? Too many things, too many detailed things. So many that he seemed to have an additional other person's life inside his head, their memories intertwined with his own. That wasn't possible of course, but that was what it felt like.

Well, the memories, the experiences seemed to be there, so it was obviously possible, no matter what he thought about the issue. Obviously who or whatever had done this to him hadn't seen fit to consult him beforehand. He pushed the stranger's memories - Although if they were stuck in his head, could they really belong to a stranger anymore? Didn't they belong to him, now? - aside and tried to think. How could something like this have happened? What was the last thing that he remembered?

Fighting a fire? No, that was Chulak.

An Away Team mission? Yes, that was right. He'd been on an Away Team mission, and there had been a problem, some kind of a storm, and they'd beamed up from the planet because... because... because something had been coming. Something... dead. Something powerful and dead. The memories came back to him in a rush. A cloud or storm of death... no of the *dead* - that was it - a storm of the *dead* had been coming at them and had overtaken the ship as they beamed aboard.

But how had they done this? Were they possessing everyone? To what end? The memories inside him weren't right for something like the Diparthu, trying to steal bodies to live on. They were just. there. Like he'd lived it, lived the life of this Chulak person. Like someone had opened up the top of Victor's head and poured Chulak into it. Like he had Chulak's soul or his essence, or whatever it was the Vulcans called the part of themselves they stuck in someone else when they were dying.

Vulcans. That was... right... somehow. Vulcan. Burning hot air. Dry deserts. Vulcan. Chulak had been a Vulcan and what was inside Victor's head was his... katra. That was what they called it, the katra. He had Chulak's katra. Chulak's soul. Chulak's... self.

So, how the hell did that happen?

****

Her legs were killing her.

An entire night and most of the next day had passed since Chulak had returned home. Since he had returned to her, broken and bleeding and needing her help. Since she had tried to leave him, and he had collapsed, and...

And she was letting her mind run away again.

Sakonna opened her eyes and looked down at her husband, trying to ignore the pain in her legs. A night and most of a day had passed since Chulak had collapsed, and she had been at his side ever since then. The chair with its plush green cushion was comfortable enough, but not even soft cushions could stave off the inevitable tingling of the legs that came with sitting in one place for such an extended time. But she was determined not to leave. She had left him once, and with dire consequences...she would stay here until he awoke. And if that took days, well...she would endure. It was the least she could do.

He looked so peaceful, lying there asleep, surrounded by pillows the color of a desert sunset. The lines in his face had softened, and for a moment she thought he almost looked young again. The silk comforter had been pulled up to his chest and one arm was laid straight on top of it, the palm of his hand facing upward. Under his pushed-up sleeve Sakonna could just make out the end of the long needle which had been inserted into his arm just below the elbow. If she looked closely enough she thought she could almost see the slow pulse of the medication as it traveled up the thin tube, through the needle, and into his body.

She didn't understand enough about medicine to know exactly what was in the bag hanging from the bedpost, although Maren had done her best to explain it. The names had been beyond her ability to remember or even correctly pronounce, but she knew that in the slow drip of milky white fluid flowing into her husband there was a mild sedative to help him sleep, an anti-inflammatory to help with his damaged lung, and an anti-coagulant to help with the blood clots.

The blood clots.

According to Maren, that was what had caused it. There had been bleeding in the lung, it had clotted, and somehow the clot had broken off and traveled to his brain. The clot had cut off the blood supply there, causing the pain, the convulsions, everything. He'd had a stroke.

Maren had tried to explain what that meant as well. They wouldn't know how much damage had been done until Chulak woke up, she had told Sakonna. He could be perfectly normal...or he could have some coordination issues, trouble speaking, trouble moving around. If the worst had happened, whole parts of his brain could have atrophied in the precious few seconds that had passed before the medical team had arrived. He could be mute, he could be blind, he could be a completely different person from the man she had known and loved for all these years. Or he could remain asleep forever.

There was simply no way to know, Maren had told her. Not without consulting a telepath.

Sakonna's hand clenched into a fist as she remembered the argument that suggestion had touched off. Like most sensible people she was suspicious of telepaths, considering them to be little more than abominations of nature, damaged freaks that had no place in their new society. There was no way to regulate them, no way to know that when they were inside a person's head they were just looking around and not rewriting important components of the person's subconscious. And the only way to control them was with stronger telepaths.

No, there would be no telepaths poking around in her husband's mind. Not as long as she was still alive to stop them.

****

So how had he wound up with Chulak's katra stuck inside him? It wasn't the sort of thing that happened to people every day - even on the Galaxy. Even to him.

That was a good question, and it meant that he needed to think about it. He didn't mind thinking about it, but he had to admit that generally he was better with situations that were more direct in nature. Stop this crime. Catch this terrorist. Defend the ship. Kill whoever - or whatever - was threatening his shipmates this week. Abstract issues dealing with existence were... well, they weren't really the sort of thing he concerned himself with. It looked like he was going to have to start being concerned though.

Okay, Katras. How had he gotten one stuck inside him, and where was he?

The cloud. The cloud could have been where this happened. He'd known it was composed of the dead - he always knew things like that. No, the cloud, think about the cloud. The dead. Katra were how the Vulcans preserved their memories after death. Cloud. Dead. Katras. That had to be it. The cloud had been a mass of katras, a tremendous group of Vulcan souls, desperate to attach themselves to someone to avoid oblivion.

All right, that made some sort of sense anyway.

Setting aside the problem of how the Katra Cloud had gotten on that God-forsaken planet in the first place, why did he have one? He wasn't a Vulcan. Were the katras in the cloud so desperate that they just latched onto everyone? Could they? He thought about that for either a minute or an hour; the exact amount of time didn't seem that important at the moment. Hadn't Ambassador Spock done that to one of his friends in an emergency? Admiral Scott, maybe? It had something to do with Engineering so that sounded right, anyway. Okay, so humans could accept katras.

So why had he not looked like himself when he'd sat up before falling back like this? He was used to his body and the way it moved and reacted - and it hadn't. There were aches in places that he'd never had them, a rasping pain in one lung - his left, of course - that even the cheap forced-growth transplant Starfleet had given him during the Dominion War had never produced. This felt more like the damage he'd done breathing methane-tainted air back on Breen, which probably explained the drugs he was on. Except he'd never been to Breen, he'd only lived on Vulcan and Talvalen, and...

That was Chulak again, though. Not him.

If that kept up, this whole katra thing was going be damned annoying.

****

She couldn't understand why Maren had suggested they consult a telepath. As a scientist and doctor, Sakonna thought Maren would have been even more distrustful of telepaths than she had been. What could have caused it, then?

Perhaps it was because of her close relationship with Chulak? As the only child of Sulaed Vardek's younger brother Sakar, Maren Vardek had considered Chulak more of a big brother than a first cousin. Maren had been visibly shaken by Chulak's condition when she had first arrived on the scene, Sakonna remembered. Perhaps then it was simply concern for her older "brother" that had caused her to suggest such a plan of action?

Or perhaps she didn't really know what was wrong with him?

The body scans had been inconclusive; Maren had said so herself, though not without a little disbelief. The burns had been easy to diagnose purely through visual means, and Chulak's rough breathing had indicated a lung problem which showed up clearly on the scans. But the blood clots that had caused the stroke? Nowhere to be found. And that was the strange part; there were *supposed* to be clots. Somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, she knew that was what was supposed to happen. But how?

And if there had been no blood clots, what had caused the stroke? Had it even been a stroke, or something else? If it hadn't been a stroke, what had really happened?

Had something happened to his mind? Was that why Maren had wanted to send for a telepath? If something had happened to his mind, had damaged his psyche in some unknown way, how would that affect him? The last words out of his mouth before he collapsed had been in some guttural not-language, a string of sounds that had sounded almost like questions, although the rough, clipped sounds had borne no resemblance to any words she had ever heard. Was that a side effect of whatever had happened? If-- no, when-- he woke, would he even be able to speak? Would he even understand her?

Would he even know her name?

Like Maren had said, there was simply no way to know. Not without a telepath's help, which of course she would never allow. Not if all the doctors on the whole of Talvalen each asked her a thousand and one times. They would just simply have to wait.

Sakonna exhaled deeply, deliberately relaxing her fist and laying her hand flat against her thigh. Her hand still throbbed from where Chulak had squeezed it so hard, and she wondered if it was a symptom of more than simple bruising. She looked down, flexing the digits experimentally, grimacing slightly as a bolt of pain shot up her arm. If the pain didn't improve by the time Chulak woke up, she might have to ask Maren about it. That would require some diplomacy on her part. The last thing she'd said to the younger woman had been less than pleasant.

TBC

"Waking"
Part 2

(Takes Place Immediately After 'The Color Of Life, The Color Of Death')

Chulak Vardek, Prime Engineer (Victor Krieghoff)
Sakonna Vardek, Chulak's Wife (Tarin Iniara)

****
Talvalen
~90 Years After Departure
Chulak and Sakonna's Quarters
****

He needed to get up. Talvalen needed him, and Sakonna would be worried, and he couldn't ask his father to keep taking care of things.

Okay, that was enough. He wasn't Chulak, not really. He was Victor Heinrich Krieghoff, a Lieutenant Junior Grade in Starfleet, assigned to Security aboard the USS Galaxy. His immediate superior was Commander James Cor... no, he had no superior officer except the ship's captain, and he was an engineer. Stop it - that was Chulak again, damn it. His superior was Commander James Corgan. His Captain was Daren M'Kantu. His wife was Sakonna. No, he didn't have a wife; that was Chulak. He had a girlfriend, and her name was Angelienia. She was Ktarian, and when she kissed him, he thought about doing things with her that... maybe he'd better stop there.

Okay. He'd proved he could sort the memories out, although it was, as he'd thought, damned annoying.

So what was happening? Why was he having to do this? Why wasn't he seeing the Galaxy, when that's where he had to be? It was where he'd been, and he didn't think that even ten or fifteen thousand Vulcan katras could restructure reality to make the ship into something else, and then restructure the vastly more complex structure that was his body, making him into a Vulcan. Could they?

No, that was the stuff of holo-novels and the like. If they'd been that desperate, so close to dissolution that they'd jump up in a cloud and run for the ship like hordes of ancient flat-movie zombies screaming 'Brains!', then they'd not had the power to do that kind of reality alteration. If they had, they'd have just made new bodies for themselves or something like that.

So what was going on?

If this wasn't real in that sense, then what was it? An illusion? No... a memory. That's what this was. That's what katras were: memories. So this was a memory. The katras were sharing themselves with everyone, like a giant communal katra of every minute of every day of their lives, and everyone on the Galaxy had gotten someone's katra to experience, like he was reliving Chulak's memory of the voyage that had gotten his katra stuck on that planet.

But if that were true, then why was he here? Why wasn't he still Chulak? Why had he woken up? That couldn't happen unless... He considered that. Unless Chulak's katra couldn't hold itself together any more? Was that it? It hadn't had the energy to sustain itself past this moment, so it had been absorbed, and he'd woken up? He thought for a minute, and then tried to remember what had happened next, tried to access Chulak's memories of what happened after this attack or stroke or whatever it was... and failed.

They were gone. Everything that had made up Chulak, every moment of his life from this point forward... they were gone. Lost. Destroyed as the katra had fallen apart, or been absorbed, or whatever had happened. Chulak's katra had... died. But he wasn't supposed to have died. He had to have survived this stroke for his katra to be part of the cloud. So... so... so the rest of the katras knew Chulak was supposed to still be here, and their memories of him, their belief that he should be here was keeping Victor here, since he was now Chulak in their eyes because he had Chulak's katra.

If that were true... if that were true, then was he stuck here? Could he force himself out of the communal experience, or would that be bad? Even if he figured out how to do that, would it break the web the Katra Cloud had made? What would happen to the rest of the crew? Would they be okay if that happened? Or would they go mad, or die, or something worse? Could he even risk that?

No. The crew were his to care for, his to protect. He couldn't risk their lives and sanity like that.

But if he couldn't finish breaking out, then what did that mean? Did he have to live out Chulak's life, minute by minute, day by day, year by year, not knowing what was going to happen next, until the communal katra was done passing itself on? Was he going to have to *be* Chulak for... years? Decades, even? Would he have to?

Yes. He would. He'd have to go on living Chulak's life. He'd have to be trapped inside a man he didn't know, living a life that was a lie, for the rest of Chulak's life. And Vulcans lived for a very, very long time.

He'd always know that the Divine had a sense of humor - and that it hated him - but this was beyond anything he'd ever thought of, beyond anything that It had ever done to him before. This was...

He hoped God wouldn't mind if he hated Him back this time.

****

The bruise was spreading.

The mottled greenish-blue splotch was now almost the width of two fingers and it stretched nearly the entire width of her hand, starting at the fleshy area between thumb and forefinger and moving outward from there. The swelling had gone down a bit and now when she moved her fingers she could definitely feel a sharp pain in the hand, just under the darkest part of the bruise. It probably meant she had a hairline fracture on at least one of the bones.

Not good.

Hand injuries were one of the greatest fears of any musician, and Sakonna was no exception. Even when she wasn't playing an instrument she enjoyed working with her hands, be it through cooking, sewing, tending the plants, anything. But she had always been so careful to avoid even the tiniest injuries, as even the most inconsequential scratch or cut would only get much worse when handling an instrument with metal strings.

Sakonna sighed, cradling the bruised hand in her good one as her thoughts turned once more to her husband. Being unable to play for a month would be the least of her worries now. Somehow she knew that when Chulak awoke, everything would change.

No, that wasn't quite right. Everything had changed already. The only uncertainty that remained was whether or not she would be strong enough to handle it. That was what worried her the most. Sakonna prided herself on being a strong woman, more than capable of handling herself in most situations. But there was always the gnawing doubt in the back of her mind, the little bits of fear that chipped away at her self-consciousness from time to time, always threatening to bring it crashing down.

What if Chulak never woke up? What if he did, and he couldn't speak or move or do things for himself? They would be taken care of even if Chulak never returned to work for the rest of his life, both their fathers would see to that, but would she be able to handle it? Would she be able to live with him day after day, caring for his every need, devoting her entire existence to his comfort and his well being, even if he was nothing more than a shell of his former self? Would she be able to set aside her hopes and her dreams, the desire to raise a family, the need to play music, all for one man? Even if he *was* her husband?

And what if it happened again? What if the medicines did nothing and the clots returned? Next time, would it really kill him?

No, that last part was something she knew she couldn't handle. Or could she? If Chulak returned to her as little more than a silent automaton, a puppet dependent entirely on the care of others, would it not be cruel to allow him to continue living like that?

Was death not a better alternative than living such an incomplete life? If that happened, wouldn't he be better off dead?

Her expression suddenly darkened as she realized that, deep down inside her where she kept the worst of her thoughts, in that tiny black part of her soul that never ever saw the light of day, she almost wished that would happen.

****

He was Chulak.

He had to start thinking like that, otherwise he might create too big a disruption, might cause too much stress, and cause the collective katra to collapse, killing everyone aboard, or driving them mad. or worse. So he was Chulak. He was the Prime Engineer for Talvalen, a colony ship that had left Vulcan looking for a new world. That meant that he was probably a proto-Romulan, then, since that's how the Romulan Star Empire had gotten its start, but Chulak thought of himself as Vulcan - or he had back when he could do things like think - so he was a Vulcan.

Chulak was also... married.

Not happily married, at least not by any standard that he considered likely. Not happy the way that he and Angelienia were, even, and they weren't married, just dating. But married... with all that entailed. Dinner with his wife. Talking to her. Sharing a life... and a bed. Doing... doing the kind of things that he'd only done the once. The kind of things he'd have to keep on doing. For years. Decades, until they reached that planet.

God would just have to get over being hated.

Who was she? he wondered. Who was Sakonna? Was she someone he knew? Angelienia, maybe? If that were the case, then maybe it wouldn't feel like he was betraying his girl if he... no *when* he had to do that. Chulak and Sakonna were married, and they were trying to have children. Sakonna wanted them very much. Chulak... there was something about Chulak and children...

No, that was gone too.

But what if she weren't Angelienia under that face? What if she were someone else? Lieutenant Grey, maybe? Or Lieutenant London of the unchosen nickname? T'lan, from Security? The blonde girl from the armory, Alli? Doctor Burton? Someone he didn't even know? What if she weren't even a woman? What if there was a man under Sakonna's face? Commander Corgan, or the Captain, or Commander Rex? He shied away from that idea. The situation was bad enough without making it even worse.

Whoever she was, he hoped that she was as kind and gentle and understanding as Chulak's memories made her seem. He was going to need that to make this work. For him to.... For them to.. What if they had children? What would he do then? Children were always terrified of him. How would he...? No, stop that. He was doing it again, making things worse.

She was Angelienia. She had to be Angelienia. Even God wasn't that cruel.

****

Sakonna looked towards the ceiling, the subdued lighting still stinging her eyes as she fought to rein in her evil thoughts. How had she allowed herself to descend to that level, and so quickly? Doubt was a terrible thing, she reminded herself, and this was not the first time it had almost sabotaged her. She would just have to be stronger than it. She would be strong for her husband. Even if he never woke again, she would be strong for him. He would expect nothing less.

But if he did wake, what would she say to him? 'Hello'? 'Welcome back'? 'Lord Valen sends his thanks'? 'Maren says you shouldn't have wired the console the way you did'?

The possibilities were endless and yet Sakonna knew she wouldn't have the time to adequately prepare for the moment. Something moved in the corner of her eye. It was her husband's hand. Powerless to stop the few tears that trickled from her eyes upon seeing that tiny movement she reached forward, gently covering his hand with hers. He would want to know that she was still here, waiting for him.

****

Someone was holding his hand.

Part of him knew it was Sakonna, and part of him prayed that it was someone else entirely behind whatever face she wore, but both of the people in his head agreed that he should open his eyes and wake up. He'd been lying here long enough.

Victor opened his eyes and blinked once as they focused on the woman sitting there, and decided that Chulak's memories hadn't lied about how attractive she was. She was looking at him, waiting. Why? What was she...? Oh, of course. She was waiting to see if he was really awake, if her husband was still inside his body, or if a stranger would be looking out at her.

He doubted that she'd ever considered that the answer to both questions was the same.

What should he say? There was probably something perfect, something special that would ease her mind, would make her think everything was going to be all right. What that was, though, was something unknown to either Victor or Chulak. So, instead, he simply said the first words that came to his mind.

"Sie sehen müde aus."

No, that was wrong - he was speaking German again. He had to speak... whatever it was that she and Chulak spoke. Victor tried again, speaking slower, letting Chulak's memories provide the words he needed.

"You look tired."

Relief washed over Sakonna then. It clearly took effort on his part, but he remembered how to use language. The strange other words, though they had returned, were probably an effect of the stroke, an effect which she hoped would go away over time.

Silence hung in the air for a moment before she smiled, the expression only partially erasing the sadness in her eyes. "Welcome back," she began, her voice barely louder than the rustling of her silk skirts as she leaned towards Chulak. "How do you feel?"

There was only one answer to that, although he didn't think that she'd understand more than the most obvious meaning. "I'm awake."

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