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Chapter Text

"Petty Officers Dixson and Hill." Lieutenant JG Taurik looked up from his PADD. "We will be putting in at Starbase 234 in three months for refit. Please review hull plating and requisition for replacement with projections. Any questions?"

The small assembly of engineers made no sound. Some of them shook their heads.

"You are dismissed."

The eight engineers, three ensigns, and five petty officers of varying degree, split off to do their assigned tasks for the evening. Lieutenant Lorian was on the deck above, already engrossed in his work, though he had made a reassuring eye-contact with Taurik just before he convened the shift briefing.

He had never given a shift briefing independently before, and appreciated the opportunity. He'd arrived ten minutes early to review the schedule. He knew everyone assigned to the shift well. After six months on the evening shift, he was familiar with everyone's strengths and weaknesses, with whom they worked well and with whom they wasted time. He compared his list against the maintenance schedule and devised a plan to maximize efficiency.

Lieutenant Lorian had given him a few notes and good luck before returning to his station upstairs. As a Deltan, he was somewhat self-conscious among members of other species and had been coaching Taurik to lead the shift since his promotion four months ago. Taurik hoped that Lieutenant Lorian found him, as a Vulcan, easier to work with.

As Taurik was about to return to his own duties, a familiar hand clapped his shoulder. "How you feeling, Taurik?"

Taurik turned to see Lieutenant Commander La Forge, friendly and familiar as always. He schooled his amusement into something more respectful—as Commander La Forge asking a how one felt was as much an idiom as the sweet taste of Counselor Troi's singular tooth. He was asking if Taurik considered himself prepared for the task of leadership.

"I believe everyone will perform the duties assigned with no trouble," he said.

"Yeah, I saw your team layout. They'll get everything done pretty quickly." Lieutenant Commander La Forge tapped the PADD in Taurik's hands with the back of his fingers. "I look forward to reading your report in the morning."

Taurik could never quite tell if La Forge was being sarcastic or genuine with him when it came to his reports. He called them exactingly thorough and pedantically articulated. Taurik would have normally used those phrases complimentarily, though he sensed La Forge was annoyed when he'd said them.

Even still, he nodded. "Yes, sir."

La Forge chuckled and nodded. "Good evening, Lieutenant." With a parting point in his general direction, he disappeared.

How had Taurik never noticed that gesture before? It was clearly intended to be friendly, but what more subtle emotions it communicated were lost to him. He reflected on the motion, the broad smile, and open body language for a moment before going to his station at the warp console.

The enormous cylindrical chamber pulsed a series of progressively brighter blue light up through the open two decks above him. The soft illumination cast his hands in a green pale, the rest of engineering suffused by the energetic sapphire sun not two meters before him.

An internally-contained amusement bubbled up from a well that wasn't his, but he nevertheless felt constantly. His twin brother, half the quadrant away, had been listening through the door Taurik usually left open. Taurik turned a small portion of his attention to the telepathic bond they shared, projecting a mild bristling at being mocked.

But, as Vorik would say, reciprocation was balance.

Vorik stepped into that psychic space, allowing Taurik to feel his presence more clearly without devoting hardly any of his mental resources. This connection was a peculiarity of Vulcan twins, explained by the belief that they were one katra in separate bodies. Scientifically, it was less-easily explained.

You look at the warp core the way some sapients look at their mates, Vorik chided.

That, Taurik sighed internally, is a gross exaggeration.

You are probably correct. No organic figure could be held to such standards. Vorik took a drink of something cold and biting. The sensation was so strong that he must have had a more physical reaction to it than simply taste.

With an internal sigh, Taurik pulled up the warp core diagnostics from earlier in the day. It had been a day like most other days: a subspace anomaly (which Vorik found quite interesting), non-emergency repairs of replicators (except for the one in Captain Picard's ready room), and a regular irradiation sweep of the lower maintenance hatches. He executed evacuation procedures for the adjoining compartments.

I resent the implication that you think any differently of Voyager's bio-neural circuitry and variable geometry warp nacelles.

I never implied I do, Vorik answered, and physically rose from his position—somewhere on Voyager near the Bajoran system, Taurik assumed. He'd only just arrived on his new ship today. He walked, somewhere, and then paused. His external eyes focused, drawing him from the bond into his faraway reality.

How are you finding Voyager? Taurik asked, since Vorik switched focus from satirizing Taurik's personal relationships on board the Enterprise to speculating on his duties in his new assignment. Admitting that he did think of those things exactly the same way.

Fascinating. We should arrive in the Badlands within the next four hours—though I intend to be asleep then.

The transport was quite uncomfortable. Even though Taurik hadn't been on it, he knew it had been cramped, cold, and turbulent. The artificial gravity plating obviously needed recalibration. Possibly replacement.

Past Vorik's uninterested agreement, Taurik asked, Do you know how many Vulcans are onboard? Not that it strictly mattered. There were many Vulcans on the Enterprise, perhaps as much as ten percent of the ship's complement. He counted none of them among those with whom he spent his off-hours.

Two or three of us.

Two or three in a crew of approximately one-hundred-fifty. If they had wanted to spend time with Vulcans, they might have requested assignment on one of the Federation's entirely-Vulcan ships. Neither of them did.

Vorik sensed his wandering thoughts, tripping over their relationship to Vulcans, the planet itself and the rest of their family. It was an illogical idiosyncrasy they shared. Taurik considered the frigid ambient temperature of nineteen degrees the only significant drawback of ships populated by mostly Humans and others in their planetary range.

Vulcan was a desert, with only the hardiest plants and animals inhabiting the red and orange rock formations. It had a single large sea occupying slightly more than half of the southern hemisphere, with approximately twenty significantly smaller seas distributed throughout the dominant landmass. A modern myth put the planet as originally entirely lifeless rock and desert. Only the inevitability of the cycle of life and death coaxed the first single-celled organisms from its turbulent red-iron core.

Is that a metaphor, brother?

Taurik drew back from the idle thoughts that occupied him whenever he engaged in menial tasks. No, he said. Simple algebraic functions are not complex enough to maintain my attention.

Well, I regret to leave you to them alone.

Sleep well.

Vorik left the shared space with a feeling of contented wellbeing and anticipation of rising early for his first shift on Voyager.

Taurik returned his attention to his work. He didn't ignore his brother's restless sleep so much as exist alongside it. Like sitting back-to-back, even when they couldn't see each other or interact in a meaningful way, they were always in contact. Not always aware of what the other was doing, but aware of his presence. They could lock one another out, turn away from that connection until it was dim and misty, but the sense of being was always there.

Nothing interesting promised to happen on the Enterprise today, though that was usually true on the most exciting days. Spatial anomalies hid from sensors like a game played by children. New lifeforms introduced themselves in the most arcane ways. Malfunctions brought the ship itself to life. Even dull days had the edge of expectation.

Taurik initiated two minor diagnostics of internal sensors. The dolphins put in a non-urgent request for filtration system maintenance. Two of the ensigns stopped to flirt with Lieutenant Lorian five times. Anything could happen.

Taurik found himself in the Jefferies tube over Ten Forward performing maintenance on the air ducts with Ensign A'len. She was three months out of the Academy, as delighted as any ensign to have the Enterprise. Even Vorik's vicarious pride at Taurik's assignment had been palpable.

They completed their task ten minutes faster than projections indicated.

Everyone staggered breaks for meals, most eating in the small mess hall outside Engineering in sets of two and three. Taurik took his last with Petty Officer Dixson and Ensign A'len. Miss Dixson apparently thought a comparative analysis of Andoria and Vulcan was in order, considering her company. Of course, there was little in the category of similarities.

Since Lieutenant Lorian requested Taurik join him for the last hour of shift to review his first day as shift lead, Taurik made sure everyone was about their tasks. He answered questions and gave advice. He also asked for advice, since most of the petty officers in Engineering had at least double his years in experience on the Enterprise. Even Miss Dixson, two years his junior, had been on the Enterprise one year longer.

He started a final walk-through of Engineering, partially to spend the remaining half-hour before talking to Lorian and partially to ensure each station was prepared to hand over to the next shift. He was rounding the warp core when something felt suddenly wrong.

His vision blackened, and a strange pain screamed through his brain. For uncountable seconds, he could not breathe.

Taurik wasn't sure how much time had passed before he could see clearly again. He could breathe again. One of his hands steadied him against the wall next to the ladder up to the second deck, but no one had taken notice of his abrupt pause. It may have only been a few seconds—the pain stole most of his concentration until it largely subsided.

He blinked, noting the flashes of the warp core looked dusky. His sense of touch was dim, and he couldn't hear anything. His mind rebelled at the notion that all his limbs were in place and accounted for, and denied that his feet were on the ground. In fact, it seemed like all of gravity was displaced as Engineering tilted.

"Whoa, sir!"

Hands were suddenly on him, one pressing on his chest while another grabbed his arm. Something pushed him against the wall, and he found the floor supporting his weight—though his vestibular system refused to concede which direction was up.

"Are you alright?" Petty Officer Dixson peered at him, and he couldn't quite see much beyond the high contrast of her eyes, her skin, and the blaze of the warp core behind her.

"Yes, Miss Dixson…" He tried to straighten. The ship righted itself in his perception. The only thing that remained was a headache and the idea he couldn't hear anything, even though that was obviously incorrect.

"I should call Sickbay." Miss Dixson raised her hand to tap her combadge.

"That is unnecessary." Taurik took a breath, and felt his lungs fill as though nothing had happened. "I am simply… I am experiencing a slight dizziness."

"Slight?" Miss Dixson's thin lips pinched, frowned.

"It is subsiding."

"You almost fell over."

Perhaps she was correct. That was reason enough to visit Sickbay, even if the only thing they would say was that he was fine. Intermittent vertigo was not an uncommon experience in space, though the intensity might have been concerning.

He had every intention of telling her that, but a distant ache distracted him. The feeling that he could no longer hear. The world had gone silent, though he could still make out what she was saying.

Something in his mind was faulty. Something there—something wasn't there that should have been. Some light in the universe had been switched off, or a lyre had stopped playing. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, and yet he knew he still had command of all of his senses. Yet somehow he knew what was wrong, but he couldn't think of it.

"Yes…" he said, and nodded.

"Lieutenant Lorian?" Miss Dixson called up to the Deltan, still standing in the same spot he'd been two hours ago. He gave no verbal confirmation he'd heard, but he made eye-contact with the petty officer almost three meters beneath him through the glass. "Lieutenant Taurik's gotta go to Sickbay."

"I am fine, Miss Dixson." Taurik ran his hand down his left arm. It seemed to be where it was supposed to be… "However, a visit to Sickbay would not be amiss."

"He almost fell over he was so dizzy," Miss Dixson put in, her tone and expression one of concern.

Lorian nodded brusquely, mirroring her demeanor. "Someone ought to accompany you, Taurik."

"That is unnecessary," Taurik mumbled, knowing his weak objection would do no good.

He took a step, feeling his foot press into the soles of his black boots. The soft uniform fabric rested against the back of his leg, and felt a bit too wide across his shoulders.

That was normal. Something else was not.

"I know it's unnecessary, but orders are orders, you know?" Miss Dixson smiled at him. After a moment of waiting for a response, she frowned and reached out for his arm again. "Are you sure you're okay? You look, uh… sicker than usual, I guess."

"I usually look sick?"

"Green's not a healthy color for Humans." She smiled in the face of his distinct lack of amusement, but looked at him a bit more closely. "You're definitely paler than usual."

Taurik moved his arm beyond her reach and headed for the turbolift. Petty Officer Dixson hastened after him.

Taurik turned into the turbolift, shifting through his physical sensations to try to figure out what was wrong with him. He distantly heard Miss Dixson call for the turbolift to take them to sickbay. He almost saw her watching him, coiled like a compressed spring ready to catch him if he fell again. But he was certain he could catch himself if he—

Oh.

Oh—

His mind spun with the realization of what he was missing. The sharp impossibility of reality was unmistakable. No indication of concern sparkled across lightyears to reach him. There was no vicarious warmth of wonder or interest. No quiet calm of sleep or meditation.

Taurik closed his eyes. Concentrate.

It had never been so difficult to find Vorik before.

No, it had never been difficult at all. He reached the edge of his consciousness and found nothing and no one on the other side. Only a lightless abyss, empty and endless. He knew what this meant, but some part of him refused to think it. There was only one reasonable, logical explanation; and he could not acknowledge it.

Did people live like this? How could anyone live like this?

He was aware of the turbolift opening, aware that his eyes were open now. He was looking out at the ringed deck of the saucer section, and Miss Dixson was standing close next to him.

"Taurik?" she whispered.

"I believe I am fine." Vulcans did not lie. And, at the moment, he was sure he was not a Vulcan. At best, he was half of one. "You may return to Engineering," he said softly and stepped out into the hallway as steady as anyone with his condition could be expected.

Miss Dixson stepped out with him anyway. "Lieutenant Lorian told me to accompany you, sir, and, technically, he outranks you."

Only a petty officer would be so concerned with rank… "Very well."

Taurik was relieved to see Nurse Ogawa was not on shift. She was the only one he thought might know him well enough to suspect something was wrong even though all the scans returned normal. Miss Dixson argued that something else had to be wrong—and she was correct, but no one believed her. Taurik didn't offer any indication she was correct.

There must be some other rational justification that he'd been so suddenly cut off from Vorik. Now Taurik stood on the precipice of a black chasm bleeding silence and confusion.

Just to be safe, the doctor ordered Taurik to return to his quarters to rest. The minutes passed by in what seemed like an eternity, protracted by Miss Dixson's insistence that she see him safely to his quarters. He had worked with her every shift for the past eight months, and been one of her commanding officers since his promotion four months ago. They talked frequently, though usually about irrelevant topics of dubious interest. Now she said nothing at all.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Miss Dixson asked outside the door to his quarters.

"Yes. Relay my regret to Lieutenant Lorian that I am unable to finish the shift."

"Yes, sir." Miss Dixson sighed, spun on her heel, and left.

Taurik went into his quarters.

The quarters he now occupied was less than half the size that which he'd shared with Lieutenant Lavelle when they were both ensigns. He was reduced to two rooms joined by a narrow door, but it was only his. He had removed what meager decoration elements there were when he arrived, and neatly pressed his uniforms and off-duty clothes into the three drawers in the wall of the bedroom. Alone, he was free to keep the temperature at a coolly comfortable thirty degrees.

It had been almost two hours since he'd been in Engineering, and Vorik would be asleep. Taurik would send a message to Voyager and find Vorik alive. He'd be irritated at Taurik for waking him, and Taurik would return to Vulcan sooner than expected. He had to find out what was wrong with him, because no one could just live like this.

He turned on his communications panel. Ship-wide informational posts displayed prominently.

An all-fleet bulletin advised that the Voyager had gone missing from the Badlands between one and four hours ago. They had stopped transmitting updates and were not responding to any hails. An investigation was underway, runabouts dispatched from Deep Space Nine.

Taurik shut off the panel, turning back to the empty room.

The artificial lights buzzed, and the warp core beat the heart of some mighty beast that had swallowed him.

Is that a metaphor, brother?

He didn't hear Vorik say that. Because he was dead.

He had to be dead, even though that made no sense. Perhaps he was simply somewhere else. Too far away to reach? Taurik didn't know any distance beyond which Vorik couldn't be reached—except death. And he wasn't sure how he could have gotten so suddenly from the Badlands to somewhere Taurik couldn't reach.

It was still possible he'd perhaps slipped beneath the surface to another dimension or even another universe. The abysmally low odds of that were a figure not immediately available to him. But, still, it was possible.

He sounded insane.

Logically, there was one option. All others, while theoretically possible, were absurd. Logically, his brother was dead.

None of the words he knew to calm himself came, lost in that black abyss in his mind that Vorik had fallen into only a few hours ago. All he could think to do was stand on the edge of the empty chasm and look. Because he had to be there.

Taurik knelt on the floor and tried to assume a posture of serenity. For the first time in his life, it was completely still. The silence was a whirlwind, so loud he couldn't concentrate. He was only barely able to control his collapse, face to the floor. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe.

Taurik covered his ears with hands shaking in panic, but he could still hear the silence.

Vorik had always been there. He always answered, even if it was just to say leave me alone. It made no sense that he should suddenly not be there. It was… it was illogical.

It was too quiet. He listened to nothing until he could no longer endure it, and screamed.

Chapter Text

"Hey!"

Gabi glanced up from her meal, saw the pips of a lieutenant JG and the maroon of a command uniform, and made sure she was the only one he could have been talking to.

"Petty Officer Dixson, right?"

So that answered the question. Gabi rose slightly from her chair. "Yes, sir?"

The lieutenant waved her attempt to come to attention away, offering a hand for a handshake instead. "Sam. Lavelle." So this wasn't a sir kind of conversation. Officers tended to use their rank in introduction. Sam motioned back to her place on the bench, and stepped into the chair on the other side of her table. "How you doing?"

"Good?" Gabi glanced around, wondering distantly if this was a joke of some kind. Not that she expected that kind of behavior from a lieutenant, but officers rarely interacted with petty officers outside of work hours. "You?"

"Great. Great…" He looked at her meal—a nutrient mix flavored to taste like strawberries and bananas—and then met her eyes again. "You probably don't remember me. I was at your promotion celebration."

"Oh, right." Didn't mention that it wasn't strictly hers. It was more like a promotion/anniversary celebration for a bunch of petty officers in Engineering a few months ago. For her, it had been both. Five years in Starfleet and promotion to Petty Officer Second Class. He had been one of very few red shirts in the room. Mostly talked with—"Oh, you're Taurik's friend. "

Sam chuckled, almost darkly. "I don't know if he'd call me that."

"You're gonna have a bad time if you want to argue semantics with a Vulcan." Gabi took a sip of her slush. "You're his friend."

He smiled, looking almost surprised or flattered that someone had noticed.  "Well, as it happens, my friend Taurik is the one I wanted to ask you about. Has he, um… seemed okay to you?"

"I'm… not sure how to answer that." She looked around surreptitiously, though she wasn't sure who she was concerned would be listening. "Look, I consider him a friend, too; but arguing semantics with a Vulcan is a really bad time. Especially at this time."

Sam frowned, as though he didn't know.

Maybe he didn't know. "Voyager went missing." Gabi paused, expecting a nod of understanding, but got no real response from Sam. "His brother's on it?"

"Oh, my god." Sam leaned back in his chair, scrubbing his face in what seemed to be shock and embarrassment. "Why the hell wouldn't he tell anybody about that?"

"He hasn’t said anything to you?" Well, that was concerning. She should have been concerned the second Lieutenant JG Sam Lavelle sat across from her in the engineering deck mess. He wasn’t ever anywhere near here.

"No! I knew he had a brother—a twin, god. Vorik. I didn't know he transferred. He told you?"

"No, no, no," she said, realizing how very much that seemed like something one would tell a friend. "No, he didn't tell me. He had a—anyway, the day after Voyager went missing, he was acting kind of weird on shift. Like a Human would act if they hadn't slept enough or were really hungover. He's been acting like that almost every day since then. I spent two days trying to figure out what was wrong with him before coming up with this. Seemed to make sense."

"Oh, my god…" Sam sighed. "They've been looking for that ship for nine days. You know that?"

Gabi nodded.

"Explains a hell of a lot. Damnit." Sam leaned his elbows on the table rubbing his forehead. "I am such an idiot." He hesitated, staring into space in front of him.

"How were you supposed to know?"

"I should have guessed." He paused to drop his arms to the table to lean on them. "So, what, he hasn't said anything to you at all?"

"Why do you think he'd say anything to me?"

"He mentions you. You know, sometimes. More than anybody else in engineering, anyway."

So maybe they were friends. She understood Sam's expression at Gabi's confirmation of her opinion of his relationship status now. "Okay, well, no. As far as I know he's… playing it off like a Vulcan, I guess. If the Vulcan way is acting like nothing's wrong." She paused long enough to realize she actually hadn't interacted with that many Vulcans. She talked to Taurik almost every day, and there was another Vulcan engineer on the afternoon shift she talked to. Two or three more she interacted with regularly wasn't exactly a significant sample. "I actually have no idea what would be 'normal' for him."

"I don't know how I'd feel if my brother went missing in the Badlands," Sam said. She watched him contemplate the white table beneath his arms for several seconds. "I should talk to him. Or maybe you should."

"Why me?" Gabi asked.

Sam shrugged. "You said he was acting weird. All I have is that he's skipped poker night, and—this is so stupid." He hid his face again, clearly embarrassed. "We get lunch every few days. He's skipped twice now… Not exactly a reason to panic."

Gabi hid her smile by slurping up some of her drink. "If this is panicking, maybe you should talk to him. He'd probably be proud." And tell him he was fine. Just… well, it was weird that a ship should go missing and then he should metaphorically drop off the planet.

Was that weird?

"Oh, no, yeah." Sam chuckled darkly. "This is not what 'Sam Lavelle panicking' looks like. But this is probably worse than what 'Vulcan panicking' looks like, and he'd never let me forget it."

Gabi nodded in understanding. Sam thought he had some kind of reputation to maintain where it came to Taurik, and Gabi… didn't so much. She could look like an idiot to him and nobody would care. Or, at least, Sam wouldn't. "I get it. I'll, uh… what do you want me to say? Lieutenant Lavelle missed you at lunch?"

"He stood me up! That's really rude." Sam frowned, then shook his head, waving his hands through the air as if he were clearing that from the space between them. "It's not about lunch."

Gabi sighed. He really was worried. "Yeah. Don't worry about it. I'll see if he's… okay?" She wasn't sure what a "Vulcan okay" would look like even if she saw it. "No promises."

"Thanks. I owe you one."

He owed her? One what? Not that she was at all insistent about keeping track of favors anymore, but from an officer…? Such things could come in handy, potentially. He was in a completely different department, a completely different color. He actually had rank insignia. Besides, this wasn't a professional conversation.

Gabi waved that away. "It's nothing. I've been worried, too, so… I guess this gives me a reason." To do something. No idea what. She slurped up the last of her drink and stood. "Well, I gotta get back on shift. Thanks for stopping by, Lieutenant."

"Come on," Sam offered his hand for a handshake. "It's Sam. Us friends of Vulcans have to stick together. It's a thankless, emotionally-draining line of work."

She smiled and took his hand. "Understood. Gabi, then."

"Gabi. Talk to you later." Sam strode out of the mess, catching the confused attention of one or two of the engineers on their way in. He'd been the only red shirt in here.

With a sigh, Gabi deposited her empty cup in the replicator and straightened her shirt. She was on the fourth day of ten in her shift rotation, usually the hardest day of the set. Well, longest day. None of the days were particularly hard, unless something extraordinarily exciting was happening. But today, she had something to think about.

She'd been monitoring the internal communications net, since a few bugs popped up last night for some reason. No reason to drag Lieutenant Commander La Forge down here, but no one seemed to have fixed it. She planned to track down the reason unless something pressing came up.

A visit from a command officer with no orders to speak of felt pressing, at least in comparison. She cast a subtle glance across Engineering to Taurik, standing at one of the warp field consoles. That was generally what he did when he wasn't very busy: stare at warp field equations and fiddle with efficiency. It was probably, to the casual observer, difficult to tell that he was acting any differently.

Gabi could tell. Not only was he slower about it, Taurik made very few, if any, adjustments,. He scrolled from one reading to the next, making no changes. Sometimes she wondered if he was even looking at it. Sometimes it took two and three tries to get his attention from across Engineering, even right next to him. He wasn't paying attention and he wasn't… normal.

Since she was thinking about it, this seemed like an absurdly strong reaction for him to have toward a missing brother. Of course, she'd be losing her mind if she didn't know where her sister was or if she was okay. But she was Human. That was what she was supposed to do.

For the first time in her life, Gabi picked through comms logs with only the sixteen hours of "Federation Sociology" from her enlisted training on her mind. Vulcans received an entire forty-five minutes of coverage, being one of the founding members. They championed logic above all else, suppressed their array of intense emotions, and were often misunderstood—by everyone, not just Humans. That was pretty much all she'd walked away from that class with in regard to Vulcans.

It hadn't applied to her. She wanted to learn how to work on starships.

Probably the first time she regretted not paying attention to something she didn't care about. Gabi tended to do that. Muttering a bland curse at herself, she sorted through the previous nine days and her exchanges with Taurik during that time. They usually chatted about things like… well, usually useless things. Whatever was on her mind from about she was reading about at the moment. The past few days, it was Earth-native entomology. She'd never been there, and never seen a ladybug. The way those comparatively huge wings folded up underneath those shells…

It didn't apply to anything, but she couldn't be reading manuals and technical journals all the time. She bet Taurik probably did. Of course, that was a stereotype, probably. She'd seen him play games with the people she called his friends in Ten Forward. She might have even classified him as fun. For a Vulcan. She hadn't known about his lunch schedule—but why should she? She didn't spend time with officers no matter what color their shirts were.

Gabi wasn't sure why that was. It was just… people didn't do that. The petty officers ate together, went to the holodeck together, exercised and played games together. The officers did the same.

Well, that was stupid.

They didn't talk about ladybugs, because they didn't talk at all. He hadn't been in Ten Forward, much less played games with his friends there. And he at least skipped two lunches. That wasn't normal, and somebody should care about that.

Shouldn't they?

With a sigh, Gabi recalibrated her search pattern, not seeing anything with her original parameters. She had almost four more hours of this.

The four hours went surprisingly quickly once she found her bug—not the ladybug. The comms error. She reported to Lieutenant Taurik, after saying his name twice, and got a brusque nod to install whatever fix she thought was appropriate. The independence and trust was certainly a benefit to being a Petty Officer Second Class. Most of the officers knew she didn't need babysitting. She knew more than any ensign and most Lieutenant JGs, including Taurik.

More about the ship, obviously. The officers had been to the Academy, and she hadn't. There were a lot of things she didn't know. The finer points of Federation Sociology, for example.

The Jefferies tubes, once an incalculable maze, were like the familiar streets of a hometown. Sixteen relays along one line were malfunctioning, mixing frequencies due to magnetic interference. She guessed it was from the edge of that ion storm they'd gone through two days ago.

By the end of shift, she'd crawled all over section fifteen of decks five through seven. The communication bug was gone, according to the logs. She'd have to confirm that tomorrow, of course. By the time she made it back to engineering, most of the shift had already turned over. She wasn't surprised to see Taurik still examining the warp field consoles.

He wasn't actually reading. She'd decided that a long time ago.

Vulcans would always be smarter than she was, and officers would always outrank her. But that didn't change that, the more she thought about it, the worse it seemed. He'd been forgetting assignments he'd given the crew, losing track of time and people, arriving and leaving late… making mistakes. Not as much as the average non-Vulcan, of course. But an awful lot of mistakes. For a Vulcan. He'd never been so slow in the two years she'd known him, from his first day on board as a fresh Ensign.

She'd reported to him now for the last eight months for six days in ten, and that was no reason to not talk to him like… a Human being? Those Federation Sociology classes would have come in real handy right about now…

Ultimately, no regrets about enlisting instead of going to the Academy.

Gabi turned back and stood a few feet away from him, where she knew he'd be able to see her in his periphery. "Sir?" she said, knowing she had been far too quiet. She tried again. "Lieutenant Taurik?"

Taurik straightened, blinked once, and shifted his focus away from that blank spot between his eyes and the screen. Turned toward her slightly, meeting her eyes. He was only a few centimeters taller than she was, if even that.

"Miss Dixson," he said. One of those sociological peculiarities. It was like he needed to verbally identify who he was speaking to before he spoke to them. Either that, or it was the Vulcan hello. "Can I help you?"

"I'm sorry, sir… shift ended ten minutes ago."

Taurik glanced at the screen and the ever-present chronometer in the corner counting seconds. "Yes. Eleven," he said.

She watched him press away from the console, like he was wading through water, spin, and look at the rest of the room. He glanced up at the lieutenant still up there from the swing shift. It looked like he was just chatting with the next shift lead, casually.

Taurik looked at her again, as if confused for a moment. "I'll see the results of your work on the communications network tomorrow afternoon."

"Yes, sir," she said, and realized in her contemplations that she'd forgotten to record even the barest report. She'd do that tonight. Right now, she hurried after Lieutenant Taurik on his way to the turbolift. "Sir?"

"Yes, Miss Dixson?" He paused his walk toward the turbolift to watch her.

She had no idea what her plan was. Probably, at this point, follow him into the turbolift and bring it up there.

That was actually a great idea! Away from the watching eyes of the other engineering staff, nobody would have to be embarrassed to anybody but… each other.

She reported to him. He was an officer.

"I was going to Ten Forward, and I thought—I mean, I wondered if you'd like to get a drink with me," she said.

"A drink." His eyebrow arched.

That question probably implied something she hadn't intended. But, he was a Vulcan, so hopefully he'd missed it. "Yeah, you know? Comes in cups. Shared between friends." Hopefully that fixed it.

"Flavored liquids from the bar or replicator." He turned into the turbolift and Gabi hurried to follow. Was that supposed to be a joke? "It's after midnight, Miss Dixson."

The whole day ahead of them, and plenty of hours before she should get up like a functioning member of civilized society. That was what she liked about Starfleet. Twenty-six hours a day, and no planetary rotation to get in the way. The ship's chronometer made the rules, and the stars always changed.

"Yeah…" Gabi sighed and watched the doors shut. Taurik ordered deck twelve, and she ordered Ten Forward. "Look, I just used to see you hanging out there with Lieutenant Lavelle and… and you haven't been."

Taurik watched the wall, the sliding lights by the door for a second. "Not for any particular reason. We're both busy with our duties."

She scoffed, though she didn't mean to. When he looked at her, eyebrows raised in surprise, she decided this was as good as it was going to get. "With all due respect, sir, do you really expect anybody to believe it's a coincidence you started hiding out in your quarters just a few days after your brother goes missing in the Badlands?"

"Computer, halt turbolift." Gabi almost lost her balance, though not because of the sudden stop. That was nearly imperceptible. Taurik had turned toward her, glaring as he did. "I was unaware my personal life was of your concern."

"Not just mine," she said, avoiding looking at him. Something about that glare… it looked angry, which was scarier than anything she'd probably ever seen. "And I report to you, so it's always been in my best interest to figure out why the boss is off before someone…" Gets hurt? That didn't apply here. Taurik wasn't going to hurt anyone. Not on purpose certainly, and not on accident, either. "I mean, with respect, you've been off."

Lieutenant Taurik's head tilted, slightly, to one side. That, at least, was normal. "Do I understand you correctly: you—and potentially others—have been negatively affected by my performance these past several days?"

That was probably stating it a little strongly. She never would have mentioned it even if she was negatively affected. But Sam was an officer and he asked her for a favor, and…"No, I'm just worried."

"I see." He looked at the wall again, but didn't resume the turbolift. To her surprise, he sounded more open to that explanation. "And it will somehow satisfy your concern if I accompany you to Ten Forward?"

She should have thought about that more thoroughly, because the answer was probably no. She had no idea what he could possibly say to make her not be worried anymore. "I mean, it might go a long way."

"Computer, resume turbolift." The computer gave an affirmative tone, and Lieutenant Taurik said, again, "I fail to see how this matter is your concern. Enjoy your evening."

The door opened on deck ten. Gabi didn't move. "I consider us friends."

He was surprised. Even he couldn't hide that. "Excuse me?"

"Friends. You know. Individuals who enjoy one another's company?" And more than that.

Taurik sighed. "Who pry into one another's lives with little warning or reason." He gave her yet another pointed glare. One too many of those, and they started to lose all meaning.

"I told you the reason."

"Your concern is hardly reasoned."

She hesitated long enough to wonder if that was actually wordplay. Could just get back to arguing. "It's a good reason. Friends want to help each other when something is wrong."

Taurik pressed the button next to the door to close them into the turbolift again, but he didn't order a deck. "My brother is missing. How do you propose to help with that?"

"I never said I could help with that." She took a deep breath. "I said I wanted to help you."

Taurik didn't respond for several seconds, until it was clear he had no idea what she was talking about. Well, neither did she. In her defense, he shouldn't have been confused. He worked with Humans all day, every day.

"You're acting different. On shift and everywhere else. Skipping poker nights and lunches. Even I noticed you're never in Ten Forward anymore. How does that help?"

Taurik turned his eyes up to the ceiling in what she would have labeled as annoyance in anybody else. "It does not help."

"So what would it hurt?"

Taurik eyed her. "I will accompany you to Ten Forward on the condition that you will allow me my privacy in this matter from now on." She shrugged, since she didn't want to give her consent to that. Not that he didn't deserve it… "And you will tell Lieutenant Lavelle to do the same."

Gabi frowned. "You tell him."

"He apparently thinks going through you is a better strategy. It seems to be working." He pressed the button for the doors, and they once again showed the hallway outside of Ten Forward. Taurik held a hand toward the door in invitation for Gabi to go first.

Gabi was surprised to find herself self-conscious to be walking around with an officer outside of work hours. Probably would have felt like that even without the scolding.

Ten Forward was practically deserted. It was always like this just shy of midnight, as there were better places onboard to find oneself in the wee hours of the morning. Ten Forward was a calmer place with better food and less alcohol. A place to chat or play chess.

Lieutenant Taurik took a seat at a small table with only two chairs. Gabi took the other.

"Last time we spoke in a more… casual atmosphere was after your promotion, wasn't it?"

Gabi was surprised that he was making small talk. Also that he'd remembered. It was five months ago now, but she still added the "second class" part to her title whenever the occasion arose. "Yes, sir." She nodded toward a larger table back by the windows. "Over there."

Taurik had told her about his sister, T'Leall, accepted into the Vulcan Science Academy. She had told him about her sister wanting to go into Starfleet Academy. She wondered if the silence they'd shared communicated the same distance between them and their littler siblings. He'd also told her about his brother, Vorik, temporarily assigned to a transport vessel between the outer starbases and Deep Space Nine. Sam had been with him, but he'd looked severely out-of-place despite her attempts to draw him out with a conversation. Sam didn't have any siblings.

Kalis, the Arkarian bartender, stopped beside their table. "Can I get you two anything?"

"El Nath whiskey, assuming you still have the bottle…?" It was probably going to be a long night.

"Considering you're the only one drinking it, I bet I do," Kalis said.

When Taurik arched an eyebrow at her again, she said, "It's terrible, and I do not under any circumstances recommend it. But it tastes like home…" she admitted with a bit more fondness than she'd expected.

Kalis looked at Taurik with a helpful shrug. "I could order it up syntheholic if you really want to try it. But I really don't recommend it, either."

"I'll have the same," Taurik said. The look in his eye almost said it was a challenge of some kind.

Kalis walked away and returned a short time later with the tumblers and the half-empty bottle. Gabi took the liberty of pouring for them both, watching the silt settle in her glass before picking it up. Taurik had been inspecting his almost the entire time, probably noting its distinct odor with his superior Vulcan sense of smell. That had to be the worst…

She downed the shot and poured another. Taurik still held his glass in his hand.

"How do Vulcans do with metabolizing alcohol?" she asked, pouring herself another.

He swirled the muddy liquid in the glass for a second before answering. "Better than Humans," he said, adding, "to the point there exists a myth that Vulcans do not suffer any deleterious effects from its consumption at all. But Vulcan produces several excellent varieties of port, brandy, and ale that are enjoyed even by non-Vulcans."

"So you'll probably be fine." She gave him a sly smile. "El Nath whiskey is brewed on El Nath III, and I think you'd find just about everything produced by that place to be stupidly strong. The joke is that even our granite is harder."

"I assume you're from El Nath III. I've never met anyone from your planet."

More small talk. Gabi could have given him an essay on how it was to grow up there and how she hadn't understood how bad it had been until she enlisted in Starfleet because there wasn't anything else left she could do. How she'd brought her sister away with her, for all the good that did. But they weren't friends, apparently. Not that kind of friends.

"You're lucky, then. We suck." She nodded toward the glass in his hand. "You don't have to drink it. I won't be offended."

"I will consider it a cultural experience, since I will likely not be visiting El Nath III in the near future." With that, he downed the shot. If she didn't know better, she'd say he hated it.

Made sense. Everyone always said it tasted like someone had let a dead animal in at some point of the fermentation process.

"You are correct," he said, and took a deep breath. "That is deeply unpleasant."

All the same, he put the glass down on the table and didn't object when she moved to pour him another. She settled back in her chair with the second shot, folding her arms comfortably and watching him. She couldn't figure out what to say, except that she knew she had to say something… and only one thing was coming to mind.

"Tell me about him?" she asked, and added, "Your brother, I mean, just in case you were thinking about playing dumb."

Taurik returned his focus to the bits of glittering dust and mold settling in the bottom of his glass. "I have no intention of 'playing dumb.' What do you want to know?"

Gabi didn't know why she hadn't expected that. "I remember you said he was on the edge of the quadrant. I assume he looks like you. You being twins," she added.

"We are virtually indistinguishable," he said. "We derived an unreasonable amount of amusement from taking as many classes together as we could at the Academy. The mix-ups were a near-daily occurrence."

Gabi smiled. "So which of you is the prankster?"

He seemed to consider that for a while before giving a slow nod. "I am. Not that such behavior is a habit of mine," he seemed quick to add. "Vorik preferred situations to transpire more spontaneously. Organically. He was more… relaxed."

"Uh-huh." Gabi watched him even more closely and thought about her sister. How would she talk about Chloe? Had Chloe preferred to talk straight, or did she prefer it? Was Chloe more critical, or isn't she?

Taurik continued talking, telling her how Vorik was practically careless from a Vulcan perspective. All the things he was, and all as if he no longer had those qualities. Why he had joined Starfleet, and what his skills and aptitudes were. The more he talked, the more obvious it became. Taurik didn't just think Vorik was missing—he thought Vorik was dead.

Gabi forced a smile. "Is he a lieutenant JG, yet?" she asked.

"No, he didn't…" Taurik finally paused, his eyes on her as if he finally realized what he'd been doing. What he'd been saying. "No…" he finished, his voice small.

"That's why you're acting so weird, isn't it?" Gabi found herself whispering, even though everyone but Kalis had left Ten Forward. "You don't think Vorik is missing. You think he's dead."

"I'm not sure how—"

"I'm not stupid." Gabi slid her chair a bit closer to the table between them so she could talk more normally—but still quiet. "You think he's dead," she said again, and she knew she must have been imagining it when Taurik almost flinched.

"Yes," he said, and his tone wavered. "Yes, he's dead."

"We don't know that, yet," she said softly, and laid her hand on the table between them. She wanted desperately to reach just a little bit further, touch his arm or hand in that familiar gesture of comfort that Humans so often shared. It seemed inappropriate here. "They're just missing. He might be fine."

He nodded and seemed to think about that for a very long time. That would explain a lot about his behavior. If Vorik wasn't just missing, then… well, of course, he'd respond to his brother's death differently. That he was dead was still a possibility, of course, but it was illogical to act like he was dead at the moment, wasn't it? It was illogical to think that he was.

Not that Gabi knew anything about logic. She barely got by with what her gut told her most days. And her gut told her Taurik was barely holding it together. Illogically, it seemed, since assuming he was dead was really just a shot in the dark.

But maybe… maybe that was a gut feeling, too. But Vulcans weren't supposed to put as much stock in that, right?

Finally, Taurik sighed. "No, Miss Dixson, I know." He took a deep breath and sat a bit straighter like he was standing up to some foe staring down. "Do you know what a telepathic bond is?"

She shook her head, since she really didn't know, but somehow ended up nodding anyway. She figured she could guess from context. She knew Vulcans were telepathic, but not to what extent. And between each other, she knew the extent was somewhat greater. But beyond that…

"It is a closeness attained by Vulcans, usually family. We learn at a young age to control our emotions, and for the first few years most of this is done with parents sharing through a bond their own emotional control. We continue to practice sharing our thoughts as we age."

"Okay," she said, and slid closer again.

"Twins do not need to practice," he said, and she could feel the gravity with which he said it. "Our bond doesn't need to be initiated or maintained. It simply is. Vulcan twins can, without training, communicate thoughts and feelings over lightyears."

Was he implying he'd…? "So… that day you felt dizzy? That's when you knew?" she asked, her voice only a choked whisper. "You… you felt him die?"

"I believe I did. Perhaps the very moment Voyager went missing, I knew something was wrong. I can't—" He paused. Shut his eyes a moment. "Couldn't reach him."

Gabi sat back in her chair and tried to make sense of it. She offered a few meager objections, which he easily and logically shot down. How would he have gotten so far away so quickly if it was only distance? Why would he be anywhere else—such as another dimension or universe—where Taurik couldn't reach him? And even assuming those things were possible, they were nevertheless unlikely.

Voyager was lost in the Badlands, possibly destroyed. By contrast, that happened fairly regularly. The simplest explanation, the most likely explanation, was that Vorik was dead.

"Presuming any other explanation is the case is, as a Human might say, wishful thinking," he said, and took a deep breath.

"Illogical," Gabi whispered, as Vulcans would say.

"Yes." He nodded, his return a soft echo: "Illogical."

She didn't realize it until just now, but tears had gathered to her eyes. She couldn't believe she'd made him argue with her about whether or not Vorik was alive. Of course, he'd considered all the angles and come to the most logical conclusion. Of course, she was right: Vulcans would always be smarter than she was.

"I'm so sorry…" she said.

He seemed to think about that for a very long time, saying nothing as he downed his second shot of whiskey.

She scoffed, averted her eyes off toward the ceiling. "It makes sense that you'd want some space. But… do you have anybody, you know, that you can talk to?"

"My family sent a message shortly after the news went out the Voyager was missing."

"You told them, right?"

"They know."

Right. Gabi sighed. What was he supposed to tell them? If he told them he couldn't reach Vorik, then they'd know. A bunch of Vulcans would know what a telepathic bond was.

"My father thought we were foolish to go into Starfleet at all, and my mother…" He considered, and then shrugged. "She has little faith in my ability to cope with the situation. She attempted for an unwarranted amount of time to convince me to return to Vulcan."

"She's worried about you."

Now that she'd said it, she wasn't sure. Could Vulcans do that? She liked to think so, especially where family was involved. But she'd also heard Vulcans describe the bond between them and their children as explicitly not love. That was a turn of phrase she'd only reserved for relationships like that between herself and her own parents.

"In a sense," he agreed.

"What do you mean?"

He eyed her. "Despite our attempts to distance ourselves from emotional outbursts, pride is still very much a Vulcan trait. Emotional infirmity is not among the socially acceptable motives for ritual suicide."

Gabi coughed, or gagged. Wasn't sure which. "What?" she rasped as unwelcome memories filled her mind. None of them were of Taurik—someone closer, and yet somehow more distant in every way—but all of them were real. Bloody, dark, and horrifying. "My god, Taurik, you're not actually considering—?"

"No. But that is why she worries. In my case, such an action would be shameful."

She shook her head. "Of course. Because shame matters right now."

"It does to my mother," he said, and hesitated. "Of course, it wouldn't matter to me if that was my chosen course. Which, it is not. She is, of course, grieving, as well. It would be inappropriate for me to criticize her reaction at this time."

She didn't believe him at all. "Yeah, because… because it doesn't make sense to apply a permanent solution to a temporal problem." That was what she always tried to tell herself, anyway. Hoped it sounded as good to a Vulcan as it had to her.

The odds of that were low. Taurik watched her, obviously as incensed as he could possibly be without actually being incensed at all. "Miss Dixson?" he said, and paused long enough for her to feel it. If she didn't know better, he'd say he was disgusted. "How long would you estimate my brother will be gone?"

Gabi wasn't convinced that was the question.

She had known a few hours ago something was wrong, but she had no idea it was this wrong. She walked into this room thinking that all she needed to do was convince Taurik to start talking to his friends again. Now, she was only sure whatever was happening was way outside the experience granted by her color and training. She didn't know what she'd want in his position—she didn't know what would have changed things back when it mattered. If there was something anyone could have said to talk her out of it, Gabi didn't know what it was—but she'd been there after the fact. That was the important part. Nobody had to die.

But if she couldn't talk him out of it, then she'd damn well better rescue him.

"I think…" She blinked at tears of both sympathy and fear. Sympathy, because she'd never heard anybody sound quite so empty as what she'd just heard a second ago. Fear, because why would he defend a line of questioning he didn't intend to follow through on? "I think Vorik being gone isn't the problem you're trying to solve. Even if you go through with it, he'll still be gone."

"Immaterial, considering it would no longer be, as you might put it, my problem."

"Like shame?"

He considered that, and frowned slightly. "The logical course of action is often dependent on priority. The needs of the many, Miss Dixson. There are five individuals remaining in my family besides myself who are affected by my decisions. It would be irrational to consider only my pain at this time."

Oh. My god. "I think the problem you're trying to solve is your response to it," she offered. He stayed quiet. Too quiet, probably because that was immaterial, too. She shook her head and whispered, "I only know that as long as we're alive, we keep changing. Our synapses are constantly changing our brains, coping with new situations and figuring out how to live. Right? Isn't that right?"

She hoped she was.

"And if circumstances change us into what we find intolerable?" Taurik watched the drink in his glass as though it were doing something more interesting than settle.

Gabi pressed her palm over her mouth. That, too, sounded familiar. "Has it?"

"Don't misunderstand me. I have no intention of making any such… permanent decisions." He turned his gaze intently on her. Probably because she was crying and he had no idea what to do with it. "I will see you at our next shift."

She shook her head. "I don't believe you, sir."

"Why would I lie?"

"To get me to shut up?"

Taurik frowned. "If I thought that would be all it took to achieve that end, I would have started the conversation that way."

He stood up, and she watched him with what felt like panic edging in from all corners. What if he did go back to his quarters and she never saw him alive again? She'd know that wasn't her fault… but she'd sure feel like it was.

"Sir, please, no, don't go. Is there someone we can call for you? Maybe Counsellor Troi?" Hell—she would like to talk to her, too. About how to stay out of these conversations? No, but then it was just as possible that Taurik still wouldn't show up tomorrow and no one ever would have known why. She knew she'd think about that for a long time, too.

"It is zero-two-hundred hours."

"She wouldn't mind."

"Good night."

"Wait!" Gabi stumbled out of her chair after him, catching her breath as she cantered down the stairs toward the door.

Somehow he'd stopped and turned around. His hand rested hesitantly on her nearest shoulder, as if maybe she were tipsy and needed the support. She slapped him off.

Aside from seeming surprised, he didn't respond. Put his hands back behind his back. "May I walk you to your quarters?"

"No, sir, I'd like to walk you to yours." When he didn't answer for a moment, she asked, "May I ask the computer to monitor your lifesigns?"

"That is absurd."

"If I said to you what you just said to me, what would you do?" she snapped in a whisper. "Sure as hell wouldn't let me go off alone!"

"You," Taurik said, "are not Vulcan."

Yeah, that was true. She wasn't. "That's how I know you're not acting like one."

With a brief nod to Kalis, still behind the bar, Taurik walked out of the broad double doors with Gabi at his heels. She'd never felt more sure in what she had to do, nor hesitant in her ability to go through with it. What was she really going to do? Follow him all the way to his quarters? Sit outside?

Was she really going to call Counsellor Troi?

She should, shouldn't she? She could remember only one other time in her life she'd heard these words. And meager experience knew exactly where they were going. She knew how convincing they sounded.

Suddenly Taurik turned again, and she almost stumbled backwards to avoid running into him. "I don't expect you to comprehend the mental and physical pain associated with my condition. A condition that is, may I remind you, permanent. I do understand your concern, but I assure you it is unnecessary. I will see you tomorrow."

"If you're trying to convince me you're alright, you're doing a terrible job."

"I have no need to convince you of anything."

That was it. She had nothing else. There was no reason he should convince her, and he already seemed pretty well convinced himself. Before she quite knew what she was doing, she took the few steps between them, wrapping her arms around him before he could react, and rested her chin on his shoulder.

He froze like a cornered animal for several seconds, finally raising one of his hands to rest on her back. "What are you doing?"

"Humans don't have telepathic bonds, so…" She shrugged and leaned back, finding his eyes dark with confusion. "So we do other… things."

"I see." Taurik brushed her off.

"I'm serious, if something happened to you, I think I couldn't forgive myself," she whispered.

"I assure you, I am as well as situationally expected. I will see you at start-of-shift tomorrow."

Yeah, right.

"What can I do to convince you?" Taurik asked, his tone slightly hesitant.

She looked down the hall toward the turbolift, back at the closed doors to Ten Forward, and backed away. She wiped her eyes. "I guess you can't. I want you to talk to Counsellor Troi, but you won't do that. I… I don't know what I'm supposed to do here."

"Let me be?" Taurik suggested, almost hopefully. He had to know that wasn't going to work. "I do not need to see Counsellor Troi, but… but if I contact her tomorrow at a more civilized time, would that satisfy you?"

"What do I do until then?"

He sighed. "Miss Dixson."

"I'm not letting you out of my sight. Sir."

Taurik turned toward the turbolift, and she followed him. She didn't say anything when he asked for deck twelve, and she exited when he did. Deck twelve section two. Room twenty-two. On the front of the saucer section, on the inside ring. Lieutenant JGs probably didn't rate high enough for windows, either.

Taurik sighed as if severely put-out by her presence. "Return to your quarters."

She stared, wondering what to do now that he'd told her explicitly to leave. Was she supposed to just say no? What were the odds, really, that something terrible was about to happen? She decided it didn't matter. "Alright, just let me call Counsellor Troi."

"Miss Dixson—please." For a moment, she wasn't sure he wasn't going to snap in a particularly un-Vulcan way. And maybe she was doing this all wrong. Maybe she should have just left him alone. On the other hand, if he'd been in his right mind he would have understood why she was scared.

He would have thought it was illogical, because maybe it was. But he would have understood.

"Would you like to come in?" he asked, his tone calm but strained.

"I'm sorry," she said, quietly. "But this isn't my fault."

With a glare, he opened the door to his quarters and gestured inside. "What's that Human phrase?" He paused only long enough to pretend he didn't know it. "Make yourself at home?"

Gabi wandered into the room, glancing from one side of the room to the other. It was small, smaller than the room she shared with another technician. But, as a lieutenant, he had a room to himself, which was probably nice. Or, perhaps not. Gabi knew she'd feel better if he still had Lieutenant Lavelle to talk to. Taurik disappeared into the bedroom on the left, and Gabi had seen enough schematics to know just one bed, a small table, and a head barely fit in there.

The walls were even emptier of interest than other quarters, but the low table on the far side of the room hung with sheer gray fabric and lit faux candles. She went a few paces closer to see a frame holding what looked like Taurik's service ID portrait, but was probably Vorik's. It wasn't in the direct center of the table, which seemed to be reserved for a small black lamp with intricate metallic decorations etched in.

She sighed, her heart thudded heavily in sympathy again as she knelt before the table and took the picture in both hands. He looked almost exactly like Taurik. Only Taurik's eyes seemed darker, set back perhaps just a bit further. And, of course, there was personality, which she'd never be able to test. The way Taurik had described Vorik an hour ago, he was far superior even if he wasn't as ambitious or skilled in any one particular thing. She had to consider her source there.

Taurik reappeared from the bedroom. He was no longer dressed in his uniform, but in a gray robe. The style was simple, ascetic, Vulcan in every way except that it shimmered. He looked at her, then the picture in her hand.

She forgot she'd been holding the picture, and quickly replaced it as she stood. Even though he'd said nothing, she could hear the disapproving tone and the scold. "I'm sorry. I was just…" She sighed and gestured helplessly at the low table. "Vorik's service portrait?"

"Yes."

She was quiet for a moment. "You are virtually indistinguishable…"

"Monozygotic twins are often visually identical." He crossed the room, sliding his rank pips on a small stand by the door. He considered his combadge before putting that back on his robe.

"Do you have any other pictures?"

He took a small breath. "I'll be meditating."

She didn't know whether to take that as a no or as a get the hell out. "And I'll be… here." She sat on the small couch, standard issue to every room. Surprisingly uncomfortable. "Let me know if… you know, you need anything. Or anything."

"And if you need anything, there is the door." He gestured at the door to the hallway.

Gabi supposed she deserved that. The room was exceedingly warm, even without a blanket to cover her, and she wondered if she'd be able to sleep. But, of course, she didn't know if she'd want to. She stretched out on the couch as Taurik knelt, lit his lamp, and dimmed the lights. The soft scent of something like sage filled the room.

For a while, Gabi watched Taurik kneel perfectly still on the floor. First for a few minutes, then five, then ten. She could only see that he was breathing in rhythm, his back as straight as a titanium rod. Just barely in the dim light and flickering, the shadow of his profile cast on the floor with his steepled hands before him. His elbows rested on the table in front of Vorik's picture so that she could no longer see it, fingers pointed toward the ceiling.

Her breathing seemed incredibly loud, and she didn't dare shift her weight on the couch.

She didn't know how long she watched, but she suddenly awoke. She wasn't sure how long she'd been asleep or what had woken her, as the room seemed to be largely unchanged. The candles were still lit. Her eyes glanced over Vorik's picture and noticed something shimmering where Taurik had been sitting.

Where Taurik was still sitting.

She gasped and slipped off the couch, her breath catching on the possibility that something had happened even though she was here in the room. She crawled the short distance between them and realized, to a different sort of shock and anxiety, Taurik was still kneeling with his face to the floor. Weeping.

She had no idea Vulcans could do that.

"Oh, no, Taurik?" she whispered, and carefully touched his shoulder.

If he responded, it was only with a quavering breath.

Should she interrupt or just leave him to figure whatever-this-was out on his own? Probably not. And anyway, given their conversation tonight, she imagined this was probably her fault. At least in some way. And even if Vulcans could cry, they probably weren't supposed to. Weren't they supposed to meditate to get rid of… emotions? Focus on logic, or whatever?

Yeah, probably. She had no idea. What had he been doing all this time if not meditating? Obviously that hadn't worked very well.

She pulled him up from the floor, almost surprised he let her. On the other hand, he seemed to be in no condition to resist much of anything. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, and he sobbed, hugging his chest like he'd been hit.

What else was she supposed to say? Get ahold of yourself? And what was she supposed to do? She could only think of what she'd do if this were her sister. So she wrapped her arms around him and said again, "I'm so, so sorry."

He leaned against her, and looked at his hands, wet with tears. "I think… I think I'm dying," he whispered, and looked at her. He didn't seem concerned with the revelation. "Am I dying?"

She shook her head, blinking at her own tears, returned once again. "I don't think so," she said. "I don't know. Can that happen?"

He didn't say one way or another, looking back down at the floor.

"Don't you… Is it logical… to cry?"

He laughed. Extremely sarcastically. It was probably the scariest thing she'd ever heard. "Logic. What is logic? There is no reason; this cannot be rationalized." He took another breath, and whatever vaguely-humorous irony he saw in the situation was apparently gone. "It's illogical to live like this. How could anyone… live like this?"

Noted. Logic: bad. "Alright, alright, so maybe. Maybe it doesn't matter." At least at the moment. "But aren't you supposed to meditate or something?"

He shook his head. "I can't." He gasped with another sob. "I can't. I tried, but I can't."

That… sounded bad. Assuming he wasn't dying, she was going to read everything she could get her hands on about Vulcan emotional responses and meditation. Not that she thought this would ever come up again.

His hands dropped into his lap.

Then again, she was pretty good at being where she didn't belong. She picked up his hands in both of hers. Pressed them together.

He looked at her as if confused, concerned, then at his hands held against her palms.

"I know you can't," she said, cutting off the objection she knew was coming. "But you have to show me how to do it." She crawled to his side and knelt, she thought, like he was. She folded her hands. "You have to show me how so I can help you."

For a very long moment, he only looked muddled—like whatever she imagined a drunk Vulcan would look like. Maybe worse, because he also looked sick. And tired.

Finally, he looked at his hands, rearranging his fingers as if it was very difficult to do. Three of them folded. She fell into her own rhythm of breathing, counting each inhale and exhale regardless of Taurik's inconsistent spasms of breath. Taurik rubbed his tears onto his sleeve and matched her inhale.

He lifted his hands slightly and showed them to her, saying nothing.

She copied his hands as well as she could in the dim light. "Okay…" she whispered, feeling an inexplicable sense of calm. Maybe because he seemed to be breathing again. Maybe it was helping. Well, oxygen did tend to help in these situations. "What now?"

Taurik closed his eyes, and she did the same. "You are in a desert." His voice broke, but he kept going anyway. "In a sandstorm. Battered by the winds and cut by the sand."

He paused several seconds, long enough for Gabi to open one eye to peer at him. His forehead rested against his hands, and another tear glinted in the flickering lamplight.

But it was just one. Maybe that was alright. "You're in a desert in a sandstorm… battered by the wind and cut by the sand," she whispered, and watched him just nod. "Then what…?"

Taurik took another shallow breath and straightened. "You are the sandstorm."

She closed her eyes, and echoed, "You are the sandstorm."

Step by step, he directed her to calm the storm—and she did the same for him. The winds died down, no longer buffeting the immovable rocks that were their beings. The sand settled again into dunes. The sky cleared and the sun reappeared. With every instruction, he seemed to become more and more like himself. They were still a long way from the Taurik she'd had drinks with a few months ago… but he was calm. He was breathing. That was an improvement.

"You are the desert," he whispered, with a tone of finality.

"You are the desert."

They sat in silence for several seconds. She could only hear their breathing, the distant thrum of the warp core. The whisper of the sand that she really shouldn't have been here.

"Thank you," he whispered.

She opened her eyes, but his were still closed. He looked more like he had when she fell asleep a few hours ago: stronger, more sure, more Vulcan. She leaned carefully, lightly tapping his shoulder with hers. Taurik's eyes opened, and he looked at her. He seemed puzzled that she'd touched him. And, yes, maybe that had been a weird thing to do.

But everything about this had been weird. She'd never meditated before, much less a Vulcan meditation. She was in a lieutenant JG's quarters, and after asking him to get a drink with her. She'd been sleeping on his couch maybe thirty minutes ago, and he'd been crying on the floor. Of all the things, that connection didn't even make the list.

She shrugged. "Anytime." After a moment, she added, "How are you now?"

"I am…" Taurik paused and searched the wall in front of him, as if the words he wanted might form there. After a moment, he shrugged helplessly. "I am."

She hesitated and schooled her tone into something that was definitely not amused or mocking. "Not dying, then." As far as she knew, it wasn't a joke. "I guess that's good enough."

To her surprise, he nodded and echoed her words again. "Good enough." He closed his eyes again. Probably meditating. And hopefully in earnest this time. She doubted that simple exercise he'd walked her through walking him through was enough to get anything significant done.

After all… Vorik was still dead. No amount of meditation would change that.

She sighed and turned slightly to look at him. Like the sand after the storm, it never looked the same once the winds died down.

"I still think you should talk to someone. At least, see Counsellor Troi."

"I think you are correct."

Well, that was progress. Gabi closed her eyes and tried to focus, to meditate. She wished she'd known that sandstorm thing when she was younger… maybe it would have helped.

Chapter Text

Taurik considered the selection of teas he had programmed into his personal menu. It seemed like an overwhelming number, though there were only twelve. He'd never had this much trouble simply selecting a drink before, but his routine this morning was already thrown off.

Any suggestions? He thought it before he could stop himself.

He suppressed the flare of anger, regret, and grief as quickly as he could.

Lying on the floor in front of the low table was Miss Dixson—he'd given her a pillow about an hour ago and she hadn't really woken when she took it, tucked it under her head. He retrieved a blanket from his bedroom and covered her with it. She'd been curled up, so he assumed that meant she might be cold, though he wasn't sure how that could be. It had to be extremely warm by her standards.

He looked back at the list, thinking again that nothing seemed appealing. His chest hurt.

Obviously, it wasn't a physical injury, which only made it more noticeable. For all the pain being psychological, it seemed to have referred enough of the ache to his corporeal extremities to make the distribution bearable.

Because it was bearable. He wasn't lying when he said he hadn't considered suicide—except, perhaps, as academic: a solution that existed but not for him. And, of course, when his mother blatantly brought it up as something she feared Taurik might do. Her statistical population of how many Vulcan twins survived their deceased other-half by more than a couple of weeks was skewed significantly older than Taurik by well over a century. He never thought her perspective on him was quite correct, but he'd never felt so distant from her as he had at that moment. He hadn't spoken to her since.

In a moment of honesty, he acknowledged death could seem like an attractive alternative to the torment of a too-quiet mind. But he was convinced Vorik would have been just as angry and grieved if that was the choice he made. It didn't seem to matter that Vorik wasn't here—all he could think about was what his brother would want him to do, and die was never on that list. Mother would be disappointed. Humiliated. Father would probably consider it inevitable… but he hadn't spoken to him. He hadn't spoken to Taurik in five years. He was… he was angry. Probably only more so now.

However illogical it was to live with this much pain, it was equally illogical to stop for that reason alone. Because it was… it was bearable.

And possibly ephemeral, though that remained to be seen. Miss Dixson was at least correct that everything changed. It was bearable, and one day… he might not register it at all.

How could anyone live like this?

Right now, Taurik was just exhausted. Every muscle to his bones ached—and it wasn't because he hadn't slept. He still wasn't sure he wasn't dying. It would just… not be on purpose. It was likely just a chemical imbalance brought on by the lack of sleep, lack of nutrition, lack of meditation, and a surplus of emotion. It would correct itself once he adapted.

Because Miss Dixson was right. He would adapt. One day, he'd stop compulsively returning to that open wound to weep when he found what was inevitable, and it would stop pulling him back. One day, he'd realize it had stopped hurting so much and he hadn't noticed. Or else he'd feel this way forever and forget what it was like to feel anything different.

He wasn't sure what option he preferred.

"Computer, tea, Vulcan white with lemon, fifty-five degrees," he whispered, and the computer complied. A small dark blue teacup appeared, and the figure under the blankets stirred.

He retrieved his tea cup and turned. Miss Dixson was looking up at him, seeming almost confused. Perhaps because of her unfamiliar surroundings. Taurik experienced a light confusion to seeing her here this morning, as well. A soft feeling of gratitude that he thought he should express, because what she had done was not logical… though, admittedly, in retrospect, appreciated. She owed him no duty, and he could think of no reason she should have been here expending personal resources.

He remembered saying thank you last night, and, for once, it was not just a social futility.

"I apologize. I tried not to wake you." He went to the small table next to the door. Only two chairs were here, and he'd only ever used the one. He glanced back at the replicator. "Can I get you anything?"

"I don't know yet." Miss Dixson stretched her back and arms while she sat on the floor. "How are you?"

He momentarily bristled at the question more than the immediately obvious answer, but that was easy to get under control before he even sat down. She only meant to be… kind. And she really wanted to know. She wouldn't be here if that wasn't true. "Tolerable."

"That's good. Better than bad, anyway." Miss Dixson picked herself up from the floor, straightening her uniform shirt and running her fingers through her black hair. She looked at him. "What the hell am I going to say to Eliza?"

Eliza Clarke, her roommate in the ops department. She'd mentioned her several times. He wasn't sure what there was to tell, unless she was particularly protective of some self-imposed curfew. "Perhaps you should have considered that before insisting you stay last night," he said, and almost immediately regretted it.

"Yeah, well…" With a sigh, Miss Dixson wandered the few steps to stand next to the table. "I'm glad I was here, anyway."

She sat with him at the table, looking at his cup of tea for much too long. He could have agreed, or offered an equally encouraging comment. Continuing to complain, to act like he would have been better off left alone, felt like a lie now. It had been surprisingly welcome to wake up in a room where he could hear someone else breathing. It was unreasonable how silent everything seemed now, even in a room full of people talking.

"I did not realize how… unstable I'd become," he said, just in case she thought anything about last night was normal. He knew she didn't think that, but he had to say it. Had to remind himself he couldn't let this happen again. That would kill him. "For the record, you were incorrect in your concern. Though… I have sent a message to Counsellor Troi. She will meet with me today." He had, reluctantly, told the counsellor it was urgent.

"She's really nice," Miss Dixson offered, as though that were a variable in the calculus of whether he should pursue other processes for coping. "One of the best counsellors in all of Starfleet."

That was hardly surprising. "I'm sure she is. This is the Enterprise." Of course, he hadn't meant to sound what could have been labeled as condescending. He took a gulp of his tea. "What will you say to your roommate?" he asked, realizing that he actually did care about her answer after he asked the question.

Miss Dixson shrugged. "I don't know. It probably doesn't matter, because she won't believe me no matter what I tell her. Even if it's the truth." That sounded uniquely unpleasant to Taurik, but she smiled like perhaps it wasn't. "She's always trying to set me up. She'll probably drive herself insane trying to figure out who I spent the night with. Should be fun to watch…"

That, too, sounded uniquely unpleasant. "I regret the inconvenience…" he said.

"Nah." She leaned across the small table and hit his arm with the backs of her fingers. A gesture of goodwill and, perhaps, teasing. "It wasn't an inconvenience at all. Besides, she wouldn't know what to do with herself if there wasn't some drama going on. Hell, she might be happy it's me for once."

But… would Miss Dixson be happy with that?

"You, uh… you aren't concerned you might be in some of those rumors, are you?" she asked.

"What kind of rumors do you expect to be circulating…?"

"I don't know." Miss Dixson shrugged, looking away as if embarrassed. "Nothing happened," she added suddenly, glancing at him.

He wasn't sure how she could say that. Of course, something had happened. He had completely lost control, crying like a small child. Of course, all the emotions he'd been unable to handle as a child felt like nothing at all in the face of this. He'd never felt physically unable to meditate before, and he couldn’t remember a time he'd felt more… anything. Last night, it felt like everything.

Or was she saying that, if anyone asked her, she would lie? She would tell them nothing had happened…?

"I mean, you know, nothing, um… intimate," she added, and flushed even more than she was already. When he said nothing, still trying to figure out what she was talking about, she said, "Sexual."

"Oh." He paused, and finally understood. "Oh." He nodded, feeling a small amount of relief that the rumors they'd care to tell were ones he did not care about. "Yes, I'm sorry. I still sometimes forget Humans are perennially fixated."

 "Yeah. Some of them. Vulcans are lucky."

He considered that, and decided. "Yes." It was not a perennial fixation. Only a deadly animalistic obsession once every seven years. Ignoring those frankly horrifying biological urges, he had always believed the Vulcan method of choosing mates was superior, and never before had his opinion been so unequivocally confirmed. Humans tended to waste much time and effort even with rumors of romantic entanglements, it seemed like an anomaly they ever got around to the real thing.

As for Taurik… he had Saalle, and Saalle had him. There was no mystery to distract those around him, and no uncertainty to distract him.

"But, of course… I mean, I would never be…" She hesitated, and never finished her thought.

Perhaps she had intended to assure him that she would never consider him a viable partner for herself? That would have been welcome news, since the sentiment was mutual if that was true. But just in case she thought that he was, he should eliminate that as a possibility. Immediately. Humans could be sensitive.

Humans. He didn't know what he was thinking. He had been the one uncontrollably weeping last night, not her. Other Vulcans might have been able to view a relationship like this one from a position of superiority. He could not.

"You are aware that Vulcans have their mates arranged from a very young age," he said, sure to not phrase it like a question. It didn't matter, necessarily, whether she had known or not. "Any affair outside that would be inappropriate. I have known my..." He hesitated, knowing the Vulcan word for what Saalle was to him would not translate properly for her, and redirected. "I have known my mate since I was seven years old, and…"

And what? He'd forgotten what he was going to say, since he'd only just now realized that Vorik's mate would have received news that he was missing. If any of the family had passed on the news that he was most likely dead, she would find a new mate. Maybe soon.

That made him incredibly angry.

"What's her name?" Miss Dixson asked.

"Saalle," he said absently.

"Pretty name."

Taurik supposed it did have a certain melodic quality. He wasn't sure if it seemed so because he'd gotten used to it or because the collection of sounds was intrinsically more pleasing. Vorik's mate T'Pring had an extremely common name, but it was just as lyrical.

He should not be angry with her. It was… illogical.

"Does she know?"

"She sent me a message."

"And?"

Actually, she'd sent three. He hadn't responded. She'd expressed condolences. Said all the appropriate phrases. He could even feel residual shared grief between them, which meant she could have some awareness of his destructive spiral… and hiding it was pointless, anyway. "I haven't spoken to her."

Miss Dixson didn't seem to think that was an adaptive strategy, judging from her look.

"She will eventually know…" he said quietly, and didn't know why he was sharing this in particular… except that he couldn't tell Saalle. Pride… perhaps it was more a familial trait. "About this," he added.

That he had lost control. He would never recover.

"Miss Dixson?"

"You can call me Gabi," she said, her low tone matching his.

He watched her for a moment, distracted. Gabi? Some of the other petty officers did call her that. He only ever called her Dixson. It almost sounded like a name, unlike Gabi, which didn't at all. He shook that off.

"If you need to be forthright with your roommate," he said, "I would, of course, understand." Should he tell her he wished she wouldn't?

He didn’t have to. She slid her chair as close to him as she possibly could with the table between them. "Of course not," she said quickly. She reached, tentatively, for his hand. "Kinda feels like… like I wasn't supposed to be there, like I saw something I wasn't supposed to see. I would never tell anybody."

Taurik turned his attention to her fingers gripping his. "I would be grateful, and… I apologize for my behavior. It should never have happened."

"Seriously…?" she said. She looked at him as though she expected an answer.

He held her hand for a moment before extracting his fingers from hers. Went back to his tea. "If you must know, I did…" He didn't know if Miss Dixson would understand when he said he thought he was dying if she would take it as literally as he intended. Though, he wasn't sure how much histrionics he could handle in only twelve hours. "It was a highly unusual response—"

"No, no." Miss Dixson waved her hands between them, effectively cutting him off with word and action. "No, I mean… you can't apologize for that. That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

He hesitated. Perhaps it was ridiculous. For some reason, he needed to explain, anyway. Needed her to know that was not normal and he was ordinarily very much in control. Even these days. At least, he thought so. Less than normal, but still… more than, say, she was.

Maybe. He wasn't sure anymore.

"Never before have I been completely unable to choose how to respond to a situation. Unable to choose… how to feel. It was overwhelming."

"Well, I don't know what the hell else you could choose to feel."

Of course, a Human would say that. Choice was the essence of control. Regardless of a broken heart in more pain than he could comprehend—silent laughter and unshed tears were a choice. That was what it was to be Vulcan.

Taurik would have liked to have someone more rational sitting here with him at the moment… because, last night, he would have agreed with her. He couldn't rationalize this. He couldn't lean on logic because there was nothing logical in this. Vorik had died, and it was meaningless. It was random. There was no logic in chaos by definition, and it would make no sense to expect the response to be logical—would it?

There was no logical response to Vorik's death except grief. Except guilt. Except anger.

He emptied his tea cup and stood.

Miss Dixson looked up at him in concern at his sudden rise. He ignored that, depositing his teacup back into the replicator and watching it disappear.

"Look, I know I'm already up to my eyeballs in something I shouldn't even be in, but… can you promise me you won't do that again? You can't hide out in here alone when you're like that. You need somebody."

That, at least, was clear. "It isn't anybody else's concern."

"Well…" Miss Dixson sighed. "What if I'm concerned anyway?"

Taurik wasn't sure how he'd managed to overlook that, and the fact that she would go to extreme lengths to assuage her anxieties even when it demonstrably had no effect on her. "It's… unnecessary."

"I know. But, frankly, Taurik, I don't think you can stop me."

Evidently, she was right. "Can I get you anything?" he asked, quietly.

"I guess some scrambled eggs wouldn't be bad…"

Taurik ordered scrambled eggs and delivered a plate of fluffy yellow material that he'd seen many Humans eat for a morning meal. Perhaps even most Humans. He knew it was nutritionally sufficient, but that didn't explain it.

He sank back down in the chair, leaned back, and folded his arms.

"So what do you want to do for the rest of the morning?" she asked after a few bites.

It took him a moment to realize why she'd said that. She wasn't leaving. She still didn't trust him. He couldn't even think he'd given her a reason to. "Until I talk to Counsellor Troi," he said, and hadn't meant it as a question.

"Well… what if I just like hanging out with you?" She smiled, and he knew she had to be teasing. "You listen to me ramble about dumb things, which is more than I can say for, uh… anyone? Yeah, anyone. Thanks, by the way." She took another bite.

Taurik hadn't considered that any sort of favor. "While your interest in natural mechanical and energy systems isn't exactly useful, it is interesting," he offered. "I cannot imagine why I would need to know that the Denobulan osmotic eel can cauterize wounds, but… I now know that."

She smiled even more broadly. "How do you remember that? That had to be something like six months ago."

"Seven months. It was the first of many pieces of trivia that are completely useless to me but nevertheless fascinating to know. Vorik… found them amusing as well."

"You told him about the eels?"

He nodded. He told Vorik about everything. He had always been there, and there was no reason not to.

She went back to her eggs. "Well… if we're looking for something to do other than talk about osmotic eels, sometimes I do some anbo-jyutsu, if I can find an opponent my skill-level. Which is low, by the way. Maybe a run. A climb, if I have the holodeck credits." She suddenly stopped. "Climbing? You climb?"

He had no idea how she'd divined that. He must have responded somehow.

"There. We can go climbing."

He shrugged. "If you insist."

"I don't want to make you do something you don't want to do."

Evidently, she did. He didn't say that, though. He just stared at the tabletop. He and Vorik climbed various mountains on Earth's North American continent while they were at the Academy, and summers in mountains and canyons around their home on Vulcan.

That didn't explain anything. "I would prefer to do nothing," he said. "But I am too… tired to resist."

"I'd be just as happy for a nap, to be honest," she offered.

He would not. Leaving Miss Dixson to her breakfast, he went to his room. It looked foreign to him somehow. He'd hobbled in here around four in the morning like some decrepit and mindless animal, but he'd had the foresight to change before meditating. His shoes were out of the way by the door. He'd slept for two hours—Vulcans could theoretically go for twenty days without sleeping, but he'd never done it. Excepting a few one- or two-hour periods like this morning and in spite of his constant fatigue, he hadn't slept for one-hundred forty-six hours.

He may as well go climbing.

The sonic shower had become the only reprieve from the quiet. He wondered if it was the frequency that was distracting—before, he'd been impassively annoyed by it. It gave him a headache. Now, he sometimes took as many as five minutes longer than required because, for the first time, he found it did have a relaxing quality. It only occurred to him just now that perhaps he could attempt to meditate in the shower, if something like last night were to happen again.

So he took too long in the shower, contemplating the floor tiles and rubbing the beginning of a headache off his forehead. He didn't think about anything. He dressed in his old Academy work uniform, left his hair in the mess it was in, collected his climbing shoes, and went back out to the main room. Miss Dixson sat on the couch, curled up with a raktajino and a PADD. He saw stills of beetles.

"Climbing it is, then," she said, and stood. She looked at him from head to foot, leaving him feeling like perhaps he'd missed something. "I can't believe you like climbing," she said after a second.

"I do not like climbing," he said. "We are required to report two hours of physical activity each week, and I have experience."

"That's so uncharacteristically… fun." She grinned.

He wasn't sure it was fun, since that was not only an emotional assessment, but a subjective one, as well. But… yes, maybe he did consider it something close to what she would call fun. It was challenging, and the reward of reaching some height or precipice with a new perspective was incentive. "My family lives in the mountain range Vokau on Vulcan. I spent a great deal of my childhood climbing the canyons and caverns there." And now he knew which location he was going to recreate for their climb. It was a relatively obscure location on Vulcan, known mostly by locals of the surrounding region. Miss Dixson had most likely never been there.

"You sure you don't mind…?" Miss Dixson asked hesitantly.

Taurik considered her hesitancy and whether he "minded." He was sure he didn't. He was also sure the reason she was hesitant was because she assumed—correctly—that he had done the majority of that childhood climbing with Vorik. But if he was going to avoid things that reminded him of Vorik, he may as well stop. Everything. His mind had considered everything from engineering to waking up in the morning the ideal moment to think about Vorik.

"Climbing," he said with a small sigh, "is a physically demanding activity." And, like sonic showers, could be distracting from the silence.

Miss Dixson stood. "I'll take that as a yes."

Taurik nodded and followed her out of his quarters.

She chatted pleasantly about the beetles she was studying and discussed taking up origami, which she explained was an ancient art practiced by some Human cultures. It was supposedly quite difficult to master, and he wasn't sure how beetles and paper-folding had managed to intersect in her labyrinthine mind. They stopped at her quarters on deck thirteen—only after she was sure her roommate would have gone to the lab. She took an extremely quick shower and returned to him in the main room dressed in exercise clothes as well. Hers were obviously not holdovers from her days in enlisted training on Mars, prompting him to wonder why he hadn't recycled these and replicated something new.

Because these fit. He wasn't sure why he'd waste the energy.

Taurik expended two of his rarely-used holodeck credits to reserve a holodeck to recreate the Osana caverns for three hours. The holodeck provided one set of standard hiking socks popular on Earth and another toed version more common for Vulcans to choose along with other rigging. The caverns were a short hike from his home on Vulcan through a narrow canyon. They would have to wade through knee-high water before arriving at the caverns. He and Vorik had left lanterns along the paths that the holodeck would not have programmed.

"Three hours?" she wondered, following him into the holographic environment. "In this heat?"

"The temperature can be adjusted."

They stepped into a steep canyon under a white-orange sky. Plants, trees, and shrubs with green and red leaves lined a river emerging from the canyon before them. Taurik strapped the provided climbing belt to his waist, changed his shoes, and selected other tools from the array the program presented, including as many lanterns as were provided. He handed her a flashlight, a belt with ascenders and carabiners, and ropes.

"I wouldn't want to cheat…" she mumbled.

"The temperature drops between five and ten degrees as we progress into the canyon." Taurik pointed down at the river from their perch on a red rock where they seemed to have appeared from an archway in the canyon wall that was not an archway at all. Of course, it would have turned into an arch if they called for one. "This is the Rala River. You may be interested to know it gets its name from its similarity in structure to a salamander-wing where it becomes a delta and empties into the sea. Its source is within the caverns."

"Where is this?" Miss Dixson shaded her eyes and looked up at the sky.

"The canyon and the caverns are both Osana, on Vulcan." He turned away from the canyon, pointing down the path that would, as it rounded the plateaus and climbed up and down hills, become well-traveled. "The village Neik-kaiden lies approximately five kilometers in that direction." He arranged the string of lanterns on his belt, looping them several times to conserve space and allow free movement. "I grew up there."

"Oh." Miss Dixson sounded much more interested with that revelation, looking around the canyon once again. "Did you come here often?"

He nodded. "Yes." All the time. Most summers, it seemed like they lived here.

He and Vorik learned the proper names to all the rock formations around the village and the ones that didn't have any they named themselves. Their most-frequented climb was in this canyon, a treacherous rise in one of the meanders, the tallest of the surrounding plateaus. Its proper name was Fisolekau T'Ha'sular, and it took three days to climb. The caverns, by contrast, took less than a day if they desired.

"How hard is it?"

Taurik looked back upriver toward the cavern. "My first attempt was at seven years old, though I was twelve the first time I successfully completed the route to the spring. I think it is perhaps a moderate difficulty."

"Alright, well… we'll see. Anyway, the safeties are on, right?"

He eyed her, wondering how she trusted him so little. "I would never consider turning them off."

"Not for you—I mean… I'm not clumsy or anything, but odds are if I was gonna fall, it'd be the day I decided to go rock-climbing with a Vulcan officer," she said, sheepishly stepping up beside him. "You guys are surefooted, right?"

Taurik was, probably by most standards, but that did not translate to "you guys." "I am unaware of any reason you would have that stereotype."

"Oh. Okay, then. Lead the way?"

Miss Dixson followed him down to the river, where they stayed on the bank between the canyon walls. Recreated Vulcan fauna scurried into the rocks and dove into the water. Neither of them said anything, leaving Taurik to wonder at length if he would ever come back here in reality.

Taurik stepped into the water when the canyon walls encroached on the river. The water was clear and cold. The holodeck would not naturally create rainy conditions, which would have turned the water ruddy with runoff. During the monsoon seasons, hundreds of waterfalls plummeted from the high canyon walls, throwing rainbows with the mist into the air. It was a dangerous time to be in the canyon, as flash floods were common, but there were several rocks along the canyon large enough to be out of harm's way and observe the occurrence. He and Vorik, when they were sixteen, had been trapped on one of the rocks a bit further into the canyon for two days due to rain and flooding. They had nothing to eat, one blanket between them, and the most comprehensive lecture their father had ever delivered when they finally returned home. Nevertheless, they agreed it was the best two days of their lives. They agreed to prepare and do it intentionally one day…

Those were still the best two days of his life, and he would never return to this place in reality.

"When's the last time you did this?" she asked.

"Approximately five years ago." The weather had been optimal for their three-day trip through the canyon and up one of the sheer walls. From here, he could even see one of the narrow ledges on which they camped for one night. He hesitated, and added, "It was the last thing Vorik and I did before leaving for the Academy. I suppose it was the last time."

She fell silent, swishing through the water behind him. After a few seconds, he thought he heard her apologize. That wasn't his point.

"It seemed appropriate to go through the canyon today," he continued after a few minutes of pushing through the strong current now rushing around his calves. "We always returned to the Osana caverns, to the springs, before undertaking any major life event. Like our own kahs-wan."

"Your own what?"

"Test of maturity undertaken in Vulcan's Forge for ten days." He'd thought his ten days—and Vorik's—were almost fraudulent. They avoided each other for the integrity of the ritual, but it didn't stop them from maintaining almost constant telepathic contact. Taurik wouldn't have made it the whole ten days alone. On the last day, they met at the edge of the desert and left together.

Miss Dixson picked up a rock out of the river and threw it back in ahead of her. "That's… that's kind of beautiful," she said.

Beautiful. Taurik looked at their surroundings, wondering which specific part of the environment she was talking about. Beautiful was, indeed, an adjective ascribed to some locations on Vulcan by outsiders, even though the majority of it was dry and dead. Taurik preferred Earth, even though the majority of it was too cool. Comfort had no bearing on beauty.

"I suppose," he offered. "We should recreate the canyon in the rain one day. Most climbs are too dangerous under such conditions, but—"

"No, I meant…" She stopped suddenly, and sighed. "I mean, coming back here. Undertaking a major life event."

"Oh." He had no idea why that should be beautiful.

"Thanks for sharing this with me."

"At the risk of being blunt, Miss Dixson—" He paused, and looked back at her. She took the few remaining steps between them. "Gabi. I cannot think of anything more personal than what you've already witnessed. A hike through an unrestricted canyon is quite possibly the least compromising thing I've shared today." And, with an appointment with Counsellor Troi, later that wasn't likely to change.

They had arrived at the entrance to a vast black expanse before them that disappeared into the rocks where the canyon appeared to stop.

"Kinda makes me feel like I should reciprocate," Miss Dixson said, hooking her thumbs in her belt and looking at him.

"Reciprocate what?"

"Something compromising."

He shrugged, pulling out his lamp to guide his path just before he stepped into the darkness. "My volatility was not your choice."

"Doesn't really feel like it was yours, either."

"I fail to see how that is relevant."

Miss Dixson pulled out her own flashlight, turning the beam around the stalagmites set back into the large cavern. Pla-kur yonkallar, tiny dragon-like creatures with six appendages and bright blue eyes, hung from pockmarks in the ceiling. Their tufted lizard tails curled around their heads like little toupees. She stopped to look at them, and he waited for her.

While she observed the wildlife, he knocked one of his lantern-sticks into the wall next to him. He counted his lanterns and estimated one every three or four meters would get them nearly to the springs. Then, at the end, they would be able to see their circuitous route through the cavern beneath them.

"Are they domesticated?" she asked suddenly, her beam on one of the lizards.

"They do not tolerate captivity," he said. After a moment of watching a pair of them crawl a bit closer to them along the ceiling, he added, "They chew off their limbs when confined."

"Ew, what?"

"Nature is…" He searched for the correct word for some seconds. He couldn't think of any that weren't anthropomorphizing or sensationalizing. "Harsh," he decided.

"Harsh." She repeated the word like she was tasting it. "Sure. Like weather. Ice and heat doesn't mean to kill you, but it will." Leave it to a Human to sensationalize even what he tried to make impassive. "Or a sheer cliff."

Taurik stopped beside Miss Dixson at the wall and looked up. The configuration of the hand- and foot-holds were not exact to his memory, but even holodeck technology could not be perfect to the smallest detail of an obscure cavern wall. Some of the climbs ahead were quite difficult, and, though they would be in no danger for a fall, he'd decided that success was more important than challenge.

Also, he had no idea what Miss Dixson's level of competence might be.

"Computer," he said, and knocked the lamp into the wall. "Adjust the difficulty of this face to Class Four."

"Is higher or lower easier?"

Taurik glanced at her. "Computer, adjust difficulty to Class Three."

"It was just a question…" Gabi muttered.

Since she'd guessed correctly, he didn't answer the question. "How much experience do you have free-climbing?" He took a step away, and she followed into the lantern light. He was perhaps only a centimeter or two taller than she was, but he was, of course, stronger… but she seemed at least equal to the task.

"A little? Nothing formal, but I used to climb around the mountains back home. And, of course, in the holodeck, but I don't know what difficulties I'm climbing or anything like that. I guess I've finished one or two of the easiest routes for El Capitan on Earth, but over the course of a month or whatever it takes. I can only reserve a little holodeck time at once… besides, the whole thing would take days."

"I will climb ahead of you and tell you the pattern of the holds. If it is too difficult, we will adjust. Does that seem agreeable to you?"

Miss Dixson grinned. "And if it's too easy?"

He turned to the rock face. "Then we will climb El Capitan."

It took several minutes for him to find his bearings, but soon he found a rhythm. The slower pace due to his unfamiliarity with the climb seemed to be helpful to Miss Dixson, as she kept up with relative ease. It was to her benefit that he was hanging lanterns as he went. Still, he relayed the locations of his grips and steps, but she didn't seem to need them and she took a diversion or two to reach the top only shortly after he did.

"Hey," she pulled herself up on the ledge next to him, gasping a little for her effort. "Is it too personal a question to ask how old you are?"

"How is something as insignificant as age too personal?" He stood and offered her a hand.

"Considering the kind of day you've had, I'd say you're allowed to be protective of insignificant things." She slapped her hand into his, and he pulled her up.

"Twenty-four Earth years." And she was approximately twenty-two. "Would you consider it an invasion of privacy that I know your age?"

"I'm sure it's come up before." She looked down the path behind them and then turned to face him. "Age gets to be a weird subject for Humans around forty, but I know Vulcans don't age like Humans do. You could have been eighty for all I knew."

He doubted he would have this reaction if he were eighty. For one thing, emotional control improved with age. The perspective of decades and the assurance that at least Vorik had lived four-fifths of a century instead of not even one-quarter would have been helpful. Still too short, but… he might have had children, maybe even made commander.

"I am not."

"Yeah. I know that now. Thanks."

They continued climbing, Miss Dixson even taking the lead on the next face.

"I'm twenty-one," she offered after a few meters.

Taurik glanced up in her direction.

"I lied on my enlistment papers. I was sixteen, not seventeen." She paused and planted a lamp. "Of course, by the time training was over and I was actually serving, I was seventeen. I don't know if that matters for disciplinary boards, though."

Taurik didn't know, either. It was a strange admission, considering she could be disciplined, demoted, or even disqualified from service entirely if someone presumably more important than Taurik knew. "Why?"

"I was impatient," she said, as if that was all the explanation needed.

He wasn't sure whether he'd meant to ask why she'd lied or why she'd broached the topic at all. She'd just asked him his age—and with that information, perhaps age wasn't quite as insignificant as he thought. Past a certain age, it was.

"I figure that's reciprocally compromising," she added.

"The most my situation could do is relegate me to medical leave on Vulcan," he said. Possibly for years, depending on how far gone he was. He would estimate at this moment of lucidity… it might take him three years to successfully suppress the effects of Vorik's death. Optimistically.

He already knew that he would never recover. So it was simply a matter of learning to live with that. Learning to live with the misery seemed easier to contemplate at the moment than learning to live without him…

"And I'm pretty sure the worst they'd do to me is demote me," she said, and reached up for the next hold. "I don't know for sure, but I was sixteen and my service has been pretty good."

"Exemplary," he said, as if a correction. He didn't know why.

She smiled and reached for the next grip. "There, see? Reciprocal. It makes sense, trust me."

"Very well…"

They lit the way with lanterns enough to watch each other's grips—making sure each of them had something to hold onto. Taurik hoisted himself up onto the next ledge and turned back to help Miss Dixson up the rest of the way when the comms overhead buzzed.

"Counsellor Troi to Lieutenant Taurik."

With one hand, Taurik pulled Miss Dixson up, and with the other he tapped his combadge. "This is Taurik."

"I'm ready for you now."

"I will be on my way shortly." The comline buzzed into silence and Taurik looked at Gabi. "I asked that she meet with me at her earliest convenience."

She looked pleased enough, smiling but her eyes were sad. "I hope she can help."

"As do I…" Taurik looked down the cliff now behind them, past two climbs and down to the lanterns he'd left along the river leading out of the caverns. "Your… consideration today has been appreciated. I cannot guarantee I will see you at shift."

She nodded, kicked some gravel of the edge. She seemed to listen to it rain on the surface below and then said, "If you ever need anybody to sleep on your couch while you meditate… you know where to find me."

Taurik wanted to tell her that he would not, but thought better of it at the last moment. Nothing was guaranteed. And he had appreciated waking to something other than silence. So, he only looked into the blackness where the door should have been, unless he'd gotten completely turned around. "Computer, save program—Osana-One—and exit."

The blackness switched on into the familiar illuminated yellow grid.

Miss Dixson was staring at him. "Save program?"

"I assumed you would want to see the source of the river. Was I incorrect?"

"No, no, I, uh…" She shrugged and grinned. "When do you want to finish it?"

Taurik looked at the door, thinking he shouldn't keep Counsellor Troi waiting too long. He collected his shoes, nodded a farewell, and turned to leave. "Perhaps tomorrow."

The door shut behind him, leaving him to walk down the empty hallway toward his room, a few sections away. He thought he should go get dressed in his uniform. It wouldn’t add more than five minutes to his arrival time, and he would be more comfortable. He turned the corner away from the holodecks to a long hallway.

A distant sound, a shape shimmered like a mirage or a reflection on a lake—a feeling, or a memory of one, like a gilded echo from the other side of a misty canyon, lightly brushed his consciousness. Unmistakably trickling through the emptiness was a sense of safety. Longing. Peace.

It was Vorik. Wasn't it? How could it be? As quickly as it had come, it was gone.

Any other time, that smallest contact would barely have been enough to reach him, but now? Now he took in a sharp breath, hand against the wall, and breathed into the back of his hand. He went back to that bleeding black place between them and found nothing, still nothing there. He fought back the tears that threatened to resurface, angry at his lack of control and afraid of what it might mean. Afraid he might have to go home.

How had he imagined that? And why?

He really must have been dying. Or losing his mind. He considered it a good sign he was afraid of that possibility. Regardless of admission, no matter how deep the fear was buried, most Vulcans were.

He shifted his weight back onto his feet. Straightened. Gripped his hands behind his back, his shoes still hanging from two of his fingers. It took a moment to weigh what he wanted to do next, but in the end decided not wanting to see the counsellor still dressed in this was only vanity. He went straight to the nearest turbolift, and requested deck nine.

#

Taurik sat on the rocks, switching out his shoes for the climbing socks. Gabi watched, comparing her own climbing socks to the ones he was wearing. He'd brought his own, apparently some Vulcan style in gray with two extra latches and adhesive fabric.

Gabi itched to ask him how his talk with Counselor Troi went. He hadn't gone to shift yesterday, and she had practically lost her mind. She restrained herself from calling, though. He was probably meditating. He was probably fine.

Well, not fine. But okay. And she shouldn't interrupt. And then he'd called this morning to ask if she wanted to continue their climb. She'd nearly lost her mind again, but for completely different reasons. Return invitations were one of her favorite things.

"Even without telepathy, Miss Dixson, I could hear your anxiety."

That was fair. She'd looked at him maybe six times in the last minute. "Sorry."

"My health and emotional state are both adequate."

"I know." She kicked her toes against the rocks on the ledge where they'd stopped yesterday. A trail of lamps flickered in the dark cavern below, showing their path up the cliffs. "I'm just… concerned." She let go the breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "I can't help it."

Taurik stood. "You might consider meditation as an avenue to alleviate it."

"Does it work?"

He eyed her with an almost painful expression. Didn't answer.

"Or I could just ask you how it went."

"Does that… work?"

"I don't know. How'd it go?"

"Counsellor Troi is quite capable in her profession." He didn't sound too sure about that, but she really shouldn't pry. It was none of her business. It felt like a miracle he was even speaking to her, after yesterday. "Starfleet would not declare Voyager destroyed based on my experience alone, of course."

That was unexpected. "Did you want them to?"

"No." He turned to the rock face, testing the grips before pulling himself up. "It is simply… everyone remains hopeful they might be found. Not that I begrudge anyone their ability to hope, however futile it is."

Gabi waited a moment for him to get a few meters above her. "You mean Counsellor Troi is still hopeful they might be found, too." That was what she assumed the implication was, anyway.

"Regardless of whether Voyager is lost, Vorik is gone. She hasn't argued that point, as, clearly, my grief is real." He paused his climb to put in a lamp. "I believe I unintentionally overwhelmed her at first."

"Damn." She hadn't meant to say that out loud, selecting another route to the left instead. Thanks to the lamps Taurik was laying, she could see a series of what seemed to be good grips there. "I mean, emotions are her job, aren't they? If it's overwhelming for her, then… I don't know. Kinda makes it seem more reasonable that you should be having a tough time…" Maybe not to Taurik, and maybe not to other Vulcans. But maybe to everyone else in the galaxy.

"I hadn't considered that."

"Not that it didn't seem reasonable to me—it always seemed reasonable," she added, taking a breath and propelling herself up to the next grip, at the same time latching her toes to one of the holds she'd selected for it.

She couldn't help her grin that she'd managed what felt like a feat of coordination, and reached her other foot to the nearest ledge to brace her next reach.

"Ordinarily, she would sense very little of a Vulcan's emotions. But I have apparently lost all control." With the barest coil, he sprang and grabbed a ledge above him.

Well, that sounded angry.

Gabi paused her climb to watch him struggle to find footing, hanging from his single grip that didn't seem too stable. She turned her wrist-light to the wall next to him. "Left foot, here," she said, and he followed her direction. "You know, maybe it's small steps right now. You aren't, you know… crying during the session or something."

Unless he was. She probably shouldn't have said that.

"That," he said, sounding almost disgusted as he paused to reassess his position, "is quite possibly the least I could do."

"Okay, so what's wrong with just expecting the least you can do right now?" Gabi sighed and continued her path upwards. Taurik still beat her to the next ledge.

He sat on the ledge while he waited, apparently giving the question some thought. "I… am not sure," he finally admitted, and offered her a hand.

She took it, scrambling up to the next ledge. He silently offered she take the lead this time, handing her a ring of lamps. They climbed most of the next walls in the dark and in silence, though Taurik told the computer to increase the difficulty at some point. Gabi had no way of knowing how close they were to the end until she realized she could hear the sound of moving water—many small streams trickling. It had been incredibly faint farther down, but now they were almost on top of it.

Taurik paused to wait, and Gabi caught her breath. "I believe this is the last wall," he said, and looked up. "Possibly. The program has changed some of the layout to accommodate the difficulty."

"Lead the way, then." She gestured at the wall and wondered how the hell he and his brother had ever gotten back down from here. Or somewhere like here.

At the top was a small pool that spilled water to the side of the cavern, away from where they'd been climbing. It slid down the rocks in its own tiny canyon to the floor below, where other pools sat waiting on the way outside. Taurik directed his light into the pool, dipped his hand, and drank.

Gabi turned to the rest of the cavern behind them.

She had to wonder what kind of environmental factors would create a cave like this. The back wall of the cavern seemed covered with pools like this one, fed by the weeping rock wall. The rock above them, though, didn't drip. Strange honeycomb patterns extended from the ceiling and obscured the view of the caves below. She could move from one side of the pool to the other to see their entire route—lit by the lanterns they'd left—but never the whole path at once no matter where she stood.

She shined her light on the honeycomb features. "Do you know why it does this?"

He glanced, and she thought she almost saw amusement. "Underliers. Sandworms grown to mythical proportions."

"Really?"

"No. The likely explanation is erosion acting upon different types of rocks and sands compacted from a millennia of sandstorms and other environmental phenomena." He contemplatively turned his own light around the space around them. "Fascinating. Perhaps I should ask Saalle." He noticed her confusion, and added, "She is a geologist."

"I don't know about you, but I'd like to know. Especially if Underliers exist." She smiled and sat down on the ledge, kicking her feet off the ledge and listening to the small pieces of rocks she'd loosened clatter down below.

Taurik sat beside her, wrapping his arms around his raised knees in a relaxed posture. "Was the climb satisfactory?"

"Very nice. Cool view." She nodded. "It's also much better to climb with someone than alone."

"Perhaps we should arrange to fulfill our physical activity requirements together. If you dislike climbing alone," he added, as if that was unclear.

Maybe it was, but she had to admit that climbing with him did hold a certain appeal over, say, Eliza. She'd never do this, anyway. Gabi smiled down past the ledge into the blackness, seeing part of their path lit off into the darkness. "If you don't mind me coming along. We could pool our holodeck time."

"Mine is usually sufficient."

"Huh. Do officers get more time than petty officers?" She wasn't sure what she thought about that… but there were twelve holodecks on a ship with over a thousand people most of the time. Hours in a day were limited resources, and some hours were rarer than others.

He didn't seem to be thinking about that, and didn't answer in the end. She took that to mean that he didn't mind. They looked down into the blackness together, and Gabi started counting the lights.

Taurik rested his forehead on his wrists. After a bit, his hands clenched into fists until they shook.

She watched for a moment, thinking that was probably more than he intended to show. Or maybe not. Still, with a sigh, she edged a bit closer. Tapped his shoulder with hers. "You okay?"

His hands let go of their iron grip on the air. "I believe we have established that I am not." He moved his hands to interlock his fingers behind his head. "I will adapt. I must adapt," he said, like a mantra. "I am in control."

She didn't say anything. Probably couldn't go wrong with that. She never knew what to do at times like this. She felt like she'd always done the wrong thing, said the worst thing. She sighed and leaned on his shoulder. She didn't know if that kind of contact was helpful, but it made her feel better.

She sighed. "Tushah nash-veh k'odu," she said in her best approximation of the pronunciation guides she'd listened to.

He lifted his head to look at her.

"So I looked up some stuff about Vulcans yesterday. It's a nice phrase." She shrugged. "But I suppose the word I'd usually use is kind of similar. Condolences: to feel pain or sorrow with someone else. Con-dolor."

He put his forehead back down and took a breath.

"I know it's not… anything, actually," she added, in case he felt insulted by the suggestion. What she felt was so small it probably wasn't worth talking about. Her empathy about the topic wasn't relevant. She was just glad she wasn't telepathic. She could feel his heart breaking even from here.

"I appreciate the attempt," he said. "But consolation is impossible."

"Yeah…" She didn't expect it to help, necessarily, in any immediate way. But being alone during times like this was hell. That, she knew for sure. "But I'm here. I guess that's all I mean."

He nodded, as if he knew. As if they'd been doing this for days instead of just one. Maybe, eight months ago, she wouldn't have been here. She would have just been someone else in Engineering who noticed something about him was just a bit off. He would have come on duty, left again, and no one would have noticed. Even if he was dying, no one would have cared.

Well, Sam would have noticed.

"I know Sam is, too." She leaned back on her hands and looked at the honeycombs. "And I'm pretty sure if there's anything we can do… we'd try to help. That's all."

Taurik lifted his head, his arms still resting on his knees, and looked at her. "I don't understand why you're doing this."

Gabi shrugged. "They say compassion is adaptive."

He nodded, like maybe that made sense even though she wasn't sure it did. It sounded good, though. She had no idea how much of her life she spent standing on things she just said once, for no reason, because it sounded good. Not that she didn't believe them… she did. But she didn't have a good reason. At least, no reason a Vulcan would find good probably.

"Because it increases the likelihood of reciprocal behavior in the future?"

Okay, so maybe it didn't sound good. At least, it didn't sound anything like what she'd meant. Gabi shook her head, shrugged. "Can't someone just do something because it's a nice thing to do?"

"It's…" He suddenly stopped, and seemed to redirect from whatever he'd been about to say. "It doesn't make sense."

Gabi smiled. "Maybe. Maybe not. We're all kinda stumbling around in the dark on our own anyway. Why not leave lamps?"

"A metaphor." He said it like that meant something more significant than Gabi thought it did. Maybe Vulcans didn't use metaphors.

"Yeah. Sorry."

He sighed and finally stood up. "Since you've offered twice in the last twenty-six hours, would you be opposed to joining me for meditation? I used to think I preferred silence to meditate, but… it seems I didn't know what silence was." He paused. "It seems I owe Lieutenant Lavelle an apology."

With a smile, Gabi stood up next to him, nodding. That was exactly what she said she'd do. Also, she had some reading to do… probably on Vulcan funerary practices. Seemed to fit the mood. "Sure. Computer? Save program."

He arched an eyebrow. "Save program?"

"I assume you'll want to climb back down," she said.

Taurik looked back down at the lamps leading through the darkness. "I suppose we won't be finished with the climb until we do."

#

It was broken. Vorik sat back in the Jefferies tube with a sigh and fiddled with the spanner while it flickered unhelpfully. Their power reserves were not yet at a critical level—he could replicate a new one. But if he did, that would put them one spanner closer to dangerously-low levels. They would have to learn how to fix what was broken and work with what was less than optimal.

He should have spoken to Tuvok. Vorik had plenty of opportunity. Tuvok's schedule was exact, even to the minute, for the past week. These last seven days were the first of the next seventy years of his life. Vorik could interrupt his breakfast or dinner, ask to speak to him privately.

But what was the point? What did he expect Tuvok to do?

He slid the cover off the spanner's handle and inspected the chips and wires within. Two of the smallest ones were offset from one another. He'd have to remove them and manually realign and reset them.

His telepathic abilities remained intact: he could sense Tuvok, so he had no need of reassurance that his telepathic abilities were undamaged. They weren't close, but Tuvok was a Vulcan. His presence stood out like a star in infinite blackness. So perhaps only the sudden distance had snapped his connection with Taurik.

It had been demonstrated over hundreds of years of space exploration that the Bond was exceptionally elastic—it could stretch over lightyears without any known limit. Twins were rare; rarer still were those who went separate directions in space exploration. But not rare enough to know that their form of communication from the corners of the Alpha and Beta Quadrants still ran unimpeded.

He should be able to reach Taurik. A few ten-thousand lightyears shouldn't make a difference.

Sometimes he wondered if he couldn't hear Taurik because he was dead.

The timing would have been incredibly coincidental. The likelihood that something catastrophic had happened to Taurik within the same few minutes that he'd been ripped from the Alpha Quadrant was incredibly small. Logically, he had to believe Taurik was fine.

He just might never see him again.

By contrast, Taurik probably reasonably thought Vorik was dead. Believing that Vorik had been thrown across the galaxy instead of the much more likely explanation of destruction in a plasma storm would be illogical. Which meant he was in even more pain than Vorik was right now.

Vorik pressed the two chips together; the spanner sparked a charge onto his palm.

With a reflexive gasp, he dropped the spanner.

"You okay over there?" Crewman Dalby spoke up.

"Yes." It was so quiet. Ordinarily, if he was paying any attention at all, Taurik would have felt that. He would have asked what he was doing, annoyed, because Vorik was comparatively clumsy and careless and… With a sigh, Vorik sighed and picked the spanner back up. "The spanner malfunctioned, and shocked me. I'm uninjured—it was just… unexpected."

Dalby chuckled. "Alright."

He could cope with silence. Even though Crewman Dalby clicked away at his own task one junction to his left, it was as if Vorik was the only one left in the universe.

That wasn't quite true. Tuvok was always on the bridge. He was the only bastion of calm in a storm of nerves and distress. If Vorik was having difficulty remaining calm and controlled, he could only assume his Human crewmates were worse.

Vorik… never had trouble with that before. Between himself and Taurik, Taurik was the more unsettled. Taurik was affected by criticism and found adjusting to unexpected change difficult. He knew what he wanted—Starfleet Academy had been Taurik's idea, with Utopia Planetia being the foreseen object of his career.

Vorik never had any concrete plans, but learned whatever he could whenever he could. Being useful was itself a reward, and he rationalized that aimless pursuit would prepare him for myriad situations. Even if Vorik wasn't as technically intelligent as Taurik was, he considered himself extremely adaptable. He would never have chosen to be lost in the Delta Quadrant, but he was equal to the challenge. Even if he wasn't, he would eventually be. It was the nature of growth. He accepted the most unorthodox assignment on the most interesting ship every time it was available to him.

Voyager. Bio-neural circuitry. Variable geometry warp nacelles. More environmentally-friendly designs came with unique challenges.

He had never been afraid of anything before, but now he was. He simply didn't know how Taurik would manage losing their Bond. Vorik wasn't worried that he would return to the Alpha Quadrant to find Taurik gone—at least, not barring catastrophic circumstances beyond his control that were, admittedly, not as rare as he might have wanted from a career in space exploration. But he knew Taurik. He wouldn't give up. He'd retreat. He'd leave his goals on Earth and Mars, his designs for engineering, and return to Vulcan. Everything was safer and more familiar, even if it wasn't better or what he wanted.

Vorik paused to replace the hatch cover carefully.

Seventy years was such a very long time… Anything could happen. Nothing was predictable.

Even though he knew their Bond was broken, he paused to reorient himself toward the Alpha Quadrant where he was sure Taurik was alive. It was most likely.

He wasn't sure a message would reach him, and he didn't know how to communicate compactly for Taurik to continue on the path he'd chosen, so he didn't. He just settled for the only thing that seemed to matter at the moment. He was as safe as could be reasonably expected.

He missed him.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sam planted his hands on the table before sitting down. "Come on."

Taurik looked up at him, his lowered brows and the light surrounding the floor-to-ceiling windows in Ten Forward illuminating his eyes. "Where?"

"The holodeck." Sam tapped the table with his knuckles. "Today apparently sucks for all of us, so we're gonna meet Gabi and drink."

Taurik looked around, unsure why today should somehow be worse for Sam than any others. After all, he'd been pleased with his romantic relationship and excelling in his work, especially lately. Even Commander Riker praised his quick-thinking in a maneuvering drill two days ago. Taurik had never seen Gabi upset—at least, not in a way applicable to this situation—and so had no frame of reference from which to evaluate. Even Taurik couldn't find a logical reason he should be less steady today than any other day recently.

He had a reason. It wasn't a logical one.

"I am no less—"

"Shut up." Sam sat down, but the way he sat on the edge of the chair, his chest almost pressed against the table's edge, it was clear he was only ready to stand again. "We share a room, remember? You haven't slept in three days, and you meditated for eight hours yesterday. Eight. You didn't even—I mean, what the hell? I didn't even know you could do that."

Taurik frowned. "I am capable of meditating for days, if necessary."

"That's not the point. It's been six months almost to the day Voyager went missing."

Consulting that always-active internal chronometer, Taurik acknowledged Sam was correct. It had been six months, as of yesterday. The time came and went without his notice, however. "Indeed. Six months, one day, three hours."

Sam pressed away from the table slightly, as if surprised. Possibly concerned.

"Fifteen minutes," he added, and counted the seconds that he didn't verbalize.

"How the hell do you do that? Have you been keeping track?"

"No." Taurik sighed, folding his hands on the table, and wondering if he was up to the task of explaining elementary arithmetic. Though, examination of the fact that it had been over six months since he heard his brother's voice was admittedly an unwelcome one. It was illogical, it was emotional, but it sounded worse when he said it that way. "I am aware of the time Voyager went missing, and I am aware of the time now. Simply subtract. Simplify."

Sam looked insulted.

"Anniversaries are not a Vulcan tradition," he added.

"Then what's going on with you? Did La Forge deny your test schedule or something?"

"Vorik and I had planned to visit Vulcan together on leave. I would have left three days ago."

He'd cancelled leave, and the transportation arrangements he'd made. He cancelled the accommodations they'd made for four—himself, Saalle, Vorik, and his mate—on the shores of a lake called, simply, Pla-kur, for the color seeping up from minerals in the lakebed. He'd cancelled only at the beginning of this month. It was illogical, but he still wondered if the others that still hadn't given up on Voyager were correct, and it was just missing.

If Voyager was just missing, Vorik was likely dead, anyway. If Voyager was just missing, he wondered what they would have done with his body. If Voyager was found, he wasn't sure he'd want to know. He would have no choice, then, except to go home and take part in all the ritual mourning and grief. All the same, he acknowledged he had closure that many others might never have.

Sam clicked his tongue. "You should've kept your reservations."

"To what purpose?"

"I don't know. Seems like you need a break. Process it a little bit more."

"Explain."

"If you don't understand, then I can't explain it. No one's supposed to be working right now, anyway, and I can see you don't have anything better to do. So come on." Sam started walking away, and Taurik knew Sam expected him to follow.

Taurik rose and straightened his shirt. Whatever he had planned, Sam was right: Taurik had nothing better to do.

Sam led him directly to Holodeck Three, and found Gabi waiting for them on the top of Fisolekau T'Ha'sular: the tallest plateau in the Osana Canyon. Some of the most treacherous climbs in the caverns were directly beneath it. Gabi dangled her legs over the edge above the shallow river below, her back to the town Taurik had once called home.

She turned toward them, smiled wanly. "I didn't think you were going to join us. Hi, Taurik."

With a nod of greeting, Taurik was momentarily surprised to hear that Gabi had been spending extra time with Sam. Quickly, he decided he didn't know why he should be surprised. They were both Human, and so probably had more in common with each other than they had with him. Since leaving Vulcan and excepting his brother, he'd spent all of his time with non-Vulcans. Perhaps most people didn't do that.

"Why does… rather, what has made your day unpleasant?" Taurik asked, diverting from his original intention to quote Sam's characterization.

She shrugged. "It's my sister's birthday and she got accepted to Starfleet Academy. Starts next semester."

Taurik frowned. "Is that news not desirable?"

"It would be if she was talking to me." Gabi smiled and took the glass that Sam handed to her. She looked at him. "I actually don't know what's wrong with Sam. What's wrong with you?"

With a sigh, Sam asked the computer to produce an alcoholic brandy, and poured for each of them. He filled half a glass and handed it to Taurik. "A year ago last week, we lost a good friend," he said, looking at Taurik meaningfully.

The calculation on that was simple, as well. He remembered the shock standing in Engineering, listening to the captain's commendation and realizing no one around him seemed distressed. Maybe they weren't, because they didn't react outside of a moment of respectful silence. Sam had been devastated for three days, illogically guilty and definitely angry—and then he moved to his new quarters, and Taurik shut away the grief. His new roommate was an ensign in Ops, and Taurik remembered how long it had taken him and Sam to adjust to one another. Three months later, Taurik had a new pip and room of his own.

No one spoke of Sito anymore.

Taurik looked at Gabi, and her confusion was tentative and polite. "Her name was Sito Jaxa."

"Oh, right, I remember her…"

Taurik briefly bristled to realize that, of course, Gabi would have known of her existence—Gabi had been working with Taurik for months before her death. She was one who didn't understand what about Sito necessitated an announcement from the captain about her death. She was one of the many that listened, meditated on the loss of a single insignificant life for a likewise insignificant amount of time, and got back to work.

Taurik had worked, but he thought about it for several days, sometimes for hours. Of course, then he had Vorik's silent support and reasoning to lean on. Taurik spent too much time trying to remember the words he'd thought were wise about the logic of the situation—but it was as if most of Vorik's encouragement had been lost the same way he had.

"Yeah." Sam poured a glass and sat down on the edge beside Gabi.

"You got anything?" Gabi asked, leaning around Sam to see Taurik on his other side as he sat.

Taurik looked down past his feet at the ground that appeared to be one-hundred-thirty meters beneath. Of course, it was not, being a holodeck. He didn't want to say that he was mourning a cancelled holiday in light of Sito's death. Yes, it was a cancelled holiday because of his brother's death, but he should have adapted to that by now.

As he'd adapted to Sito's death.

Still, he sometimes thought he should apologize to Sam for what now seemed like an idiotically banal attempt at comfort. The best way to remember her would be to excel in your new position? If it had sounded alright to Sam, then perhaps neither of them had known what loss was.

"It's six months since Voyager, and he just had to cancel a trip he was taking with Vorik." Sam answered for him.

Gabi sighed. "Well, that sucks. This really is a bad day. Don't even have to add my stupid stuff."

Sam shook his head, tapping Gabi's arm as he took a drink. "I don't have a sister—or a brother—but if I've learned anything in the past year… it's that I don't know if I wish I did or if I'm glad I don't." After a moment, he revised, "I'm glad I knew Sito."

This sort of speculation was so far beyond the pale of logic, he didn't dare look toward it. Taurik took a drink of what turned out to be Vulcan brandy.

"I think it's worth it. Family breaks your heart, but they're the first ones who teach you what love actually means." She smiled, offered her drink in a toast, maybe to the eponymous mythological ha'sular that were supposed to have landed here. "To family, then." She drank.

"And love," Sam agreed, and offered his glass to Taurik for the Human tradition of tapping the rims.

Taurik followed through with the ritual motion, and took another drink when Sam did.

"What are you toasting?" Gabi asked.

Taurik sighed, restraining himself from offering the initial stinging impulse to simply say he was toasting neither. "Conversations with other species about emotional states often translates to the most generic terms due to our definitional precision and other languages' lack of it."

Gabi and Sam both fell silent, apparently contemplating his answer. Finally, Sam looked at him. His grin was… mischief. "You mean you're toasting both?" Sam looked to Gabi a moment later, as if seeking endorsement.

"I can think of no less than thirty distinct Vulcan words encompassed in the Human expression for love—" he said, using the most generic Vulcan term for it, "even with my area of study, which brings me nowhere near adjacent to the topic."

Sam looked at Gabi. "That's a yes."

"Provisionally," Taurik said.

"I'm shocked," Sam said.

Gabi just smiled. Because, of course, she knew firsthand that Vulcans did have emotions. Taurik knew he had already admitted to Sam as much—at least in relation to his brother. If he had seen, it was only the shadows of what had been suppressed. Though, logically, everyone had to know: one could neither control nor suppress what one did not possess in the first place. Humans tended to believe their experiences more than logic, however.

"I think Humans could use a little bit more definitional precision. What kinds of love are there?" Gabi asked.

Taurik considered how to classify them in a way they would easily grasp. "Eleven distinct types of romantic love," he said. "Five for familial, also included in twenty for platonic love, four for—"

"There." Gabi interrupted, and gestured in his direction with her snifter. "That. What are those?"

Taurik could have listed the words in Vulcan rather easily, but unless they were listening to his words in Vulcan, they would simply hear the common words for friendship and love twenty times. He could try to describe them without using the words, but… "Our shared terminology on this topic is limited, and… your vocabulary is too imprecise. It will likely not translate."

Sam chuckled. "I wouldn't get it, anyway."

Taurik disagreed, but didn't say anything. Gabi was likewise emotionally perceptive for a non-telepath. "Perhaps not precisely," he allowed. "Humans seem prone to all thirty sometimes within the same day and even toward the same object." He took another drink.

Fortunately, Gabi had switched to Vulcan brandy as her preferred drink in lieu of her homeworld's whiskey, though the flavors were not at all similar.

"Let's see. Go ahead." Gabi nudged Sam. "Take a drink whenever the translator just says love."

"It would be advisable to change the subject." Taurik looked from Sam, who looked almost equally uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had somehow taken, to Gabi, who seemed… linguistically interested. She enjoyed comparing colorful metaphors as well. "Once again, our shared vocabulary could only lead to misunderstanding."

"I don't think so." Gabi shook her head and took a final casual drink of her brandy. "I love you, too."

Taurik squinted at her. Even Sam seemed surprised at the confession that Taurik considered he had very good reason to disbelieve. At least, not in the way that Humans tended to use that word.

After a moment, she grinned, dropped the empty glass in her hand off the holographic cliff. They all watched in what seemed to be morbid interest. "I'm teasing you, Taurik," she said, and the smallest sound of glass shattering on rock reached them.

He nodded, hesitantly. "I see." That made more sense than anything, anyway. He set aside his empty glass and noticed both of them looking at him, apparently, in expectation of response. "You are important to me," he said, deciding the definition was more illustrative than the word itself. It was one of very few phrases socially acceptable to verbalize between friends and family. Only the word one used for one's spouse was stronger… and considerably more emotional: to consider the object of affection to be a gift or valuable beyond calculation.

Gabi's smile turned from playful to genuinely pleased. "You're important to me, too!"

Sam scoffed and downed the rest of his brandy and poured another. "You guys are idiots."

Gabi accepted Sam's disregard as a stronger indication to move on. They talked about the Enterprise and the overhaul many of the systems were receiving. Taurik had negotiated himself into some of the work where he could, primarily where station procedure was concerned. He would have to know such things intimately if he desired a transfer to Utopia Planetia one day. When that was unavailable, Taurik worked on his personal project with the warp field. Still. He wondered if he would ever be finished with it sometimes.

Sam entertained himself on the planet, mostly. His relationship with Lieutenant Fratis was apparently going well. Gabi had directed her interest to octopuses, and the way their skin changed colors and limbs grew back.

It seemed they had moved on from the somber tone, nearly forgetting about their reasons to be off-balance today until they agreed they'd had enough and went their separate ways. Sam, having consumed three glasses of fully-alcoholized Trakian ale and two glasses of the brandy, went back to their quarters to sleep.

Gabi laid on her back, having wisely switched out her brandy for something dealcoholized a while ago. She pointed up at the sky, the gray-blue clouds passing aimlessly overhead. "Looks like a jumping dog. Maybe a fox."

Taurik looked up. "I will never understand the Human need to find imagery in something as meaningless as a cloud formation."

Gabi smiled, and looked at him. "Sure, you do."

Taurik bristled. "Explain."

She looked back up at the sky, tucking her hand under her head. "Don't you think we're all a bit random? None of this would be if not for a random explosion at the beginning of time? A random mutation or meeting of two organisms? All of this may as well be a holodeck."

Perhaps she was correct. He sighed, looked down past his feet at the Osana Canyon that wasn't actually there. "I know you do not believe that everything is meaningless."

Gabi didn't answer, and Taurik could already imagine the illogical course this conversation would take. There was a time he'd stood upon his ability to logically reason and everything made sense. He'd never considered how much meaning that reason had introduced, and how contrived it had always been.

"Well…" Gabi said, after thinking. "If everything is ultimately random, the only meaning it has is what we give it, right?"

"It remains true that… there is a logic intrinsic to the universe," he said, though he couldn't remember how or why. Because science worked. "Objects follow forms, and action follows rules. Science yields consistent results."

"What you call logic isn't what the universe follows, though. The universe gave you emotions, but you deny it and call it logic. That's not science, and it's not a rule. It's one Vulcans made up. It's a denial of the form of a Vulcan, a resistance of Vulcan rules." Before Taurik could argue, she hurried to finish. "That doesn't mean it doesn't make sense. But it seems to me that finding the logic in your emotional storm is the same thing as finding a dog in a raincloud."

They sat on the edge of Fisolekau T'Ha'sular for minutes until he realized her mistake. Or his mistake. "You've employed circular reasoning."

"That's just another word for Vulcan." She grinned and didn't look at him, possibly anticipating his negative reaction to her declaration.

He said nothing, because it had been six months. He wanted to believe that just because he couldn't find the logic in Vorik's death didn't mean it didn't exist. "Objectively, there is no dog in the raincloud. Your perspective allows you to see the shape."

After asking the computer to revert the simulation to the state it had displayed three minutes ago, she tilted her head back to look at him. "Do you see the dog?"

With a sigh, Taurik looked up at the clouds. He saw a cloud. But he could see, if he allowed his imaginative perception the license, he could see a creature with two ears, a snout and open mouth, and splayed forelegs. "I understand how you've distinguished the shape of a canine."

"Because objects follow forms."

"Your reasoning is… irritating."

She laughed. "Yeah, probably." With a sigh, then, she sat up. "Well, as much as I'd like to continue this debate, I should probably go to bed. Good night, Taurik."

"Good night, Gabi."

Sam was in his room when Taurik got back to their quarters, his door to the main room left open like it always was. He could hear Sam breathing, but he wasn't sleeping. Taurik lit the lamp on the low table beside Vorik's service photo as he settled on the floor, brushing his fingers across the top of the frame.

As Sam said, he hadn't slept in three days. He'd meditated eight hours yesterday. It wasn't enough, because he was looking for dogs in rainclouds. Gabi was, apparently, correct.

He thought he was well past this level of distress, past the invasive speculation of whatever had happened to Vorik. He called to mind some of the suggestions Counselor Troi had offered, some of which he dismissed out of hand. He hadn't seen her in a month now… and he was better. He requested he see her only once a month, though their meetings were short.

After six months, he'd found his conclusion: he would always be alone, and he would never be whole. It was an undesirable one, but it was reality.

He heard Sam's socked feet on the floor behind him, his breathing from the doorway into his room. The slight brush of his sleeve on the door's frame as he leaned on it. "You okay?" Sam whispered.

Taurik blinked at the flame and realized he hadn't actually been meditating. He'd just been sitting here. "I believe I have reached a new equilibrium," Taurik said.

"What's that mean?"

He shrugged, brought his fingertips together with his elbows resting on the table. "I have adjusted to the silence. I am adapted to… to the sense of isolation."

"Well, that sounds terrible."

Taurik glanced over his shoulder to see Sam just as he expected he would: leaning in the door to his room dressed in his dark blue nightclothes. "That is an emotional assessment."

"I'm an emotional person."

Taurik couldn't argue with that. He looked back at the picture of his brother, then at the single flame flickering from the black lamp. "It is not terrible. It is… it is reality. I believe I will not suffer any negative effects should you choose to request a new room assignment."

Sam sighed and stepped into the common area. "Not that I don't miss all that space," he said sarcastically. Unexpectedly, he sat on the floor on the short end of the table, cornered to Taurik. "I know it's not really any of my business, but…" Sam took a deep breath, slowly pressed on the frame of Vorik's picture until it fully faced him. "I don't think you're okay."

Taurik looked at the picture he could no longer see. "That is—"

"An emotional assessment. Yeah. Obviously." Sam tipped the photo.

The frame fell on its face and sat there until Taurik righted it, put it back where it was supposed to be. "What are you doing?"

Sam sighed, pressing his fingers to the table top. Shrugged. "You've never been alone."

"That is correct." Taurik replaced his fingertips together, but looked at Sam in the dim light of the single flame. "However, I believe I am now more familiar with it. Your physical proximity was, perhaps, a necessary intermediary state between the imminent presence to which I was accustomed and… and solitude." He hesitated a moment, realized that Sam also had no reason to be here.

Sam owed him nothing. There was no reason he should have given up the privacy to which he was accustomed as an only child to offer his support. He'd already thanked Sam for his consideration, and somehow it wasn't enough.

"I find myself at a loss to convey my gratitude," he added.

With a sharp intake of breath, Sam suddenly looked away. "It's nothing." He stood, turned toward his room, but didn't move any further. "Pretty sure you'd do the same thing for me." Instead of going to his room, he went to the replicator instead and ordered a glass of ice water.

Taurik wasn't sure that was true. He wasn't sure Taurik would be on Sam's list on individuals to ask for such a favor, anyway. Taurik had to admit, Sam was the only person on his list. He had many acquaintances, but none approaching this level of intimacy. Sam had demonstrated an unrealistic degree of care that Taurik was quite sure he would not easily find in anyone else.

There was a word for it—a word in Vulcan which wouldn't translate for Sam. So he listened to Sam gulp the entire glass of water, say good night, and go into his room. He shut the door.

Taurik couldn't hear him breathing. He couldn't hear anything.

He said good night to Vorik, and meditated until morning.

#

Taurik restrained the sense of absurdity. The realism of the holodeck could only lend a certain amount of interest. His costume, a replica of historical Earth sailing garb, was surprisingly comfortable. It was significantly lighter than Vulcan sailing apparel from a similar technology level… obviously, as the sailing was under much different circumstances. Much less sand. But he was still cool, and the artificial sea breeze was perhaps purposefully similar to the ambient temperature in the rest of the ship.

It smelled like salt.

"Petty Officer Dixson?" Sam stood with his back to Taurik, voice booming over the water beyond the deck rails. It was the three of them and two holodeck characters to lend to the realism. A pilot cutter of this size, Taurik was led to believe, required very little crew.

"Yes, sir!" Gabi piped in response.

"Prepare the headsails. Lieutenant Taurik?"

He sighed. "Yes?"

"Yes?" Sam spun, frowning. "Come on, Taurik, you need to get into the spirit of things."

Taurik glanced around at the harbor and the open sea beyond. "In that case, I volunteer to retire to the cabin to simulate vitamin C deficiency."

Gabi cackled, handling a whole tangle of ropes that Taurik was sure she knew what to do with as much as he did. The holodeck character rushed to assist her—because, of course, only the computer knew what it was doing. Perhaps Sam, as well, to a certain extent. Taurik knew his hobbies trended toward arcane modes of transportation that possibly involved ancient sea vessels. He did seem to prefer higher speeds and faster acceleration, however.

"You know, you're the worst thing about serving on the Enterprise?" Sam asked, and for a moment, Taurik wasn't sure he wasn't being serious. He was almost smiling. Almost

"That's a pretty high bar," Gabi offered. "Considering everything else is so neat."

"Sure, the Enterprise and everything about it is great. But he's still the worst thing." Sam waved Taurik away. "Look, I thought it would be fun. Gabi and I can sail the English Channel by ourselves if you don't want to."

"I agreed to participate," Taurik said, though he wasn't sure why he had.

Because he preferred to be around people—and that had always been true. He was at once dismayed and gratified to find a piece of himself that remained intact in Vorik's absence. He'd spent untold hours in Ten Forward moving colored pieces of glass on boards of varying design because he appreciated the company. Chess in multiple levels, various games that generally involved a partner making illogical choices. Meanwhile, passing the time in the holodeck necessitated a certain type of interest that Taurik couldn't imagine rallying. Especially in this environment.

A year ago, he might have heard Gabi's plan to somehow "celebrate" the Enterprise's successful overhaul of the warp nacelles by arranging a holodeck outing to "set sail" on their own, and declined to attend. Of course, he hadn't been spending as much time with her a year ago, either… All things considered, he did prefer the logic puzzles presented by other, less imaginative diversions.

"Then what's the problem?" Sam asked.

Taurik sighed, edging closer to the barrier between himself and the sea approximately one meter distant to look down. "I don't swim."

Gabi glanced up, seeming uncommonly interested. "You don't swim, or you can't?"

"Does the distinction matter?" Taurik asked.

Gabi laughed again. "Well, if you can't swim, I probably won't push you off the ship. But if you can, I absolutely will."

Taurik stepped further from the railing with that information. "I cannot swim. I anticipated a career in space exploration would eliminate the necessity."

"The safeties are on though, so… you know, you probably couldn't even hurt yourself if you were trying," Gabi offered, and stepped closer to him. Taurik was comfortable with his strength versus hers. Perhaps even against both of them together.

Yes. He was confident. If any of them were going in the water today, it wouldn't be him.

"What if you have to go talk to the dolphins or something?" Sam asked.

"In the event I somehow fell into cetacean ops, it's unlikely they would allow me to drown."

"Well, you are the worst thing about the Enterprise," Sam said.

"It's actually probably real shallow." Gabi seemed to have abandoned any plans she had of throwing anyone overboard, and went to the edge of the ship to look down. Didn't seem to be listening to talk of the dolphins, either. "Jump in. I want to see what it does."

"You are interested in the outcome," Taurik said. "You jump in."

"But I can swim."

"Alright! So have we decided any good holodeck pirate program needs scurvy or do you want to take the helm?" Sam asked, obviously annoyed, and held a hand out to the wooden wheel in the back center of the boat.

"Very well." Taurik looked at the helm, and then at Sam. "Captain." He went to the wheel and inspected it, perhaps a little too thoroughly. Sam was still glaring at him by the time he took hold of the smooth wooden helm and followed the directions to starboard. Despite his certification and familiarity with piloting vessels… he had never set foot on a sea-going vessel before this replication.

Perhaps for obvious reasons.

It had been over a year since he had been on Vulcan now, and he rarely spent time near the water. Only Vorik's mate T'Pring possessed any affinity. The rest of them were more comfortable in the mountains they were all raised in, though Taurik had to admit to a certain pleasant familiarity with the rivers and reservoirs around his home. But Sam had been raised on a lake. He spoke relatively frequently about his experiences on the water, and once said he learned to swim before he learned to crawl. Possibly even in cetacean ops, since Taurik hadn't fully constructed a timeline of Sam's life. He'd been born on a starship.

Gabi sighed. "Damnit…"

Taurik looked to the side of the boat where Gabi sat on a barrel, her legs crossed and a giant rope laid across her legs. She didn't seem to have been doing anything that would warrant that reaction, unless she'd just loosened a knot she'd meant to tighten.

Sam looked up from his post at the railing, lowering his telescope from his eye. "What?"

"There's just no easy way to say this," she said. "I'm transferring off the Enterprise."

Taurik found himself staring at the back of Sam's head.

"Well, that… that's great?" Sam said, and Taurik couldn't be sure it wasn't a question. "When? Where?"

"Next month," Gabi said. She looked first at Sam for a second before her eyes drifted over to Taurik. She smiled and shrugged. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything, but I wasn't sure it was going to happen. And then last week it got confirmed."

"Where?" Sam asked again.

"The Sadalbari. A Miranda," she added, as if Sam would find that interesting or useful.

Taurik didn't know anything about the ship or care to, though he was, of course, familiar with the class of vessel. He made a note to look into the captain and chief engineer. For curiosity, he assumed. "The evening shift will find your skills and enthusiasm difficult to replace," he offered.

She smiled. "Thanks. I think it's overall a good thing. Honestly, it's a miracle I've been on the Enterprise as long as I have been. And I'll be day shift!"

That was an improvement over her current situation… possibly. Taurik didn't know how to judge shift placement compared to any shift on the Federation's flagship. But, she was enlisted. He sometimes overlooked that fact. "It seems you may have been transferred for reason of need on the Sadalbari," Taurik said.

Which meant she had likely been selected or recommended, possibly even by La Forge. A smaller ship like the Miranda-class vessel was, obviously, distinctly different with a mere three percent the crew complement of the Enterprise. It seemed likely her work would be more vital and varied than it was here… It was, he had to admit, a potentially advantageous move for her career.

He should be pleased. At the very least, he should be understanding.

"Yeah, seems like it. I'm apparently really good with power distribution systems. I even aced my last certification for warp field configurations, so… thanks to Taurik for that."

He looked at her, but didn't get to ask.

"Well." Sam shrugged. "That sucks. I'm happy for you, but that sucks." He smiled a bit.

Gabi slid off the barrel, letting the ropes fall to the ground. "Maybe one of these days I'll be a ship's La Forge myself. Probably a station or outpost, though. But how cool would that be?"

Taurik didn't know how to respond. She didn't like stations or planets.

"So," she said, and shrugged. "Sorry if I ruined it."

"No, it's fine. Thanks for telling us, and… we've still got a month. We can probably get to North America." Sam winked at Taurik, probably anticipating his inability to tolerate much more "adventure" on the high holographic seas.

"Not in this thing, we can't." Gabi laughed. "Alright, I'm back on the masts."

Taurik went back to the helm, his head a tumult for entirely irrational reasons. He had been in Starfleet for four years now. Change was inevitable. Sam would leave to increase the likelihood of his obtaining a captaincy one day. Taurik would return to Earth for certifications and education in pursuit of ship design. Gabi… would be transferred.

Of course, one day, one of them would leave the Enterprise. Taurik just didn't think it would be Gabi. And he didn't think it would be now.

The anger had only been ephemeral, and a facade. He was only put off-balance. Or perhaps that was only the physically unsteady sensation of the sailing ship bobbing on the artificial waters of the English Channel. Whatever it was, he was nearly overcome with the distinct desire to be anywhere but here.

It was ridiculous to be shaken by this.

They all redirected their attention back on the farce of an impending pirate attack. One of the holographic characters exposited the holoprogram's plot: the three of them were apparently spies of her majesty the queen of England, and had just plundered a Dutch treasure trove on a small island off the coast of Spain. The gold and jewels were stashed in their hold, and the envy of every Human from the Sea of Azov to the Gulf of Bothnia.

It was unclear how the pirates that were prescribed to attack knew they had the treasure.

This was not one of those more narrative-dependent scenarios. The point was to enjoy the working of the cutter and engage in swordplay. Fencing was a popular sport onboard. Taurik suspected that was only because it was one of the captain's pastimes.

Taurik couldn't remember what his own hobbies were anymore. He couldn't be sure anything he'd have come up with were truly his.

Not holoprograms about looting rival monarchies and fighting pirates. It had never been that.

"Hey, Taurik, you okay?" Sam had walked up behind him, his hand suddenly on his shoulder. "You're not getting seasick, are you?"

"Of course not," he said. "I am simply… waiting. For the pirates."

"Yeah. You seem real eager."

"I'm not."

"That was—yeah. I know. Look, if you're bugged about Gabi leaving, just say something." Sam looked across the boat at Gabi. "We can't change anything, but maybe… maybe we can help. At the very least, provide background noise."

Gabi was looking at them now. "It's not like you're never going to see me again," she said, and he wondered if that was true. Under what circumstances would they see her again? "You couldn't get rid of me that easy."

"Excuse me, but that is unlikely," he said, and looked at Sam. "It is only a matter of time before I return to Earth or you leave for a more advantageous assignment." He stepped back from the wheel, letting it roll listlessly on its own. "This is an unproductive use of time."

Sam scoffed, stepping forward to take the wheel. "Of course it is. That's kind of the point."

"Not the holoprogram," he said, though that also qualified. The energy generated by the Enterprise should be directed toward something more useful. "These social connections are a waste of time and energy."

"Hold on a second—" Gabi crossed the deck while Taurik called for the exit.

Sam turned away from the wheel to face him, as well. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Taurik looked more directly at Gabi, then Sam. "The time we've spent together seems to have resulted in nothing… or worse. I will one day return to Earth for additional education, you will leave the Enterprise in favor of other assignments, we rarely speak with Andrew and Alyssa due to their change in marital and parental status, and Sito is dead."

It was illogical, actually.

Judging by the silence… perhaps they agreed. The wheel clicked as it turned without anyone to hold it. "It's too disruptive when these connections are severed," he added, since the conclusion was the most important part of his musings. "The most viable solution would be to simply avoid them."

Gabi sighed. "How is waiting around in your quarters for your next shift any better use of time?"

He had to admit it probably wasn't. He could study or meditate, but everything at this exact moment seemed just as futile. He could do those things later, or perhaps not at all. He spent his efforts in pursuit of a goal, and he couldn't even remember why he wanted it anymore. He said he was going to Earth someday, but now he wasn't even sure why.

"I suppose it's not," he said, and took a step toward the archway, feeling an overwhelming sense of… apathy. Ordinarily, such a response would have been beneficial to his emotional state, but not, apparently, this one.

He could detect a slight change in the way Sam was breathing, conveying shock or concern.

Gabi blinked as if disbelieving. "Right."

He was struck momentarily by the slight sarcasm in Gabi's tone until she spoke again.

"Sure. Yeah, that sounds logical as hell. But you're still going to have to work with these people. And some of them are going to want to tell you about osmotic eels and play Terrace with you." She hesitated to gesture toward Sam. "You're going to have roommates."

That… almost made sense. He eyed her, calculating how much effort he would have to expend to try to avoid Gabi—or would have. She would be leaving. Soon it would be no effort at all. "That's true, however—"

"Logical or not, you don't believe a word you just said anyway," Sam said quietly, and turned back to the wheel.

Taurik turned to Sam. "You're suggesting I'm lying?"

Sam wrung his hands on the wheel spokes. "If you found out tomorrow that it was just one big mistake and Vorik was coming back, you wouldn't avoid him. You'd be on the first ship going wherever he was."

When Taurik didn't answer quickly enough, Gabi offered, "If I'd known eight months ago when we started hanging out like this that I was going to be transferred off the Enterprise tomorrow, I would want to spend more time with you guys. Not less."

"Hypotheticals are immaterial." He paused long enough to fend off the anger, glance away from Sam's gaze that had become uncomfortable.

Sam was correct. Even if he had a hundred years aching with his brother's loss before him, he would have optimized the twenty-three he did have. And certainly be the first to meet the Voyager's missing crew if that, by some unimaginable miracle, turned out to be the case.

And so was Gabi.

"Besides, you'll be fine," Gabi said

"Obviously." Taurik glared at the closed doors leading out to deck twelve. The worst thing that could have happened to him already had. He was… still here. Though in many ways it seemed his life had become as immaterial as a hypothetical.

With a sigh, Sam turned the wheel over to the nearest holographic character. "You can go if you want. I don't—do what you want. But I sure as hell would be worse off if you decided to never talk to me again. And not just because that'd be inconvenient. As roommates."

With a deep breath, Taurik nodded. "It would be inconvenient," he allowed. At least, he decided, for Sam, he could make an exception. They were roommates. And if Gabi reached out, he would respond. "I have never been particularly capable at managing change."

Gabi sighed, reached for his arm again in a gesture of comfort. "I'm kinda scared, too. It's been a long time since I was somewhere else. It takes… courage to keep going, especially when it can all go wrong so suddenly and for no reason. But I know we aren't supposed to be out here alone."

He wasn't sure he believed that, but it didn't matter at the moment. Taurik squinted toward the sea. "It appears we are not," he said, and pointed toward the black sails approaching, the black flag raised over the middle mast of the significantly larger wooden vessel.

Sam spun to see the ship. "Well… are we up to it?" he asked, looking first at Taurik, then at Gabi.

It would be overly selfish of him to say no at this point. Instead, Taurik told the computer to put away the exit and watched the oncoming pirate vessel. "I believe the term is Jolly Roger," he said of the barely-visible flag displaying the human skull superimposed over crossed stylized femur bones.

Gabi smiled. "Batten down the hatches!"

Taurik supposed that made sense, albeit metaphorically.

The holographic crew and the three of them made their preparations as the ship approached faster than Taurik thought was physically possible. Though they didn't try to outrun it, they wouldn't have been able to. Possibly due to program parameters.

As the larger ship tossed hooks into their vessel, the crews of both ships raised a racket. Gabi and Sam joined in the war cry, and Taurik didn't. He did, however, draw his sword when Sam and Gabi did.

The boarding was only half as chaotic as Taurik thought it might be. The pirates dropped onto their small vessel in only just as many numbers as the three of them—plus holographic assistance—could manage. Gabi threw herself into the part, slashing wildly with what seemed to be the correct edge of the sword most of the time.

Taurik had never used a blade of this type before. Indeed, he'd only trained with the most typical examples of classical Vulcan weaponry as part of his schooling as a child. Nevertheless, his coordination, strength, and speed served him well enough even if his knowledge of the forms for this style of fighting were well beyond him. He managed to dispatch two of the holographic pirates just as two others dropped down beside him.

It was, clearly, ridiculous. With a sigh, Taurik sheathed his sword and called, "Computer, create a lirpa appropriate to the environment's technology level, one and one-quarter meters long."

A second later, the weapon materialized leaning against the mast beside him just within reach. It was made of materials not unlike the cutlasses Sam and Gabi wielded, with black leather grips on either end of the pole and shining silvery metal for the fan-shaped blade. The club on the other side seemed to be made entirely of lead or iron, and not unlike the cannonballs he'd seen stacked in one of the corners on the deck.

"Hey!" Sam turned away from the pirate before him, throwing his hands wide. "This is supposed to be Earth! And that—" He paused to duck out of the way of the bearded man in the striped-red shirt comically missing his head with a cutlass. "That is not from Earth!"

"But it's the spirit, Sam!" Gabi crowed as if in triumph, kicked the pirate she was fighting away from her. The pirate yelped, flipping over backwards over the railing. She turned to Taurik and raised her sword. "The spirit!"

Taurik wondered that was supposed to be an encouragement, and Sam laughed. "Alright, well, anchors aweigh, then!" Sam said, and Taurik had to guess that was also supposed to be an encouragement. Metaphorically.

Of course, the lirpa was a far more utilitarian weapon than the cutlass, even if not as elegant—a club on one end, and a bladed fan on the other. The clubbed end was the preferred weapon, able to cause grievous harm but not necessarily kill. Meanwhile, the blade was intended specifically to cut throats—though, of course, it could cut almost anything. It was certainly created during a much different era.

Though he still didn't consider himself a fighter by any means, the fight thereafter was much more within his realm of experience. Of course, that experience was at least ten years old, and he'd only done ancient forms and participated in required exercises as a youth in school. It was more than Gabi had ever done with a sword, anyway.

A new pirate lunged at him from one side, slowly enough that Taurik's reflexes were an easy match. He saw Sam from his periphery making creative use of the ropes from the mast, attempting to catch his opponent's arms in the ropes to disarm him.

Taurik's method was much more straight-forward. His holographic adversary lunged, giving Taurik enough time to adjust his weapon to drive the bladed end into his abdomen.

The pirate stumbled away, clutching his oddly bloodless wound and screaming quite believably.

Both of Taurik's hands slid closer to the bladed end, and he swung. With a crack, the club connected with the head of the pirate and knocked him overboard into the sea.

"Hell, yeah!" Gabi cheered and dashed across the deck to hit the lirpa's blade with her own.

Taurik shook his head and shouted, "This is absurd!" over the cacophony of the holographic characters doing battle with one another.

"I know!" Gabi laughed, and jumped past him to meet a pirate who had apparently been winding up to lodge his sword in Taurik's head. "To Davy Jones' locker, you lily-livered toad!"

Taurik took back his gaze from the expired hologram to Gabi, who shrugged helplessly at his confusion. She didn't wait for Taurik to offer any more coherent criticism, scampering across the deck to meet two more pirates who'd swung over.

Another pirate danced threateningly just beyond the reach of his lirpa, apparently waiting for Taurik to engage. He'd found that completely ignoring the encroachers at this set level of difficulty wouldn't provoke any attacks—though the pirates often feigned impending attack regardless. It was bizarre to consider such programmatic behavior… fun.

Then again, he would consider the chaos of an actual battle with skilled and unpredictable opponents to be nothing similar to fun.

Gabi certainly seemed to be enjoying herself, skirting around the two pirates she'd attracted to engage in swordplay. Sam likewise engaged two other pirates on the other end of the ship with as much success.

In the spirit of the activity, Taurik knocked another pirate off into the water and went to join Sam as he locked blades with one pirate and shuffled away from the other.

Taurik stepped up behind the pirate, finding himself in an extremely advantageous position. The pirate dropped to the deck unconscious from the application of a neck pinch less than two seconds later. He'd never gotten that to work so dramatically outside of the holodeck…

Sam huffed, shoved his pirate off, and slashed his sword. "That's not from Earth, either."

Taurik looked around, first at the slashed pirate writhing at Sam's feet then to Sam and finally to Gabi on the other side of the ship wrapping a rope hanging from the mast above around her hand. "Neither are we."

With a laugh, Sam gave him a friendly slug on the shoulder. "Touché."

"Avast, ye—! Uh." Gabi hesitated long enough for Taurik and Sam to find her standing on the pirate's vessel, alone except for a single parrot wielding what looked like a butter knife in its beak as it flexed its wings. She lowered her sword and turned to them. "Did we win?"

"I think so."

The parrot squawked, dropping the knife. "Shiver me timbers."

Sam grimaced, looked at Taurik. "You're right. This is ridiculous."

There wasn't time for Taurik to agree that, of course, it was. Gabi jumped up on the railing, holding her sword above her head. "But it was fun!" Then, with a sudden sigh, she dropped her sword back down to her side. "I'm never going to find anybody on the Sadalbari who wants to do stuff like this."

"I'm not certain you've found anybody here who wants to do these things," Taurik said.

He knew he hadn't managed to convey the sarcasm appropriately when Sam nudged Taurik with an elbow as if annoyed.

Gabi smiled.

Before she could say anything else, the sky flashed red and the computer spoke over the water: "Red alert. Crew to battle stations."

With a solitary glance shared among them, they ended the program and left immediately.

Chapter Text

Gabi was still tugging her shirt into a more presentable position when the Red Alert suddenly shut off. She looked around the room, as if anything in the corners between the walls and ceiling could tell her what happened, and tapped her combadge. "Dixson to Lieutenant Taurik."

"Miss Dixson?"

She took a small breath at his voice, even though she knew he'd sound calm no matter what was going on. "Do you know what's happening?"

"The observatory in the Amargosa system reported they were under attack."

Gabi only knew about the small observatory because it had occupied a single line in the briefing informing the crew of their surroundings for the next several months while the Enterprise engaged in routine exploration and diplomatic missions after delivering a small contingent of colonists and scientists to a new settlement on a planet. According to that one line, the observatory was a reason for some tension between the Federation and the Romulan Empire. As usual, they accused the Federation of spying. And, as usual, the Federation denied it. It was a stellar observatory. It was in the name.

"Have you been recalled to duty?" Taurik asked.

The question caught her off-guard—not because it was difficult to answer in any way, but because it wasn't a question she expected of him. She didn't know if she should be concerned. "Not yet. Have you or Sam?"

"Sam left for the bridge approximately two minutes ago," Taurik said. "I am awaiting orders."

With a heavy sigh, Gabi checked the clock. Pressed on her angrily roiling stomach and the anxiety that bounced around in there. Sam being called to the bridge outside his usual shift made her even more nervous. "Do you think it's Romulans?"

"I do not know," he said. After a few seconds, he offered, "It seems unlikely. There are more pressing matters for them to attend to on either side of the border. Regardless, there is no cause for concern. The Enterprise is tactically a match for a Romulan Warbird."

Sure, maybe one, she wanted to say. But what if there was more than one out there? She wished she could get to a window to look for herself, but that was stupid. Cloaking devices were some of the coolest things in the galaxy she could think of, but she would never see one. Even if there was one out there, she'd be in Engineering if anything happened.

"Gabi?" Taurik pressed.

"Sorry. Just thinking." She took another breath and tried to slow her racing heart. It was impossible that less than thirty minutes ago she'd been laughing on the holodeck. "I don't have a duty shift until tomorrow."

"I am aware."

"I mean, I'm going to… to…" She looked around in her small room for something to do. A stack of PADDs had downloaded her most recent interest in the movement of chlorophyllic leaves to catch sunlight. "Read," she added.

No way she could concentrate enough to read about trees.

"On what subject?"

She smiled. Obviously, he didn't care what she was reading about. "Maple trees," she said. "The way the leaves grow and turn to absorb sunlight."

"I see." He waited for a few moments, maybe for her to have something else to say.

She didn't have anything to say, but that didn't stop her from talking. "Have you heard of the Acer sha'plak? I think it's a cross between one of Earth's maple trees and the Vulcan blood maple. Bred in honor of Ambassador Spock."

"Yes. The common name is the United maple. It is cultivated in large numbers on the Starfleet Academy grounds."

"I think I'll get one."

"A maple tree?"

"Yeah, you know. A small one. Whatever it's called." She didn't remember what they were called on Earth, though she knew she knew it. She also knew the Vulcans had their own version used in meditation, but couldn't remember the word for that, either.

"I believe the Earth term is bonsai. Pi'lap in Vulcan."

They were both quiet for what seemed to Gabi to be a very long time. She picked up the PADD containing her study on maple leaves, but put it back down after she turned it on and off several times. She went out to the main room and deposited two empty ice cream bowls from the night before into the replicator.

"What are you going to do?" she asked finally. She didn't know why she hadn't thought about asking until just now.

"Meditate."

"Oh. I should probably let you do that, huh?" It had been a tough day for everyone probably.

Not especially Taurik, though. At least, not after he meditated and remembered that Gabi was really just an annoying pest in his schedule most of the time. He never said that, but she was starting to read Vulcan eyebrows like their own language. He might miss her when she transferred to the Sadalbari, but not for very long.

Besides… she would send him a message two or three times a week. Sometimes he and Sam seemed like her only friends anymore. Which wasn't fair, but she wouldn't make the same mistakes on the Sadalbari.

Unless, of course, someone needed her to. Then she would absolutely sleep on someone's couch while they meditated or invite them to drinks after shift. No questions asked.

She'd almost forgotten she was still on the line with Taurik when he spoke again. "Would you care to join me?"

And, of course, he probably knew she was scared. For no good reason, of course. But that didn't seem to change her stomach's opinion on the situation. "If you don't mind."

The turbolift was only about a minute's walk from the quarters she and Eliza shared—all things considered, they had very conveniently-located quarters. Taurik and Sam didn't have quarters conveniently located to anything except the holodecks and cetacean ops. Taurik granted her entrance as soon as she called.

With the exception of a truly stupid number of souvenirs, her quarters and theirs were identical. A small table with four chairs dominated the main room, as well as a couch, a coffee table, a desk for working, and a bookshelf—Sam's and Taurik's were mostly filled with several hard-backed books, though there were some trinkets, too. Gabi had browsed them more than once, but most of them were in Vulcan. Of course, there was also the low meditation table that she was extremely familiar with by now. In ordinary quarters, that space would be taken up by another couch.

Taurik knelt at the table in his Engineering uniform—probably in case of emergency—but watched her walk in. "I anticipate we will hear something in approximately thirty or forty-five minutes," he said, and nodded to the spot beside him at the table.

Gabi joined him there, though she rarely meditated with him. Not technically. She just kind of sat quietly and thought about what she was going to do later. "From Sam?" she asked.

"He sent a message that Commander Riker, Worf, and a security team have beamed over to the station to investigate. However, the system appears to be deserted." He turned back to face the wall.

Gabi didn't give him the time to close his eyes. "But if it's Romulans, we wouldn't know."

"This is true," he agreed. "Nevertheless, this seems an insignificant target for a first-strike if the Romulan Empire truly intended to antagonize the Federation with any lasting consequences." He settled again onto his feet beneath him, and folded his hands. "Your fear will not benefit you in this situation," he said quietly.

"Don't you think if I could stop being afraid, I would?" At least she caught back her angry jab that he should be one to talk. His people were known for their ability to just stop feeling whatever they wanted, and he couldn't always do that, either.

With a huff, she planted her elbows on the table, resting her chin in her hands.

"It was not a criticism," he added. "Only an observation. I am finding it somewhat difficult to concentrate. Your impending transfer has reminded me of some rather… unpleasant emotions I had suppressed."

She watched his folded hands as though they were more interesting than they were. Beyond them, she could see the picture of Vorik staring at the room like he always did. "What emotions?" she asked quietly.

"Regret. Resentment. However illogical it is, I still consider my assignment to the Enterprise to have been a mistake. I allowed that assessment to influence my reaction to the news of your leaving in… unexpected ways. But, of course, neither of these emotions are constructive."

"A mistake…?" She didn't think so, but what did she know?

He was probably her best friend at this point. Sure, they'd only been close for about eight months now, and she'd known him for almost two years, the first few months only in passing. But now, definitely illogically, she felt like she'd known him her whole life. He probably didn't feel that way, because that was an incredibly emotional assessment, as he'd say. But that didn't mean it wasn't the truth.

"I had the option to accompany Vorik on his assignment when he didn't get assigned to the Enterprise. I should have remained with him." He took a small breath, straightened his spine and pressed his hands together more firmly. "I find myself speculating about the possibility of similar outcomes for those who are important to me. However, the notion that I could somehow maintain physical proximity to all of those people is impractical."

Gabi shifted to rest her forehead in her hands. It wasn't the first time she'd been wrong, nor was it the last. She held back from pointing out they wouldn't have to worry about it if they found themselves in a phaser-fight with a flock of Romulan Warbirds. And, of course, the more she thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed. And, as much as she didn't want to admit it out loud—and probably wouldn't—Taurik was right. Even if it did happen like that, being worried about it now wouldn't do her any good.

Maybe Taurik needed to hear that, too. "Not only that, but… worrying about whether or not we'll ever see each other again won't do us any good." She glanced at him, tried to show she intended it to be something of a joke.

But it wasn't a joke. It was possible the Enterprise would meet Romulans out here, or Klingons, or whatever, and this would be the end of all of them.

Taurik would say that was unlikely. But it could happen. Weird things happened all the time.

Taurik contemplated that for whole seconds before finally nodding. "That is correct. So I'm meditating." He hesitated, tapped her shoulder with his. "Would you like me to guide you?"

She took a breath and matched her hands to his. Adjusted to sit on her feet. "Sure, why not. Let's meditate." She shut her eyes. "Couldn't hurt."

She only heard him settle again, raise his hands to lean his arms on the table. "Indeed." Other than his quiet breath, he was completely still and quiet until he instructed her to imagine herself as the flame of the meditation lamp.

Gabi wasn't sure how well the meditation worked. For all she knew, it was just the time passing between panic and deciding nothing had happened so far so it probably wasn't going to. Either way, she followed Taurik's instructions on enlarging the flame of her soul until it was bigger than the darkness that surrounded her. It was a surprising meditation, since she was used to the metaphor of the flame as passion. Apparently in Vulcan conventions, fire meant something different.

She decided to ask later. After.

When the door opened behind them and Taurik suddenly spun toward it, she realized she probably wouldn't have the chance today.

"Sam," Taurik said. "Has the away team returned?"

"Yeah." Sam gave Gabi a nod of greeting when she turned to look, too. With what sounded like a heavy sigh, Sam sat on the couch. "They found two dead Romulans on the station," he said, and Gabi's stomach felt like it dropped on the floor. "Most of the scientists were dead and the place was ransacked: they accessed the central computer, turned the cargo bay inside out."

Gabi tried to arrest her shivering hands and listen to what Taurik had to say.

"Did anyone have any guess as to what they were looking for?" he asked. When Sam only shook his head, Taurik mused, "This could indicate a new Romulan threat in the sector."

"Commander Riker sent the information to Starfleet. They're mobilizing reinforcements to the area." Sam unzipped most of his uniform, revealing the gray undershirt beneath.

Taurik looked at his hands, still resting in their folded position on his bent knees. "This is concerning."

If even Taurik was concerned… "You think the Romulans are actually out there?" she asked.

"There is no way to be certain," Taurik said. He looked at her, then, and she watched his eyes narrow first on her eyes, then at her hands clasped and quivering in her lap.

As soon as she noticed, she pressed her palms to her knees and resolved to calm down. Even if the Romulans were waiting to attack the Enterprise, being worried about it now wouldn't do her any good. She was bigger than that. She was more than her fear.

Wasn't that how the meditation went?

It was just a few minutes ago, but she couldn't remember…

"Would you like to accompany us to Ten Forward?" Taurik asked Sam as he rose.

Sam smiled, but he looked tired. Worried. "I'm good, thanks. Gonna get some rest. Got shift in a few hours."

Gabi looked up at Taurik from the floor. "Ten Forward?"

"The distraction may be helpful… provided you do not consume any alcoholic beverages." He eyed her hands again. "I doubt we will be recalled to duty, but in the case that we do you should be alert."

Gabi nodded, focusing more on the first part of his sentence than the last—he doubted anything would happen. It didn't make sense that his speculations were so comforting. He didn't know any more than she did.

But he would also always be smarter than she was.

Gabi had never seen Ten Forward so full. It seemed not only she needed to relax, but the increased numbers of colonists had increased the Enterprise's occupancy from just over a thousand to just under double that. Gabi had never seen so many children in the corridors. Either everyone was nervous, or no one was.

Taurik moved through the crowd to one of the tables in the back by the windows while Gabi got drinks. Guinan seemed busy talking to Commander La Forge and Data—neither of them seemed concerned at all. That was good to see.

Ben stepped up to the counter in front of her, the glance over her shoulder just barely perceptible before he addressed her. "Hello there, Gabi. Vulcan spice tea and Samarian sunset?"

"Two spice teas, actually." She sighed, leaning on the counter as he tapped in her request.

"On edge?" he asked.

"The 'all hands to battle stations' always makes me jumpy." She tried to smile, but was suddenly shocked into awareness.

"Oof!"

Gabi turned suddenly, saw the surprised look in Guinan's eyes, and Commander La Forge's intense interest as Commander Data seemed to shiver in response to whatever he'd just taken a drink of. She and Ben exchanged a glance as Data agreed with Guinan in apparent delight that he hated it.

"Well, that's new," Ben said, sliding two tea cups on the counter toward her. "Anything else?"

"Am I crazy, or should we be more worried about this?" Gabi whispered.

Ben shrugged, looking back at the commanders and Guinan. "If Commander La Forge isn't worried, I'm not worried."

Gabi sighed and picked up the teas. "He's never worried. Even when there's a warp core breach, he isn't worried."

Ben chuckled obligingly and went to the waiting ensign beside her.

Gabi strained to hear the continuing conversation at the bar, but Taurik was sitting too far away, his back to one of the glass chess sets. With a nod of thanks, he accepted the tea and took a drink.

#

Taurik briefly recalled the first time Gabi brought him tea in Ten Forward. He hadn't asked for it. He hadn't even wanted it. But it seemed like a kind gesture, and it would have been rude to turn it away. So for eight months he'd been drinking Vulcan spice tea, which he didn't really like, because it seemed like less trouble than telling her she'd made some sort of classification error.

"So, Commander Data is drinking something he hates over there," Gabi said, nodding in the commander's direction as she sat across from him.

Taurik found the back of the android's head through the milling crew and colonists. "Commander Data?" he said, almost like he was seeking clarification except that he knew he'd heard correctly. "He hates it?"

"That's what he said. Made a face and everything." She raised her eyebrows at him conspiratorially. "Hell of a day to suddenly have emotions, huh?"

As far as Taurik was concerned, most days were in that category—but he'd never seen Gabi as afraid as he'd seen her earlier. He was concerned, intrigued, but not afraid. The last time he was afraid, it wasn't because he thought he might die. It was, in a way, because he thought he might not. As Gabi had predicted, the intense emotions of that time had been ephemeral.

"Not one I would have chosen," he said anyway.

"Now that's the dream," she said, pointing at him. She did that sometimes to emphasize a point, or when she had an idea she'd never considered before. "Emotions are something he can just install—switch off and on."

Taurik wasn't sure that was how it worked. But still… he sighed. "That seems convenient."

Gabi nodded, and suddenly shifted in her chair when she looked up at the maroon shirt walking past their table.

Taurik glanced once at the captain, but he didn't dwell on it. It was unusual that the captain would be mingling with the crew, and he seemed to be looking for someone in particular. But he seemed… different. Taurik wasn't that familiar with him, since he didn't venture down to Engineering with any regularity. Gabi didn't restrain her apparently awestruck reaction, watching the captain pass by without shame.

"Ah, yes, Captain," the man the captain stopped to talk to said. "Thank you for coming."

"I understand there's something urgent you wish to discuss with me?"

Taurik hadn't intended to listen—but they were standing almost too close to ignore. Except, of course, he could have chosen to ignore it the same way he ignored Commander La Forge talking to Data about his emotion chip. The way he might have ignored Vorik trying to get his attention while he was busy.

But there was something different there that he couldn't explain. A difference in the captain's expression and a difference in his voice. There was no reason Taurik should notice anything different about him, as his interactions with the captain were severely limited to the point of near non-existence.

Something different and yet familiar… in the eyes, in the tone. Something Taurik knew as well as he knew himself. Something he saw and heard every day.

It was irrational, of course. He didn't know what he might have in common with the captain. Probably nothing. The captain was a Human from Earth with decades of experience and a career that led him to a central seat on the bridge of the Federation's flagship. Taurik was twenty-four years old with no such aspirations. And even if he had such ideals, he wasn't sure he could achieve them.

Even though it was rude, he listened. "Then," the captain was saying, "I will allow you and your colleagues to return, but, until then, there's nothing I can do."

"Timing is very important in my experiments. If it is not completed in the next twelve hours, years of research will be lost."

"We're doing the best we can. If you'll excuse me."

"They say," the man the captain called Doctor Soran called the captain back to listen with only a harsh and unyielding tone. "Time is the fire in which we burn. Right now, Captain, my time is running out. We leave so many things unfinished in our lives. I know you understand."

The hesitation in the captain's response was as clear. He promised he would try to accommodate Doctor Soran and left immediately.

Gabi tapped the table between them. "Something's wrong with the captain," she whispered.

Taurik didn't doubt only he could hear her with the surrounding chatter. He'd come to trust Gabi's sense in such matters—at least, Taurik was always surprised how correct she was with regards to him. "Why do you say?" he asked anyway, loudly enough for her to hear.

"Didn't you see him?"

"I did." She'd said that as if visual observation was all that was required for her peculiar gift. Perhaps it was, since he doubted Gabi had heard any of their conversation. It seemed innocent enough to Taurik, though something about it had evidently upset the captain. "It seems the doctor noticed the same thing you did," he offered.

"Well, yeah, it was written all over his face," she said. Gabi watched him for a moment, and it was obvious she was trying to decide something. Possibly whether to continue to talk about the captain. Finally, she said, instead, "That guy is shady as hell."

Taurik could only assume Doctor Soran had moved off or, better, left the room. "Have you considered a career in counselling?"

She laughed, and he would have been pleased except he couldn't decide if it had been a genuine suggestion. "With as much time as I've spent in a counsellor's office, I probably should have."

"I was unaware you attended counseling," he said, and wondered how that hadn't come up before… especially with as much as he had been seeing Counsellor Troi at her behest.

Upon reflection, he realized most of her statements in regards to counselling referenced her familiarity. He hadn't realized.

"A lot less now, but yeah. I've told you before that people from my planet suck, right?"

He frowned, recalling her having said that perhaps once or twice before. That didn't often come up, either, somehow. "Yes, I believe you did mention that." He took a drink of his tea. He didn't get to offer his own opinion, which was probably ultimately for the best. He didn't have one.

"You know, I think he enjoyed hating that drink," Gabi said.

Taurik turned his attention back to the bar where La Forge and Data still sat together, sampling a wide array of beverages from tiny flutes. "Possibly the introduction of any sensation where there had been none would be intriguing." He picked up his tea, realized he hated it, and that he, too, somehow still enjoyed it to a certain degree—and to him the sensation was not even new.

Obviously, there were many reasons to experience opposites in unison. Perhaps Data didn't have the experience or vocabulary to know just how many emotions he was experiencing in that moment.

As Gabi said, it was a hell of a day to have emotions.

Their conversation drifted away from the captain and even from Commander Data's newfound opinions on beverages. He heard her underlying anxiety even as she talked about the trees she studied, and he had to admit her studies were, as usual, interesting. Almost as useless as excursions to the holodeck to fight pirates, but still fascinating.

He had no one to tell the trivia anymore.

Gabi excused herself after thanking him for the distraction, and went back to her room, he assumed. He stayed in Ten Forward, watching the room empty over a game of chess he'd played with Vorik once while he contemplated the possibility of war with the Romulan Star Empire. He knew that such an event would affect him, but all related matters were beyond his ability to affect. Even now, he could only react.

He went back to his quarters, noting that Sam's door was shut. Since he'd slept the night before, he didn't feel particularly tired. His exercise in meditating earlier with Gabi had been sufficient for his own needs… leaving him with very little to do. It hadn't occurred to him until just now that he hadn't been unusually tired in perhaps months. He also had returned to meditating only approximately an hour a day. Even more interestingly, he couldn't think of much to feel about that.

He had an appointment with Counsellor Troi this morning—his monthly visit, and on a day when his thoughts were so occupied by an illogical sense of impending loss.

He replicated a cup of white tea with lemon and directed his attention to all the information he could access on Romulan engineering systems. Most of it was classified with clearance higher than his presently allowed.

Taurik redirected his attention at midnight to accompany Sam for his "breakfast" before he left. He was somewhat quiet, and neither of them mentioned Romulans. Much later that morning, he went to the counsellor's office on deck nine—a room and location that had become distressingly familiar.

Counsellor Troi smiled when he entered her office. "Good afternoon, Lieutenant. Thank you for coming." The way she said it made it seem as if their continued association had not been his idea. "How have you been?"

With a still glance at the irregular couch, Taurik couldn't decide if omission of his musings today could be classified as a lie. He sat. "My physical and emotional states are both satisfactory," he said.

Troi nodded, though she seemed unconvinced. "Well, something's got you unsettled." She walked around the small round table tucked into the one of the bends in the couch and took a seat as stiffly as she usually did. She was barely a meter away from him.

He sighed. "Do you recall Miss Dixson?"

She smiled again, folded her hands in her lap. "Of course. One of the engineers you work with."

He had mentioned her multiple times, especially early in their association. After all, Gabi had been the one that insisted he begin seeing the counsellor. She was, to his mild discomfort, correct in her suggestion—even if not her insistence. Taurik still preferred to think he could have resolved this situation on his own. It would have taken longer, but he could have.

"She conveyed the news yesterday that she would be transferred to the Sadalbari early next month," he said, and didn't know how else to characterize his thoughts over the past sixteen hours.

"And how are you doing with that?" Troi asked.

"I believe it's an advantageous move for her career," he said. It was, at the moment, the only logical benefit he could see to her leaving the Enterprise.

She nodded in such a way he knew she would simply wait for him to say something else. In truth, most of their time was spend in complete silence while she waited for him to talk. It seemed impolite to wait when she knew so clearly he was withholding something… he thought the same when Vorik used to do it.

"Of course, I assume the Sadalbari requires her skills in some way," he added, since that, too, was a perfectly reasonable motive to transfer someone. "However, her absence in Engineering will be…" Manageable, actually. The Enterprise was an enormous ship. "Her absence will likely go unnoticed in Engineering."

Counsellor Troi obviously didn't anticipate his assessment. "Tell me what you mean by that."

 "There are approximately two-hundred seventeen Engineers working on the Enterprise on average in a twenty-six hour period," he said. Only a small fraction of them worked in Main Engineering regularly enough to be noticed, though all of them passed through at one point or another throughout their day. "The loss of a single crew—even one who will not be replaced—is negligible."

"Negligible." Counsellor Troi didn't seem to be asking a question. "I assume you mean mechanically negligible. As in, her work will be easily covered by others in Engineering."

"She's skilled for someone with her years of experience," he said, since he realized what he'd said before hadn't exactly been positive. "Her presence on the Sadalbari will likely be appreciated."

She smiled. "The technical effects of crew transfers don't typically figure centrally in counselling sessions, Taurik. I'm sure she's just as capable as anyone with similar training. It sounds to me like you're deflecting from other effects her transfer might have."

"Logic isn't a deflection."

Counsellor Troi's smile turned a bit small. "I don't think you're concerned her transfer will leave Engineering in the lurch."

Of course. A classification error. He frowned. "No. It seems I was incorrect. I apologize."

She waved that away, patted the section of couch between them the way she did when trying to brush off the previous thought or topic in favor of a new one. "You already know a good thing to be able to look at an entire situation dispassionately: assess not only the way it affects you, but also everyone else. Clearly the Sadalbari needs crew like Miss Dixson. She wouldn't be transferred otherwise. But for you, I think, it's important to accept how that change might affect you—both positively and negatively. And this exercise doesn't have to be logical."

"It clearly is not logical." Taurik sighed. "However, it would be helpful if it were."

Counsellor Troi seemed to find the notion amusing. "Well, give it a shot."

Taurik was regularly fascinated by how absolutely different the two of them were. He had to imagine she was often overwhelmed with emotion, though from sources outside of herself due to her empathic abilities. She had obviously developed ways to suppress that, just as the average Vulcan might have. Nevertheless, her philosophy of dealing with them couldn't have been more different.

Other Vulcans on board did make use of Counsellor Troi's expertise, of course. Different perspectives could be helpful.

After some time in silence, contemplating his answer as much as Counsellor Troi's perspective, he arranged his thoughts to coherence. "I will suffer no lasting effects from Miss Dixson's departure. Also, she is persistent. She will likely ensure we maintain regular contact," he offered.

The counsellor nodded encouragingly, evidently feeling his reaction to a memory of the day before. An unwelcome thought that he hadn't had time to subdue and sweep away.

Even though he thought it was unrelated, he asked, anyway. "Have you heard the idiom 'Time is a fire in which we all burn'?"

"I haven't."

"I heard it for the first time yesterday. Similar idioms occur in several languages and cultures including Human, Andorian, and Bajoran." Obviously, not Vulcan. It was too evocative for that. The Human phrase included comparisons of time being a school—but it was unimportant.

"And what does it mean?"

"All that remains after a fire is heat and ash." And, after more time, not even those things. "I have adapted to the solitude. I have stopped compulsively speculating on all the experiences that Vorik will never have… raising children, obtaining new assignments, learning skills. I believe he may even have become captain one day."

She smiled, softly. Sadly. "I'm sure he could have."

"I… I fear that one day I will be as though he never existed." He tore his eyes off the counsellor, to find something else on which to fix his visual attention. For being such a large room, the decorations were almost as sparse as his own room.

"If it's any consolation, I very much doubt you will ever forget him." Her tone was gentle, yet authoritative.

Taurik sighed. "If I conform to averages, I have lived only perhaps one-eighth of my projected lifespan. The notion of living the next sixty-thousand days in this pain is unwelcome, but more welcome than the idea of living without any."

Counsellor Troi leaned in, tapped the couch between them to draw his attention back to her. "Fire is destructive, yes, but it's also a source of warmth and light."

Taurik didn't know what that meant, but it didn't matter. Their time was almost over. "That is a curious observation, Counsellor. I will contemplate it. Though dwelling so much on metaphor seems illogical."

She smiled. Seemed amused. "I find that metaphor is only useful when we apply it to things we cannot otherwise understand or measure. Will I see you next month?"

Another curious observation. "Assuming no catastrophic events occur between now and then," he said, and rose. "Thank you, Counsellor."

Though he did not have a duty shift today, he went to Engineering anyway to sign for an additional shift. It was an emotional impulse. He had time and fire to think about. Since he wanted to think about neither, his time was better spent working than doing anything else.

Commander La Forge seemed once again completely unconcerned with the situation with the Romulans, though it seemed that half the department was working to analyze the Romulan tricorders recovered from the observatory. Taurik skimmed the report for mild interest, and was surprised how thorough they had been.

He attended his post, watching the warp core twitch with inefficiencies brought on by its years of use and, as usual, sent various ensigns and petty officers off on tasks to tune various machines and computerized processes.

Just as he was about to close the report he was investigating on unstable power distribution in the lower decks, he heard the familiar voices of Commanders Worf and Riker come into Engineering from the hallway behind him.

"Geordi?" Riker called, and paused at the central console. "What have you got for me?"

Taurik watched Commander La Forge pat Ensign Halloway on the shoulder before departing to report to Riker. "We've analyzed the Romulan tricorders. They were scanning for a signature particle of a compound called trilithium."

Taurik felt his lungs fill with cold fear for half a second, his hands seemed frozen on the console where he worked. He knew very little about trilithium, except that it was extremely volatile and powerful. In theory, it could be synthesized from dilithium, but the Federation had not, to his knowledge, had any reason to move away from dilithium as a power source due to its relative stability. Its entire usage repertoire, as far as Taurik knew, was in weaponry.

"An experimental compound the Romulans have been working on," La Forge said. "It's a nuclear inhibitor. In theory, it could stop all fusion within a star, but the Romulans never found a way to stabilize it."

Worf folded his arms across his chest. "Just as well. The Romulans no doubt seek to weaponize such a compound."

"But why would they look for it on a Federation observatory?" Riker asked.

Taurik found his concentration again, and tried to listen as well as keep his concern in check. Even if the Romulan Star Empire had no interest in starting a war at present, the presence of trilithium weapons in the galaxy would surely shift the balance of power.

La Forge's shrug and answer was useless. "I don't know."

Riker nodded, though, as if it was somehow helpful. "You and Data go over with the next away team. Keep an eye out for this… trilithium. And if it's over there like the Romulans seemed to think it was, I sure as hell want to know how it got there."

"Aye, sir." La Forge went off, maybe to collect Data for his away mission.

That was an excellent question that Taurik hadn't considered. If the Romulans had been doing experiments with trilithium, presumably possessing a supply of their own, why would they have crossed the border to scan for trilithium here? Perhaps the Romulans were baited here by a third party?

Taurik certainly preferred that possibility, at least until the theoretical third party was confirmed and discovered. But even still, the Romulans were developing their use of trilithium. There was no scenario in which that fact featured that he would have chosen if he could.

It was only a matter of time before that happened, though. It seemed unlikely that the Federation was expending its resources exploring weapons of such volatile and destructive capabilities… though it might be logical to do so.

#

Sam tapped idly at his monitoring controls. To no one's surprise, the observatory was still sitting there. The star was still pumping out radiation. The planets were still rotating. The bridge was still quiet in nervous concentration.

Sam had been sitting at his post—back-up conn—for the last three hours. Sam hadn't worked the evening shift since his promotion, and pulling a double-shift that included back-up conn was probably not his favorite place to be sitting. It was interesting most of the time, but in an emergency it seemed like it could be terror-inducing.

He'd never been back-up conn in an emergency. Not yet. It was bound to happen sometime. And, of course, he'd never been primary conn in an emergency. He would have had some wild stories to tell about electrical burns or exploding consoles and concussions, presumably. Or he'd be dead. There weren't many situations otherwise worth telling stories about.

Suddenly, Sam's station lit up. The observatory winked at him once, followed by a streak of calculations that were too quick for him to process. The next second, the viewscreen flashed bright orange.

"Report," Riker said, standing and turning to look at the row of stations behind Commander Worf.

And, of course, the question was directed at Sam. "Sensors show the observatory launched a solar probe into the sun," he said, and pulled up the logs.

Riker reached for his combadge. "La Forge?"

"Commander?" The science-blue one ensign down turned, her expression drawn and lips blanched. "A quantum implosion has occurred within the Amargosa star. All nuclear fusion is breaking down. The star is going to collapse in less than ten minutes."

"How many minutes is 'less than ten,' Ensign?" Riker snapped, and the turbolift doors open to allow the captain entrance. He asked for a report, and Riker relayed the information.

"Sir," Worf added from tactical. "The implosion has produced a level twelve shock wave."

Sam consulted his console. It sure did. Everything in this system was going to be crushed and then burnt. Including the Enterprise if they didn't get out of here in about five minutes.

"Transporter room to bridge. I can't locate Commander La Forge or Mister Data, sir."

Picard turned to Worf, his words strained. "How long before the shock wave hits the observatory?"

"Four minutes, forty seconds," Worf said.

With hardly a word, Picard, Riker, and Worf shared a conversation that apparently involved them beaming over to the observatory to find La Forge and Data. Words were apparently unnecessary in this situation.

Sam's heart fluttered in his throat, though he knew that Picard would put the safety of the ship before even the four people on the observatory.

Still, time was running out.

He pulled up a timer measuring the shockwave and the amount of time they had before it hit the observatory, then pulled up the direct link to Taurik's PADD and hoped he was holding it.

Amargosa star collapsing.

Two seconds later, Taurik's text response returned. How?

Solar probe from observatory. Sam appended the sensor logs for Taurik's perusal.

Taurik responded so quickly that Sam doubted he'd even opened the logs. Time?

3:10

Is La Forge on the station?

Yes.

The gap before the response was significantly longer—though he was still only dealing with minutes and seconds. Just as Picard was telling Riker that he had two minutes left, Taurik responded—his message unusually clipped. Grammatically incomplete. But maybe words in this situation were less necessary. Trilithium-based weapon.

Romulans? Sam asked.

The next message Taurik sent was almost ten seconds later. I hope not.

Chapter Text

Gabi sat in the center of the Jefferies tube, pressing her fingers on her eyes. "You are the sandstorm," she whispered. "You are the wind and the dust and the heat. You are in control."

She was absolutely not in control. But she was still trying, and that was better than most other fear responses she'd had. The ship wasn't in danger anymore, having warped away just in time to not be crushed by a shockwave and then cooked by radiation. She wasn't sure what her last sensation would have been.

It wouldn't have been great.

But she was never scared of dying. She didn't remember a time she ever had been. Besides, she'd faced that who-knew-how-many dozens of times in her tenure aboard the Enterprise. Lethal doses of radiation were commonplace next to random T-cell mutations, subspace rifts, and the ship transforming into an ancient temple. Yes, that had actually happened once.

She was, though, terrified of war.

With the Romulans, the Klingons, Cardassians—any of the quadrant's major powers. The idea that she and her friends would no doubt be shuffled to different ships to face the danger was enough to frighten her. If that happened, the odds that any one or more of the people she cared about could die. Her response to that kind of thing didn't tend to be all that adaptive.

She wasn't thinking clearly. She hadn't slept, and she wasn't used to working at this hour. The perfectly-normal hour of ten in the morning wasn't perfectly normal for her.

"Quin to Dixson?"

The tapped her combadge. "Yes, sir?"

"Labs on deck twelve are experiencing power fluctuations," he said. "Ensign Rice will join you."

"Yes, sir." She tapped her combadge and threw her tools back in her bag. She hoped Ensign Rice would be obvious in some way… somewhere on deck twelve.

She forgot this wasn't her usual shift and she didn't know many of the usual faces. With a sigh, she tapped her combadge again. "Computer, locate Ensign Rice?" Ensign Rice hadn't left Engineering.

Gabi went to deck twelve and waited outside the most likely turbolift for the ensign to appear, wondering what Taurik and Sam were up to. Well, Sam was probably sleeping. After his double shift ending two hours ago, she hoped he was asleep. Taurik also worked a double shift, but apparently out of some sense of… boredom, probably.

Fear didn't seem to be one of those emotions he experienced as much as anything else. He was concerned sometimes, troubled. He rarely admitted to any emotion, but he never displayed that one, anyway.

That didn't mean he was asleep, anyway. She pulled out her PADD and the direct link to Taurik's PADD. Are you awake?

The response came only six seconds later. Sleeping in Engineering would likely meet some objection.

I didn't know you were working.

I am.

Yeah, I know that now. Any news?

He took a bit longer to answer, which gave her as much anxiety as hope. Maybe he knew something. Maybe he didn't. All of Engineering was on edge.

It has been confirmed that the trilithium was obtained from the Romulans, though Doctor Soran used it to collapse the Amargosa star. A diplomatic solution with the Romulans is being arranged, though they remain skeptical that Doctor Soran is not a Federation spy.

Of course. But what about Commander La Forge?

Not that those other things weren't interesting. They were very interesting. Distressing, really. Why the hell would someone want to collapse a star? And if the trilithium was stable enough for use in a solar probe, then the Romulans were clearly further along in their research than Gabi knew, anyway.

Not that she knew much. She assumed Starfleet intelligence knew more.

No news, Taurik's message returned. Commander Data went to sickbay. He is exceedingly distressed and distracted.

Yeah, well, if Gabi had been in Data's place—well, she had no idea what she'd have done. It didn't seem unlikely she might have frozen like Data did. Fear was an extremely powerful emotion. I wouldn't be doing great if I let you get kidnapped by a rogue stellar scientist in league with a bunch of Klingons, she said, huffing as she put down her PADD. La Forge had been missing for a day, and who knew what those Klingons were doing while the Enterprise put their collective brilliant minds together to track them down.

If anything happened to Eliza or Taurik or Tommy or Sam because of her, she'd end up in sickbay, too.

The turbolift doors opened, showing an ensign in yellow. Seemed like a good guess. "Ensign Rice?" she asked hopefully.

"Petty Officer Dixson," she returned, smiling.

"Oh, good." Gabi forced a bit of a laugh, and offered her hand for a handshake. "I didn't want to have to call Lieutenant Quin back to admit I didn't know who you were. Would have been embarrassing. How do you want to do this?"

Ensign Rice looked a bit unsure. "I don't… I don't really have that much experience," she said softly.

Gabi grinned, nodding toward her and specifically the pip at her throat. "Sure you do. They don't hand those out for free, you know."

"I just fix things when I'm told to," she said.

Sounded familiar. "Alright, well, let's look."

Gabi went to the panel in the wall beside them, pulling up the deck schematic, and overlaid the power systems. She could see the problem was almost certainly due to the radiation exposure of the day before, affecting all the outer sections. Astrometrics labs were particularly sensitive to these types of things.

The next time she turned to Ensign Rice, she looked like a cornered rabbit. "You okay?"

"Yeah, of course. Where should I go?"

That was new. Gabi hummed in indecision, looking very briefly at the ensign's pip then at the map of deck twelve. "Well. We could probably get it done pretty quick if you took all the forward sections. Work in a zig-zag pattern, like this, starting with the labs that use their own sensor arrays." She stopped to draw with her finger on the schematic. "With these types of malfunctions, sometimes the error gets passed down and resolving it on the outer edge will eliminate some of the other problems."

"So…" Ensign Rice squinted at the schematic. "For example, section seven, then three, then two?"

"You got it."

Ensign Rice looked pleased. "Alright! I'll tell you if I have any problems."

"Yeah, of course. You go to the stern, and I'll take the bow."

"Yes, ma'am." Ensign Rice trotted off to the starboard-most section.

Gabi couldn't help but feel a bit stunned. She had been a Starfleet engineer for six years… which meant that she probably started learning when Ensign Rice was all of twelve or thirteen. Twenty-two was not old, but, damn, it was starting to feel that way.

She picked up her PADD while she walked. Taurik had responded to her previous message while she talked to Ensign Rice.

Your capacity for imaginative sympathy never ceases to impress.

With a sigh, she put her PADD back in its slot on her toolkit and stepped into Stellar Cartography. It was a neat lab—large and circular with displays covering all the walls. She didn't expect to find Captain Picard and Data there, though.

She froze like a small animal in the eyes of a predator when the captain glanced in her direction. Data did, too, but she'd actually interacted with him before. It was limited, but she had. Also, he was one of the night-shift commanders that worked with Sam. She didn't know why that made her feel more familiar.

Maybe because she heard stories about him a lot.

"Sorry, sir," she said softly, shuffling to one side. "There are—repairs."

"Yes, of course, Petty Officer, as you were," he said with a small smile, a weak smile, and a nod. He turned to Data, and Data turned to stare over the console in front of him. "Continue, Mister Data."

Gabi listened while Commander Data told the captain about something called a Nexus: a temporal energy ribbon that traversed this part of the galaxy every thirty-nine years or so. And, in forty-two hours, it was going to be right in their own neighborhood.

Gabi took a seat on the floor and pulled the cover off one of the lower consoles—it didn't matter which one, since they were all connected.

She didn't have to listen to hear that something was wrong with Data. She was beginning to think everyone on board was falling apart emotionally. Though, of course, she didn't know what was wrong with the captain. Data might find any emotion at all distressing to a certain extent.

"I am finding it difficult to concentrate," Data said, extremely softly. Maybe he was embarrassed to be sharing it in the room with Gabi there… Anything seemed possible. "I believe I am overwhelmed with feelings of remorse. Regret. Concerning my actions on the observatory. I wanted to save Geordi, but I experienced something I did not expect… fear."

Gabi sighed. Only an android wouldn't expect fear under those circumstances.

She wasn't even there, and she was feeling it secondhand.

Data redirected his ramble to the information pouring across the maps. "According to current information, the destruction of the Amargosa star has had the following effects in this sector: gamma emissions have increased by point-zero-five percent. The starship Bozeman was forced to make a course correction. Ambient magnetic fields—"

"Wait, the Bozeman?" the captain said, and Gabi pushed herself up to kneel to look at the console to see for herself.

She could see the gravitational forces in this sector were altered such that any ship going through it would have to make a minor course correction. Gabi glanced over her shoulder at the captain as he put the pieces together on where La Forge had to be.

"Where's the ribbon now?" Picard asked. "And can you project its course?"

Data froze. "I cannot continue with this investigation. I wish to be deactivated until Doctor Crusher can remove the emotion chip."

Gabi crawled back under her console at the near-familiar words and tremoring tone out at the main console. Coming from an android, of all people. Like that Vulcan, of all people.

Making mistakes and losing people was tough. Not that La Forge was for-sure lost… but he easily could have been. And she wasn't sure Data wouldn't be wrong to blame himself for that.

She knew she'd never have forgiven herself if something happened to Taurik that night, eight months ago, and that wasn't even her doing. Even now that she was leaving and it wasn't even that big of a deal—they were just friends—she hoped she would have regretted his leaving even if it was just to go back to Vulcan.

"You will not be deactivated!"

Gabi almost hit her head on the console at Picard's hard shout.

"You're an officer on board this ship and I require you to perform your duty. That is an order, Commander."

"Yes, sir," Data said. "I will try, sir."

Gabi started putting her tools away as softly as she could. She should have left just as soon as she came in, actually.

"Sometimes it takes courage to try, Data," the captain said gently. "Courage can be an emotion, too."

She looked at her PADD while Data got a firmer grip on himself and adjusted the course of the ribbon to show where it would be in the next fifty-two hours. Doctor Soran needed an M-class planet, because he couldn't go to the Nexus—it was too powerful, energetic for a starship to survive. And, just like Captain Picard predicted, there were two M-class planets in the Veridian system—but they weren't close enough.

Gabi watched intently, forgetting all about her work, while Captain Picard thought. "Data, what would happen to the ribbon's course if Soran destroyed the Veridian star itself?"

Data made the calculations, and the map updated its projection. Veridian III.

"That's where he's going…" Captain Picard whispered.

"It should be noted, sir, that the collapse of the Veridian star would produce a shockwave similar to the one we observed at Amargosa, destroying all planets in the system. Veridian III is uninhabited. However, Veridian IV supports a pre-industrial Humanoid society of two-hundred and thirty million."

Picard wasted no time, tapping Data's shoulder and then his combadge as he left the astrometrics lab. "Picard to bridge: set course for the Veridian system, maximum warp."

The doors shut after both of them, and Gabi was finally alone. After catching her breath, she picked up her PADD.

Think we found La Forge. Show-down at Veridian III, no Romulans invited.

#

Sam picked himself up out of bed at noon and remembered with a sigh that it was his day off. That meant it probably was Taurik's day off, too, so he went out to see.

The main room was empty and Taurik didn’t answer the call to his room. The computer said he was in Engineering, which meant the guy probably hadn't slept in three days. He'd seen Taurik go eight days without a wink of sleep and still kick his ass at Terrace. He was pretty average at poker no matter how much sleep he'd gotten, though.

The sonic shower was as much a welcome wake-up as the coffee at eighteen-thirty in the evening. He always thought the night shift really shouldn't be this difficult to adjust to, except that all his friends didn't work the same shift that he did.

He would have liked to blame his unsuccessful romances to the same thing, but most of the evidence didn't support that conclusion. Sam knew he was the problem. Always looking for someone that wasn't there.

The news that Gabi was transferring put a lot of things in perspective, somehow. He wanted to work on the Enterprise, and it was great to have on his record. But he'd been on the Enterprise for almost four years, and the odds he'd get a new assignment at five years were really good. He couldn't spend his whole life here unless he was exceptional.

Sam knew he wasn't exceptional. He had a Vulcan roommate. Things like that tended to forcefully impose reality.

With a sigh, he set aside his French-press coffee on his nightstand and dressed in some casual clothes. He didn't have anything to do, or anybody to call at the moment. If for that reason alone, a change of scenery might do him good.

He went back out to the main room to take in the usual scenery. The metal-framed couch, the glass-and-rods table and the tall cornered bookshelf with aesthetic edges. Taurik's low meditation table was draped in sheer gray fabric, and the picture of Vorik didn't look pleased with the décor.

Sam sighed. "Yeah, me, either, buddy."

He sat down on the couch and picked up his PADD. Where are you?

Less than a minute later, the door to their quarters opened, and Taurik stepped through. "Here."

Sam tossed the PADD on the table and smiled. "I see. How was shift? Were you on duty?"

"I requested the extra time," he said, looking about the room for a moment before sitting at one of the chairs. "I have… news," he said, and the hesitation put a nervous flutter in Sam's chest. "While you slept, we have arrived in the Veridian system. It seems that Doctor Soran plans to use his trilithium weapon again to collapse this system's star."

"Unless we stop him, I assume?"

"I assume."

"Well, here's hoping we don't get caught in this shockwave," Sam offered.

"Additionally, Alyssa informed me that a prisoner exchange has been made for Commander La Forge. The captain seems to have offered himself."

Taurik frowned, and Sam could tell he almost didn't believe what he'd said. Hell, Sam didn't believe him. "What?" he asked. "I—he—what?"

"I understand a captain's duty is to his ship and crew, but this action seems illogical." Taurik rested on his elbows on the table. "I understand that Commander La Forge suffered some injuries at the hands of the Klingons, but he may even have returned to Engineering now."

"Torture?" Sam winced.

"Yes."

Sam sighed. "Damn." He thought about that for a second, then asked, "What do you think they wanted? Or do you think they just wanted to hurt him?"

Taurik lifted his folded hands, pressing his extended forefingers against his lips like he was thinking. "While I believe Klingons are capable of inflicting pain for no reason, I am nevertheless… disturbed by the idea that anyone might."

Sam, too, but that wasn't the question.

"He is chief engineer on the Federation's flagship," Taurik added. "He is informed on any number of secrets and a notable source of unclassified information. His experience is likewise unparalleled. Commander La Forge is possibly in the top-three highest-value prisoners on the Enterprise."

That wasn't surprising, but Sam had certainly never thought of it that way before. "Who are the other two?"

"The captain, of course. I also believe Commander Data would be considered valuable for a multitude of reasons, including but not limited to the reasons that Commander La Forge would be valuable." Taurik hesitated, then squinted suddenly.

"What? You just thought of something. What?"

"Logically, I would place Commanders La Forge and Data above the captain in terms of value as a hostage," he said. "Of course, possession of his person as much as his command codes are incredibly valuable. But he would be unaware of the day-to-day workings of the Enterprise's base offensive and defensive capabilities—shield rotations and frequencies, phaser alignments. Commander La Forge would be aware of the pattern underlying all of these."

"Wait, wait, wait."

"Why would the Klingons agree to trade Commander La Forge with Captain Picard?"

"You're assuming the Klingons are as logical as you are," Sam offered.

"I'm assuming they are more familiar than I am with the calculus of hostage-taking."

Sam stood up from the couch, walked to the table where Taurik was, but didn't sit. "What are you saying?"

"I believe the Klingons did not want Captain Picard as a hostage." He looked up at Sam. "I believe they wanted Commander La Forge on the Enterprise."

"That's ridiculous, Taurik." At least, he wanted it to be ridiculous. He wanted to think that Taurik was wrong, because if he was wrong, then there wasn't any danger. Or, at least, significantly less danger with the only threat out there being a twenty-year-old Klingon ship and their greatest nemesis a hundred-year-old man.

"That may be." Taurik pressed up from the table. "I must speak to the commander."

The ship suddenly lurched, and Sam braced himself on the table next to Taurik. After finding his feet, he looked at him.

"Torpedo."

Taurik's whisper didn't do anything for Sam's nerves. He'd felt the hit of weaponsfire before—Taurik was right. "Oh, my god."

The Enterprise bucked again with another hit from a torpedo. Sam did his best to keep his feet beneath him while Taurik shoved off the wall toward their communications panel next to the replicator. Sam watched Taurik somehow manage to pull up the internal sensors report even with the gravity plates shaking beneath them.

"Decks thirty-one through thirty-five are breached," Taurik said. "The Enterprise is returning fire. The warbird is no match for our weapons."

"But it sure as all hell feels like they're shooting right through shields!" Sam hissed as the ship shuttered again.

It felt like a half hour, but it was probably only two minutes that the Enterprise was under attack. Just as suddenly, the hits stopped, and the ship came to a shuddering rest.

For a whole second, Sam gasped and looked to Taurik. "I think it's over."

"No." Taurik seemed to concentrate on something far away, and suddenly a dull roar became apparent even to Sam.

"What is it?" Sam knew Taurik could hear his whisper.

Whatever it was, he knew it wasn't good.

When Taurik only shook his head and launched himself toward the door like a deer in flight, it felt like every last one of Sam's organs crawled up into his throat. Sam ran after him, even though there wasn't going to be anything he could do to stop Taurik even if he caught him. The only thing that came to mind that would wring that kind of reaction from Taurik was… well, just one thing that Sam could think of.

"What is it, Taurik?" Sam chased after Taurik toward the turbolift. Damn, it was kind of far…

"If I'm not mistaken, the Enterprise is minutes from a warp core breach," he said.

"And where are you going?" Sam finally caught up to him just outside the turbolift while Taurik waited for it to arrive. It never took this long.

"Engineering. They may require—"

"Oh, no, you're not!" With all the strength Sam had—nothing in comparison to Taurik's—he yanked back on his arm aiming for the wall. Taurik turned with him, but obviously not entirely because of Sam's use of force. "If there is a warp core breach, they'll be evacuating. You aren't registered as being there. You'd screw up evacuation counts."

"But the Enterprise—"

"Is just a ship!" Sam stepped into Taurik's space, and Taurik stepped back into the wall behind him.

"Gabi was on duty this evening," he added weakly.

Sam didn't get to answer that. The walls turned red, with the evacuation lines pointing to the evacuation areas for those from the drive section, and the computer's voice echoed overhead: "Starship separation in five minutes."

"We have to get back to our quarters," Sam said.

Taurik obviously didn't like the idea of that, but he led the way back down the hallway toward their quarters. Sam stepped into the room after Taurik, watched him look around for a moment before sitting on the couch and tapping his combadge.

"Taurik to Petty Officer Dixson."

"Dixson here, but I'm a little busy!"

Sam had to admit he was relieved to hear her voice, too. She sounded like she was running, which… yeah, that checked out.

"I am simply—"

"Look, I appreciate the concern, but I've got other things to do!" Gabi then shouted for some ensign to follow her and haul ass. "I'll see you later, Taurik."

The line shut off, and Taurik looked at Sam with an almost placid expression. "We should assume brace position."

"We're not crashing," Sam said, just under the computer notification that just over three minutes remained for evacuation to the saucer separation.

"It is doubtful the saucer section will clear the shockwave from the warp core explosion." He sighed. "Also, if we are unsuccessful in preventing Doctor Soran from collapsing the Veridian star, which seems likely given the current state of the Enterprise, we may anticipate a shockwave ranging anywhere from level ten to twelve."

Sam nodded dumbly, sat on the couch beside him. "We're gonna die, aren't we?"

"Our quarters are in an extremely advantageous position as far as structural integrity and the number of bulkheads between ourselves and anything outside the ship," Taurik said, but Sam saw the look in his eyes say something different. "It is possible," he added quietly.

"Oh, god…" Sam gulped in a breath and bent over his knees to ward off the intense wave of nausea crashing over his insides. It wasn't the brace position.

Taurik didn't immediately assume the brace position, either, as he stood up from the couch.

Sam rubbed his eyes with what felt like anger while he tried to figure out what Taurik was doing. Then Taurik stooped to pick up the picture of Vorik and hold it in both hands. He brought it back to the couch with him, sat down, and closed his eyes.

Sam sucked in a breath. "Are you, uh…? Are you scared?" he asked, and the ship announced saucer separation was imminent.

"Fear of death is illogical."

Of course it was.

#

Taurik returned to consciousness with a gasp, a headache, and blind eyes. He wondered briefly if he had disconnected his retinas from the obvious head trauma he'd received and decided to deal with that later. His head pounded with the pulse of a warp core, but everything was quiet.

He tapped his combadge, reporting the last location he remembered. He heard nothing in response.

No warp core… They'd had to abandon the drive section.

He didn't remember much, but he remembered that. The warp core had exploded, and the saucer section hadn't been able to clear the blast radius in time. Gabi was probably distraught. Wherever she was.

But this was too much destruction much more extensive than what he would expect with a warp core breach. Doctor Soran may have succeeded in his plans to destroy the Veridian star. If that was true, there were likely very few people left alive on the Enterprise.

"Oh, god…" Sam's voice was weak and he groaned faintly with pain. "Oh, my god. Taurik, are you—oh, god."

"Sam?" Taurik found his hands, the arch of something hard and metallic over him. He decided he was lying on the floor, though it was misaligned to the direction of gravity. Which meant something was wrong with the deck plating.

Not wrong with the deck plating… He couldn't put that thought together before he decided this metallic thing over him must be the frame of their couch.

There was the sound of rustling fabric, retching, a shivering groan.

"Sam?"

"I'm gonna die, Taur—" Sam whispered, and gave a wet cough.

"Please remain calm. I will… I'm coming."

Taurik found purchase on the frame he was certain had been the couch—though it could not have been only the couch.

"What are your injuries?" The metal creaked on the other side of his palms, giving way to his strength as he slid past the opening to his left. He only knew he was sitting on the familiar tight-pile carpet, which was a good indication gravity was rightside-up.

There was still something wrong with that thought, but he didn't know what.

"It's, um. Nothing. It's my leg," he said, and sobbed. "I think it's, uh…"

"Take a breath, Sam." Taurik took a moment to tactually inspect the rest of his aching body and found mostly bruises and relatively small lacerations considering the lack of power and disarray. He was sure he'd broken ribs and his wrist. A piece of shrapnel he hadn't registered before was lodged just beneath his ribs, fortunately nowhere near his major organs, and a second in the corner between his clavicle and manubrium on the same side. Both seeped blood down his shirt and trousers, but he decided they weren't life-threatening. He left them.

Dedicating a small part of his concentration to ignoring the pain blooming in areas of his body he'd never paid attention to before, he carefully slid along the floor—crouching. Limiting the space he took up would limit the debris he could catch as he moved.

"My leg," Sam said again, and then took another breath. "I can't find it." He tried, again, to breathe, but coughed and gagged. "Oh, god."

"Remain calm…" Taurik interrupted Sam's spiral into terror, slowly, never lifting his feet from the ground, in the direction of Sam's faint breathing. His voice fell into a whisper. "Please, remain calm."

With a quick tap to his combadge again, he reported their position, such as he knew, status, and the urgent need for medical assistance. He wasn't sure anyone was listening or would be able to respond or if the comms system was even working, but it took none of his quickly-dwindling resources to report.

Still silence.

Taurik estimated he had very few minutes remaining to save Sam from bleeding out—if his leg was, indeed, completely severed.

"I can't see," Sam said softly.

That answered one question. "I suspect that is due to environmental factors rather than injury," Taurik said. "I cannot see, either." Suddenly, his shoes found a thin and sticky liquid, and his hands found Sam's arm.

Sam seized in surprise, and he reached out with both hands. One of Sam's hands landed on his arm. "Oh," he choked, his fingers grasping at the thick jacket hanging damp on his chest, "you're bleeding."

"My injury is not life-threatening." Taurik laid his hands on Sam's arm and found the rest of him with context.

"Unlike mine." Sam laughed in the middle of a sob.

Taurik ignored Sam's flinch and whimper when he found his right thigh. He crawled his fingers down Sam's leg, past the torn and blood-soaked trousers, to his knee. The only thing beyond that was the splintered and mashed remains of a leg that seemed to have been crushed by some misshapen mass of metal and glass—the bookshelf. It was not severed, not completely… but Taurik didn't know what was worse.

He did know he had very little time.

Take a breath.

"Fortunately, your leg is elevated," he said, though he doubted it mattered much. "You are not losing as much blood as you could be." Taurik removed his jacket, carefully leaving the largest piece of shrapnel where it was in his side and blindly finding the lining of his sleeves.

Sam coughed. "What are you doing?"

"The lining of our uniform jackets may be removed and used as a bandage or tourniquet," he answered, and ripped out the lining the stretched the entire span of the jacket. It came much easier than he expected.

It was new…

Sam sniffed, his hand finding Taurik's shirt and holding on. "Right. Right," he whispered.

"Do you recall the class at the academy for survival in… catastrophic situations?" Taurik carefully—but swiftly—threaded the lining beneath his thigh.

Sam groaned, his fist twisting into Taurik's sleeve. "Survival Strategies?"

He didn't expect Sam to have come up with the answer so quickly. He had to be approaching delirium from blood loss…"Yes. Survival Strategies."

"I'm gonna die anyway."

"Please, remain calm." Taurik sighed, found the femoral artery, and adjusted the lining to the correct position. He carefully and unobtrusively started to pull it tight. "If I remember correctly, most Humans in the class required a mechanical advantage to cinch the tourniquet to effectiveness. None of the Vulcans did."

"Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"No. Also, if I remember correctly, this will hurt."

"Yeah—"

Sam screamed.

Taurik felt the broken bone in his wrist pop out of place as he cinched the tourniquet closed. The blood from his shoulder soaked down his gray shirt, but Sam wasn't going to die.

He couldn't allow Sam to die.

The screams had dwindled to shaking sobs, the knot securely in place and the makeshift bandage successfully cutting off the blood to his missing leg. Sam raked in a breath, his hand finding Taurik's chest and pulling in a handful of the gray undershirt. If he said words, they were unclear.

"Help is coming." How long it would take… he didn't know. Taurik hesitated only long enough to set his wrist back into place. Fortunately, the pain was relatively minor, and he could ignore it. "You must remain calm. Measure your breaths."

Though Sam probably tried, tried to breathe or focus on anything other than the pain and his myriad injuries and fear, he was ultimately unsuccessful. He shook uncontrollably, and, though he seemed to be trying to speak, none of the sounds coalesced into words.

"Sam, please, be calm." Taurik whispered, and waited a few seconds before trying again. Keeping his tone low and calm. "Sam."

He still quavered and was obviously in an incredible amount of pain, but at least he was calm enough to hear. "Mm?"

"May I help you? I can help you be calm."

"Hm?"

"I can share my calm with you through a mind-meld."

"I dunno." Sam sucked in another breath. "I dunno what that means."

All that pain would be for nothing if Sam didn't calm down. Though his leg was his most grievous injury, Taurik had no doubt he was losing blood from any number of other injuries. Taurik rested his forehead against Sam's shoulder and took a breath. Then another. It would be absurd to lose control now.

He could not allow Sam to die like this.

"Please. Let me help you."

"Fine. What the hell. I'm gonna die, anyway."

That was the most dubious consent Taurik ever considered, but it didn't matter. He shifted to kneel, and found Sam's face with his hands. Brushed away the tears with his thumbs. "Relax."

"You relax," Sam snapped.

Taurik cleared his mind and aligned his focus. Ignored the growing sense of pain and pressure behind his ribs and the obvious pounding behind his eyes.

He was not panicking. He wasn't even concerned. He didn't want to die, either… but he wasn't surprised he wasn't perturbed by the idea that he might. The other fears more distressing than his own death, he hid away. Instead, he brought to mind the simple meditation of a sandstorm as he pressed his fingertips beneath Sam's eyes, to his temples.

"My mind to your mind," he whispered, and Sam suddenly stilled. "Your thoughts to my thoughts."

"Oh, my…" Sam breathed as Taurik looked inside.

Pain. So much pain.

And fear.

Taurik closed his eyes and the pain shifted its grip, twisting and burning the terror that shook and shattered Sam's inept attempts at tranquility. Sam was naturally anxious and distrustful, but he still possessed a certain calm that came from his desire and ability to be adaptable, dependable. All Taurik had to do was find it—pull it back to the surface for Sam to hold onto when he left.

Taurik had never melded with a non-Vulcan before.

He'd always thought the mind of such an emotionally uninhibited species would seem hostile, but it wasn't. If he'd considered further, it would have made sense: Humans were uninhibited, but possessed comparitively tranquil natural emotions. That they did not control those they did have yielded what Vulcans considered an unreasonable illogic—but sometimes even Vulcans could forget their own emotions were far more violent, turbulent.

More, like all the minds Taurik had known, Sam's consciousness possessed what presented to his perception as color—a meaningless aesthetic not unlike hair- or eye-color, except it wasn't genetic by any means. Sam was red; shimmering and bright ruby like the hull plates of a Vulcan science vessel.

Sam's hand reached up to rest on Taurik's shoulder. "What—?"

Please remain still.

It occurred to Taurik he might find more than he meant to. Sam was mentally untrained, and uncountable thoughts sifted to the surface before disappearing again. Scraps of childhood memories, two smiling adults in blue Starfleet uniforms and a feeling of love… His time at the Academy and the sense of freedom… Arriving on the Enterprise and thinking he was both unprepared and invincible at once… Meeting Taurik in their shared quarters after months and then years and feeling…

Sam gasped and pulled away, begging him to get out, but Taurik drew him back—forcefully. He regretted that… assured him he didn't care about anything Sam might have felt about him, hatred or love, no matter what kind.

Sam was terrified of dying. He was angry that he might. That was more important than any residual embarrassment for feelings, no matter what they were.

No, Sam was somehow mortified. He couldn't fathom why Sam would want to hide, but it was a wonder to Taurik Sam was able to hide anything. He was unrestrained, untrained, and in incredible pain.

There's nothing to be ashamed of, Taurik offered. He gave Sam the word in Vulcan he'd use to describe their friendship—the broad and protective affection for a sibling—but Sam resisted.

New emotions, new considerations flew to the surface: thoughts and feelings Sam didn't attend to regularly. An annoyance that encroached on resentment and even undirected jealousy. It wasn't disgust, but it wasn't much better. Taurik was shamelessly rude, impassively stubborn, and obliviously selfish; Sam hated that. And sometimes, he hated Taurik.

Taurik withheld his shock and hurt. Apparently, Sam's ability to suppress emotion was more advanced than Taurik gave credit for.

Please get out, Sam whispered in his mind. I'm sorry; just let me die. Please.

He didn't let Sam go, to his own distant distress. He didn't even ask if Sam was sincere, because he didn't care what Sam wanted. I would prefer you didn't.

Sam was right. Taurik was all of those things.

Anyway, time and familiarity had tempered Sam's emotions. Tentatively, Taurik showed Sam his own feelings for Vorik. Vorik had been casually flippant, taking virtually none of the things seriously that Taurik thought were important. He was stubbornly flighty, putting off work when he discovered something else more interesting. Vorik was indecisive, acquiescent, maladroit with finer details, particular about what he ate, effortlessly popular among their friends, and otherwise frustratingly perfect. Taurik loved Vorik more than anything.

The overriding sense of reconciliation convinced Sam there was no harm done.

Taurik carefully, deliberately impressed his own nebular blue peace on the surface, offering images of a calm desert, the striped maple leaves on the Academy grounds that symbolically joined their planets and their people together, and the thrum of a warp core that no longer existed. Finally, he felt Sam rest.

Sam's heartrate slowed. The panic waned. Tears slid onto the tips of Taurik's fingers.

With calm came lucidity. Only the immense pain he was suppressing on Sam's behalf distracted him. Sam's right leg had been crushed, and his left knee dislocated. He was bleeding internally and likely suffered other force injuries in addition to his concussion.

A significant portion of Taurik's mental resources held Sam's mind at bay, the rest beheld the sandstorm of his own thoughts as if from behind glass.

Sam was dying.

He couldn't think about it, and he couldn't let Sam see the fleeting realization. But Taurik had never seen anyone so injured and yet still breathing. It seemed cruel, though the characterization was sensational. Illogical. There was nothing cruel about the situation, nothing malicious about the universe.

An insignificant number of people would memorialize the loss for an equally insignificant amount of time. It would mean nothing.

Taurik fought to focus on Sam's physical injuries alone and ignore the thoughts and emotions Sam didn't want him to see. It had been eight months since he'd shared his mind with anyone, and over a year since he'd melded with anyone. His lack of practice would have been obvious. Not to Sam, of course. He could see Sam had never had an intimate telepathic experience in his life.

Sam shuddered, pulled back. Can you get out now? Just get out.

Taurik nodded, though he didn't move for a moment. Either Sam would hold onto the peace, or he wouldn't… The meld in its entirety lasted almost fifteen seconds—a long time for a meld of this type.

Despite the surprised whimper, Sam remained calm, seizing Taurik's shirt in both fists. He gasped for breath, but the effect was more that he'd somehow forgotten to breathe during the meld. Taurik wondered if that was normal for non-telepaths.

"I, uh… I don't know what to say," Sam said, his voice weak.

Taurik wasn't sure what could be said. "It was only a mind-meld." To him, it was nothing. Almost nothing, anyway. It had been a while… And, anyway, the revelation that Sam had never very much strictly liked Taurik wasn't exactly new. Sometimes, Taurik was hardly convinced they were friends.

Except recently. Recently, he knew they had to be. And now more than ever he was sure Sam was an earnestly commendable person—better than Taurik. Sam wasn't selfish.

"You're so goddamn irritating, I can't…"

"I know."

"No—listen to me." Sam pulled him back by his shirt, and Taurik let him.

"Sam, I know."

"I may think those things all the time, but I don't actually think them."

Taurik didn't know what that meant. Maybe it was some sort of Human expression.

"You're important to me," Sam whispered, his hand finding Taurik's shoulder after searching.

Taurik put his hand on top of Sam's and answered, "And you to me." He removed Sam's hand from his shoulder. "I must see if I can go get help."

When Taurik tried to rise to leave to investigate the room, Sam's grip tightened on his hand, holding him back despite the lack of strength to do so. "Wait. Don't. Please. Don't go."

It was so quiet. No warp core; no one was speaking. Metal creaked. Taurik wasn't afraid to die.

But he was afraid for Sam to die. For Gabi to die.

Sam lifted his second hand, finding Taurik's arm and pulling the tattered fabric into his fist. "I don't… I don't want to die alone."

"You aren't dying." He sat, anyway, drawing his feet in and away from the pool of blood no longer expanding, and Sam was quiet for a while.

Taurik touched his shoulder to Sam's, and Sam leaned his head on him. His hair brushed against his jaw, and his fingers twisted the fabric of Taurik's shirt first one way, and then the other. His breathing turned to painful wheezing.

They sat in silence for some time, long enough for Taurik to decide that Sam's heartbeat was regular, if faint, even if his breathing was not. Somewhere in the distance something huge snapped and crashed.

Sam startled into him. "What was that?"

"Based on the evidence, it seems the saucer section crashed on the planet." Taurik paused as the Enterprise groaned metallically. "On the planet," he said again, and continued, "under the stress of steady gravity it wasn't designed for. It explains why gravity is not oriented to the plates. It explains the upheaval."

Taurik turned his head to look in Sam's direction, though it was an entirely useless motion. It was too dark to see anything. He wasn't sure how many had survived. How far away rescue was.

"The planet had no properties which would preclude the possibility of beaming up survivors," he said, and irrationally hoped Sam would be among them.

"Hey…" Sam wheezed, followed by a wet cough and groan of pain. He tightened his grip on his sleeve for just long enough for Taurik to perceive the change. "Could you do me a favor?"

"Possibly." Taurik wasn't sure he could move anymore… The blood he thought he smelled had become a taste.

"Can you tell my mom that I love her, and… I don't know." He coughed, and Taurik could hear the blood and phlegm. "If you could hear one last thing from Vorik, what would you want it to be?"

Taurik sighed, leaned back, and looked into the blackness. Sitting here on the verge of death, Taurik knew what he would do. If Vorik were still here, Taurik would have already reached out, shared the pain and fear and said goodbye.

Vorik would have considered the consequences. A final goodbye would be a barb in Taurik's psyche for the rest of his life. Vorik would have quietly and deliberately closed the door between them, even if it meant his dying alone. It was the kindest thing he could do, and Vorik was kind.

Taurik was selfish. He was incredibly selfish.

"It seems likely Vorik was asleep when he died," he said, though he doubted that would be much help. "I believe that is the best-case scenario… I wouldn't want him to say anything."

"So, tell her that. Tell her I never woke up." Sam wrung his hand on Taurik's sleeve, turned his eyes into Taurik's shoulder. "Tell her I was asleep, and… oh, my god, Ma." Sam shivered. It may have been fear or pain or cold or something else. He pulled weakly on Taurik's sleeve once again, and cried. "I want to go home."

That faraway desert mountain, the river through the canyon. Vorik was there, sitting on the rocks halfway across the shallow river flowing over the red sands. Reaching to touch the smooth and cool water with his palms. Waiting. "I will tell her."

"What do you think it's like?" Sam asked, suddenly. Quickly. "Death?"

As far as Taurik knew, it was a yawning black abyss that silently listened to the thoughts Taurik once sent in the direction of something more vital. But that wasn't what Sam wanted to hear. Sam wanted to hear that, sometimes, that abyss spoke back.

"Many Vulcans believe in what Humans would call a soul," Taurik offered, softly, relieved to hear Sam quiet to hear his voice. "The essential being of an individual living, in a sense, beyond the body."

"Do you? Believe that?"

With a sigh, Taurik nodded. "I do."

Sam seemed more comforted by that than anything else Taurik had said or done. At least, he was for a moment.

They were quiet for a while, long enough for Taurik to direct some of his attention to ignoring the pain pressing against his organs and aching through his extremities. He wondered if soon the pounding in his head would become unmanageable in conjunction with everything else. If he was blind even in the darkness.

Sam gasped, drawing Taurik back to reality. "Taurik."

"Yes?"

"I don't want to die, I—I want to go home."

Sam's breathing accelerated, his words were chattered and slurring. That may have simply been an effect of the concussion, but Taurik didn't have to be sitting in a pool of Sam's blood to know he very well might have been dying, and there was nothing Taurik could offer to ease the dread.

"Keep your breathing steady. Relax." Taurik was sure he wouldn't agree to another mind meld, and Taurik liked to think he wasn't so far gone at this moment that he would ignore Sam's clearly-stated wishes, even if it was his best chance at survival. "Do not allow your heart rate to increase."

Only seconds later, Sam sobbed. "I'm dying—I can't die, no." He gasped, his body bracing as he struggled weakly against what seemed inevitable. "Help me."

Taurik closed his eyes, shutting out his own helpless panic. "Remain calm," he whispered, and took Sam's hand from its loose grip to hold in his own. "Match your breathing to mine."

Sam gasped thinly, and his grasp on Taurik's hand slipped. His struggle ceased, tension released.

"Sam?" It was illogical. He knew he would receive no answer.

Taurik was only consoled by the fact that he could still hear and feel Sam's shallow breathing. He was only unconscious, but he doubted that was a sign of a better outcome.

Taurik took a breath of his own, held Sam's hand against his chest, and tapped his combadge. Again he heard only heard silence.

Sam was dying. No one was coming. It would be absurd to lose control now.

It had been weeks since he'd gone to that empty edge where he used to find his brother. He'd finally stopped weeping, and he didn't come here every day anymore. In fact, it had been four days, two hours, fifty-four minutes. The black space emanating death and despair was familiar in a cold way. It was no longer an open wound.

Vorik? Even though it was illogical, he reached out.

The only emotions remaining were of finality and uncertainty. Not fear, just… ignorant speculation. Regret for not being together at the end. A little bit of relief. He dropped the thoughts off the edge of the abyss and sat in the radiating hollow, expecting to hear nothing.

But the distant echo of a scream carried over the pale of death, manifesting with shape and texture so he could almost hear it—

No!

Grief and rage and disbelief. His mind seemed to fill in the blanks with Vorik's response to the idea that Taurik was dying: a distant and frantic dismay. Or else it really was Vorik, if Gabi's theory was correct. If his katra had somehow found him all the way over here on the other side of the quadrant.

Because souls didn't need impulse power.

But why anger? Why grief? Wouldn't Vorik, of all the ghosts, understand? He'd been living this way for months… but he couldn't live like this.

At least… at least, he used to think that. He used to think nobody could live like this, but he'd found most people did. Sam leaned against him, the only connection between them their joined hands. Sam was still breathing.

He knew exactly how he'd lived like this.

The world crystalized and the familiar whine of a transporter brought him to the bright white lights of a medical bay. Blue voices chattered around him, and some of them were clearly talking about Sam. A leg and immense blood loss. Internal hemorrhaging and broken bones. Maybe some of them were talking about him.

An unfamiliar face leaned over him, frowning in concern. "Can you hear me, Lieutenant?"

He thought he tried to say something, but… a white cold pressed against his neck, and the world folded into black.

Chapter Text

"Good afternoon, Lieutenant."

Taurik blinked at the gray ceiling, first wondering why he was in Sickbay and then realized that this was not the Enterprise Sickbay. He recognized the shelf lighting arranged in apparently-aesthetic circles throughout the bay as being distinctly Nebula-class. He'd been in a Nebula-class starship before… He and Vorik had parted ways at the Academy: Taurik to the Nebula-class Hoshiko Maru with the eventual destination of the Enterprise, and Vorik to the Biscayne for his first eight-month assignment.

"Can you hear me?"

Taurik turned his attention back to the blue-clad medical officer. Lieutenant Commander. "Yes." He turned his eyes back to the ceiling. What had happened?

"Tell me your name and service number," he pressed.

"Taurik. Lieutenant JG. Serial number SE 549-607-1FS." He imagined that he could remember was a good thing. He could remember everything very clearly actually. "Lieutenant Commander?"

"Yes. You can call me Murray."

Taurik blinked, tried to assign the name to the face. Human. Brown hair. Brown eyes. "Lieutenant Commander Murray," he said, and ignored the amused look. "Has Lieutenant JG Sam… Lavelle." That was concerning… Sam was not his given name, but he couldn't recall the whole thing. From a vantage point in Vulcan, the two names were completely unrelated, and he'd only ever used it perhaps once. "Serial number SC 506-823-1IL," he added almost without thinking.

That was significantly less concerning, except that he wasn't sure how he knew that.

"Yes, he was found with you," Lieutenant Commander Murray said. "He's still in surgery."

"Surgery?"

"His right leg needs to be replaced, but his internal injuries were severe," Murray said, and lifted a PADD to his hand. Tapped into it. "I'm afraid you aren't on his notification form. I can't tell you much more information."

"Is he expected to recover?"

Murray shook his head, but said, "I don't know."

Pressing up to sit, Taurik focused on the far wall. Murray had shaken his head. Humans sometimes answered questions even when they said they couldn't.

He had to stop thinking. The universe was vast, and the only thing keeping it from being cruel was indifference. Indifference was, by definition, neither beneficent nor malicious. But indifference was also, by definition, not bound to logic. Trying to impose logic on himself was the same as trying to find meaning in an indifferent universe.

He knew he was searching for something that didn't exist, but he needed it to mean something.

It meant nothing.

Murray tried again. "Lieutenant, your lacerated liver was repaired, and you suffered a class two concussion, as well as assorted broken bones. The damage has been repaired, but you'll have to take it easy for the next week or so. You'll be fine. Alright?"

"Yes, sir."

"You'll disembark at Starbase 234 where you'll stay until you receive your next assignment. Also, your emergency medical proxy has requested you contact her as soon as you can. Would you like—?"

"Yes." He hadn't meant to interrupt, but he was at least reassured he didn't sound eager. He couldn't have, because he wasn't.

There was something wrong with his head, making him think things were happening at a pace that didn't align with reality. Somehow, he thought Murray had finished his question even though Taurik knew he hadn't heard the end.

He ignored Murray's look of concern and confusion. With a squint, he focused on the distant wall, realized it seemed fuzzy. "It seems my visual and periodic perception are… damaged." That wasn't the word he wanted, but he couldn't find that, either.

"We'll do another brain scan on you," Murray said. "The Vulcan brain is extremely complex."

"I wouldn't wish to keep her waiting."

"Okay. Yeah. Sometimes these cognitive wrinkles smooth themselves out. The scan can wait." Murray eyed him for a long moment before stepping away. "Stay there," he added, as if Taurik would consider doing anything else.

Willful ignorance was not the favored method of suppression, but at the moment Taurik had no other choice. His quarters had been destroyed. Vorik's photo was likely buried in rubble, along with everything else. His lamp was hand-made by a craftsman on Vulcan… and it was a matched set with Vorik's. Sam wasn't expected to recover.

That fear was unfounded.

So was the fear that Sam would go home and never return to Starfleet.

Taurik drew himself to sit straighter and concentrate on how he felt, physically. Surely much better than he had before. He wondered if it was the shrapnel he'd left in his side that contributed to his lacerated liver, but he couldn't find any evidence on his body he'd been injured at all. He wasn't even blind, as he thought he might be.

Murray returned with a communications PADD. Saalle was already waiting on the screen.

"I'll be over there," he said, and pointed to the far station by the wall, and left.

Taurik lifted the PADD to see Saalle. She was in her home, dressed in a deep blue tunic that contrasted her eyes so black she might have been confused for a Betazoid hybrid, and enhanced the dark beauty of her skin. But her mouth was drawn in what seemed to be tired distress. Her hair… her hair was long, twisted up behind her head and released like a fountain, and usually untidy. Today was no different.

"Peace, Taurik," she said when she saw him, the abbreviated greeting they'd used since they were impatient children.

"Long life," he said. He hadn't spoken to her in two weeks, but their relationship had never suffered from long periods of silence. She was, in many ways, his most trusted confidant and closest companion, even now. Even when he hadn't spoken to her in any meaningful way in eight months.

There were certain things he still could not tell her. Pride was at the very least a familial trait.

He couldn't tell her this. The roiling distress in his chest and the way his heart was running wildly out of control. The unconfirmed assurance that Sam was unlikely to make a full recovery, and the knowledge that the Enterprise had been destroyed…

They looked at one another for a long moment, until Saalle spoke again. "You are well?"

"My physical injuries have been repaired. I regret any disturbance I've caused."

She didn't seem too affected. "It was midnight when the message came."

Taurik paused to figure out what time it was on Vulcan. It was more complex than determining the amount of time between events: Vulcan's day was twenty-five hours long, and standard Starfleet extra-planetary day was twenty-six hours. It was five in the morning. That explained why she was inside. She was usually outside when they talked.

"I hope you haven’t lost any sleep you needed."

Saalle shook her head. "I'm told your surgery went well. Your wounds and broken bones have been repaired."

He nodded. Before he knew what he thought the response might be, he was speaking again. "I believe… my meditation lamp was destroyed," he said softly, and she nodded in sympathy. "Which would be unfortunate. I'm unsure if the master who made it is still alive."

"May I obtain a new one for you?" she asked.

Taurik hadn't expected that, and found himself nodding despite the irrational sense of loss he felt in reference to the lamp.

"And Lieutenant Lavelle has been seriously injured."

"Federation medical personnel are very skilled," she said.

"They are."

"Will you return to Vulcan to recover?"

"No. My recovery will only take a week."

She disapproved of that answer. "Taurik, return to Vulcan," she said, her voice quiet and almost desperate. "Return to me. No one else need know you were here."

"Saalle—"

"Let me share your sorrow. It's been too long since I last saw you, and your reaction has been maladaptive."

"Please." Taurik lowered his tone to a whisper in the hopes no one else would hear what she was saying—in the hopes no one else would hear what he was now. "I have adapted."

She looked as if she didn't believe that statement, and he wondered for a moment if it was true. Since he'd said it, he decided he must have. And, indeed, he was no longer in pain from the sense of separation. This was how everyone lived, he assumed. He could live this way, too.

"I anticipate our typical visit next winter," he added, hopefully.

With a small and brief sigh, she nodded. "Very well. But I implore you to reconsider. Maintaining this distance is illogical under these—"

"No," Taurik snapped, keeping his voice low. "The pursuit of logic is merely a futile attempt to impose order on a chaotic universe. It's not reason, it's emotion." And even if it was reason—there was no reason that granted order to any of this.

"Taurik." Her objection was barely a breath and her eyes soft and questioning. "Reconsider."

He looked at her, seeing that he'd very well proven her correct with such an outburst. If she could have looked shocked, she might have. "It's not… I am in pain, suffering the effects of a concussion, and I haven't had a chance to—"

"I know," Saalle said quickly, cutting him off. "The fault is mine. I shouldn't have insisted. It was an emotional impulse." Though he knew she wouldn't lie, he couldn't help but think that she had. "The lack of your presence for so long has been noticeable, and the news of your injury and the Enterprise's destruction… has been distracting."

"I regret my absence, but…" But if he went to her, she would see. She would see that no amount of meditation would uproot these thoughts that lived with him now. That logic could not explain this loss.

Nothing could.

He didn't get to say anything else, as Murray approached demurely from the side. Taurik glanced at him once, then back to Saalle. "There's something else I must attend to. I will send you a message when I…" Now that he thought about it, he didn't know where he was living now. He didn't know where he was going. The Enterprise was destroyed. He hadn't quite integrated that, yet. "When I have been assigned quarters," he finished finally.

"Very well. Attend to your recovery. I anticipate our speaking again."

"As do I. Live long and prosper, Saalle."

"Peace and long life."

Taurik set down the communication PADD and turned his attention to Murray. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," Murray said and stepped closer, consulting his PADD as though he hasn't been sure what he wanted to say when he interrupted. "There's no easy way to say this. Petty Officer Second Class Gabriele Dixson has you as the only person on her medical notification form aside from her next of kin on Earth. I'm afraid… she's died."

Taurik felt his vision briefly blacken, his chest briefly seize. "What?"

"Died," Murray repeated anyway, stepping a bit closer and speaking a bit louder as if perhaps Taurik's hearing was faulty.

Because he was Vulcan. He shouldn't request clarification for what was perfectly clear. He shouldn't be feeling this way. He shouldn't be feeling anything. Not this long.

Murray paused to look at his PADD again, then handed it to him. The heading read Medical Notification - TT 992-001-3EN-2. Gabriele Dixson. "She suffered a class six head trauma. We attempted to repair the damage, but it was too late."

"I see that," he said, and looked at the line with the heading prognosis. Why had she put him on her medical notice form?

He would never know.

"We were waiting for approval from the Medical Advocacy Council to remove life support. I'll be doing that shortly."

His musing about whether the somewhat arbitrary distinctions between life and death in a brain still exhibiting its lower functions made that unclear prevented him from feeling much in response. "Medical Advocacy Council…" It wasn't a question.

Murray explained, and Taurik didn't interrupt even though he knew what it meant. Everyone in service with Starfleet selected a medical crisis proxy to make medical decisions for them in case they were incapacitated. Taurik's had been Vorik until he was compelled to change it. The Medical Advocacy Council made decisions for individuals without a proxy, such as those with no suitable family member.

"I see…" Taurik's voice felt much too small, as if it had been lost somewhere. "You're artificially maintaining her autonomic functions?"

"Mostly."

He understood that. He didn't even know why he'd asked, since it didn't matter. She was dead. Braindead, perhaps, to draw some sort of line. "May I see her?"

Murray looked at him, eyebrows drawn in concern and mouth angled in a slight frown.

Taurik didn't know why he'd said that, and couldn't explain his desire with anything other than emotion, since that must have been what it was. Vulcans were rarely alone at death, performing the transference ritual to store their memories or other messages in arks. P'Jem Monastery held the katra of the most vital and significant Vulcans, but familial ossuaries throughout Vulcan supposedly contained preserved memories from Vulcans of all stages and walks.

Vorik's ark was empty. Not because he was insignificant, but because his was lost. He had been alone.

"It is an appropriate Human ritual, is it not?" At least, he had heard of Humans accompanying their elderly in that way. He wasn't sure if it was the same for the unconscious or the young. "Her sister is unavailable."

"I suppose. If you want to, you may."

He did not want anything in this situation. And yet, to let her die alone was intolerable. "If it would not be in appropriate…" He believed she might wish to be attended, even though she would never know and only he could be harmed by it. Perhaps her sister would be comforted.

None of that mattered to him.

"Alright. This way."

Though his post-surgery gown was sufficient for modesty, Murray said he needed no further surgery. With a blank mechanical bearing, Taurik changed into a newly replicated uniform and pressed away a growing headache. It was unclear whether it was from his physical injury or emotional turbulence, but he could determine that later.

He followed Murray through Sickbay to one of the surgical wings and into the still, dark room. All the equipment had been folded back against the walls and under the table Gabi laid on. She wore a medical gown, but they had repaired the obvious damage. She was breathing, and she wasn't conscious. A small stimulator had been affixed to her temple.

Taurik looked at her from his step just inside the doorway, though Murray approached her side. He even tenderly laid a hand on her shoulder, rubbing his thumb twice on her arm. Of course, she didn't respond.

"Is there anything you'd like to say?" Murray asked. "Or… something?"

"No. Continue."

With a nod, Murray did. "How did you know her?" Murray asked as he removed a monitor from her neck.

One of the screens showing the infinitesimal electrical impulses of synapses went dark. "I'm… she reports—reported to me in Engineering. And we…" He wasn't sure why he was attempting to moderate the affect the news was going to have on him. "We engaged in recreational activities?"

Taurik would be fine. He had learned to live with worse than this. He would manage, even as he felt a dozen new reasons for anger and resentment and sorrow climbing in through the shadows in the corners of the room and under the table and beds. Taurik had become accustomed to the casual judgement of death, and the fact that there was no logic to it. It was irrational.

It was meaningless.

He shrugged helplessly as another screen blinked away with another monitor removed. "We were friends."

Murray glanced once over his shoulder, then, as if he hadn't been expecting that.

It was ridiculous, of course. Friendship, or something like it, seemed a universal constant of sapient life. He did not feel the need to explain himself, anyway. Vulcans may have had friends, but… his reaction was out of control. This should not be.

This should not be.

Taurik walked to Murray's side, watching Gabi's still eyelids and the steady rhythm of her diaphragm. She might have been sleeping, except the surroundings implied otherwise.

"Condolences."

Con-dolor. Tushah nash-veh k'odu. To feel someone else's grief and pain with them. Taurik doubted that.

Murray carefully lifted the stimulator from her forehead, brushed her wavy hair off her forehead before rubbing her arm again. "It won't be long now."

Taurik nodded, watched.

Sam was alive somewhere, but he couldn't be sure he would survive his injuries—or that he would continue his work in Starfleet even if he did. Gabi was still breathing, but not for long—and even if she had survived, she would have been transferred to the Sadalbari. The Enterprise was destroyed. Vorik was dead. Nothing made sense.

"Can I get you anything?"

"May I be alone?"

Murray looked surprised for a second before nodding, backing up toward the door. "Of course. I'll be just outside." The door shut the light out again.

Taurik took a breath. Something in his chest still hurt even though the damage had been repaired. He focused first on her soft breathing, then the low rumble of the air circulating through the ducts in the ceiling.

He searched his mind for answers, but couldn’t find any. There was no logic in this.

The notion that she would simply move on with her life, leave the Enterprise, had always been bearable. It was, of course, not how he would prefer things to unfold. He had made a mistake in allowing himself and Vorik to be separated, but this situation was different. His relationship with Gabi, and with Sam, were less vital. They were nevertheless important.

Now, it seemed necessary that Gabi move on even if that took her beyond his reach to participate.

For just a moment, he let the sense of loss overtake him—just a moment.

Just a moment.

It was one of Counsellor Troi's suggestions. In other species, allowing oneself to feel emotions as completely as possible, even strong emotions, was one method of healthy processing—and could be, if correctly applied, not contrary to a Vulcan's health. Counsellor Troi had carefully suggested that if he chose to feel, that was, by definition, control.

He had to agree that was at least correct semantically.

He straightened, pulled himself back. Death was not something to be feared: it was the end of a journey. Things were born and death was inevitable.

But so was life.

"Gabi?"

She didn't respond. He didn't expect her to. She was dead. Unless…? Unless.

He wasn't thinking clearly, but somehow nothing could be clearer.

"I ordinarily would not presume upon your wishes for your life. If you would have wanted…" He leaned on the table beside her again, his knuckles pressing pale into the thin pad. "I would ask your consent if you could withhold it by something other than omission. If your journey truly is over, I apologize."

He ignored that she'd stopped breathing perhaps minutes ago. He already knew what he was going to do.

"But your death is unacceptable."

He sounded insane.

He pressed both thumbs to her chin, arranging his fingers across her cheekbones, under her eyes, and on her temples.

He suspected few Vulcans had melded with someone this close to death—not this way. It was usually initiated in the other direction, from the dying to the living in a gesture of giving. Sometimes the living were compelled to help, but such melds always held a posture of conveyance. Taurik held the katra was only the essence of memory, not what Humans would call a soul or spirit. His opinion wasn't uncommonly held, but it was in his family.

Though, that hadn't held him from idly wishing he'd been with Vorik somehow, taken his...

Conversely, a mind meld on a patient at or near brain-death supposedly provided the recipient's mind a sort of anchor, a foundation upon which to rebuild. Less scientifically, and the reason he imagined it was so rare, the procedure was believed to fracture the katra of the Vulcan performing the meld, and even leave a part of it behind—and the loss of one's katra, even a piece of one, was to be avoided.

Whether soul or memory, his katra was of little significance to him. Hesitancy to break that which was already broken seemed irrational.

He closed his eyes and did not whisper the phrase he normally required to focus his thoughts and push past the mental screen of another's mind: Gabi put up no resistance at all.

He had no idea what to expect. Gabi's neural readings were faint to the point of non-existent, and this was only his second time melding with a non-Vulcan. Not even a faint color remained in the otherwise infinite expanse of nothing. Nothing but Gabi, lying on what might have been a floor if there had been any structure at all. Still and calm, as he could open his eyes and see her now. Not even time ticked as her mind made no move to acknowledge the intruder.

It was as if no one was here at all.

In his mind, he knelt, watching her perfect stillness from what seemed to be approximately two meters away. He wasn't sure what he'd planned to do—what he was supposed to do if his goal was to rebuild her mind. He felt the internally wracking sobs of the past months renew with the knowledge he was never going to see her again. Not in any way that mattered.

It was unlikely he would hear of ladybugs or nautiluses or maple leaves or osmotic eels again.

But, still, she was here. She was simply unresponsive. Not completely gone. He was unsure what his mind's eye would have created had she been truly, completely, dead—the fact that she still existed bodily in this mental space perhaps should be encouraging.

He imposed the awareness of his own senses, and focused on the measurable reality beyond this shared concept of it. He could hear the click of the monitor on Gabi's temple, and the faintest whirr of the machines, the thrum of the warp core. The air was cold, approximately seventeen degrees, and smelled faintly of blood. Her skin beneath his fingers was likewise warm and soft. Only seconds had passed since he first entered her mind, and he could see the readings of Gabi's wellbeing slipping across the display had increased but a fraction of a percent.

Very little progress was still progress. Success was all that mattered.

He let his thoughts fill her mind, thoughts of nothing in particular. He thought about Sam, the new leg being attached likely at this moment, the blood he'd receive to replace what he'd lost, and possibly new organs as well. Sam's next assignment. If he took one.

Taurik's next assignment, about which he could not even speculate, because it seemed likely that Gabi would die and Sam might never return due to the extent of his injury. Sam wanted to go home, and Taurik could even understand the desire. Taurik would be alone.

He'd never been alone in his life.

In the middle of everything were thoughts of his brother, because Taurik always thought about his brother. Even when he wasn't thinking about him, somehow. He speculated endlessly on the string of ships and interesting assignments Vorik would have taken with new challenges and engineering projects. How quickly he would rise through the ranks because Vorik was likeable—very few people had considered Vorik smug or selfish, even when they were not compared side-by-side. How much he would enjoy inevitable happiness with his mate and the kind and centered children they would raise. How he envied Vorik's peaceful nature… and how he wished anything at all had happened differently.

He restrained his thoughts to anything less volatile, anything more logical.

Stars flickered across the blank black space he'd painted over blue—the stars were yellow. Not golden, like Vorik's familiar color of mountainous sand dunes or golden gypsum, but bright. An Earth dandelion or narcissus, the color of legrandite sands or yellow canaries.

He could only imagine it was Gabi. There was no reason he should be seeing any color other than his own except that she was here, too. Gabi?

To his surprise, his mental image of Gabi lying on the immaterial floor shifted and opened her eyes.

Immediately, he went to her side and knelt there instead. Can you hear me?

She didn't answer. She only stared at the infinite void above her as the blooms of dandelions and daffodils—probably an invention of his own—sprang from the blue around her. As soon as he looked at them, they melted into the shifting expanse of the void.

Her eyes stayed on the darkness churning above them. She hadn't said anything, and he wondered if she could. If she was as much there as he hoped, or if this was just a shadow of his own mind playing tricks on him. He didn't know how to tell.

He had to believe he was making a difference. She might still survive. Or else… or else, he was only pulling her back to say goodbye. He had never done this before, never met anyone who had. Now, the idea it was possible seemed like a myth or faith in something he'd never seen and couldn't understand.

He had given up on predicting anything. He had given up on trying to understand.

To his surprise, shards of memory sprouted, flashing a whole history he hadn't expected to ever see in front of him. Memories of places and people he had never seen before sifted to the surface.

One moment he sat perhaps six stories up on a black skyscraper observing a city below dotted with green lights. He could smell the combustion engines used in mining work, and the musty refuse from the sewer grates. The next, he saw Mars from a distant orbit: the spider web of settlements and the shining and silver Utopia Planetia. In wonder and interest he stepped on the Enterprise for the first time, and a moment later in horror and humiliation a man cornered him in an unfamiliar room on an unfamiliar bed. He recognized Gabi's sister Chloe stooping over a bloody floor, but then he was in Gabi's and Eliza's homey quarters.

These memories weren't his to see, nor his to understand. He tried to shut off his observation of the mind he was leading back to life, but… but he'd never done this before. It was very difficult to ignore the flood of memories, most of which he never would have conjured on his own. Memories of wretchedness and abuse in her childhood. Peace and interest in her career in Starfleet. Reminiscing about her sister was painful, and thinking about the future was cheerful.

Taurik backed away until he hit the wall between them.

Where are we?

Taurik looked up in the space between their minds to find Gabi sitting, her knees drawn up to her chest. The floor around her, for now there was a floor, was like a mat of scratched and translucent yellow, like a child's drawing of a star.

Your mind, Taurik answered. Or else this was just his mind. He didn't know how to be sure under these circumstances.

Gabi looked around. Didn't expect it to be this empty, did you? She smiled and looked at him.

Taurik supposed that was as good an indication as any that Gabi was really here. He wouldn’t have joked. This is normal.

Good to know. Gabi turned her eyes around the blank space covered in blue again for a moment before looking at him. So what are you doing here?

Taurik pulled back his mind slightly to give her space while still lending structure. If Vorik were here, he'd say I was acting irrationally and illogically.

Sounds like fun.

Taurik wouldn't have said that, either. You're dying… if not already dead. The likelihood that my actions here will change that is slight.

Gabi shrugged, shook her head. As long as you try, you never know what'll happen. She looked around again. This is kind of cool, though. What's yours look like?

He hesitated to answer, wondering if showing her would be helpful. Aren't you concerned?

Not really. If I'm dying, then I guess I'm dying. Almost took that step myself before, but Chloe stopped me. Gabi picked at her fingernails as if she hadn't said anything at all shocking.

In retrospect, he shouldn't have been shocked. Before now, he'd surmised that Gabi almost lost someone—her sister, he assumed—to some similar traumatic event. It was the only way he could explain her unusual reaction to his grief after Voyager's loss, her unrealistic concern that suicide had been an option he'd seriously considered…

But to her, it wasn't unrealistic because she'd known what it was like to consider it. In actuality, she'd almost lost herself, and that wasn't what he'd expected. In actuality, he'd almost lost her. He never would have known, and the speculative disappointment he felt for the possibility was illogical. He hadn't expected that, either.

I know it's illogical, but you know? Life is… precious, she said, maybe sensing what he'd seen.

He considered that, the knowledge that he fully agreed, and thought, maybe, it wasn't illogical. It was intuitive, and Taurik wasn't intuitive. In what way?

She looked up at the stars. It's unique, I guess? The whole philosophy of it. Infinite diversity in infinite combinations, and you're one of those combinations. You'll do things no one else could. You'll see and understand things in a way no one else can.

That makes life valuable?

She smiled. I think so. We live in the same reality, but we use different eyes to see it. My vision would be less… accurate without you.

None of that made an individual life valuable, but he believed, and he hoped his people believed, that to discover the universe of variety was valuable in itself. That meant, perhaps, the existence of each individual was equally necessary, and the ability to observe it before it was gone—for, one day, everything would be gone—was in some ways a gift.

Time is a fire, he said softly.

I guess. She was quiet for a while, perhaps pondering whether that was logical. Perhaps not. I would have lived my life never having been on a starship. Never having finished school. Never getting to know my best friend. She shook her head, as if that was regrettable.

He had to agree. Without her, his life may not have been much different, but it would have been much less.

If everything before was all there was, that would have sucked—but it wasn’t. If I hadn't gotten so lost, hell… I might not have seen you when you were lost. I couldn't see everything coming made it mean something. This makes it mean something. She gestured between them, as if their relationship were some ribbon she could see that tied them together. Hindsight or something. It's probably illogical, but I don't care.

Taurik wasn't sure if he did, either. The universe was indifferent, and nothing meant anything.

Except this. She believed that this meant something, and somehow Taurik had begun believing in souls. It didn't make sense. It wasn't logical. But what was?

He was only sure she wouldn't have told him that had they been speaking aloud. He wasn't sure she understood what was happening or that he was, in a sense, here with her in her mind. She might have thought she was imagining him. He wasn't sure he wasn't imagining her.

She looked around. Why is it blue?

Taurik looked around for a moment, scooped up some of the sand in his hands. I don't know. I don't think there is a reason.

I think there has to be a reason. With that unsupported declaration, she kicked her feet back and leaned back on her hands to watch the blue nebula rotate over their heads. If the universe is infinite, why not?

Taurik wondered if proximity to death produced this type of tranquility normally, if as her brain had ceased to function it had ceased to fear or speculate. Or, however unlikely, it was his own inducement to calm.

Return with me, he said.

Gabi shrugged, and stood. Okay.

Like a punch to the chest, he was back in Surgery C, taking a breath as if by reflex. The austere click of the stimulator hadn't changed, Gabi was still unconscious, and the readings indicators of her health and wellbeing on the wall were still a dangerous shade of red.

He was exhausted, physically and mentally, and he wasn't even sure he'd made a difference. He rested his elbows on the bed beside her arm, his forehead on his folded hands. He took several steadying breaths, and imagined his mind, the desert at midnight.

"That desert thing…" Gabi whispered.

He glanced up, straight at Gabi's blinking brown eyes. For a moment, he was relieved, delighted, and reassured. Then he was puzzled. "That desert thing?"

She searched his face, as though looking through a nebula to see what lay on the other side. She took a deep breath as though to speak, and he waited. "You're in a sandstorm…?"

Somehow, even in this state, she was as perceptive as ever. "Are you well?"

She nodded. "I guess. I feel like I've been juggled between six different transporter buffers." She opened her mouth again, as if to speak, then closed it. Taurik decided to wait, and after a time she said, "What happened?"

Taurik wasn't sure anymore. "You… died." It still sounded insane. Taurik looked at Gabi's hand resting on her chest, and then found her dark brown eyes. "At least... you were dying. I performed a mind meld to stabilize your neural patterns."

Gabi watched him, eyes wide even as her brows lowered—confusion and surprise. He couldn't tell if she was angry. "So… so I died, but… this isn't the afterlife." She glanced around. "At least, I have serious doubts it is."

"Correct." At least, he thought so. Now that he was backing away from that edge, he had to admit it. What he'd done was insane. "It takes a tremendous amount of concentration and mental energy, and… and I should go. Get a doctor. You need assistance."

"Wait a second."

Taurik turned back without having quite registered having turned away. She looked angry.

"You were here. You… you were here." She dropped her chin, her brow in a grimace.

Here, as in with her, inside her mind. Without her permission. Taurik avoided her eyes, turned dark with distrust and disbelief. "Correct…"

Maybe he had been for a while now and nobody had noticed or acknowledged it. He had met with Counsellor Troi twenty times, each time only with the promise that nothing at all would change… and nothing did.

"So you… so what did you see?" Gabi's eyes drifted around his head before landing on him once again. Her tone had hardened into anger, and reasonably so. After all, he assumed he'd seen her darkest moments as well as her brightest ones. Things that shocked him. Things that never happened here. "Did you see…? What did you see?"

"More than I intended, I admit." He forced himself to stand straighter, to speak more clearly, to push aside the utter bewilderment of the past ten minutes of grief, then insanity, and then relief.

He'd destroyed his career, because to initiate a mind meld without consent was one of the highest crimes. He'd resigned himself to years or decades of treatment on Vulcan, because he wasn't even sure he'd acted on impulse. He wasn't sure he'd lost control.

"I would have obtained your permission if I could have. Death is only the end of a journey," Taurik said. "I acknowledge it was not my right to decide today was not the end of yours."

"Then what the hell were you thinking…?" She sounded indescribably hurt.

Taurik turned his eyes away again, anywhere but directly at her. "That it was not the end of mine," he whispered. It would be absurd to lose control now.

She would be correct to never trust him again, and to report him for assault.

He would do it again if necessary. Gabi hadn't fallen off the edge into whatever was on the other side of that abyss. He'd simply return to Vulcan, do whatever years of intensive training and healing was required to correct what could not be corrected, and then, perhaps… He wasn't sure what would become of him. He didn't have the capacity to theorize. He'd spent the capacity to care.

He would never lose control again.

She sighed and turned her eyes away from him, up to the ceiling. With a sigh and a sniff, she pressed the beginnings of her tears away on her knuckles. "Wow."

"I intend to turn myself over to security with the charge of assault."

"Don't do that." When he didn't respond for confusion, she added, "Don't go to security."

He paused for a moment. "But—"

"Look, this wouldn't be the first time… last time I almost died, it was someone else picking me up and bringing me back." She gestured in his direction, helplessly and angrily. "I didn't think it'd ever be you, but I guess fair's fair."

"Fair?"

"I chased you across three decks and six sections to your room and made you let me in. I made you tell me about Vorik. And now…? Now you know. Everything, I guess." Gabi pressed back into her pillow and took a deep breath as she covered her eyes. She was crying.

Was he supposed to do something? It seemed wrong, under the circumstances, to touch her. He put a hand out, touched her shoulder, anyway. The outside, as far away from an intimate distance as he could manage while still offering some comfort.

Humans don't have telepathic bonds…

She didn't flinch. If anything, she turned toward him, still hiding her eyes.

"Nevertheless, I apologize…"

"Don't apologize. I want to live," she said. "God, I want to live." She smiled a little, like she was surprised.

The relief at realizing she wasn't as angry as she might have been couldn't have been more apparent. She may have even been thankful. He was still unsure about the ethicality—never mind the logic—of his actions, and he imagined he might think about it for months after this…

"May I, then, make a suggestion?" he asked quietly.

She sniffed. "Go ahead?"

He hesitated. He wasn't sure how unorthodox this suggestion was. "I propose myself as your medical crisis proxy."

She searched him as if for an indication he was insincere. "What? You'd… really?"

He nodded, once. "I obviously cannot guarantee I would make the most logical decision." Given his bizarre behavior at this moment, he wasn't even sure he'd let her go even if it meant severe pain or debilitation: it was generally considered illogical to artificially lengthen life under such circumstances.

But after all, he did alright with a cavernous wound in his mind and a fractured soul…

"But I would waste no effort to… to bring you back."

She nodded, rubbing the tears from her eyes. Didn't say anything.

There was nothing else Taurik could think to say. He'd ignored the warnings and advice of folk traditions and given her a piece of his soul, and yet he felt no different. He'd apologized, and to do so again seemed inappropriate. He knew he'd hurt her, but his intentions were only that she would live. He'd tried to explain himself, tried to condemn himself, and none of it made any difference.

None of it made any sense.

"I should go get a doctor."

She nodded, rubbing her hands on her shirt.

She stopped him with her voice before he reached the door. "Taurik?" He turned back to see her still looking at the ceiling. "You're important to me."

He thought about that, a simple word assigning an ambiguous value to the infinite. It was illogical, but he would be disappointed to miss it. "And you to me."

#

"Lieutenant?"

Sam blinked first at the ceiling, then the red-robed surgeon standing over him. She looked concerned, her gloved hand on his shoulder. Someone somewhere been talking a long time about ruptured spleens and kidneys, broken ribs, a leg that was replaced on one side and a knee joint on the other. Contusions and blood loss and—

"Can you hear me?" She patted his shoulder as if trying to rouse him from sleep.

Sam wasn't sure he wasn't still sleeping. He wasn't sure they'd been talking to him. He took a deep breath, felt his lungs fill with bright and clean air, and closed his eyes.

Opened them again. The dark was too deep and full and… He didn't want to talk about any of that. Something terrible had happened to him or maybe to someone else. Not all of that could have happened to Sam. He would have died if all that had happened.

He should've died. Sam was sure it was a dream as much as he was sure it was real. He'd been sitting in a pool of his own blood, and everything hurt. He'd never hurt so bad. Every breath was like pushing past a mountain, and he couldn't find something he really needed. Something he couldn't leave without.

His leg.

He couldn't leave without his leg.

Sam lifted his head as much as he dared, looked down. He couldn't tell how much damage had been done to him, since he was all covered in a sheet. He realized with a pang of panic he still wasn't sure he wasn't dead. He didn't look hurt. He thought he was hurt, and he was going to die. Maybe he died. He didn't hurt anymore.

Sam took another breath, imagining what it might feel like to imagine breathing, and turned his eyes back to the surgeon.

"We've called your mother," she said. "Do you want to talk to her?"

Sam nodded, even though he wasn't sure what that meant. He should've paid attention more. The doctor helped him sit—or maybe she wasn't a doctor. Actually, Sam wasn't sure he'd always been talking to the same person. Whoever-she-was helped him lean back against the wall behind the biobed, adjusted the sheet covering him, and handed him a thick, gray communications PADD.

He thought that a communications PADD would be a weird thing to have in the afterlife. For that matter, so would sickbay.

"My baby." Mom's voice reached through the PADD to touch him right in the center of his sternum, pressing so hard he couldn't breathe. "How's my baby, Sam? Are you alright?"

He nodded, brushing his fingers down the screen on Mom's shoulder as tears slid down his face. Sam still wasn't sure he was alright. Wasn't sure all those things had really happened to him. And if they did happen, what if half of him had been replaced with something else? He had a new spleen and kidney, and neither of these knees were his.

The doctor who'd helped him stepped away beyond his ability to see clearly.

"Baby, I know," Mom whispered. "I know." Mom crossed her arms over her chest, hugging someone that wasn't there.

Because Sam was probably dead, right? And if not, he probably should have been.

"I know," she said again.

Sam sobbed and pressed his fingers to the screen again. "Mom?"

His throat ached and the word sounded ragged and torn, failing and frayed. He wasn't sure if that was his voice, but Mom just nodded like she somehow recognized it.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

Sam searched the background of the picture, the white walls of the dining room of her house on Hataria VI. There was a window looking out to the garden next to her out of frame, and down the hall Sam's bedroom now housed her sewing projects, his bed stacked high with quilts she'd made. His model starships that lined his desk as a boy were now hidden in a closet somewhere or under the bed.

"I want to come home, Mom." He pressed his palm to the screen so he couldn't see her tears.

"You can come home."

He didn't know how she knew that, then realized it was probably because he'd almost died. She would be notified about that. If something happened, and he wasn't able mentally or physically able to for whatever reason, she had to make decisions for him. Sam didn't have anybody else.

Sam hung his head and felt the air move in and out of his lungs, the tears drip off his nose. He still wasn't sure he was alive. Mom was just a picture, and he didn't know any of these people.

After a few minutes, Sam sniffed against his knuckles and pressed away his tears. She told him about her garden, blooming in the spring of Hataria VI's southern hemisphere. He just nodded. Dad was on the other side of the quadrant attending a conference—Mom was going to send him a message as soon as Sam decided it was time to rest. He wasn't sure when that would be. Mom sat with him in quiet for fifteen minutes.

Sam didn't say anything until the end. "Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I call you tonight?"

"Of course you can."

Sam nodded and patted the screen even though he'd realized she couldn't see that. Mom blew him a kiss. The screen went black and Sam covered the emptiness with his hands. The last time it had been so dark he couldn't see, he could only feel.

And he felt… he felt terror.

Terror he could still feel even now that he was in a bright sickbay with surgeons just meters away. But it wasn't all terror, because there was someone else there in the darkness with him. That one had wiped away his tears and touched his mind and didn't care about what he saw.

The doctor from before, or maybe not, came to take the communications PADD away. She leaned over him, checking his vitals and nodding in approval. Sam didn't know if he could be dead and have vital signs like that.

"Lieutenant?" the doctor said.

"Sam," he said.

"Alright. Sam." She paused long enough for Sam to let flicker his gaze up to meet hers for half a second. He didn't know who she was. "You'll talk to the counsellor this evening, but you can go to your quarters now if you want to. You have a roommate assignment request. Would you like that?"

Sam nodded before thinking too much about it. He almost didn't care who the roommate was, even though he knew. If Sam was dead, then they both were. If he was alive, then maybe they were both alive, too.

He saw Taurik's name, remembered he never wanted to see him again, and accepted the request. Because right now there was no one he wanted to see more.

The doctor or nurse or something or someone helped him up to walk, but Sam couldn't walk without his leg. After several failed attempts to walk, they helped him into a chair and guided him three sections away to the room where he'd accepted assignment.

Taurik answered the door, first looking at the doctor or nurse or something, and then at Sam. He gave his familiar nod of greeting. "I'm pleased to see you're well."

Well, if Taurik thought that, then maybe he was. He couldn't say anything.

The chair was pushed in through the door, and he heard her talking again. Telling Taurik that Sam was physically okay—getting him in the company of someone he knew in a more familiar environment would help him.

Sam looked around. This wasn't a familiar environment, because the Enterprise had been destroyed.

Oh, my god, how had the Enterprise been destroyed?

That ship was the Federation's goddamn flagship. How was half of it in the woods on an uninhabited planet, and the other half a million glittering pieces in orbit? If the Enterprise could just be destroyed like that…?

Their quarters were filled with rubble and flooded with his blood. He wondered if that was where his leg was. Decided probably not. If it was still attached at all, the transporter would have grabbed it. Their quarters on the Enterprise was three rooms, anyway. The each had their own bedroom, and this room just had two bunks in cubbies in the wall. There were two wardrobes and windows.

They had windows. Sam found himself looking at the streaking stars, white and tailed like comets. In his years on the Enterprise, he'd never had windows. Why would they have windows now? That meant he was dreaming. Or maybe he was dead.

Really, he should have been.

"I see," Taurik said. Sam didn't know what he would have been responding to.

Sam heard someone else talking, but didn't know what they were saying.

"If he requires assistance to reach his bunk, I will provide it," he added.

 Sam waited until the room was as quiet as he could hear, and Taurik was sitting on the couch a few feet away. Sam turned to see him, to see the picture hanging over his head behind the couch. This wasn't their quarters. Sam hated the picture, and Taurik didn't want decorations. He thought they were illogical, probably. Taurik was reading a PADD and drinking tea like he didn't care.

He should get up. He should go to bed. Sam wasn't sure how to get there except that he didn't want Taurik's help. The doctor said he should be able to walk. It wouldn't be normal. It would feel wrong and it would probably hurt, but he could do it.

Especially with this cane. He didn't realize he'd been given one until just now.

Sam took a deep breath, felt his lungs fill, and pressed up from the chair.

God, it hurt. It felt like the leg he had right now was the leg he'd had yesterday—or whenever that was. Whatever was down there was broken and splintered and crushed. Unusable and missing.

While he hadn't been watching, Taurik had risen from his seat at the couch and was standing in front of him.

"Do you require assistance?"

Sam didn't know how to answer that. There was so much he could have said, but he seemed unable to speak. His eyes blurred and he sucked in a breath. He didn't know what he was doing when he lifted a hand, pressed his fingers against Taurik's chest. He was cool to the touch. Because, maybe…

Was he dead?

Taurik seemed confused. "Sam?"

There was too much to say.

He was exhausted, but too afraid to sleep.

The lights were giving him a headache, but he couldn't bear to think of being in the dark.

He couldn't feel anything but pain and fear.

He'd never wanted to go home so badly.

Except he also felt angry and embarrassed and never wanted to see Taurik again, but what the hell? If Taurik knew, then he knew Sam thought about him that way for very good reason—because Taurik was an ass—but sometimes he didn't—because sometimes he wasn't.

Sam laid his palm against Taurik's chest, realizing he couldn't stand. He wasn’t breathing, and he wasn't standing.

Maybe he hadn't survived, after all.

"Sam—"

He hadn't fallen yet, because someone caught him.

Sam blinked and found himself in the bunk. At least, in these quarters. Taurik was sitting on the floor his back against the cubby's wall, Sam's arm hanging off the edge to rest on his far shoulder. Still reading and still drinking tea.

"What happened?" Sam asked, his throat burnt with the fires of reentry.

Taurik turned back for a moment. "You do not remember? You seemed… conscious. Even if not necessarily lucid, though I was warned you may be in a type of dissociative state."

"What did I say?"

Taurik turned back to face the room. "You said nothing. You stumbled, nearly fell. I was able to catch you and help you to your bunk. You became distressed when I attempted to return to the couch."

Sam didn't know if he would be more or less embarrassed if he could remember that… "Sorry."

Taurik picked up his tea cup, then set it back down without taking a drink. "No apology is necessary."

Sam lifted his hand to touch the bottom of the bunk above him. He might have thought that Sam was lying, but Sam had no reason to think Taurik was lying when he said he knew. Taurik was a lot of things. Liar wasn't one of them.

"I would have died without you." Sam could still see the darkness and feel the terror, but at least he knew who was there.

Taurik seemed to consider that. "Eleven-point-eight percent of the Enterprise's crew and passengers have been reported dead, and all others have been found. The odds of your surviving the crash would have been adequate."

It didn't occur to Sam that could have easily happened. That Taurik thought about going home after his brother died, like Sam was thinking about going home now. "Without you tying off my femoral artery or making my head stop screaming with that stupid mind meld, I'd've bled out."

Taurik didn't answer, maybe because Sam was pretty sure he was right. "Speculation is illogical."

Sam thought about it, the Enterprise's current complement and the passengers they were taking from one place to another. "Twelve percent? That's almost two-hundred and sixty people."

"Two-hundred fifty-four people have died." Taurik slid back until his head rested on the corner of the bunk, slouching more than Sam knew he was capable of. "You are not among them. Neither are Gabi, Alyssa, or Andrew."

Sam mentally added himself to that number, even though he was reasonably sure now that wasn't true. Because If Taurik had gone back to Vulcan, Sam would have been in his quarters on deck fourteen… "How many of the people who were on deck fourteen died?"

Taurik didn't answer for a while. Finally, he lifted his PADD again. It hadn't occurred to Sam that he'd been looking at casualty reports. Maybe looking for people they knew. Now he was looking for statistics.

"Seventy-eight percent," he answered, his voice quiet.

"I had a one-in-five odds to survive if you weren't here."

Somehow, talking about the odds that he would have died was more convincing than his convoluted thoughts and weird, distant sense that he wasn't dead after all. This wasn't some hallucinatory dream he was making up in his last moments, either in surgery or on that dark ship.

Still, he reached out a hand, found Taurik's shoulder. "I don't hate you."

"One should never take any unexamined thought seriously." Taurik scrolled through the life-and-death reports. "Very few minds are free from idle thoughts—especially not a mind as untrained and unrestrained as yours."

That sounded like enough plausible deniability, but that wasn't what he was looking for. "Just making sure you know."

Taurik was quiet, and Sam wondered if he was about to lie. He knew Vulcans were pretty insistent about their inability to lie, but what the hell was suppressing emotions if not lying to themselves and everyone else? An irrational flare of anger rose up until Taurik doused it with his answer.

"I know," he said, finally. "The counsellor will expect you in two hours," Taurik said after a few seconds. "You should rest."

"Alright."

"Computer, lower—"

"Taurik?"

Taurik turned toward him. "Yes?"

Sam kept his eyes on the bottom of the bunk above him. The bunk's lights put a white glowing bar there, and the room was still bright. "Leave the light on."

#

Gabi hadn't had her own room since… well, ever, actually. If she really wanted to have her own living space, be comfortable all the time, and relatively safe, she'd have requested assignment on any one of the Federation's space stations littered over their eight-thousand square lightyears. Starbase 234 was huge, located just inside Federation space at the corner where Federation, Klingon, and Romulan space met. It was well-defended, had over seven-thousand room accommodations on the station, and was an important stop for starship refits.

Like for the Enterprise just about a month ago now. That turned out to be a waste of time and resources. But, really, who would have guessed that.

Gabi always thought she'd like having her own room, and maybe she would have. But not right now.

Not that she was exhibiting any post-traumatic stress responses. Because she wasn't.

She was just not sleeping. Eating made her feel sick. If she stopped pacing, she felt like the floor was shaking even though she knew that wasn't true. She'd had a headache for the last three days for no reason, and she could swear she heard Commander La Forge telling her to get up and help him fix the warp core whenever things had been too quiet for too long.

The warp core was not being fixed. That thing was so gone.

Her warp core on her lovely ship was gone. She was never getting assigned to another Galaxy-class. She had a whole month left with the Enterprise and some idiot stellar scientist and a band of Klingons with an inferiority complex had taken that.

Gabi turned a new corner in the arboretum, glancing up once at the transparent aluminum plates protecting her and the trees and flowers from space, and wandered into the aisle for tropical flora, these mostly Risian varieties. All the aisles were empty, and the place was completely silent except for the buzzing of insects and other night-time creatures that lived here in the simulated environment and day/night cycle.

She had never cared so little about trees and flowers, birds and bugs.

Not that she normally cared a lot. Right now, it just wasn't distracting. For the past few days, doctors poked and scanned her almost constantly, trying to figure out what, exactly, Taurik had done to her brain. The literature on this particular procedure was apparently sparse. Gabi didn't care, because all they needed to understand was that she was alive.

That she was going to the Sadalbari at all now felt like a miracle, and that she would be missing the Enterprise along with over a thousand people who had called that ship home was unbelievable.

"Dixson to Petty Officer Eliza Clarke."

The response came several seconds later. Maybe five. "Hm? Gabi?"

"Hi, Eliza."

"What's wrong? You okay?"

"Yeah," she said, even though that was probably, obviously not as true as she wanted it to be. "I'm just… I couldn't sleep."

"Gabi, I'm supposed to be on the Loveday in four hours." That explained why this place was so empty. It was two in the morning.

"Sorry." That meant this was probably the last time she was going to talk to her. At least, with any reality attached to it. Gabi had been around long enough to know that even if she reached out, they'd grow apart. They'd run out of time and fall in with other people. There just wasn't enough mutual effort here.

That was okay.

"Don't worry about it," Eliza said. "You said you couldn't sleep? Have you been to sickbay?"

"No."

"They might be able to help."

Gabi had no doubt they could. "I'm gonna miss you. Sorry for waking you."

Eliza sighed, and she could hear the guilt in her tone. "I'm gonna miss you, too. Best roommate."

Gabi snickered. "We fought all the time."

"Yeah, but we stuck it out. Neither of us ever got so ticked that we requested someone else." Gabi had to admit that was true. They weren't the best of friends, but still… "That counts for something," Eliza said.

"It does. Keep me updated on where you are every now and again. Maybe we can meet up. Exchange souvenir spoons or something."

"We'll always have Starbase 234."

Gabi smiled. "Sleep well."

"You try, too," Eliza said.

Gabi listened to the quiet in the arboretum for a few seconds after Eliza cut the line. She hoped she'd get back to sleep quickly. Gabi still had another three weeks before the Sadalbari would be here to pick her up, and begin a tour along the Klingon border. There were plenty of interesting things that way…

She had three weeks to catch up on sleep, with enforced medical leave for at least the next few days. She had enough required appointments with station doctors to make trying to work right now impractical, anyway.

Everyone was so curious and so damn insistent: she'd died, actually, by almost any definition. The only reason Taurik had been able to bring her back was because that line between life and death was a little fuzzier, and not nearly as steep, as most people seemed to think.

But she didn't want to talk about that. She didn't want to talk about anything, but it was too quiet and lonely here.

"Dixson to Lieutenant Taurik." She sighed and sat down under the palm tree.

"Yes?" He rarely whispered, but that made sense. Sam was probably sleeping.

That sounded so nice right now. Sleeping. "Did I wake you?" she whispered back, though for no reason. She knew he might have been sleeping at two in the morning, but she called anyway.

He wouldn't mind. She'd died, and he'd been there.

"No," he answered. "But Sam is. Are you alright?"

Of course, Sam was leaving tomorrow afternoon—actually, today afternoon. He'd want to be well-rested for his trip home.

Gabi leaned over on one hand, looking up at the perpetual night above her head. "Any chance I could sleep on your couch?"

"If you have no objections to sleeping with the lights on."

Gabi hadn't had the same kind of traumatic experience Sam had—she remembered running out of Engineering because of a warp core breach, then Taurik was hunched over beside her in the sickbay of a completely different ship. Somewhere in the middle, she remembered dreaming. Taurik was talking to her about life, the universe, and everything… but, still, it made sense to her to stay out of the dark.

"No objections at all."

"Then you may."

 Gabi left the arboretum, heading directly to the room he and Sam shared—at least for the next twelve hours or so before Sam left. His dad was on the way to accompany him back home. She rang the door, and Taurik immediately answered.

He didn't say hello, or anything. He just stepped aside and let her in. She could see three PADDs on the table beside the computer. She couldn’t guess what he was working on, and shouldn't start a conversation. Sam was curled up under a blanket in the cubby, facing the room.

It wasn't quite as lit as Taurik led her to believe. Sure, it was much brighter than if the lights had been off. She guessed them at maybe sixty-percent intensity, and set to a warmer spectrum than the typical simulation of Earth's daylight.

Gabi looked at the couch, decided it looked comfortable enough, and went to sit down.

"If you wish, you may use my bunk," he interrupted in a low whisper. "I haven't slept since we arrived." He gave Sam a brief glance before going back to the table as if Gabi wasn't supposed to answer.

She was just supposed to decide.

It seemed weird.

But she was exhausted.

"Okay," she whispered. "Thanks." She went to climb up into the top bunk—

Hadn't even touched the wall when Sam jerked into wakefulness, tossing some of his blankets to the side and almost sitting until he saw her. "Gabi. What the hell." He looked past Gabi to see Taurik spun in his chair, looking at him from the table.

"I couldn't sleep," she whispered.

"Oh." With a sigh, Sam laid back on his pillow. "Welcome to the club."

Gabi smiled and climbed up into the top bunk. She lifted the extremely-heavy blanket over her and turned to look out into the room. Taurik had gone back to his work that she still wondered about. She could hear Sam rustling with his blankets beneath.

Pretty sorry club they had here, but all things considered it was probably the best she'd ever been in.

Chapter Text

"The Sadalbari reported they'll be at Starbase 234 on schedule, so…" Gabi leaned over her bowl of granola, stirring contemplatively. "So I guess that means I'm out of here tomorrow." Good things and bad things. Good things… and bad things.

Taurik nodded, almost toasting her with his cup of tea. "Two other Enterprise crew members have been permanently assigned to the Sadalbari," he said.

"Oh?"

Taurik just nodded, because there wasn't really anything else to say to that. Over the last three or so weeks, their friends and colleagues went off to join other ships.

Some went back home. Sam's father came to the starbase to accompany him home three weeks ago. Gabi tried to say several times that she didn't think Sam was coming back. She knew Taurik knew that, but still she felt like saying it would somehow make her feel better.

Others, like she and Taurik, had settled in for a longer assignment here. They worked on the station almost like they belonged here.

Some more than others. Taurik was more or less a warp field specialist, and there weren't a lot of warp fields on a starbase. Gabi, of course, tended to fit wherever she was put.

"Any engineers?" she asked.

"No."

"Oh."

She guessed it didn't matter, since there were two-hundred engineers on the Enterprise. Gabi knew of most of them, but that was all.

Taurik had run out of cactus leaves, anyway. It wasn't the weirdest breakfast ever, and certainly not anymore. He ate it almost every day he had breakfast at all, and he seemed to think her regular order of scrambled eggs was less than appetizing. Probably not because he was a vegan—because what wasn't vegan from a replicator?

He stood up, tugged on his shirt, and collected his plate. "Will I see you at the Qixingyan?"

"No." The Qixingyan was a twenty-year-old Nebula-class vessel docked for refit, and Taurik was working on that for the foreseeable future. "I think the difference between you and me is that you're basically refit staff and I'm station staff."

"Until tomorrow."

Of course, he just had to bring that up. "Yeah. Until tomorrow."

"Have you found work on the station engaging?"

"It's a heck of a lot more boring maintenance work than the Enterprise." Also, she hated stations. Planets. Anything that sat still.

Or ran in circles. However the metaphor went.

He seemed to think about that for a few seconds. "Yes," he said finally. With that, as if his agreeing to anything at all being a heck of a lot was normal, he walked away.

Gabi jumped up and followed him to the replicator, tossing her bowl on top of his plate before he could finish ordering the recycle. "What do you mean yes?"

She followed him out into the station's broad hallways, toward the airlock where he'd board the Qixingyan. From there, she'd find a turbolift. Go wherever she was assigned for the day. And then go back to her quarters and to bed for an early day tomorrow.

"Stations experience significantly fewer spatial anomalies," Taurik answered. "It eliminates much of the unusual repairs and maintenance a ship like the Enterprise required." Even Taurik's voice got quiet when he mentioned the old ship. It was still somehow like someone had died. With a sudden blink, straightening, he said, "Moor Five," to the turbolift and it shifted beneath their feet.

"I'm still kinda shocked it's gone," she said.

"There will be another ship to bear the name Enterprise," Taurik said, as if that made any difference. His hesitation after he spoke said he realized that. "That was not intended as a direct answer to your statement. Simply… I read yesterday that the Sovereign currently under construction at the San Francisco shipyards will receive the name."

"Enterprise-E." Gabi didn't know how illogical Taurik would say it was that she was glad the next Enterprise was going to be Sovereign class. It was new, but she'd seen plenty of renderings of the finished design. Still, he noticed her smile, and seemed almost confused about it, so she had to explain now. "I like Sovereigns."

"They are impressive," he agreed, then looked at her a bit pointedly. "Also, I assume, aesthetically pleasing?"

"I think so."

He nodded, she thought, maybe understandingly. Or maybe just like that was exactly what he'd expected her to say. She didn't mind being predictable. It seemed to make him happy, anyway. Or whatever.

"Don't you?" she asked as they stepped off the turbolift together to find the corridor before them open and empty on the way to the Nebula.

"Its tactical systems are impressive, though it is slower than the Galaxy-class," he said, as if that was somehow part of his consideration. "Also, its interior area is smaller, though the ship itself is the longest ever built and possesses many primary and secondary labs that even the Galaxy did not have."

"I'm not asking for its technical specifications," she said.

"I'm aware. You're requesting that I make a subjective judgement on how the ship appears." Taurik sighed, glancing at her once. "I know you only ask the question to irritate, and not to know whether I find the ship's appearance pleasing."

She frowned, even though she knew he didn't mean it. "That's not fair. I do want to know."

"Then an overview of ship's systems will answer the question perhaps more aptly than a discussion of its color or silhouette: there is function in form. I find the ship's function to be… exceptional. Therefore, its form, as well."

"How logical."

"Your notice is gratifying." It was almost sarcastic, but she knew he almost meant it, anyway.

She followed him to the airlock leading to the Qixingyan, where Taurik stopped, faced her. "In the event that I do not see you before you leave tomorrow—"

"You will."

"But should events transpire such that we… miss one another, I would prefer to say goodbye twice than not at all." Taurik faced her, raised a hand in the customary Vulcan salute that she had only seen from him a few times. "Live long and prosper, Miss Dixson."

She smiled, stepped up to him, and wrapped her arms around him. "Peace and long life, Taurik," she said over his shoulder.

Seemed as shocked as ever, but he returned the hug stiffly.

"And," she added, stepping away again, "we'll have to work on your hugs, so, you know… expect to see me every now and again for a pop quiz. We'll see if we can't teach an old dog new tricks."

"An old… dog."

"Maybe a Vulcan dog. You aren't old. We'll see if we can't teach a Vulcan dog Human tricks."

Taurik's frown belied his clear amusement. "I'm sure the education will be most illuminating." With a parting nod, he stepped past the airlock into the umbilical connecting the Qixingyan to the starbase. She watched him past the glass until he turned the corner, and she turned back to the corridor.

Even though she would probably see him tomorrow morning—she was due on the Sadalbari at zero-seven-hundred—she was already feeling the separation like it was, probably, more important than it was.

It wasn't. He'd literally saved her life. The way he put it, she had a piece of his soul with her now. It didn't sound like that was what he thought happened, but some Vulcans certainly did. She didn't know why she should trust some random Vulcans she didn't know over Taurik… but he'd told her multiple times, he didn't believe in souls. He believed in memories. Whatever the hell that meant.

Anyway, it didn't matter, because she knew she'd get over it in a few days, and only be sad once every few years when she learned about some this-or-that life event she hadn't been there for and realize maybe she'd made a mistake in her choosing this transient way of life and relationships.

She knew before that they were important. She just didn't really realize how important.

With a sigh, she went to her assigned deck for maintenance, set up her tools in the tunnel, and settled against the familiar bulkheads to rearrange and replace some relays and cables to be up to new standards. It was boring work. Somehow more boring than same boring work on the Enterprise. Because she hated sitting still. Running in circles.

She'd only done a few cables when she realized she was working too slowly to reasonably call her efforts productivity, and hadn't been spending all this time with a Vulcan without learning a thing or two about introspection.

With a sigh, she pulled her personal PADD out of her case and set it up next to her. "Computer, record new entry and save in folder: Chloe, letters."

The PADD beeped in affirmation, then intoned, "Ready."

"Begin recording." Pause. Breathe. "Hi, Chloe. I hope the Academy's treating you well. I know you've only been there for a few weeks, but I couldn't be more proud of you. I'm about to head out on the Sadalbari tomorrow. I know it's stupid, because it's a huge fleet, but I think sometimes how neat it might be if, in four years when you're an ensign, if we got assigned to the same ship once. I'd like to see you."

She hesitated. Sighed. "Computer, delete previous sentence." Another breath, and she resumed recording. "I know that probably won't happen, though."

Now, to say the thing she actually wanted to say. She didn't know how to say it, because somehow she felt like she was an entirely different person than she'd been just a year ago. She wasn't sure if it had anything to do with the near death experience or what. She wanted to hope it didn't: she wanted to think she'd been changing on her own, maybe becoming better, and it had nothing to do with that dark hole Taurik pulled her out of.

But why not? He'd say she'd done something similar for him, maybe.

"I'm leaving what feels like a lot behind this time, so, you know, that got me thinking of you. How I always, kind of… leave. Eventually. I know I really hurt you when I enlisted, but I was such a mess. I thought it'd hurt you more if I stayed with you. And you were going to be fine. The Smiths are a great family, and you fit in great there."

She sighed, shook her head, and tapped on the PADD with a boiling heart and cloudy eyes. "Delete recording," she mumbled, and the computer beeped helpfully.

She had friends that came and went, because in some ways she came and went. That was what she'd liked about Starfleet. She never sat still long enough to think about what she was missing except whenever someone just told her.

But now, somehow, she could feel it in the pit of her stomach and the very lowest parts of her lungs that she'd made a mistake. She'd kept living and changing, because that was what life was. But there were something she didn't want to change. There was something to be said for that Vulcan stability.

She'd left Chloe to the nice foster family on Earth because that was better for her. She'd made a mistake once, in giving up on life under the mistaken impression it was never going to get better. She'd never been more wrong, but she didn't blame herself for that. It was just a lot of the things she'd done after that she blamed herself for. She got away from home and immediately abandoned everything that made home actually alright sometimes.

It would have been like if Gabi sat with Taurik that one dark night, and he switched shifts to be away from her. That would have sucked.

Somehow she'd gone from not wanting to have any lasting relationships, any reason to stay in any one place—because, granted, this having to leave and being left sucked, too—to thinking maybe it was worth it. More worth it than she thought. Life might have been short, but some of the stuff inside it could last.

There were some things that she didn't have to keep moving from.

She crawled down the maintenance tunnels, dragging the length of cable behind her and snipping the appropriate lengths as she did. It was a boring puzzle the first few times, figuring out which things to replace and move to be up to the newly published station standards, but after that it was as rote as if she'd been doing this her whole life.

As much as Gabi didn't want to leave, she still couldn't wait to get on the Sadalbari.

It would be fine.

"Computer," she said, with a bit more finality this time. A bit more courage. "Record new entry and save in folder: Chloe, letters."

There was really only one thing she wanted to say. "Chloe…? I made a mistake. I'm not saying I wish I did something different, because I really like where I am now. And I hope you do, too. And I'm so proud of you. But in a whole galaxy of things happening that I don't get to pick, I think I should have picked to keep in touch with you. You're my sister, and if I died without having said You're important to me for years, then I think I missed something pretty big."

Gabi sighed. She couldn't decide if that said what she wanted or not. But it was better not to think of it too much. "If that's what you want, too… send me a message. I'll answer. Computer, end recording and deliver via subspace to Cadet Chloe Dixson, Sol, Earth, San Francisco, Starfleet Academy."

The computer beeped once to acknowledge, and then again to let her know the recording was on its way. There was no catching that back now.

The rest of the day, Gabi crawled through tunnels and slipped at the coiled cable. In the end, she was pretty productive. Tomorrow, someone wouldn't have to do this same section. And tomorrow, she wouldn't have to do another one. She'd be on the Sadalbari.

Taurik worked long hours, and Gabi wanted to get to bed early, anyway.

The next morning, she hurried to pack her few things, wishing she'd done that the night before. She made it to the normal mess hall with only about ten minutes to eat before she was due on the Sadalbari, but Taurik wasn't there. She tapped her combadge. "Dixson to Taurik."

No answer.

Well, he wasn't getting rid of her that easily. She tapped her combadge again. "Computer, please locate Lieutenant Taurik."

"Lieutenant Taurik is not on the station."

Gabi frowned. That son of a bitch was avoiding her on the Nebula?

Well, she didn't have the time to go to the docked starship, find him, hunt him down. Say good bye. Again, granted, he'd pretty much told her this would happen. But she wasn't just going to let him cut off these connections just because they were disruptive.

They were disruptive, though. He was right about that. Couldn't argue with a Vulcan even when he was wrong.

With a sigh, Gabi tossed the rest of her clothes in her luggage and snapped the lid shut. If she ran, maybe she could still get to the Nebula in time to fine Taurik and subject him to a good-bye hug and not make the Sadalbari late for wherever they were going next.

It would be embarrassing to hold up the whole damn ship departing Starbase 234 on her first day, though. She wanted to make a good impression, and she knew that Commander La Forge had recommended her to Chief Ellis. Maybe not personally, because she doubted La Forge knew her work personally, but she knew that if a recommendation came from the Enterprise it was as good as having La Forge's name on it. She couldn't embarrass him like that.

She couldn't. She couldn't say goodbye to Taurik. She didn't have time to find him.

Gabi slung her bag over her shoulder, took one last look around the room, and then left. She would not miss this place.

"Damnit, Taurik," she muttered as she walked down the empty hallway toward the transporter. Once she was on the Sadalbari, there would be no going back.

So she decided she'd drop her things off in her room, introduce herself to Chief Ellis on schedule, and then go back to her room after shift and scold Taurik with asynchronous message. If she never saw him again—

Well, she knew she'd see him again. She had to. He'd saved her life, and there were just too many traditions throughout the galaxy where she owed him something in return—including, apparently, Vulcan tradition. She had part of his soul now. Even if that was metaphorical, it was one hell of a metaphor. Especially, probably, for Vulcans. There had to be something to that.

Taurik would tell her that was incredibly illogical.

She'd also send Sam a message to complain about what an ass Taurik was sometimes. They agreed on a lot of things, but that most of all.

Gabi nodded pleasantly to the transporter chief who beamed her directly to the Sadalbari pad, and then paused to look around.

The Sadalbari's transporter room that she'd ended up in didn't look too much different from the Enterprise's, except the Sadalbari was almost fifty years old. The back wall of the transporter was equipped with the old-style reflective discs rather than the panels, and the top of the pads were set off the rest of the ceiling. In practice, the rest of the ship was very similar in design to the Constitution-class, except that it was missing a separate drive-section like the Enterprise-D had. Overall, a very small ship.

"Thank you, Petty Officer," she said, stepping off the pad.

The transporter officer standing there looked surprised to have been addressed, but smiled after a second. "Welcome to the Sadalbari."

She went out into the hallway. Working on this old thing was probably an adventure in itself. She couldn't fathom how many lightyears were on these engines, wondered how many stars it had seen first. It wasn't looking too bad at all for her age, actually. Pretty old for a starship…

She walked the few sections to the turbolift and took the lift to the second deck where most of the crew quarters were. She paused outside her door in section three, realizing two things. First, her quarters must have been huge. She was right across from a room with windows. Most of the crew quarters in a Miranda were on the outer ring, and most of them did have windows.

Keep this up, and she could be looking at space all the time.

Gabi stepped into her room and almost cried. Two rooms, just for her.

She didn't have time. She dropped her case and left again, hurrying down to deck four where she'd find Engineering in the back half of the ship.

It was nothing special. Smaller than the Enterprise, of course, because most ships were. That ship was truly an engineer's playground. But stepping into the Sadalbari's comparatively little main engineering deck, the glass floors surrounding the warp core like they did back home, the consoles lining the walls and shining despite their age…

She was going to like it here.

"Petty Officer, you are two minutes late."

No, she was going to love it here.

Gabi whirled around at the sound of the familiar voice she'd somehow not imagined she'd hear again, in person, anytime soon. "You jerk!" Still, she squealed and almost hugged Taurik before she restrained herself. She clasped both her hand in front of her to make sure she didn't. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was temporarily assigned to the Sadalbari," he said, and hesitated, apparently to watch her reaction, which didn't disappoint. "Yesterday."

"How!" She wondered if he requested it and then decided, of course, he must have. Otherwise, that was a crazy coincidence.

"I contacted Chief Ellis since you told us that you would be transferring. Since the Enterprise's destruction, he requested that I transfer to the Sadalbari crew when they arrived to pick you up, due to my interest and experiments in increasing warp field efficiency." He said it like that happened all the time. Like lieutenant JGs just chatted up random chief engineers for no reason and got invited to hop on new starships whenever the mood struck.

Maybe that was how officer transfers happened. Gabi had no idea. Even if it wasn't, she was sure they could happen that way for Taurik. Dedicated people were always in high demand, no matter how annoying La Forge thought they were.

It was hard to argue with results.

Actually, it was just hard to argue in general.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me!" Gabi slapped his arm.

"It was only confirmed last night, since I haven't received new orders." A convenient excuse, probably because there was nothing at all logical about a surprise. "I will continue with the Sadalbari until assigned elsewhere."

"And when will that be?"

"I do not know."

Even better! Sort of. It could have been a month, or it could have been a few days. Either way… "That's fine; we'll be running this place in a week."

#

The birds were singing and the sun was shining. Mom was working in the hills, Dad was in the den, and there was no reason Sam should be lying around like this. There was always work to do, and Sam wasn't doing any of it. Mom was still recovering from nearly losing her only son, and didn't even let Sam help clean the kitchen. Dad was more pragmatic, and he'd always been gentle, but Sam could see his injury had shaken Dad more than either of them wanted to admit.

So, maybe, he was doing some work. Sam was surprised how exhausting physical therapy was. All the things that used to take no thought were taking an incredible amount. And, also, the muscles he'd been used to using were not the same muscles he had now.

The Enterprise had crashed four weeks ago, and he'd been here for three. He was fine.

"Sam!" Dad's baritone echoed through the house. Certainly not something Sam had inherited… "I'm headed out to the Fints! One of the sensors is malfunctioning, and I got back a ping I'd like to check myself. Want to come?"

"Sure."

Sam eased himself up off the bed, grabbing for the ever-present cane leaning against his nightstand. The physical therapist as much as the counsellor had advised him to stop using it. If he was going on a two-kilometer walk today, he didn't want to leave it behind.

Hobbling down the hallway without it, he swung into the kitchen holding onto the door jamb and hopped across the floor to rest on the counter next to Dad. He was cleaning his trowel in the sink.

"You know Mom hates it when you do that."

"I know, but the pump just doesn't do it."

"It's a wonder you guys are still together." Sam nudged Dad with his shoulder, reaching for the bowl of fresh fruit Mom kept on the counter. Sam had never tasted mulberries like these. Not even the freshly-grown berries on other planets could compare, and, of course, replicated fruits all tasted exactly like whatever pattern created them in the first place. It took some getting used to, eating the same bowl of strawberries over and over again. Even if they were really great strawberries.

"Well, I'll just pick her some flowers or something on the way. She'll like that." With a conspiratorial grin, Dad dried the trowel and hung it up next to assorted spatulas before turning to Sam. He looked at Sam, first his hair; then his eyes; his shirt; and, last, always, his leg. "Ready?"

"Yeah. Let's go." Sam tapped the wall with the cane as he made his way to the door, leaning more on the house's architecture than anything else.

Dad sniffed. "You keep acting like a monkey, and we'll have to have you put in a zoo."

"It's easier."

"Yeah, well." He could hear Dad biting back his words as Sam stepped out into the mid-morning sunlight.

Sam waited to watch Dad close the door behind them, leave a message for Mom, and join him on the walk. Dad stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, and Sam heard the muffled crystalline chime of his access and download rods.

"If you want to say something, we have a long walk," Sam offered, starting toward town.

Dad shook his head, falling in step beside him. He had a similar stride to Sam, though Sam could remember being a child running to keep up with him. Felt kinda similar now.

Sam sighed, looked up at the blue sky populated by the fluffiest white clouds promising nothing but a sunny day. "I know… look, the therapist says it shouldn't hurt like this, but it does. I'm not making it up."

"I believe you."

Sam cast a glance at him sideways. "Then why does it sound like you don't?"

"No, I really do." Dad slapped his arm around Sam's shoulders, rubbing his arm affectionately as they walked. "You know, this is all as new for me as it is for you? I don't know what to do or what to say. I wish there was something I could do to make this easier for you."

Sam looked at the ground passing beneath them at a slower pace than usual. "That'd be nice…" He sighed, and wasn't sure if that was what he should have said. "I just wish… I didn't scare the hell out of Mom."

Dad smiled. "She gets teary-eyed whenever you walk in the room anymore. Always been a sensitive about her little man."

Sam sighed. "Dad."

"You may have grown out of being a baby, but she'll never grow out of being a mother." Then he sighed, patted Sam's shoulder again.

There was an aura of unspoken fear around him, now. It didn't matter if he didn't say it, because Sam knew what it was. The hours between the news the Enterprise went down and the news that Sam got out of surgery okay were impossible for Sam to peek into. Mom only scolded him once that she didn't know what she'd do—and cut herself off from even finishing the thought, like it was a jinx or something.

They were scientists, too smart for superstition. Except, apparently, when it came to their son. Sam didn't realize when he came home everyone was as scared as he was. Even Dad talked around the subject, checked on him in the middle of the night when he thought Sam was sleeping.

The town looked almost exactly like it had when Sam left. Some of the pre-fabricated buildings that were falling apart when he was a kid had been replaced with permanent brick and stone ones. The market that sold the locally-grown fruits and vegetables, the repli-café, and a primary school… The high school was down the road and on the other side of the ravine. The wilderness supply was on the road headed to the hills and about halfway between town and the training center.

"Mind if I stop at Donovan's before we head out?" Dad asked, pointing to the wilderness supply. "I bought my tent to him to repair before I left for the conference, and Sally didn't pick it up."

"Sure, yeah. Go ahead." Sam figured he'd like a break before they left for the backwoods.

It wasn't a tough walk, but it was a long one. The slope up to the hills where Dad's equipment sat in the shelter of a big boulder in a copse of trees was gentle, and the ground was only traversed by the local wildlife on a regular basis. The only thing was that some of the mole-type creatures in the area grew three and four times the size of a groundhog. It was easy to spot their entrance and exit holes, but sometimes they dug too close to the surface. Broken legs and ankles were a bit of a hazard to even the most boring geologists like Dad.

Death by running into the nearest rock was a bit of a hazard, even though, in terms of density, the odds of actually hitting a rock with a spaceship were really low. Didn't seem to matter, though.

Sam browsed the display of new climbing gear while Dad talked to Donovan, the local mountain man. Fluffy beard, always wearing patterned flannels over the heat-retentive jumper. The man had a reputation to maintain, apparently.

"Gresham Lavelle…?"

Sam turned toward the voice, unable to help his smile or the laugh that followed when a familiar head of curly black hair with a strong jaw ran across the street. "Oh, my god, Cris Ashley! I had no idea you were still here!"

Without regard for his cane or the way he was standing, Cris stepped directly into Sam's space, wrapping his arms around him and thumping his back. "What the hell are you doing here?" Cris stepped back, but held on long enough for Sam to find his footing. Concern flickered briefly in his impossibly blue eyes as he glanced at the cane, but looked back. "I guess you're here for some R&R."

That… was possibly the most diplomatic way anyone had put it. "Yeah."

"Had this year's mulberries?"

"Made myself sick on them my first week back."

Cris laughed, looking at him like… like something Sam hadn't seen in a long time.

"You know," Sam said, glancing toward Dad. Dad showed no signs of his conversation being over. "You're the only person in the galaxy who calls me that."

Cris shrugged, winked. "If you had someone else calling you that, I don't know if you'd be here. So, uh… can I ask?"

"Go ahead." Sam sighed, and Cris actually didn't ask. Sam explained anyway. "I was stationed on the Enterprise. It kind of… it crashed a month ago." Saying it sounded ridiculous, even still.

Cris hissed a vague curse, his grip on Sam's shoulder increasing ever so slightly.

"I'm fine, obviously." He looked down at his leg that wasn't strictly his. The cane. "Maybe a little less than fine. You know, standard biosynthetic replacement leg for this side, new knee here, a new spleen, a—"

"God." Cris's whisper was a stake in his chest, and Sam stopped breathing for a second. It did sound really bad, didn't it? "Gresham." It was enough to make him stop everything.

Everything except the good news. "I lived." Lots of people didn't. And Sam wouldn't have except for some weird alien medical intervention. "Everyone I cared about lived." And that—that sounded terrible. Because he actually did know a handful of the people who died.

Asha Sawyer lived across the corridor from him before Taurik asked him to be his roommate again. She was a lieutenant JG, too. He'd asked her to dinner once. She'd been crushed. Not by furniture or anything like Sam's leg—most of the front sections deck fourteen were compressed. She was caught somewhere between the floor and the ceiling, and it made him sick.

Sam should've died, and the only thing standing between him and the black was an emotionally fragile Vulcan. Sam could never tell him that his brother died so Sam could live. He could never, ever tell him that. He thought about that a lot. Probably too much.

The universe was… really weird.

The silence caught a light breeze, jingling the set of carabiners enough to wrest him from his thoughts. He didn't realize he hadn't been looking at Cris until he looked back.

Without another word, Cris pulled him to him again. Sam took a breath and tried to fight off the anger that somehow Cris had managed to see him so completely even after all this time. In the end, he returned the embrace. Rested his chin on Cris's shoulder.

"I'm alright," he said.

"I know." Cris didn't let go, though. He always had been… touchy. That was something Sam didn't miss about a Vulcan roommate. Taurik's personal space bubble was skin-tight, but it still didn't allow a breach. Except, apparently, for a mind-meld in dire situations. Cris, on the other hand, couldn't get through an evening of quiet entertainment without cuddling the cat or slinging his legs across the nearest open lap. Maybe Sam did missed it a little.

When Cris finally did let go, Sam brushed at his eyes and looked around for anything else to talk about. He landed on the place across the street he'd seen Cris walk out of. "You're still bowling?"

"I like bowling." Cris smiled. "Hell, you should see my trophies."

"You're such a nerd." Sam laughed, though it suddenly felt hollow.

Seeing Cris was… something. A reminder of everything he'd left behind when he went to Earth, and a reminder of everything he could have had. His own two legs, the kidney he'd been born with. That smile, his given name, and bowling trophies, apparently.

Maybe, or maybe not, because the universe was weird.

Dad approached, looking just as happy to see Cris as Sam had been. Maybe even more. "Cristofer Ashley, great timing. It's been, what, six months? How'd the survey go?"

Cris's eyes brightened. "There's pods of cetaceans up there that rest on the beaches for hours before heading back out into the ocean. They let us just walk out there and touch them."

"They aren't intelligent?"

"No. There's a contingent of dolphins out there somewhere studying them. These things are to dolphins as monkeys are to us." Cris glanced between them for a moment, then said, "Well, I don't want to keep you. Looks like you're headed out. Catch you later, Gresham?"

"Sure. I'll call."

With a pleasant threat that he'd better, Cris walked off.

Dad looked at Sam. "Gresham." He smiled.

Sam gave him a whack in the shin with his cane. "Don't look at me. You're the one who gave me the name and proceeded to never use it." Not that he minded. Sam seemed much more practical in terms of space in a sentence. On the other hand, its compilation of common sounds and length gave it a bunch of bizarre meanings in alien languages, some of which weren't friendly.

It seemed like everyone had gotten over that type of thing, though. Sam met a Vulcan called Trek once and didn't even think about it until he was reading a novel six months later.

"I do." Dad frowned and started walking down the road toward the training center again. "On special occasions."

"Yeah, for happy birthday and… that's actually it. I can't think of anything else." Sam sighed, and decided the whale in the transporter room was probably better addressed than left alone. "Cris wanted me to stay, and I didn't. I think… I think he still wants that."

Dad considered that for a lot longer than Sam thought he was going to. He was silent long enough for Sam to listen to the birds chirp, and the breeze rustle the new birch leaves. The town's quiet bustle left behind them, and only the open fields and distant hills beyond them, the entire planet seemed open.

Even after decades of settlement, this planet was frontier enough for people like Cris to find things to do that no one had done before. Animals to see and touch that very few people knew existed. Sam knew he'd seen stars that only the crew of the Enterprise had seen. He'd touched areas of space and felt the effects of anomalies so thoroughly undocumented they still weren't quite sure what happened.

They had that in common a little. Sam just had a measure of ambition to go along with it. Civilian science wasn't ever enough for him. The lack of external structure probably wouldn't be great, either…

"What do you want?" Dad sighed, as if the question itself was difficult to ask.

Somehow he hadn't thought the follow up would be so hard. He kicked a rock as he stepped, leaning on the cane. "I think I can't go back like this."

"But you could," Dad said, as if his infusion of reality was all Sam needed to know where his head was. "You might not be doing the same things you were doing for a while. But you could go back tomorrow if you wanted to."

Sam leaned away from him, looking at him. "I don't want to be doing anything else. I want to be on the bridge. Dad—I don't think you get how hard I worked to get that promotion last year." How many hours he worked and how much training he did. And still was doing before he smashed into a planet.

"You're probably right. It sounded like hard work."

The look Dad was giving him now was knowing—like maybe Sam said something he didn't know he'd said, answered the question in a way he hadn't realized. And maybe he had. Because he wanted to be somewhere else.

The weather was nice, and old friends and family being around all the time was great.

Dad sighed, and changed the subject to his geology readings when he pulled out his specialized tricorder and recording unit. Sam could talk to him about it was a reasonable level of competency, but he wasn't exactly interested in rocks. He wasn't interested in any of this stuff.

"Can you reset that probe over there?" Dad asked, pointing toward a nearby pole resting on a rock and blinking red. Probably dislodged by an animal or strong wind or something.

Sam scrambled up the rock, dropping his cane to hop over to the probe and realign it until it flashed green again. He reset it into its hooks in the rock before turning around to look for the way down. His cane sat about three meters away from the bottom of the rock in the tufts of grass where it rolled.

With a sigh, he kicked out his new leg and sat to wait. Dad was fiddling with one of his bigger instruments and a tricorder. Mumbling to himself about strata identification or something.

It would be easy to stay here. Based on their talk, he was sure he could pick things up with Cris like he'd never left. He might even be able to work with Cris in his surveys. Hell, he might even be happy. It wasn't the conn or ops of a starship with a thousand people on board… but it was safe.

The moment he thought it, he realized that wasn't what he wanted. He didn't care about being safe. He wanted a challenge. More than that, he wanted to be scared.

He'd never been to Earth, he saw space as a poetic existential threat, he was terrified of responsibility, and he beheld any social situation with the distrust of a Romulan. But every day, he'd left his room, he'd done what he had to do, and he became someone he wanted to be.

He didn't regret it, either.

He requested the Enterprise because he wasn't sure he'd get it. He shot for the ops position because it was one of the most complex stations on the bridge. He accepted the Vulcan roommate because, of all the aliens out there, Vulcans were possibly the least like Humans.

"You okay, Sam?" Dad started to walk his direction, saying, "It turns out it was nothing, by the way. I think some animal must've just bumped it or something."

If only everything were as simple as that. "That's good."

"And you?" Dad stopped walking, squinted up at him.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"You sure?" Dad stooped to pick up the cane in the grass, held it toward him head-first.

Sam looked at it. For too long, he looked at it. "I can't stay here. I have to go." Sam took his eyes off the cane to meet his father's.

With hesitation enough to make Sam wonder if Dad was going to argue with him, he pulled the cane back to grip it with both his hands. "You know, Sam, I think you were the only person who didn't know that."

#

There were tears in her eyes, but Gabi restrained herself. "Well, you bought me another two weeks," she said. "You'll do great on the Ramsar."

The Ambassador-class starship waiting to pick him and one other ensign up hung just outside the window behind them in his quarters. In three hours, this would no longer be his ship, and he would assume his station there. "I will maintain regular contact with you," he said.

He should have known that statement wouldn't alleviate any of her distress, though that had been his goal. She smiled, and her tears spilled. "Don't go out of your way. I know it's not important."

Taurik nodded distantly, though he didn't agree. It was important. He was the one still maintaining regular contact with his dead brother by saying goodnight every night for almost a year. He didn't intend to stop. "It depends on what is meant by important," he said finally. "Your consideration over the past year was instrumental in my ability to maintain my station on the Enterprise. And therefore, my transfer to the Ramsar."

She laughed. "Sounds like Starfleet itself owes me a debt of gratitude."

He wanted to object that, obviously, his continued service in Starfleet was insignificant, even though he knew she knew her hyperbole was unrealistic and he was only intended to take it as a compliment. "Whether Starfleet owes you such a debt, I do not know. I do know that I do."

Gabi wiped her eyes. "Can I give you a hug?"

"If you must."

Taurik held his breath, as he always felt the reflexive need to do when she did this. He wasn't sure why, and less than a second later forced himself to breathe normally. He returned the embrace and very briefly examined the levels of intimacy communicated by such physical closeness. To many Humans, perhaps Gabi included, a hug was certainly not as intimate as such an embrace was to him. He had observed even new acquaintances engage in the behavior.

Though, perhaps not to this extent. Gabi didn't let him go for at least four seconds.

When she finally released him, he was compelled to straighten his shirt while she regained her composure. In an almost Vulcan-like bearing, she lowered her head for a second, and then straightened. Except that he knew her well, he might not have been able to tell she was upset.

"You know the Enterprise-C was an Ambassador?" she asked.

He gave a brief nod. "I was aware."

"You going to try to transfer to the E when it's done?"

He hadn't considered that. Not even once, actually. "I have no reason to."

"I bet you could get it."

Even though he could hear a similar statement Vorik had made almost five years ago in her words, Taurik wasn't sure about that—though, he had managed to attain a station on the D directly out of the Academy, he wasn't sure whether his service had continued to be suitable to the degree required. "Will you request transfer?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I don't get to request stuff like that. I get sent where I'm needed."

"Of course." Noncommissioned officers of her rank had very little, if any, say over their direction. To be where one was most needed, Taurik thought, was a benefit on its own. "And, indeed, the Enterprise needed you." More specifically, perhaps… he did. He sighed, gripped both his hands behind his back. "Keep me informed of your location and work."

"As long as you do the same. Don't hesitate to send me a message whenever you, you know… if you get lonely or whatever." She frowned, perhaps wondering if it was correct to put that label on it.

It wasn't, but he understood her meaning. "I will not be lonely. I will, however, miss you."

She smiled. "I'll miss you, too. I have a shift, so… see you later, Taurik."

The Human version of live long and prosper, perhaps: a charge to live long enough to see later. He took a step backward, away, and raised one hand. "Live long and prosper, Miss Dixson."

He watched her slowly walk away, out of the single mess hall on the Sadalbari toward the door. It was, really, quite a small ship, and despite only having been here for two weeks, he had already come to know her colleagues. Taurik was sure she would do as well here as she had on the Enterprise. The crew, with the exception of one Betazoid and a Bajoran, was entirely complemented by Humans.

Eighteen of the Ramsar were Vulcan. He consulted his PADD to set an alarm in the morning of the third day of every week to record a message for her. She would, of course, hold him to his promise to maintain contact.

Since there was nothing else on the Sadalbari for him to do, he went to his room and collected his things. He'd already packed his few sets of clothing, and his lamp and Vorik's photo were in his bag. He didn't collect extraneous items. The photo was, perhaps, the only physical evidence of a pervasive illogic he allowed himself.

The Ramsar was not as old as the Sadalbari, with a dedication ten years later—that did put the ship as being a contemporary of the Enterprise-C that Gabi mentioned, though this ship had seen numerous refits and upgrades. One such upgrade replaced all the old-style consoles with LCARS displays. The blue and green colors of the old console displays were harsh on his eyes. The warm yellow and orange was more centrally within his vision spectrum favoring the lower frequencies.

He would have ignored the discomfort, of course. Possibly he would have even become accustomed to the blue and green—though both colors were alarming to the evolutionary theories of Vulcan color perception. Blue and green prompted largely negative emotions, arousal, and had been associated with death. Red and yellow were colors of peace and rest.

"Red alert," of course, was triggering to action for multiple other reasons.

The Enterprise, and especially Engineering with the obvious exception of the warp core, had been mostly beige. The Ramsar seemed to be mostly cool gray trending toward blue.

He was familiar enough with the corridor layout to arrive at his quarters without assistance and found them, like those he'd been assigned on the Enterprise, decorated with the standard paintings and sculptures. He returned the smaller sculptures to the replicator for recycling, and set the picture of Vorik on the low table he would move against the wall later to serve as his meditation table.

These quarters were nearly identical to that which he'd shared with Sam on the Enterprise. He had a main room, and two rooms. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with the second one. It seemed like a waste of space, but clearly this was the type of obscene luxury afforded someone of his rank on a ship of this size.

He'd always occupied the room on the left when he shared. He went to the room on the right first, and looked. There was a bed in both of the rooms. He wasn't given a roommate assignment, so the extra accommodations left him puzzled.

Since he would be serving on board the Ramsar for the foreseeable future, he decided to take his meal in the engineering deck mess. He didn't have the benefit of a roommate like Sam to introduce him to potential friends like Alyssa, Andrew, Sito… He would be left to his own devices, probably to socialize primarily with engineers. Perhaps some of them like Gabi. So, he replicated a small kal-toh board and went to the engineering deck mess.

Three-hundred officers—approximately one-third of which were engineers. Seven-hundred noncommissioned officers brought the total crew to one-thousand, not counting families and civilian science contingents. The Ramsar had many of both, despite its classification as a heavy cruiser with armaments to match the Enterprise despite its smaller size.

Taurik sat down at the table, alone. He didn't doubt it would only be a few weeks before he found others to take his meals with, spend evenings with. In the meantime, he had a new ship to learn and new officers to develop a stable working relationship with. He watched the comings and goings of his new colleagues, seeing that many of them sat together to discuss work as much as their personal lives.

After finishing his meal, he returned to the table and set up the small board. He preferred Terrace—he imagined most Humans did, as well—but kal-toh could be engaged alone. He intended to stay here for at least an hour, reordering the strings of chaos into a lattice of order purely to take advantage of the primacy effect. Playing kal-toh was significantly more inviting to conversation than studying.

Also, engineers tended to be interested in the strategy involved.

It had been perhaps a year or two since he'd tried to solve one of these… Taurik didn't mind the game, but Vorik's disinterest had bordered on emotional. He selected the first t'an and considered.

"I'm told you might be looking for a roommate."

Taurik stood. "Sam." The sense of shock and disorder was truly unreasonable.

Sam smiled, watching in apparent amusement as Taurik searched his face, his uniform, for some indication he wasn't hallucinating for some reason. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to be stationed on the Ramsar?"

"I would have. I planned to send you a message tonight." Taurik caught back his string of questions he wanted to ask, and tied down the feeling of most gratified bewilderment. He settled for just one. "How are you here?"

"I requested it. Turns out that Gabi continues to be a more reliable source of information on you than you are." Sam gave a dutiful nod, apparently of greeting. "Good to see you, too, by the way."

Taurik nodded, considering. Maybe he should respond. "Yes, of course, I am pleased to see you. I wasn't sure you would be returning."

"Neither was I." Sam gestured to the seat Taurik had occupied only moments ago, an invitation.

Taurik took the seat across the table as he returned to his seat. Tried to settle mentally as much as physically. He put the t'an back in the puzzle. Sam watched the board rearrange itself to respond to Taurik's careless placement.

"I wasn't joking about the roommate-thing, though. Rooming on my own on the Half Moon to get here was terrible. Turns out I'm as jazzed about being alone as you."

"My quarters has two bedrooms."

"So does mine."

Sam stared at him, and Taurik couldn't decide what he was supposed to read there. That he was still recovering from the psychological effects of his near-death experience. That he'd decided to move on. But he was still leaving the lights on low at night.

Taurik couldn't argue with any of that. He was still saying goodnight to Vorik.

"Then what do you say we consolidate to the level closest to the center of the saucer section?" Sam said, a tone of macabre humor there. "That way, even if the ship crashes upside-down, we still have a chance."

Chapter Text

Taurik knew something was wrong when he woke up sweating. The room was as cold as ever: nineteen degrees. Heat couldn't be the cause. He felt a slight pressure behind his eyes—a common location for his headaches. The joints in his fingers ached.

He sorted through what he now had to consider symptoms: headache, sweating… slight photosensitivity. Maybe the flu? Last night, he'd been irritated despite no reason he could identify. Meditation hadn’t helped, and apparently sleep hadn't either.

He lifted himself up off the bed slightly, pushing the heavy blanket and sheet to one side. The fact that they were tangled up together indicated that he had been restless in his sleep. Unusual. And the way they sat there on the edge of the mattress was absurdly vexing. He pushed them off the side of the bed so he wouldn't have to see them anymore.

Why did he feel so… heavy? It was as if he could neither think nor move. Certainly not easily, anyway…

The door to his quarters suddenly slid open, revealing Sam in his new yellow ops uniform since switching to the ops position full-time. Even though he'd been wearing it for seven months, today it was jarring.

"Huh." Sam frowned in concern. Possibly amusement, though, judging by his tone. "Good morning, I guess. Are you feeling okay? It's almost oh-eight-hundred."

Taurik didn't know what that was supposed to mean. "Explain the significance."

Sam's head inclined in an expression of naked confusion. That was when Taurik realized last night he had somehow shed the robes he'd usually be wearing. Only his underclothes afforded him any decency. He leaned only enough to see if they were wrapped up in the tangled blankets on the floor, knowing he'd usually be embarrassed about the lack of modesty. And yet, he wasn't. At least, he didn't think so. He was too uncomfortable to think about modesty.

"The significance—? You have shift today. In about ten minutes."

"I believe I am ill…" he mumbled, sliding down to the floor to find his robes. After a bit of sorting and listening to Sam back away, he found it. The blue one. Sam had stayed in a multiple-occupancy dormitory during his time at the Academy, which made his sense of modesty somewhat… less modest. That didn't matter…

"Yeah…?"

Taurik contemplated the sash a moment before finishing the knot. His thoughts felt particularly scattered, incoherent to the point of concern. He added that to his running tally of sudden symptoms.

"You should probably go to sickbay," Sam said.

Taurik worked at the sash some more, even though he'd sufficiently cinched it. "Your instinct for the obvious is truly prodigious."

Sam frowned, though he almost laughed at the same time. "Alright, I haven't seen this guy in a while." When Taurik didn't answer, he said, "Well, let me get you some tea—"

"That is extremely inappropriate!"

He hadn't meant to shout. Taurik glanced up, and Sam's wide eyes couldn't have conveyed any more shock and… fear? Well, that made sense. Taurik was multiple times stronger than Sam. And he was acting somewhat irrationally, wasn't he? Another symptom, perhaps?

"Oh, no."

The realization of what was happening pierced like a needle directly into the center of his awareness. An illness he'd been dreading practically his whole life, a situation he'd been willfully ignoring in the hopes he would be left alone until he was much older.

That was incredibly illogical. But he didn't care. He was pulling his robes off and putting on a shirt and trousers now.

Perhaps in a few days he would consider the timing to have been fine. One age seemed as reasonable as any other. Onset of the pon farr could be as early as sixteen, though it was exceptionally rare. After twenty-two, the distribution was relatively flat, with thirty-seven being the most common age by a small margin. Sixty-five was just as common as twenty-two. He had graduated the Academy, and was serving on the Enterprise by twenty-two. He was twenty-six now. Twenty-six, and half himself these past fifteen months.

He couldn't get the randomly scrolling numbers out of his head, as he counted the robes and trousers he placed into his travel case. For no reason at all.

He very nearly felt relief, if only in that Vorik didn't fear this anymore.

"Hello? Lavelle to Taurik."

"I have neither the time nor inclination to answer your questions." He didn't know what the questions were: he hadn't been listening. He only heard the tone. "I will be taking leave."

"Oh, my god." Sam laughed a little. "This is that weird Vulcan sex-thing, isn't it?"

He wanted to scream at Sam that not only was that characterization extremely degrading, but there was nothing humorous about this. He should have thrown him out of the room, or thrown something out of the room, but he restrained himself. Taurik settled for not looking at him.

"The flippancy with which you seem to regard it notwithstanding…" He opened another drawer to look inside and avoid the acknowledgement.

He'd dreaded this moment like an embedded instinct since before he learned to walk. The first conscious thoughts he'd learned to hide revolved around it. Even the harmony of transparency between himself and Vorik had beheld this topic as a plague, untouchable and unthinkable. The figurative niggling sandworm grown to epic proportions and sent to consume and destroy. The one fear lying under all others: that instinct would replace logic and force would replace reason.

And now it was not a fear. He would become that unthinking worm, and he could only let it happen. He could only run home for familiar hands to lead him where he did not want to go.

He managed to put a grip on his fear and continue. "That is a personal question."

"I've never seen you like this."

"And you never will again." That was more a hope than certainty. But he allowed himself the exaggeration for the moment.

"Copy that." Sam seemed to take that as an invitation to continue to spectate. "So going to see your lady, huh? Is this your first time?"

Taurik glared at the second extremely personal and inappropriate question within only so many breaths.

"Sorry." Sam grinned. "Can I give you some advice?"

"No, you may not." Even though he was sweating, he put his gray robe on over his clothes, the cowl and red sash with them. He still felt naked, even with the hood up. He raked the hood back, off his head, since it didn't seem to make a difference.

"You're not going to deny any of the rumors about this whole thing while you're, uh…" Sam hesitated to squint, gesture vaguely in Taurik's direction. "While you're packing. Is that what you're doing?"

"Rumors are of no consequence to me." He was sure there were many rumors, and there would continue to be long after Taurik was a great-grandfather. And Sam, of course, would never have his answers. "Rumors are an inevitable outcome of privacy where Humans are involved."

"That's not particularly fair," Sam said, and he did somehow sound genuinely hurt by that. "I'm sure in this case most of it has to do with a misapprehension of the facts because of that privacy."

Taurik felt his mind stutter. "It appears I've managed to misapprehend the size of your vocabulary over the past four years."

"What the hell's wrong with you? I'm not an idiot." Sam demanded, then seemed to change his mind on whether he wanted the answer. Which was good, because the only thing Taurik could think to say was nothing. "Look, nobody actually cares about mating practices except for sociologists. Not yours personally, anyway. Well, your wife probably does. Or whatever you'd call her." Sam slumped down into a chair at the table.

"The term is acceptable. We are more than betrothed, but less than married." None of it was right, but all of it was close enough. He couldn't have cared less about precision. "And I'll point out you seem inappropriately fascinated with my personal mating practices."

He reached for his PADD to find out when the next ship toward the vicinity of Vulcan would be leaving. Federation ships were probably ever making minor course corrections for Vulcans like him. He'd never considered that before.

"And I'm nobody. It's logical."

"This is wordplay. Not logic."

For the first time in his life, he wished he'd paid some attention to rumors. He only knew he felt like he'd taken leave of his mind completely. He could barely think a coherent sentence, to the point it seemed difficult to remember what he was doing even from second to second. The fact that he knew what was happening didn't seem to alleviate the encroaching panic.

Yes, he was fine now. But who knew what he would be in another few hours. The days it would take to arrive on Vulcan. By the time he met Saalle, he might have been a complete animal.

But maybe not, because he didn't even have rumors. Non-Vulcans were understandably discouraged from talking about it around them, but even Taurik had little more than a brief overview of the facts and dangers. Extremely brief. Understood enough to fear.

It was illogical, but Taurik understood it now. He could already feel himself slipping through his fingers, and the accompanying embarrassment and terror was enough to convince him he never wanted to speak of this to anyone.

"The Halley is diverting course on its way to Earth for me to board in one hour," he said instead, tapping feverishly to monitor the Halley's progress. Vulcans of his persuasion were given special dispensation for emergency medical leave for this reason exactly, and his request was granted almost immediately. Automatically, he assumed.

"That's soon."

Not soon enough. "Yes."

"Wrong place, though."

"There are daily transports between Earth and Vulcan."

"Oh."

Part of Taurik was amazed he didn't know that—but then he realized there was no reason Sam should know. He never needed to go there. "I will see you in approximately two weeks. Presumably."

He brushed past Sam into the main room, and took a deep breath. He'd done all he could. It wasn't enough. He paced.

He wasn't sure he didn't want advice. But he wasn't going to ask for it. Not now.

He was sure he hadn't been this uncomfortable when he woke up. No, he was just… hot. But the room was cold, and the notion of removing any of his layers was uncomfortable. Realizing what was happening seemed to have had the psychological effect of increasing the severity of his symptoms. Which meant he should be meditating.

Taurik went to the low table and knelt, his awareness burning with Sam's gaze. He looked at the lamp, realized he should pack that, and then looked at Vorik's picture. He should probably pack that, too.

"Well… see you in a few weeks, then," Sam said, and rose.

Taurik bristled. "Yes."

"Is a congratulations appropriate?" Sam asked, and Taurik could somehow hear his smile.

"Sam."

He laughed and left the room.

Taurik almost wished he'd stayed even if all he was going to do was tease him. In the quiet, the fear only loomed larger.

#

Sam sank onto the couch, looking at the replicator as if it had offended him. Somehow, Taurik managed to bring him to the mess hall most days, and now he was feeling it. For better or worse, their mutual friends had come to regard them as being connected by a particularly long cord. And now Sam was beginning to realize they were probably right.

The edge of a thought encroached, but he pushed it away before he could see it.

It had been almost eight months since he'd been in Ten Forward. He missed a lot of things about the Enterprise, and it was surprising that he still did after all this time. The Enterprise-E was still under construction, but Sam found himself watching its progress like the Obsidian Order. Gabi told him all the time how pretty the ship was, and he couldn't even argue anymore. The more and more shape and frame was added, the more beautiful it became.

Not that the Ramsar wasn't nice—it was just old. The windows were all reserved for rooms, though he and Taurik had decided not to request one of the windowed rooms even though they certainly qualified. Having a window necessarily required space to be about a meter away from where they'd be sleeping. That didn't matter to him so much anymore… though it certainly had when they were selecting their quarters. Nightmares no longer yanked Sam out of sleep so regularly as to test a chronometer against.

Sam checked the clock again. Taurik wouldn't even have arrived on Earth yet.

The communications panel blinked with an incoming subspace call. At this point, it was either his mother or Gabi. Mom called every few days to a week, and Sam wasn't sure whether it was for her sanity or his.

Well, certainly not his sanity. He loved his mother, but damn.

He rose, tapped the button to accept and saw Gabi in her familiar quarters on the Sadalbari. "Why the hell isn't Taurik answering my calls?" she asked.

Sam sighed. "Yeah, thanks for calling, Gabi."

"It's not like I don't want to talk to you. I usually call Taurik, but talk to both of you. What do you want? A how are you?"

"That might be nice," Sam admitted.

"You'll notice I don't ask Taurik anymore, either. 'My physical and emotional states are both satisfactory.'" Sam held off a smile that Gabi didn't. "It's not like you ever say anything other than fine."

"I know I'm incredibly boring, but do you have to remind me every chance you get?"

"Sorry. How are you?"

With a sigh, Sam decided not to bother answering the question. She was right. And, to be fair, Taurik not answering calls was probably concerning on the level of Romulans developing trilithium weaponry. "Taurik's going to Vulcan for a few weeks. He's, uh… he's sick."

"Sick?"

"Yeah. He's okay, but—"

"Oh, my god. He's got that thing—?"

"I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate us talking about it." Sam smiled anyway at her easy guess. It was, honestly, the first and only guess anyone ever had when a Vulcan crewmate disappeared for more than a couple of days. Then, predictably, he'd reappear a week or two later, pretending he'd never left. It was the always-correct but never-confirmed guess.

The secrecy was almost insulting. It wasn't like nobody knew. Everybody knew. Everything but the specifics, anyway.

"Well, okay, then," Gabi said, and seemed to relax slightly. "So, what, they don't have subspace on Vulcan or something?"

"You don't want to talk to him," Sam said. "He was more rude than usual. Yelled at me for offering to get him tea. I'm not sure he wasn't going to throw me across the room at one point. Besides, he's probably meditating or whatever."

"Yeah, fair. So, really, what are you up to, then? How's the Ramsar?"

"Deciding what to have for dinner," Sam said. "Then later I said I'd go to a poetry reading." At least there wasn't an android involved. Sam didn't know anything about poetry, except he knew bad poetry when he heard it.

"Nice. I took up bonsai." Gabi suddenly lifted a tiny tree into the frame with striped leaves. It wasn't shaped like anything Sam thought of as a bonsai. Just standard-tree shape. "Cute, isn't it?"

Sam had rarely found himself so speechless over something so trivial. "Sure. Cute."

"We'll see if it's still alive after a few months…" She frowned at it, and put it down. "So you aren't reading poetry. What are you up to?"

"Sovereign pilot certifications."

Gabi made a tiny squealing sound, and Sam couldn’t help but smile. "You're gonna try to get the Enterprise again?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe." He wasn't exceptional, but that thought resurfaced. He had to get out of here. He pushed it away, because he was just really motivated to be successful at something. Oddly directionless for all that ambition. "It's just tactical studies for me, right now."

"You're gonna be able to run a whole ship by yourself by the time you're done," Gabi said.

"Hell, no. I'm not touching engineering."

"Right. You need there to be room for Taurik on your ship." Suddenly, she gasped. "I know it'd never happen, but imagine this: Captain Lavelle and First Officer Taurik. Can I be chief engineer?"

Sam laughed. Taurik would make a terrible first officer. "Sure. In this hypothetical scenario, you're chief engineer."

He had to get out of here. More than that, he had to get away from Taurik. Sam loved him more than he thought he could love anybody—much less someone he didn't even like that much—but he really had become something of a crutch, hadn't he?

Though, it had only just now managed to occur to him: he was getting away from Taurik. Taurik was about to get married. If patterns held, he'd talk to Taurik maybe once every few months from here on out. Less if his wife wasn't particularly happy with Sam being so… whatever Sam was. Even though the result was similar, he was pretty sure this felt worse.

Gabi seemed happy with his agreement, but moved on before Sam could share any of his musings. "He's gonna end up at the San Francisco shipyards, anyway. Or Utopia Planetia. Who knows? But you are going to be captain."

"We'll see."

It was what Sam wanted before, so why not? He was back to normal. His leg was his leg. The Ramsar didn't even have a Commander Riker to scare the hell out of him whenever he walked by. Sam had become too comfortable, and he wasn't waiting for the ship to crash to wake him up again.

#

Taurik's heart beat wildly out of control.

The temperature, which he would have found pleasantly cool only a week ago, seemed to be out to kill him now. Even the hot Vulcan suns and almost-zero humidity could not evaporate his sweat fast enough. He had been walking for almost ten kilometers now, though, so that was plausible deniability to anyone who happened to pass by.

Taurik came to the familiar house on the edge of town, away from the bustle of the other houses and a long walk to any public transit. He'd come here often as a child, even though Skal was never in any mood to entertain him and Vorik.

Skal would not be pleased to see him, now. This was not his responsibility.

But Taurik didn't know what to do. He did the only thing he could think to do, and pressed the call button.

The door opened some ten seconds later. Taurik realized he had not seen Skal in quite some time: he was in his sixties now. Unless something had changed, he lived alone. He worked as a teacher and historian, but Skal was mostly a hermit and a poet.

Skal's impassive expression did not break for the mild surprise sparking across their bond. "Taurik."

Taurik could barely nod in greeting, raise his hand even as he realized it was shaking. "Live long and prosper, brother."

Skal searched Taurik's face for far too long. "Live long and prosper."

Taurik wrung his hand on the strap of his bag, felt the sweat dripping between his shoulder blades, and hung his head in shame. "I don't know where to go."

Skal nodded and stepped aside as he gestured invitingly. "Come in."

Taurik found himself standing in the entryway to his brother's unpretentious one-room house. The kitchen was small and well-kept, made of slabs of stone and wood locally cut and shaped. The desk was well-used and without decoration, and the bed was in the back corner beneath the windows looking out at the red mountains. The lavatory was tucked into a tiny room next to a storage closet that was just as small.

"Why are you here instead of our father's house?" Skal asked, and went to the kitchen. His small replicator dispensed tea at the press of a button.

Taurik attempted restraint. It didn't work quite as well as he wished. "Our father despises me," he whispered, and felt tears burn in his eyes. He tried to stand straight, but his bones seemed to chatter and shake.

Skal frowned, put the cup of tea on the counter within Taurik's reach. He made another and did the same with that one. "You are his son. To see you through this trial is his responsibility, regardless of his opinion. This… this, and others."

"I… I could not remember how to get there." Taurik lifted his eyes to meet Skal's for half a second. "Is that normal?"

"Nothing about the pon farr is normal." He placed a third tea beside the other two, and crossed the kitchen to stand before Taurik.

He was slim—somehow even more so than everyone else in his family—and approximately a centimeter shorter than Taurik. With a deliberate intake of breath, Skal pressed his palm to Taurik's neck, his thumb against his jaw.

"Oh, Taurik." Skal sighed, shook his head. "Why did you not come home?"

Taurik felt the quaver in his voice as well as the rest of him. He let it come. "I do not know."

The familiarity and care Skal felt for him in the bond was somehow even older than Taurik was. He felt Skal's concern, and his sorrow, though his more mature expression of emotional control obviously dulled the cutting edge of Vorik's loss.

Taurik put away those thoughts, and tried to focus on something. Anything. He seized on the three cups of tea and glared. Skal hadn't said they were for him, probably because, irrationally, Taurik wanted nothing from anybody except his mate. He wasn't sure where she was. Skal probably knew, and it took every sliver of rational thought remaining to hold off attacking Skal to demand he tell him.

Most of his concentration was involved in holding off the pain.

Also, the tea was just sitting there. With care not to break them, Taurik took one of the cups and immediately swallowed the contents in two gulps.

"What shall I do?" Taurik asked, pressing the teacup away from him, empty. "Saalle's parents live offworld, and I must go to her, but I believe to do so at this point would be a mistake."

"It was sensible to come here. You're still early in your time," Skal said, though Taurik got the impression that was more an idle observation somehow than an answer to his question. "How many days are you?"

"Three," Taurik said, and then realized he wasn't sure that was true. "Or four?"

Skal nodded. "Returning quickly is wise."

Taurik nodded even as he shivered. He tried to be.

"I will make the arrangements. Are you in pain?"

Pain. Yes. If he were to let his concentration lapse, his head would pound with such a ferocity he was sure his eyes might pop out. Every muscle he possessed seemed to ache, and he was both sweltering and freezing at the same time. And yet he knew it would get worse.

Taurik shook his head, wringing his hand again on the strap of his bag. "No. I can endure it."

Skal gave a solemn nod. "You recognize you cannot endure pain if you have none."

"Yes." Of course. He'd only forgotten the question before he could answer it. "I apologize."

"Lie down."

For several seconds, Taurik looked at the bed in the back of the house, made with the thin sheets of summertime. Skal didn't have a pillow, or much of anything of comfort. Somehow, even the standard issue dressings for his room on the Ramsar was more luxurious than this—and these frugal accommodations were comforting. He and Skal had always been somewhat similar.

He looked back to Skal, though he wasn't sure why.

"I will make arrangements for you," Skal said, and held a hand out, again, toward the back of the house. "Go. Lie down. There's nothing you can do now."

Doing as Skal said, Taurik dropped his bag beside the bed and laid down, though he felt none of his tension release the way it should have. He tried to lie on his back as he would usually be able to rest, but even that was uncomfortable. Finally, he managed to lie on his side, arms tucked beneath him, not quite in the fetal position. Even breathing took an unrealistic amount of effort.

He had no sense of time and hardly a sense of place by the time Skal knelt beside him. "Saalle must be prepared. T'Mir will hold the ceremony at her home just after dawn. Then we will leave you."

The information and sentences were simple enough that even Taurik could understand them.

He shivered at the thought of Saalle's preparations, and wondered if she was as scared as he was. He could become thoughtless, perhaps even violent—but perhaps not. Probably not. He had come home quickly.

"And if she rejects me…?"

If she rejected him, he could only crawl back to his parents, begging their help to find him a new mate. Inevitably someone who didn't know him, who didn't know he hadn't always been this way. He wasn't even sure what this way was, except that it was the source of an untenable amount of shame and sorrow.

"Then you will engage in the challenge with whatever representative she chooses," Skal said. "And you may be free for another seven years, should you triumph."

Taurik turned his eyes into the mattress. "I want to die."

"No, you don't. Not like this. Besides, if you wanted to die, Taurik, you would have already."

"Help me?" Taurik lifted his eyes to see Skal sitting next to him, on his feet, but not appearing at all shocked at what Taurik was asking.

"No." After a moment of consideration, Skal added, "Speak to me about this in thirty days."

Taurik thought that seemed fair, though he wasn't sure why. Everything about him was quivering and aching so he couldn't think of much else, except for Saalle. Though, he put her away in the corner of his mind to be attended to later. As Skal said, there was nothing he could do now.

That only left what he thought of all the time. "Where is Vorik? Why is he not here?"

"You are delirious. Be silent."

"I am not delirious," Taurik snapped, and covered his face with both hands. "I know he is dead. But he speaks to me. Why is he not here? Why has he not come home?"

"Taurik…"

"If he would come home…"

Skal laid one hand on the side of Taurik's neck, his fist against his chest, and held him to lie still. Not that Taurik willingly gave much resistance… "You must rest. Meditate. Focus. If Vorik's katra has found you, then let him be. The separation may be as painful for him as it is for you."

That hadn't occurred to him. Tears spilled, and he looked up at Skal. "You believe he is in pain?"

"I believe that, if you do not close your mind to him, Vorik feels what you feel. It will be as it always was," Skal said. The way he said it, so calmly, Taurik knew it had to be so. "Vorik would pinch his finger, and you would cry out. You would achieve something impressive, and Vorik would be proud. Even in death, he must still be with you in some part: you have the same soul."

"I don't believe in souls."

Skal sighed. "Until presented with a third option as viable, you are either delirious, or you believe in souls. Choose."

Of course, he believed in souls. He thought he hadn't before. At least, he thought not. He believed he could have absorbed Vorik's memories had they been in physical proximity, and, in a way, he would not be lost. At least, not until he was obliged to let a priest take them. He would have wanted to die then, too.

But that hadn't happened.

Instead, he'd died alone and suddenly on the other side of the quadrant, and Taurik could still feel him in the silence, despite the dizzying break. He wasn't completely gone. It was the only explanation he'd found so far.

Still, "To die would be easier."

"It would be a waste."

"I would possess first-hand knowledge on the non-corporeal existence of katra, then."

"So you would." Taurik couldn't tell if Skal was just patronizing him, now. Perhaps it was the prerogative of older brothers… "You may haunt me with the knowledge if provided the opportunity in the future. Now be still and focus. Do you see the flame?"

Taurik nodded, envisioning the suns and the stars visible at night from his window in a home he couldn't remember reflected in the small candle of his lamp—himself. His mind. "I see it."

"Meditate. Find what remains of your thoughts and hold them still."

Though it took an incredible effort, Taurik eventually calmed.

He wasn't so far gone that he couldn't see how irrationally he was behaving.

The aimless impatience was the worst of it. He folded it up and put it aside. Anxiety wouldn't bend time to its will: Saalle would be ready when she was ready.

If she rejected him, worrying about it now was hardly constructive.

She would be correct to reject him. He'd not attended to their bond as he should have in the past year. Sometimes, he'd ignored her completely. He'd spoken to her, yes, normally and on schedule, but what did she care for words? He'd made only errors in their relationship, and now he would see the consequences of those decisions.

It was logical that an action or inaction should have a reaction.

Skal sat beside him through the afternoon, and when the suns fell behind the mountains he was still there. Taurik didn't know how he was so silent, except for the shimmering of their weak familial bond. A brief examination, and Taurik realized Skal was, somehow, holding him together mentally, as glue in a shattered vase or bandages on a shredded wound. Skal was so calm and composed, Taurik thought Skal must have known something that Taurik didn't know.

Of course, he did. At this moment, it seemed Taurik knew nothing.

"Skal?"

"Do not speak."

He was probably right about that, too.

Hours passed, and the pounding in his head grew more severe. The ache spread through his bones, settling and filling him up. Two days ago, he had surpassed the worst pain he'd ever endured.

Skal pulled him up from the bed before the suns rose again, dressed him in loose-fitting robes when he couldn't do it himself.

Skal took him from the house. Taurik didn't know where.

The pain landed in his hands to hold, his head to dwell upon, and the length of his spine to replace all other senses he had. His body felt swollen and hot and it would not stop. It might never stop.

As he stood in the garden of rocks and plinths waiting for something to happen, he knew for certain he'd never been more afraid. A darkness impossible to understand had been creeping in on his vision for what felt like his entire life.

He didn't know how he knew Saalle came out, but somehow he knew.

Shapes bent and sound distorted. He had never been so afraid, and of so many things he could hardly catalogue them. This situation would be harrowing enough with Saalle—he knew her, and she him. She knew he wasn't ordinarily the wild animal he would become; he was normally not like this.

He didn't know what he normally was, anymore. Perhaps, he was not what he had been. Not who she remembered.

But he was not this.

He kept his eyes on the ground, listening to whatever words were being said without paying attention. He knew the prescribed words, anyway; they didn't matter. They were old and stale, unlike his boiling blood, vibrant and barbed.

More than anything else, he knew he must not look at her. He didn't know what he would do if he did.

Taurik heard her voice, and felt her in his mind. She said his name.

"Saalle," he returned. There were words he was supposed to say, and he knew them as if they'd been written on his fingers. "Parted from me and never parted, never and always touching and touched. We meet here in this place."

He glanced up only long enough to see Saalle nod softly. "I await you."

T'Mir intoned in words so ancient and a grammar so foreign, he would have taken days to untangle it if he weren't suddenly so… so distracted. Something smelled sweet and dusty.

Something felt hot and coarse.

Something tasted like sweat and like thirst.

Something sounded like a gong, and he nearly fell to the ground in relief. He wasn't sure why.

"She has accepted him," T'Mir said. "This is our way. Go, now."

Saalle walked ahead of him into the familiar house. He could see her, now. Saalle was dressed in a dove gray robes, her obsidian hair untidy as it always was. She was, somehow, all he could see until he found himself shut in a room lit only by lamps and candles, and she knelt on the floor.

"Come," she said, and waved him closer.

He shook his head, even though to get closer was all he wanted. But he wasn't so far gone yet. At least, he hoped not.

Either that, or he was.

He shook his head again. "I am afraid."

"I know." Saalle settled, patted the floor before her. "Come. Complete our Bond."

Taurik dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor, and accepted the intense regret and dread of the rightful consequences for what they were. "Forgive me, Saalle."

He could only hear her breathing, as if shocked at his behavior or disdainful of his regret.

"I have taken for granted your kindness in accepting me even this way, and I've presumed on your patience in hiding myself from you. It wasn't my right, but…" But, nothing. She wouldn't care for excuses. "Please, do not turn me away."

"Taurik."

"My life is in your hands, Saalle."

He hadn't noticed she crossed the room, her slippered feet on the floor before him. He carefully lifted his fingers in the thought to touch them, but if he took her when she was unwilling, if he hurt her—that would be a shame he couldn't bear.

He would not touch her.

Instead, he pressed his palms to the back of his head and tried, only, to breathe.

With a sigh, she knelt before him. Her hands on his shoulders shook his very bones. "You may be still possessed of your will, but your reasoning has fled you." He shivered when he felt her breath on his ear. "We will talk later."

"You are very wise," he said into the floor. 

"I am very… unaffected," she said, as if a correction. "Rise. Complete our Bond."

With a trembling breath, he pressed up from the floor and looked into her eyes. He suddenly remembered.

She'd accepted him.

They'd been left here in this place together.

She pressed her fingertips to his shoulders, and came close enough to touch.

He hadn't been thinking.

He lifted his shaking hands, but pulled back. Averted his eyes for fear she would see how desperate he was. How afraid. How mortified, because soon she would know. She would share his fire and insanity, and she would know everything. Part of him still didn't want to make her feel this frantic and out of control, part of him still didn't want her to see.

The overwhelming emotion and physical perceptions already crawled across his mind like a legion of ants let loose in a maze—scattered and confused and hunting frantically for something he did not want to find.

"I'm afraid," he whispered, again.

She slid closer, resting her palm against his cheek, and his heart flew up into his ribcage only to find there was less escape there. "To delay will only make it worse," she said, and took his hands in hers. Her palms were as lighted coals against the backs of his fingers, but he realized she, also, held back her fear. "You will challenge no one except me today."

Chapter Text

It was with great relief that Taurik realized it was over.

He would still have some symptoms of the pon farr for days, yet, but the worst of it was over. He felt now his mind returned to him as if the past few days and hours had only been a dream.

He was in Saalle's bed on the floor near the back wall of the house, under the thin summertime sheets, with the late morning sunlight spilling across the wall. The domed house was a more characteristic one-room dwelling than Skal's, though the layout was similar. The kitchen was near to the front of the house, and a bench for visitors and a comfortable chair faced it. The place decorated with curtains, glass, and filigree; and the space smelled of hot, clean dust. Dust and heather and the resin of sandalwood.

Their sense of decoration was as opposite as possible: he, almost ascetic; and she, almost luxurious.

He could get used to the thick carpet pile, the hanging glass curtains along the walls catching the sunlight. The pillows surrounding him and the curtains draping the bed, though disheveled, were comfortable… obscuring. Though he knew there was nothing else in the room outside the bed, he still felt the need to hide.

Saalle laid beside him, dressed in a purple robe, silk and tied. She opened her eyes, perhaps in response to his wandering thoughts. "Awake, I see."

"How long have I been here?"

"You came here yesterday morning, and were finished by afternoon. You've mostly slept since."

He didn't remember that, but he could sense her impressions of it. He saw the brief memory of weeping into her hair, inconsolable until she told him he hadn't hurt her. He could sense her trying to hold some of it back from him.

A very strong sense. He hadn't felt this close to someone in… a very long time.

It was different, so very different.

He knew he could remember, if he tried… He didn't. It wasn't pleasant. Nothing about it had been. The pain had been overwhelming and indistinct until it wasn't, the compulsion wild and clear. He'd been lucid enough to be afraid, but not enough to restrain himself. Not after he completed the telepathic mating bond—he'd never felt a tie so tight. A desire so strong. He knew he fought it, but had lost in the end.

"I'm sorry."

"Do not be. It has only ever been together that we could endure this. It's how it must be."

Still… he only wanted to apologize now. What had she endured just so that he could live? So he could live like this.

"I am ashamed."

"You did what was required of you," she said.

He brushed her cheek with his fingers, the brief contact enough to remind him he didn't need to touch her in order to feel her thoughts. "I remember waking," he said. "You gave me food." Cactus leaves and flowers, bread made from the most familiar red and black and yellow grains grown in the plains, fruits of the mos-nei and shek-tukh pods and other foods he once considered common but now seemed like delicacies.

"You awoke three times, though I think you weren't strictly conscious. You were particularly concerned about the ornamentation." She looked around at the sculptures and a painting of the sea on the wall. "I didn't realize how irritating it is to you."

He looked around the room again. They were ostentatiously appointed, but almost anything seemed like that with his sense of aesthetic. "It's unfamiliar," he said. "If I am irritated by it, I seem to have unconsciously put it away now."

"Your quarters on the Ramsar are decorated," she said, almost as if accusation. "That must be the doing of your Human roommate."

"Yes. Sam."

"Lieutenant Lavelle." She brushed his hair from his forehead. "You must be constantly irritated."

"If I am, I am unaware." He waited for her to say something else, but nothing new appeared. "You still wish to come with me?" he asked quietly. Whatever her answer, he could bear it.

"Most planets possess the base elements of my study, and the Ramsar holds a complement for scientific research." Her fingers twisted some of his hair between them. "It houses a geology lab, as the normal course of its duties is ideal for planetary surveys."

"Yes. However, that didn't answer my question."

With a considering sigh, Saalle ran her fingers through his hair. He had no idea why it should be so pleasant, and closed his eyes for a moment.

"I have known since we were young that you planned to go into Starfleet," she said. "I made plans in anticipation of a variable life. I believed I would join you on your starships before you pursue whatever shipyard most intrigues you if we chose to live together. Which, I believe we have."

They had, but that was before… The Enterprise housed both crew and their families, and so did the Sadalbari. As a heavy cruiser, the Ramsar was slightly more complicated, but, if she were approved as a civilian scientist, Saalle could accompany him if she wished.

If she wished…

He touched her chin for a moment as a flood of her affection seemed to bury him. "Your plans seem to have been quite sensible."

"It was logical."

She had been so patient. And understanding.

Saalle brought him a distinct familiarity, a dark maroon, unlike the rest of his highly-saturated family. Rich in depth and feeling. There was so much more yet to know, but their lifetime of association had prepared them for a commitment to study each other, appreciate each other, and support each other. Not all married couples did, but it was a usual hope. Common to make an attempt.

"I will expect some compromises," she said after a moment. "Such as more honesty than that you've given me these past months."

Taurik shifted to look at her directly. "I can't have been dishonest. If I have, it was not my intention."

"You've never lied," she said. "You've withheld the truth. You've withheld yourself."

Yes… he'd begged her forgiveness for that. He meant it then as much as he felt it now. Perhaps now, the feeling was only more acute. He wasn't sure what he should have done, but he should have worked harder. Perhaps he could have pruned the darkness surrounding Vorik's death and let her in. He could have shut it away long enough and securely enough to visit.

"I've known you were… suffering," she continued in a whisper, as though even only words might hurt him. "Since Vorik's death. Even now, even as we are so close… you hold me away from it. You haven't been the same."

He let his gaze redirect to the ceiling. Everyone who had known him before had finally ceased to be concerned. So normal had adapted. He had never grown past it; he had only grown with it.

"It seems… I'm not the same," he said softly. "Coping with his death was extremely difficult—even now, in some ways. I will attend to it more closely, and to you. I shouldn't trouble you with an unsolvable problem."

"I don't intend to solve the problem," she said, and moved her hand onto his bare chest. "I intend to share it. I am your wife. Last night I saw only the edges of it, but… it is unavoidable…"

Taurik closed his eyes, and sighed. "His death touches everything. I cannot pass a single day without thinking about him." Even these past few days, when his thoughts were so thoroughly dominated by other matters—he was in a cup of tea or the patter of sand on the windows or the eyes that met his in the dim reflection of a console. He was in wishes and waiting, in fear and content. It was only ever for a moment anymore, but the moment was always there.

He opened his eyes again to find her looking down at him in concern. "I have managed for fifteen months now," he added, a bit hopefully. Four-hundred fifty-three days. "I have adapted."

"You held this back from me," she said, her tone a light accusation. More hurt than anger. "That is not what we promised." She seemed to think about that for some time, since he had nothing to say about that, her fingers lightly dancing where they rested. "Perhaps it would be best if you stay on Vulcan for a time, if you study with a master."

Taurik shook his head and closed his eyes, hoping the conversation wasn't going where he feared it was. "Like I am a child again? Or as if I am in rebellion?"

She sighed. "You believe you are broken. Perhaps you could even heal."

And even still, he wasn't sure he wanted even that. He had lapsed the habit of wishing Vorik good morning, but, with few exceptions, he'd never stopped saying good night. He'd yielded to the emotional impulse every day for a long time—and he planned to continue for as long as he lived. He'd already decided that even if the recollection was only pain, he would endure it. Anything else would be intolerable.

"You think it would be worse to heal?" she asked after a moment. "How is that logical?"

"It is not." He rested an arm over his eyes. "Why would you expect something as ordered as logic to result from a random and meaningless death? That is illogical."

He didn't realize he'd thought it so often that it had become a part of him. So much for the allowance of only one evidence of pervasive illogic… Still, he couldn't find the answer. It wasn't because he hadn't looked. He'd spent uncountable hours in meditation, logically rearranging the knot of chaos at the center of the universe to find any reason to respond with equanimity, with composed stillness to his brother's death.

Saalle didn't respond for a while. The only thing he felt was a tender concern. He didn't know why that was so surprising. Finally, she spoke again. "If you think about him every day, then that is your life. And your life is mine now. So show me." Saalle pulled his arm back to see into his eyes. "Show me what my life is."

He shook his head again. Leave me alone.

She brushed his hair from his forehead, her fingers resting lightly in a gentle request to enter. "Please, Taurik," she whispered.

She didn't have to say anything; he needed only to let her in.

So, with the weight of resignation, he opened the door he'd kept closed.

The space that he and Vorik used to share was once a seamless transition in Taurik's blue and Vorik's gold—not blended, but distinct and in unity. Between them was a line he could never find. Two were one: a harmony more perfect than any other meeting of minds. Even when divided, they yielded the same result.

There was a word for it, an ideal, a philosophy that he could no longer think or say without feeling an irrational anger. The two had divided, and become less than one.

Now there was a clear and ragged edge where there had once been no distinction. That space was a roiling tar pit, still angry and painful to the touch despite the time. Though more than a year had passed, he was still discovering scarred silhouettes of Vorik, things he'd once considered his that never were—and always were, because they were one.

He felt Saalle's secondhand sorrow, and regretted having shown her.

"Taurik," she whispered when she felt him pull back. Please, show me.

No clear memories persisted of the darkest days after that. Only that they were pitch black and cold like a cavern deep underground, misty with pain and indistinct with time. The guilt that he hadn't turned down the Enterprise to be with him, the grief at the constant awareness that he would never see or speak to him again, and, perhaps worst of all, the anger at Vorik for dying.

He no longer felt shame, even though she could hear the screams and see the tears.

Saalle shook her head, wondering with a trained distance how he had survived this alone.

He hadn't. He showed her the lamps that lit the trail. Gabi and her irresistible lack of social boundaries. Sam and his supportive brotherhood. His work and colleagues on the Enterprise lent the barest structure until he found what remained of himself. Even Saalle had been there in ways she probably didn't realize. She sometimes felt like his only connection to the world—the real world, not the surreal life of aliens and empty space that he had with Starfleet.

Nothing would repair that sharp boundary, and nothing would return what he'd lost, but he had grown impatient and even become accustomed to the anger directed toward that stark line between himself and nothing.

He was once so much more.

Taurik pressed Saalle away, exhausted. It had been a long time since he went back that far. "There is nothing else." He kept his tone low to hide the emotion quavering beneath the surface. He didn't know why he bothered—she could feel it.

She raised his hand to press her lips against his fingers. "If you had shared this with me…"

He rested his hand on the back of her head. "I…" He hesitated to decide which truth to tell. "I did not wish to concern you," he said after a moment. "I have adjusted. This is who I am. I'm sorry if you feel I've misled you. Or if you're disappointed."

"I could not be disappointed with you."

However unlikely that seemed, it was even more implausible she should lie. More than anything at the moment, he wished to thank her for her attentiveness. For her understanding. For her patience. Now, she owed him these things, as his wife, just as he owed her; to thank her for them was illogical. Sentimental. Of course, in his condition, and for the next few days, sentiment was more permissible than at any other time.

"Would that you must never be."

She pressed up from the mattress. He tried to rise beside her, but she pushed him back down and hovered over him. "Now we are one."

He frowned. "Now we are?" He restrained himself from asking about the past nearly-twenty years of the distant telepathic dance of leaving and returning. Despite their years of physical separation and the tumult of disastrous uncertainty the day before, he somehow felt he'd come home. She felt a wholeness she'd never felt before.

He felt a wholeness. A harmony, fledgling and untested promising unity.

Two had become one. He didn't realize until just now that he felt it, too.

It wasn't the same, of course. This was a different whole of which he'd become a part. But, somehow, in her presence, with her mind, he was one of two, part of a whole, not less than half of what he'd been. He felt his breath quiver for the realization as much as for her body coming to rest against his. He sighed, shut his eyes, and felt more fully her hands beneath his back and her hair flowing off her shoulder to brush against his cheek.

She kissed his jaw, then his cheek, then his temple with an implicit plea sparking a deep maroon over his consciousness. "Unless," she said, "you have something more to show me?"

Just when he'd thought there couldn't be more, he realized there always would be.  He opened his eyes again, and found her there. "Are you certain?" he asked. It wasn't need. It could not be. The fever had purged and the dust had cleared.

It was only desire. A desire he'd controlled his entire life.

Of course, now he didn't need to. "I've been waiting for you since you arrived," she said.

"Then, yes. Yes, I do."

All sense of place and person fell from existence until only that one remained. The line between Saalle and himself blurred until he could neither see nor feel it.

#

Taurik looked at the small gate for almost a whole minute. The neighboring houses were just as familiar as the succulents in the garden. He had the thought to leave now and go back to Skal's house, as he'd done the day before waiting for Saalle to return from her work. She had stayed with him for four days, and her transfer to the Ramsar required attention. He also needed to go outside.

He might simply go back, now.

Most of the people that lived here were their relatives. Cousins lived on the same streets, though their relation was distant enough there wasn't a Human word for it. He saw faces he didn't recognize, but somehow was able to label them as a cousin or distantly-related aunt.

Saalle lived in one of the buildings in her parents' walled compound just outside town. Though Taurik's family was unimportant and relatively small, in their own world they had just as many names of honor and places of importance as a family of ambassadors, if only to themselves. They lived in the mountains for generations where they pulled the lives from those rocks. Once, they had been rich and important, before other planets made their mineral deposits mere slivers. Their precious stones were less precious: such crystalline lattices were formed the same way, with time and pressure. His family had formed in much the same way as his father's mother's had, back a thousand generations.

Time and pressure. Their miners and cutters had become geological analysts and crystallographers.

This outing might only be called a long walk.

His time with Skal yesterday had been beneficial, he thought, for both of them… though he doubted that could be replicated. Skal was essentially solitary, and Taurik's presence, their discussion of marriage and death seemed to have exhausted Skal. Nevertheless, the warmth and gratefulness in their familial bond in sharing their grief for Vorik's loss had been clear. Skal even told Taurik to return to visit the next time he came to Vulcan.

Taurik could think of no more polite way to tell him not to return soon.

Now he'd come all this way with the intention to see his mother. His sister. His home.

The last time he'd been here, he was with Vorik. They'd learned almost everything here, from calculus to rock-climbing. He learned to restrain the animal until it tamed. He learned his natural inclinations were not who he was—he learned to choose what he thought and what he felt until those things became true.

They'd plotted their course to the stars here.

He pushed in the gate and walked up to the front door. It, like all the other buildings in the area, was white, the doors and cobbled pathways red like the landscape and the sky. He pressed his thumb over the call button and waited.

He thought his mother would answer, unless she was working. His sister might answer… if he knew his family's schedule, he would have arranged it so that would be the case.

When the door opened, his mother stood before him in hooded gray robes with a long shawl and lace veil. She'd been wearing something very like this when he was here last… years ago. So many years now, it seemed like someone else's life.

"Taurik."

"Mother."

She looked at him, finally stepped aside to allow him entrance. "It consoles me to see you," she said, and seemed to search for words as he walked past. "To see you well. It's been three years."

Taurik nodded, didn't answer as he looked around.

The decoration had not changed. The same pictures hung on the walls and in the hallways. Curtains were held aside from the windows by strings of glass beads. Wisps of incense curled over the low tables, and next to one of them a small holocube that Taurik knew without turning it on was a portrait of Vorik—probably his comprehensive Starfleet Academy ID photo. Some of the pillows had been replaced. He knew from his last visit with Vorik the year before he died that the room they had occupied as children had been transformed into a study room for their younger sister.

"I regret any… disturbance I may have caused by my absence." It was true, though coming back after Vorik's death would have been detrimental. He did not regret staying away.

"It does seem at times I lost two sons that day."

He waited for an invitation to sit he wasn't sure he was going to get. He wasn't even sure he wanted it. Regardless of whether he received an invitation, there didn't seem much to say to that besides another apology. He wasn't sure why, but he decided to try it.

"The pain enduring the death of a son must have been immense," he offered, and considered. "I was unable to offer any support, so I thought it unwise to return home."

"You always do what you think best." It sounded like an accusation that she hadn't quite finished. She always had more to say.

Mother stood a bit taller, gestured to a seat at the table where he'd eaten thousands of meals. As he approached, she reached out one hand toward his face, and he thought he might have flinched. Two of her fingers touched his temple, her palm brushing his cheek. "You seem… well. Different."

"I am. Both."

With that brief touch, her familiar stability seemed to prop up the entire house. Even his father sat beneath her pillar of emotional well-being, and she was much the same now even after enduring the death of a son. Unsurprisingly, he could detect the impact of Vorik's loss, but she had only become more impassive and stalwart as consequence.

His sudden arrival at her door was jarring. Or, perhaps less than his coming was simply his being. He and Vorik were identical in more ways than mere appearance—but no one in their family had experienced seeing or feeling one of them without the other in close proximity: it was impossible. He could only imagine the wrongness she might feel in their bond, in his missing half the light that comprised his soul. To simply know it would be missing was unlike seeing how different he was without it.

She was shocked at the difference. He had expected that. "As are you," he added.

"As you said, enduring an offspring's death was painful. Our family supported each other, and we found a new equilibrium." She watched him for a moment, seeming confused and concerned… But he only heard accusation when she spoke: "Without Vorik and without you."

"Do not imply I would have been welcomed or comforted." Taurik looked away toward the windows at the back of the house. "I would have come home if I thought it would have been beneficial for anybody…"

She whipped her hand back to her side just as Taurik could see the cracks in their tentative connection. "The loss of a child is never beneficial, Taurik. Nothing constructive can come from it."

She was angry. Taurik had never known her to be angry. Not with him, and not like this.

Mother frowned, searched his face, and finally shook her head. "Regardless, we have missed you. Would you have tea?"

He nodded, and sat. "Is T'Leall home?"

"She will return soon… She is attending classes," Mother answered. "Doing very well. We expect she may even obtain select seating in her medical fellowship. Though she is too early yet to select a specialty, she has shown great interest in osteopathy lately."

Taurik knew very little of medicine, despite Mother's career in it. He had no interest. Except if T'Leall was interested, he would want to know about it. "I am pleased she's found a topic that interests and challenges her."

Mother nodded, watching him as if from the top of a plateau. "Tell me of… of your work. And what brings you back to us."

Taurik took a small breath, pulling at the high collar that had become uncomfortable. "I plan to have full lieutenant next year," he said, which he knew meant little to her. "I intend to return to Earth for trainings to obtain credentials in starship design the following semester and be stationed at Utopia Planetia or other research and development laboratory the following year."

"You have many plans."

"It is why I joined Starfleet. I thought… you might be satisfied to know I've been successful."

"You could have stayed here."

He pressed his lips together and said the only thing that came to mind. "Almost all Vulcan shipyards are primarily staffed by former Starfleet officers and Academy graduates." Though, of course, Vulcan ships were a triumph of efficiency unparalleled in other starship designs. He would have found serving on a Vulcan science ship interesting—the challenges would have been different, and now he wondered if he should have.

But it was illogical to speculate that way. "We have talked about this and always come to the same conclusion."

"Of course. You always reach the same conclusion," she said and sat on the pillow across the table from him. She slid a teacup and saucer over the polished sandstone table to him.

Traditional white tea. She possibly didn't know Vorik's preference for adding lemon while at the Academy. Taurik had never liked lemon.

"Our not attending the Science Academy was logical."

"Logical?"

"Yes. Starfleet has the best engineering corps in two quadrants due to its academy and field training. Even Father agreed with that."

"You cannot deceive me with the deliberate misuse of Sokar's opinion."

Taurik shook his head. "I did not intend to imply we went with his approval. I'm simply pointing out that even Father knew, if we intended to receive the best training possible in our chosen paths, that the Academy was the best option. It was illogical to…"

He bit off his last words, and took a steadying breath. It was not his place to criticize his father this way, even if his response had clearly been illogical. Clearly in some ways outright emotional. It was illogical to overlook the entire existence of his youngest son simply because he didn't pursue the path he might have wished he would.

But he knew what he had to say. He put his palms on the table in front of him, a placating gesture of submission. "I apologize. I regret the rift between myself and my father."

Mother shook her head. "You have always been a headstrong, arrogant, and selfish boy. Your ordering of priorities never took your family into account."

He didn't know what to say to that, so he didn't. He looked down at the tea he wasn't going to drink and pondered what a mistake it had been to come here. He knew it would be, but hadn't expected the response to be this… violent.

"So you will go to Earth and make ships equipped with more phasers and photon torpedoes than sensors," Mother said, almost as if it were the next logical step in their conversation. Perhaps, to her, it was. He had ignored his father's desire that they stay on Vulcan… "Because that is what Starfleet is."

He lifted his hands, covered his face with them. He didn't expect her to be so direct, either. Certainly not this quickly. Didn't she see his regret the same way he saw her anger in that briefest touch before? "Mother."

"How many more do you expect to kill with your irresponsibility? And your pride?"

His hands were back on the table; he stood before he quite realized he'd made the decision to do so. "I apologize—I shouldn't have come."

"Why did you come?" Mother stood, too, more softly; her tone was stiff.

"I don't know." He wasn't sure he could have answered that ten minutes ago. He knew even less now. "I wanted to see you. It was an emotional impulse."

Mother watched him, almost impassive except for the heated inquiry. He went toward the door.

"Taurik, wait… wait for your sister." She sighed. She almost sounded apologetic. "I know you came to see her. She will be… she would see you."

He hesitated, hovered by the door before it opened for him. "She cannot wish to see me. I am responsible for her brother's death. Surely, she thinks of me in much the same way."

"She is… compassionate."

"Like Vorik?" Taurik looked over his shoulder to see her shrivel ever so slightly… "I will send her a message. I will have time to see her before I go, should she be amenable."

Taurik turned back to the door, but Mother spoke again. "What was that emotional impulse? Did you come to torment me with the face of my lost son?"

"Forgive me, Mother." Taurik went outside, and the door shut behind him.

In the hot summer suns he nearly trembled with rage and regret, and barely withheld himself from running to the gate. The door opened again, and he could feel his mother's eyes on him. He didn't look back, and she said nothing as he let the gate fall closed behind him.

He made it to the end of the street before he ran.

He didn't know where he was going until he reached the bank of a broad and shallow river just over five kilometers away, panting and tired and sore. It had been almost a decade since he and Vorik were last here, and he could still sense their footprints in the red sand. He dropped to his knees from the exhaustion. His barely-contained scream was from something else.

Partially due to his continued inability to reason. At the end of his time, he would look back on his visit home as having been illogical from inception.

The water gurgled pleasantly with the reminder of a hundred days in the light and escape from the persistent logic of priorities so different from his own…

Taurik didn't know for certain whether those priorities were so different from Vorik's, though. Vorik was… like this river. He was even-tempered and agreeable; he might have never left Vulcan if Taurik hadn't wanted something else as much as he did. Taurik was… headstrong. Arrogant. And selfish. He didn't remember ever asking Vorik what he wanted.

Vorik would have followed him anywhere. Didn't Vorik know the same was true of him?

Taurik would have stayed on Vulcan if that was what Vorik had wanted. But they talked about leaving all the time. Or was it only Taurik?

He must have asked, but…

But he could not remember.

Taurik turned toward the infrequent feeling that Vorik was still with him and asked, knowing he'd receive no answer. Had he ever asked? Was Vorik doing what he'd wanted, or what Taurik had?

Taurik carefully sat, drawing his knees up to wrap his arms around them comfortably, and went back to that place on the edge of himself.

Vorik was the compassionate and caring one. Taurik was sarcastic, and used to being penitent for it largely because of Vorik. Taurik was ambitious, while Vorik valued modesty in both temperament and accomplishment. He was optimistic, but Taurik was too practical for that.

Without him, Taurik didn't know what he was. He hadn't noticed any measurable outcome from what felt like a shorter temper, but he didn't doubt he would. And because he wasn't compassionate enough, he might not even think to apologize for it. He would forget how to be modest, and how to apologize.

The idea that he might forget who he had been with Vorik in a hundred years was unbearable. The reality that he would likely one day be unable to recall his voice without a recording to aid him was inevitable. He lost his lamp already, and that was of no consequence…

"Brother?"

Taurik sat, turning toward the sound of T'Leall's voice, surprised she was here as much as that he'd somehow laid down. Somehow fallen asleep in the sunlight. She knelt in the sand a meter away, dressed in casual beige robes tied with a dark blue sash.

"T'Leall."

She tilted her head, and still looked like a child at nineteen. "What are you doing?"

He looked at the suns to see it was only approximately thirty-seven minutes past apogee based on the time of year. He still had hours. "Waiting for Saalle to return home."

T'Leall slid closer on her knees. "You have fulfilled your Bond with her, then?"

"Yes."

She nodded a demure and curious acknowledgement, perhaps because Skal hadn't informed the family, and he could feel the pluck of the string between them.

He watched her for a moment, and she, him. He couldn't tell whether she was pleased to see him or not. She must have come from speaking to their mother. When it became obvious she had nothing to say, he realized once again they were sitting by a river five kilometers from home.

"I see my choice in location was predictable."

"I always wanted to accompany you and Vorik when you would come here," she said, and turned her gaze about the distant red canyon walls. "I often followed you when I was old enough to keep pace."

Often? "I was… unaware." In retrospect, he supposed he regretted that. Bonds between siblings were usually less significant than that he shared with Vorik, especially at his age. "I regret if we unintentionally communicated you were unwelcome."

"At times, you intentionally communicated that," she said.

"I apologize."

"I never held any bitterness."

Then, perhaps, she was the only one… "Mother told you I came to the house."

T'Leall seemed to consider that as she settled more securely, shifting to cross her legs instead of sitting on her heels. She was always settled. Not nearly as stormily-tempered. She reminded him of Vorik in some ways, except she was more pragmatic than compassionate. "Mother is unwell."

Taurik wasn't sure how that followed, except that she'd clearly been negatively impacted by his visit. He didn't get to ask before T'Leall explained.

"Her moods are quite… destructive. When I returned from classes," she said, and paused. Seemed to think about how to phrase what she was about to say. "She was crying."

The surprise was nearly a physical response. "She—?" he asked, before realizing repetition of what he'd heard would explain nothing. "How is that possible?" Not that he had been any better… except recently. Recently, he had been much better.

Seeing Taurik at all would force the loss back to the surface, remind everyone of the pain that may have become more distant for some of them. He couldn't avoid that. "I shouldn't have returned."

"Your appearance may have triggered this latest response, but it isn't new. I have tried to tell her she must seek help, but you know..." T'Leall looked off in the direction of the village and shrugged helplessly. "You know her."

She was proud. Unaccustomed to needing help at all, and certainly not with her emotional control. "Perhaps," he said, though he doubted that would have helped. "I thought my presence would only intensify the loss."

"I believe you are correct," she said, impassively. So impassively that Taurik couldn't be hurt for it. She took a small breath and shook her head. "Mother is not angry with you."

"She certainly seems to be."

"She is angry with herself. And with father." She crawled forward then, knelt with her knees touching his. "May I share your grief?"

Taurik eyed her. "You assume I've not adapted?"

"Adaption is an increase in capacity to live in a new situation. Grief… is a new situation. It doesn't seem to have an end. At least not that I see," she added with a demure shrug. "I'm told I'm still too young and inexperienced to know."

He sighed. Nodded. "Perhaps we both are."

"Our home is not what you remember," she said, and seemed almost annoyed by it. "Mother is volatile, and Father… has been behaving illogically as long as I've known him. I have designed to obtain kolinahr within the next ten years—perhaps the rest of you would be benefitted to follow me one day."

"That seems drastic." And, he wanted to say, unlikely. But she was an adult, capable of her own decisions, and she would choose when the time came. In the meantime, increasing capacity for mental control was an avenue rarely pursued by their progenitors due to apparently genetic lower-than-average natural aptitude.

His prediction now would only seem… discouraging. He tucked the thought into a small corner of his mind and quickly forgot about it.

"So does grief." She looked at him for several seconds, and offered, "Which, I would have willingly shared yours with you had you come home before. All of us would have." That nearly went without saying, though with the added caveat that he doubted the outcome would be favorable for him, personally. She went on in a whisper, "I was… I thought we might lose you, too."

"Mother exaggerated the danger."

"I have since realized." She cleared her throat and lifted her hands. She looked into his eyes. "May I?"

Requesting verbal consent before a meld was a habit he was pleased to see T'Leall adopted. Not many Vulcans did as common practice, due to obtaining implicit consent in a meld's earliest stage. However, not many Vulcans were as inextricably connected as he and Vorik were. Whatever privacy they could hide in had to be sacred between them, and the agreement to consent externally had carried to their family members when they were still young.

T'Leall, as the youngest, had never known any other way.

To be asked in voice instead of thought felt like home in a way no other sensation could.

He nodded, and she pressed her fingertips to his cheeks and temple, whispering the words he hadn't heard in what felt like a lifetime; he did the same and echoed the response. As with his mother, his telepathic connection with T'Leall was familiar, and she probably didn't need to use the words to focus her mind to his despite their natural distance—he certainly hadn't needed to.

T'Leall was the sunniest orange. He'd never seen the precise color of her psyche naturally on any planet he'd visited. The closest he could compare it to was a Vulcan spring sky.

As he'd expected to find, she was a calm river moving across his own sapphire blue landscape. He'd not anticipated how calming the presence of family could have been—if he'd just come home when things were at their worst, he might have been alright.

Or perhaps not, since he could already see a darkness T'Leall held back from him.

How different you are… T'Leall observed from a close distance.

And you are the same. There was a comfort in that, and she was pleased.

You're so… She wasn't entirely pleased, of course. She was distressed. Fractured, she finally decided, as if she'd found the jagged edges where pieces of his soul had been ripped off.

And yet whole, he offered. There's no reason for concern...

Her designs toward purging all emotion had muted most of her responses, though her training couldn't have started in earnest yet. Even as she studied his intense emotions of his past year, he found her silent dedication and distant concern for their parents' irrational behavior admirable. It must have been difficult for her, and he was proud of the way she'd grown through this pain. That pleased her, too.

Still, his experiences evidently distressed her. Perhaps as much as finding their mother in emotional shambles this afternoon—which he now knew had amounted to one or two tears hastily brushed away. That was nothing, and she now knew, too. She promised to keep Taurik's breakdown from their parents, though he hadn't asked.

 After a few moments of mental alignment, "catching up," as a Human would say, she shared the difficulty of the past two years where Vorik was concerned. How deeply troubled she was that he would never send her another message—which he had once done twice monthly. Taurik was only tangentially aware of that then, and had forgotten about it completely until she reminded him. She was hurt that Taurik chose to remain on the Enterprise, and had felt alone in her concern for him specifically.

Because there was that dark corner she wasn't letting him see.

I doubt what you're hiding could hurt me more than Vorik's death has.

It's not mine to share, she said of that shrouded memory. He could see it had occurred some weeks after Vorik's death, when his family was still sending him messages to return home. She had been afraid she would never see Taurik again, either, and he regretted that. He could see she had been eating at the time—flat cakes. It was breakfast.

Do not pry. It's not constructive.

All the same, it seemed he should know if it was about him…Whatever it is troubles you greatly. Perhaps if you share it, you could let it go. He turned away from the memory, anyway, because she'd asked.

She seemed to consider that. I predict it would be more injurious to you than holding it is to me.

He doubted that

In response, she showed him the cracks in his ability to check certain emotions even now. It was easy for her to see the crushing depression he'd since dealt with, pressed away whenever it resurfaced and simply returned to work. Since these emotions could not be set aside with any permanence, he'd settled for no longer trying to move beyond them—but he'd succeeded with suppressing external reaction. Success was more important under these circumstances.

She pointed out he was still imbalanced.

He pointed out he was missing half of his whole: she was reproving a one-legged man for limping.

With a regretful acknowledgement, she apologized.

Despite the passing of time, time each of them had taken to manage their brother's death in their own way, they could still grieve together. They shared brighter memories of Vorik, and the instances in every-day life they would have preferred to share with him. The small, pointless things that reminded them of him, like the colors in a sand dune or certain types of tea. Despite T'Leall's carefully-controlled reactions and study toward removing her emotions entirely, his sorrow seemed something she had always been prepared to share. To Taurik's surprise, T'Leall even put aside her control and wept within with him.

Perhaps he should have come home…

Taurik apologized for having stayed away for so long, and T'Leall assured him that he'd made the right decision by her estimation.

There was still that dark corner.

I have no intention of returning home, he offered, and she knew he meant ever. Whatever the thought was wouldn't affect him, because he would never again see the one who thought it.

That seems wise to me. At least, not until Mother has found a way to cope with her difficulties.

Is her health in danger?

No. At least, I think not right now. Her reaction to Vorik's death has been inapplicable, and… she is ashamed. She has fixated on one unexamined thought I believe she doesn't truly hold, but it consumes her.

Taurik broke their connection, sliding away from her as she opened her eyes in confusion. "I know." At least, he imagined he did. So he… guessed. "Mother wishes it had been me."

T'Leall nearly shrank back as he spoke, but didn't respond.

"It doesn't affect me. It's an impulsive thought I understand, at least."

"She even said it. Once, though she regretted it."

Taurik nodded. He understood that, too.

T'Leall reached for his arm, her fingers seizing on his sleeve. "This isn't constructive. I think she's disgusted she ever thought it. Ashamed. As she should be. I cannot imagine wishing…" She shut her eyes against the spiral of her own carefully contained emotion. "Such a thought is illogical beyond my ability to categorize. The notion of wishing to choose between you and Vorik is repulsive."

She looked up at him again, and, though he hadn't expected her to lie, he'd never seen her more sincere.

He pressed his palm to her shoulder. "I cannot say if her wish is sincere." He did wonder if she was ashamed she'd thought it at all—or ashamed she'd let her guard fall so far as to express it. Either seemed as likely. "It's inappropriate for me to judge her reaction. I do not know the pain of her loss."

"You do," T'Leall objected. "You objectively know more. I've seen both."

"Our connection yields clarity, T'Leall, not identity."

The look T'Leall gave him encapsulated all the argument and condescension he would have expected of her when she was a child. She quickly willed her reaction away, but she still clearly thought she had the correct view.

"I cannot understand her pain as she feels it. Even if she were to share it with me in its entirety, I still only see from my own perspective, from my own ability to cope. Her ability to bear it is the only metric by which it can be measured—" At least—he hoped T'Leall understood. As if this type of pain was something that could be measured at all… What he meant was, "I have adapted."

"You have." T'Leall sighed. "And yet you still… limp. To borrow the metaphor."

"I always will. She will, as well. I cannot comprehend the grief in the death of a child." She still disagreed, still defiantly holding a place of superiority over his defense. "And neither can you," he added.

"And she cannot comprehend the pain of what you've lost."

He'd known for a very long time that Mother didn't understand him—however clearly she could see him and his mind. It only took him time to reason he didn't understand her, either.

"I cannot disregard the way she's treated you. And now the likelihood you will ever return home again is… small." T'Leall looked at him, obviously upset, and edged closer to him.

He looked toward Fisolekau T'Ha'sular, the tallest plateau in the canyon. "The last time I was here… I was with Vorik. Even if our parents welcomed me home, to be here is painful."

T'Leall pressed down on her knees as she looked at the sand around them and the washed-away footprints of two boys who no longer existed. "Father believes you never consider the family in your decisions. Only more so now that Vorik is gone. I cannot disagree."

Neither could Taurik. "Vorik was the even-tempered and agreeable one. And I have never been." If there were a choice between the two of them, it ought to have been straightforward, but there was nothing logical about the universe. At least, not this way.

T'Leall didn't respond for a while, then reached for his knee. "You always considered your family. But I think you only ever considered him. To reorder one's priorities is always difficult. Disruptive."

"My priorities have shifted once again," Taurik said. "And once again, they may not involve what he might deem important."

T'Leall nodded, and he felt her solid agreement with his assessment. He wasn't sure whether he should have considered her agreement weightier than anyone else in their family—she was extremely young and had the reasoning to show it. Still, she said, "I will remind them that your priorities have shifted. And they may again."

"I doubt they will ever align with his," Taurik said.

"Then perhaps Father's will align with yours."

Chapter Text

Saalle stepped into their new quarters on the Ramsar, and Taurik could feel her approval, her interest. "The quarters afforded an officer of your rank is much more spacious than I anticipated," she said, and put her bag on the couch along the wall.

"The double-occupancy quarters are more than twice the size of that for single-occupancy," he said, though she had only their messages during the few months he'd lived alone on the Enterprise to compare. "Though I'm unsure for what we could utilize the extra space," he said.

Saalle stepped back from her first look into the room on the right side of the main room. "It will be several years before we require a second room," she said, and he felt a spark of anticipation and desire in their Bond.

Their marriage was almost three weeks old now, and their Bond stronger and more transparent than he thought it might be in so little time. Though they couldn't converse in their minds without physical touch yet, he could nevertheless feel her constantly at this distance. Not every facet of her vast emotional landscape was obvious, but the most prominent features were as stark landmarks on his perception.

Taurik tried to restrain his anxiety before she could sense it. It was possible—though extremely rare—she hadn't conceived during their time, and she was illogically certain she could barely sense the development of a new life within her. A fetal brain would not be so developed for another five or six weeks.

Anyway, they had done nothing to prevent it. At some point in the past, which he was willfully not remembering exactly, they'd agreed.

He still approved of beginning a family at the first opportunity, but the immediacy had been less… immediate, then. He had no desire to wait another seven years. Though he envied very few things about them, the Human reproductive cycle was significantly more elastic. His own biology came with certain… benefits. That was not one of them.

A mild and faraway melancholy fell heavily on Saalle as she looked at the standard double bed inside the spare room. At least, Taurik thought it was the spare room. He always roomed on the left.

"I forget that Humans sleep off the floor."

"It is simple enough to remove the frame," Taurik said. He and Vorik both slept on the floor their first year at Starfleet Academy, even though there were no scorpions or alat to find shelter and cool in the dark spaces beneath rocky overhangs. It was a cultural habit, and harmless.

"It is illogical to maintain Vulcan evolutionary sensibilities in an enclosed and controlled environment." She looked at him, then. "I anticipate my sleep patterns will be disruptive to you shortly. Perhaps I will stay here while you occupy the other room."

Taurik glanced into the room and pushed away his disappointment. "If you wish."

"Of course, you may visit whenever you wish," she added. He was unsure if the touch to his neck was suggestive or only his response to it. He caught the shivering sensation before it bloomed.

With a small shrug, he said, "Then I fail to see the purpose."

It was strange to him that, not that long ago, his desire for physical intimacy was practically never on his mind. Any other thoughts to that end were suppressed, even comfortably.

To be so singly-minded seemed a thing of the past, at least for the time. Now, the desire for even physical proximity had required more attention than he'd anticipated—never mind sex. Perhaps maintaining separate living spaces would return his concentration to a more familiar state.

It was a hypothesis he had no desire to test.

Without making it clear what they'd decided, Saalle turned away from her amusement. "Is thirty degrees agreeable to you?"

"It is."

"And I have your consent to decorate?" Her interest and enjoyment of his mild discomfort was warm like a breeze in the early summer, just after the rains so it carried no sand.

"If you must," he said, and she apprehended a similar amusement from him.

He left her in the main room to decide what sculptures, paintings, and other items of no practical value to clutter the main room. Perhaps that could be the use for the second room…

Taurik arranged their clothing in the drawers of the bedroom they would share and stripped the bed of all but the sheets. Since he would not be rooming with a Human anymore, their quarters would be more comfortable in temperature and humidity. He could sense Saalle working in the next room: her sunny focus and cautious design. She was, he was flattered to realize, restraining her clutter for him.

Taurik was about to go join her when the communications console in the wall flashed at him. He went to stand before it, and accepted the message from Sam.

"Thanks for the warning, you son of a bitch. Also, congratulations." Sam threw a handful of flaky white material directly at the lens. They sounded like scattered beads when they hit the floor.

Taurik hesitated, and decided to ask. "What is it?"

"Rice."

Taurik stared, and Sam appeared less than pleased. "Were the rumors you spoke of before my leaving inadequate to prepare you for the practicalities of marriage?" When Sam didn't respond immediately, he added, "I am what you could call married now, in case that was unclear."

"I didn't know she'd be joining you on the Ramsar. And, no, the way you left didn't really prepare me for your hasty withdrawal from our room assignment a few days ago." Sam glared, and Taurik wasn't sure Sam had ever been this angry with him.

"I apologize for the oversight."

When Sam smiled, Taurik was only more confused. "But she's here now. Can I meet her?"

"The probability that you will is quite high," Taurik said.

"I mean now. Can I come meet her now? I happen to have your, uh…" Sam leaned forward, picked up a familiar meditation lamp, and presented it to the viewscreen. "Your lamp. A little scuffed, but I tried to clean it up." Sam proceeded to rub at the filigree with his thumb.

"How?" Taurik decided that mattered less than the fact that Sam somehow had the lamp he thought was destroyed in the Enterprise's crash. "Yes, bring it. I will introduce you formally."

"Should I change?" Sam looked down at his uniform.

Taurik wasn’t sure if he was joking, but he ended the call even though he suspected Sam would be irritated about that, too. Taurik went to join Saalle in the main room. She was staring at him when he entered, surprised and satisfied.

"What's happened?" she asked.

Taurik hadn't realized how delighted he was to find his old meditation lamp hadn't been lost, after all. "Sam is coming to offer greetings," he said, even though he was sure she'd know immediately that wasn't what he was so pleased about. "Probably congratulations."

"How… unnecessary."

"Most of the things Sam does are." He didn't mean for that to sound so ungenerous, so he added, "It is an appropriate Human ritual."

Taurik looked around the room, much as he'd left it except for the furniture wasn't in the same configuration as when he'd left. The couch had been moved, to allow for the low table to be pressed against the back wall.

He crossed the room to the table and picked up the photograph of himself and Vorik.

"I considered the service ID photo to be too… sterile," Saalle said. "Not representative of him. However, if you prefer the other, I will replace it."

Perhaps she was correct. Vorik's neutral expression as displayed for his service ID was, perhaps, not characteristic. This was a photograph of a trip they took three years ago: they had climbed a mountain three days' journey from home, their tents perched on a cliff's edge. The view of the high desert and more mountains in the distance had been expansive. This image was of himself and Vorik setting up their tents together, Vorik glancing up from his work once to look at whatever Taurik said about the attention Vorik was paying the anchor points. Taurik remembered his response.

If this were only your tent, I would not be as concerned about its collapsing, since that seems to be your goal. It didn't mean anything.

In the end, Taurik shook his head. "I prefer this." He put the picture back down, and it stilled.

With a sense of gloomy nostalgia, Saalle crossed the room to stand beside him. "I have many photographs of you together," she said. "I didn't realize."

He glanced at her. "You can hardly be parted from your holo-imager whenever you go out." It was, of course, something of an exaggeration. "How could you not realize?"

Saalle frowned as if offended, perhaps embarrassed, very briefly. "I realize I have many photos. Certainly more than necessary. I have recorded them myself, after all. I didn't realize how many I have of Vorik, specifically."

"I see."

Taurik didn't tell her he would like to see them. The door chimed, and Taurik called for Sam to enter. The door opened, and he and Saalle both turned.

"Well, don't you two make a nice couple?" Sam smiled, and set Taurik's meditation lamp aside on the table Saalle had moved to be within arm's reach of the door.

"Saalle, if I may introduce to you Lieutenant Sam Lavelle," Taurik said as if in introduction to Saalle, though she surely knew his name. "My friend. And, my wife, Saalle." Taurik hesitated to realize he'd not introduced her that way, yet. It was an illogically pleasant sensation.

Sam looked somewhat surprised, though Taurik couldn't decide why. "Saalle. I feel like I know you already," Sam said, and didn't extend his hand for one of the more-standard ritual Human greetings.

Saalle gave a demur nod. "And I, you, Lieutenant. Live long and prosper."

Sam glanced at Taurik. "Should I be concerned I've only heard you say that maybe three times?"

Taurik hesitated a moment in a flicker of disdainful amusement. "I was dissuaded of the habit at the Academy. Humans seem to find it either unreasonably amusing or intolerable." Before Sam could induce him by any means to offer the traditional greeting, he nodded at the table. "How did you come into possession of my lamp?"

"Oh." Sam spun to look at it. "They're apparently working on cleanup, and lots of personal effects are being discovered in the rubble. I had most of my stuff recycled, but most of yours wasn't replicated so…"

"That is correct."

"Anyway, when you couldn't be reached, I gave instructions to deliver all your stuff to me. Because we were still roommates. Until about a day ago." With that, he looked at Saalle. "This guy doesn't tell me anything."

Saalle was amused. "He also tells me very little."

Sam's eyebrows shot up in what seemed to be shock as much as enjoyment. "You know, I think we're gonna be friends."

"I believe you may be correct," she said.

#

"Taurik?"

Taurik opened his eyes at hearing his name. The room was dark, and he knew the sound had to have come from his communicator. His sleep-addled brain for one very full second had expected his quarters on the Enterprise, his shared room with Sam. The softly sleeping form beside his quickly dissuaded him of the misconception.

"Taurik, you there…?" Sam whispered.

"Taurik here," he said, though he was sure this wasn't a work-related call.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

Taurik wanted to snap that he had been okay—but his sleep had been disrupted. He withheld the impulse. Now that Taurik was possessed of his more-conscious thought processes, he could hear the ragged and tired distress. "I am well," he said instead. "What's wrong?"

"Sorry to wake you."

Taurik turned his head discreetly to see if Saalle had been disturbed. She was just over three months into a twelve-month gestation period, and all the most disruptive symptoms had not yet begun. Her pregnancy would become visibly obvious to everyone else in another two to three months, but soon her mood swings might become wild—her need to meditate would increase dramatically while her desire to do so would decrease. Taurik had already noticed slight changes in her sleep patterns and his perception of their Bond had wavered with her inattention.

He could not be upset. That would be hypocritical. He did, however, find himself missing their closer association even after such a short time.

With a gentle brush against her mind to comfort her when he rose, he returned in a low tone, "It isn't so early as to disrupt to my schedule. Will you join me for breakfast?"

"Um… sure." Sam sighed. "Thanks."

Sam's bouts of insomnia were more frequent than he wanted to admit, but this sounded more like a nightmare or some other anxious thought process. He put on his uniform and requested two bowls of plomeek broth from the replicator before Sam arrived. He was also in his yellow uniform, and sat at the table with more than enough space for four without saying much more than a half-hearted good morning.

They ate in silence for a time, Sam looking miserably tired. Taurik directed his thoughts toward the day. His shift began at zero-eight-hundred hours. He wasn't leading the shift, though he had been placed in charge of warp maintenance and function since returning. He oversaw a small team of three engineers to that end.

"You read any of the reports from Deep Space Nine?" Sam asked.

Anxiety about the future, rather than the past. Taurik wasn't sure which was worse—the future was unknown but potentially malleable. The past was immutable but the outcome was solved. "Yes," he said. "I assume this is the cause of your insomnia?"

"I know whatever happens, we'll deal with it. But… the Dominion seems too big for us." Sam slurped more of the broth while he waited for Taurik to respond.

Taurik had nothing encouraging to say. "It has been some time since the Federation faced a credible threat," he said. "However, one benefit to a possible Dominion invasion is… it may convince the other Alpha Quadrant powers that an alliance is more to their benefit."

Sam scoffed. "The Klingons are acting even more insane than usual, the Cardassians are getting bolder, and the Romulans would never be happy interacting with anyone outside their own borders. I don't know what it'd take to get these people to put aside their differences long enough to look at each other."

"The threat of invasion by another totalitarian regime such as the Dominion is unfortunate," he said. "However, perhaps the threat of war will do what peace could not."

"At least we're agreed that peace with the Dominion isn't possible." Sam groaned softly and rested his forehead in one hand. "I think we're all used to the ideological differences that keep us at odds with people like the Klingons or the Romulans… but the Dominion hates us because of what we are."

"By that, I assume you mean our immutably physical forms," Taurik said, recalling the reports of a shapeshifting people rather unlike any other shapeshifters the Federation had come across before.

"The gall of these people," Sam said suddenly. "They can change the way the look, and they think we're the untrustworthy ones."

"As we understand it, they have free access to one another's minds. Perhaps their society is similar to Betazed…"

"Yeah, I guess that sounds like hell, too." Then Sam scoffed. "Not that I know anything about it."

Of course, Taurik's experience was greater than Sam's. "Vulcan telepathy is primarily projection. We cannot read minds in the Betazoid sense. The exception is those to whom we are Bonded."

"Do you hide things from Saalle?" Sam asked after a moment, his glance toward the closed bedroom door discreet. "Can you?"

"Of course," he said, though it occurred to him that might not have been as obvious as he thought it was. He could even hide things from Vorik once he'd learned the basics of control—he very rarely did, but he could have. Their relationship would have changed once he completed his Bond with Saalle, had Vorik been alive… "I do not, but I can."

Sam smiled. "Nothing?"

Taurik shrugged, realized he probably looked as uncomfortable as he felt. "I do not hide things from her. But I do not share everything, either." Taurik, too, looked toward the door to his bedroom as if afraid Saalle could hear, but she was still sleeping. Even still, he opened their Bond to allow her to hear if she wished. "For example, there are many thoughts I idly consider over the course of the day that she need not be troubled with."

"Troubled?" Sam asked.

Taurik should have used a different word.

Sam looked back down at his empty bowl. "Like about the Dominion…?"

Perhaps that was a reasonable example. "The Dominion. The Romulans. My future with Starfleet, or our as-yet-unrealized family." Even though it had been seventeen months since Vorik's death, the irrational wishes and speculations drifted closer and further away at unpredictable times. Vorik should have met his first child. "Various things that have neither solution nor benefit to consideration, but nevertheless engage my attention."

"I always thought Vulcans were so great at mental discipline…"

"I have allowed my control to lapse in reference to certain subjects."

"Subjects like your kid," Sam said. He smiled, his eyebrows raised in pleasant curiosity. "That is a much nicer thing to think about than the Dominion."

Taurik wasn't sure about that, especially since he thought of the one in reference to the other often. He was unconvinced an unsteady peace was possible with the Dominion, but the areas of intergalactic politics and diplomacy were so far removed from his expertise in warp theory that he didn't speculate. Still, he recognized his child might be born in a very different galaxy from the one in which he was currently living.

"So how are you doing with the idea of being a father?" Sam asked, almost suddenly.

Somehow, it was a question Taurik had never considered. "Saalle's anticipation is… nearly palpable."

"Sure." Sam said it like that was to be expected. "But yours?"

"My concerns are relegated almost entirely to what will transpire after the child is born."

Sam almost laughed. "So you're concerned."

Since Taurik was sure he'd said that, exactly, he didn't acknowledge Sam's good-natured teasing. "I am aware of the difficulties inherent in raising a child. Vulcan emotions are unwieldy and intense. Children must be taught to restrain them. The concentration required by Vulcan parents to train them properly is immense."

"Hell." Sam grinned, and lifted his bowl without immediately taking a drink. "What are you gonna do if it's twins?"

Everything seemed to halt for a moment. His heart stopped beating, his mind stopped thinking.

For nearly a second, an irrational terror overcame his ability to see clearly, and he said, "Twins are exceptionally rare."

"I'm sure. But I was just saying if even one kid requires immense concentration—"

"It is not twins." At least… at least, he hoped not. "Though you are correct: they do require a higher degree of attention as infants. Twins are capable of better self-regulation later in life, however. Provided they are not separated."

His lower-than-average natural ability had led to higher-than-average skill in focused meditation and suppression. Vorik had to meditate very little when they were children to maintain control—whereas it seemed like meditate was all Taurik did some days. Without average control competency, he would have found coping with Vorik's death impossible.

It already felt impossible, though the fact that it was now easier made it clear it never had been.

"It is not twins…" he said again. "Saalle would know if it were. She would have told me."

The next time he looked at Sam, he looked ashamed or apologetic. "Sorry."

"There is no need to apologize. I simply hadn't considered the possibility." Nor how fervently he wished to never raise twins. He decided to examine that at length later.

"I can tell you this: I wouldn't want kids right now, twins or not."

"You're referring to the political instability of the quadrant?"

"Yeah. Seems scarier than usual."

He had no frame of reference to determine whether that was true—this was his first child, and the state of the quadrant was out of his control. It always would be. Waiting was illogical.

Now that he'd explicitly thought it, he didn't know if it was.

Saalle joined them shortly after though their conversation wandered into more mundane topics about the Ramsar. Their mutual acquaintances were a common topic, especially since Sam had begun dating again with little success. Taurik had resumed a weekly poker game with Sam, though the other attendees hadn't settled into any constancy. Taurik and Saalle arranged a weekly dinner with Lieutenant Alice Kane and her civilian anthropologist husband Laurence, who also played poker sometimes.

Saalle inquired about Sam's work and the tests he was taking. It was only six months until the Enterprise-E was to launch, and Sam wondered if he should return. Taurik could feel Saalle's tentative press on his consciousness to find what Taurik thought about that, but his thoughts were almost entirely elsewhere.

Sam left with what seemed to be good spirits.

Saalle noticed Taurik wasn't as much. "You are troubled," she said only seconds after Sam left.

"What if it's twins?" he asked, apparently more abruptly and decisively than she'd anticipated.

Saalle watched him for a long moment, then offered, "We will obtain two cushions for them to sleep on."

He didn't appreciate the flippancy, but that wouldn't be necessary immediately. He and Vorik hadn't tolerated being separated as infants. As late as five years old, Taurik would crawl into Vorik's bed despite having been tucked into his own. Taurik would wake up snuggled against Vorik, his arm around his waist. Only once, when they were nine and Taurik bedridden with an injury, had the process occurred in reverse.

"My question is sincere," he said.

"And so is my answer." She hesitated only long enough for him to frown his disapproval before assuring him. "I am not carrying twins. I possess none of the predictive factors, and none of the early imaging scans have indicated this." Saalle turned in her chair to face him more securely. "The thought distresses you. Tell me."

Taurik glanced at her. "I'm sure you could deduce the reason."

"I would like to hear you tell me, anyway." Saalle was, in her own way, more persuasive than Counsellor Troi.

Taurik slid the PADD he was reading onto the table between them. "Infants require close physical contact from their parents for several formative months, and we only have two arms each." When she frowned, he reminded, "Reciprocity is balance."

Her disappointment was short-lived. "I apologize for my flippancy. I only intended to communicate that if it is twins, we will adjust."

Taurik nodded, since that was the only answer he could think of. It also should have gone without saying. "It is irrational," he finally admitted. "The benefits I enjoyed while Vorik was alive were many and continuous. The annoyances were few, and… also continuous." The pain in his absence was likewise. "I would be unable to objectively advise them as individuals. To protect them from this, regardless of how rare this state might be, the possibility would always exist. I would always seek to preserve them together, not separately."

She contemplated his answer, either surprised or concerned. "I believe you would adjust." She tilted her head slightly, and rose to stand beside him, touch his shoulder lightly with two of her fingers. "I remember so clearly how you were. It often seems to me you've completely forgotten what you were like before he died."

Her hand shifted to grip his arm as she must have felt his distaste for the observation.

"It isn't a criticism," she said. "But you hold the pain as if that will keep him with you."

He glanced up, and wished he could argue… but that was exactly what he'd been doing. He let himself feel the fear he'd lose him entirely just long enough for her to apprehend it. "What do you suggest?"

"You were never in this pain when he was with you," she said with a mild sigh, and let go. "From my unknowing vantage, it seems illogical to preserve his memory by so steadily maintaining this state now."

The remark was nearly insulting, but he withheld that. "I suppose it does," he said, and forced himself to think about it from a more objective vantage. "However, all other states I might maintain seem to require a disproportional amount of effort."

He would never be who he had been again, but he held onto who he was explicitly without Vorik. In reality, the pain of Vorik's loss held no resemblance to Vorik at all. 

"Perhaps you're correct," he said quietly, wondering what he was supposed to do about that… if there was anything he could do.

Saalle seemed to read his thoughts perfectly in that moment. "Perhaps," she said. "Time will yield perspective."

#

The past twenty-six hours had been absolutely bizarre, but that was life on board a starship. The Sadalbari had run in to a gravitational anomaly that scrambled everything inside the ship from relay to resting heart rate, but some ingenious thinking got them back on course. Still, it was this kinda thing that made Gabi pretty sure that space exploration and dying of old age were incompatible goals.

She'd have her work cut out for her tomorrow, recalibrating everything now that they were back in so-called "normal space." "Normal space" didn't describe most of their experiences, but the rest of the sixty percent of their time in abnormal space wasn't confined to any set of rules or constancy.

With a sigh, she sat down on her sofa and checked her personal PADD for any updates before putting it back on the table. She leaned back on the sofa for a moment of silence and tried to imagine herself a calm desert.

She'd settled into life on board the Sadalbari pretty quickly, but hadn't made any close friends—and that turned out to be a good thing. The entire fleet seemed to be reshuffling in anticipation of something big. Klingons were poking the Romulans next door with all the sticks they owned, and Federation shipyards were cranking out a new class of ship—a warship classed "Defiant"—like their lives depended on it. And maybe they did.

In happier news, the launch of the Enterprise-E pulled fifteen-hundred people from their current stations to complement it.

Gabi wasn't one of those people.

With a small sigh, she called up subspace communications and keyed in Taurik's comm line on the Ramsar. It was still on patrol along the Klingon border, which was a much more exciting place than she wished right now, especially since his wife was expecting a little logician in about six months.

The screen flashed on, and she wasn't surprised to see Saalle staring at her in what always seemed to be disinterest. She may have learned how to read Taurik, but the skill didn't seem to extend to other Vulcans.

"Good afternoon, Miss Dixson," Saalle said, and hesitated. "Taurik expects his work to be complete in less than ten minutes."

"Oh." Unless he'd changed hours, his shifts were running longer these days. "Should I call back or can we talk until then?"

Saalle always seemed confused when Gabi showed interest in talking to her, possibly in the same way Taurik had been confused when Gabi first started talking to him about her interest in osmotic eels. They'd never met in person, but Gabi always tried to strike up a conversation with her whenever she ended up talking to her.

It was very difficult. Taurik had always been at least mildly interested in passing the time by engaging in conversation, and it didn't seem to matter what the conversation was. Saalle wasn't like that. Sometimes she wondered what the hell Taurik's relationship with Saalle could possibly be like, but that wasn't any of her business. Maybe they didn't have a relationship. Vulcan marriages were arranged, after all.

All Gabi knew was that Taurik seemed to adore her—as much as she could understand, anyway. He talked about her often, and seemed to arrange for them to speak to each other at least more often than Saalle wanted.

"My skills in what you might call small talk leave much to be desired."

Gabi smiled. "No, they don't." At least, she didn't think so… but this was the first time that Saalle had even halfway verbalized that their interactions were awkward. "What are you up to?"

After what seemed to Gabi to be an unreasonably long time to answer such an elementary question, she said, "If you must know, I am ill and physically uncomfortable. Pregnancy has put my physiological systems into chaos."

That sounded kind of typical to Gabi, but what did she know? "That sucks." Since she thought about it, she wasn't even sure if Vulcans suffered from things like… morning sickness? Was that a thing? It was so far removed from her interest or experience, she didn't even know what to say.

"I am coping with the situation, but my concentration has begun to suffer." Saalle looked down for a moment, perhaps at whatever she'd been doing before Gabi called.

"I hope Taurik's been supportive."

"There is little he can do to improve the situation."

That was probably an obviously-Vulcan way to look at it. Saying that sucks wasn't improving the situation, either. "Do you have any kind of home remedies for, uh…? Whatever it is?"

"There are many natural remedies."

"Have you tried chamomile tea?"

"No." Saalle hesitated, looked to her left, and then back at her. "I will try chamomile tea."

"You're due in six months or so, right?"

"Correct." With a sigh, Saalle rose and the camera followed her. "Taurik has returned from his shift, and I must lie down. Thank you, Miss Dixson."

Gabi watched Taurik join her for a moment in frame, brush her chin with his thumb tenderly as they exchanged words. She focused on the sounds of their native Vulcan conversation rather than on whatever they were saying—it couldn't have been private, since they knew Gabi was listening, but it still seemed rude to hear.

"Uf muhl'es t'tu?" His words seemed all business, despite the gentle gesture.

She shook her head, nearly sighed as she grasped his hand and pulled it away from her. "Slahkong ornaigong svi'kusutong."

"Lau-gol'nev nash-veh na'tu?"

"Ha yi. I'nirsh."

After a moment, Saalle walked away, and Taurik watched her for several seconds before he turned to the call. "Good afternoon," he said. "I trust you're well?"

"Well enough. I'm being transferred to the Helena."

He hesitated, and nodded. "Another Miranda-class, I believe. Though it is equipped with a weapons package instead of a sensor bar."

Gabi shook her head in almost-annoyed awe. "How the hell do you remember stuff like this?"

Surprisingly, Taurik took a few moments to answer. He seemed to physically search his memory, eyes darting, until he looked back at her. "I do not know," he said finally. "Are you pleased with the transfer?"

She shrugged. She was going to miss everyone here, but she'd only been here thirteen months. "My chief warned me when I started to specialize in power distribution that shorter assignments would come with it," she said, and she realized that didn't answer the question. "I don't know how I feel about it. I'm looking forward to getting to know a new ship, but a year feels like barely enough time to get to know anybody."

Taurik hesitated, looking off. "I'm sure your expertise will be appreciated on the Helena as much as on the Sadalbari. I apologize, Gabi, but Saalle requires my attention. May we speak tomorrow?"

Gabi smiled and nodded. "Yeah, sure. Whenever. I hope she feels better soon."

He nodded, but looked perplexed. "Live long and prosper."

The comm clicked off, and she looked around her room. Gabi felt her heart sink at Taurik's pointing out that the Helena was more prepared for war than she was for peace… and it was looking like Gabi should start preparing herself for that, too.

#

The poker table was much quieter than usual, as everyone contemplated the empty space in the center of the table. Taurik knew play sat unmoving at Lieutenant JG Athena Oxley, but he hadn't seen her look at her cards.

Finally, Sam sighed, resting his elbows on the table. "Shit."

Everyone seemed to release some of their tension at Sam's whispered outburst. Even Taurik, though he wouldn't have classified his emotional state as worried, per se, felt some tightness in his shoulders slip away. It was illogical: their situation had not changed because Sam verbalized a vulgar interjection. Nevertheless, it was now explicitly clear that they were all facing the same difficulty.

Lieutenant Oxley heaved a heavy sigh and looked at Sam. Tentatively, she reached over the table and grasped his hand—a forceful reminder that they'd been dating the past month and a half.  "Nothing's happened yet," she said, and glanced at Taurik. "Who knows? Maybe they'll be able to work something out."

"Jaresh-Inyo called the Dominion the 'greatest threat to the Federation of the past hundred years,'" Laurence said. Taurik had gotten the impression that he joined poker tonight only because his wife was on duty—he didn't like poker. "I've been living on Federation ships for the past ten years—and now…?"

"It's for everyone's safety," Lieutenant Oxley said. "I wouldn't want to be a civilian on a starship during wartime. What are you supposed to do during red alert?"

"What I've always done?" Laurence looked offended. "Look, I may not have a battle station, but I'm part of the Ramsar crew as much as any of you. I've had more practice than you guys have." He hesitated, seemed to reconsider. "Right?"

"You're Federation, but you didn't sign up for this." Sam frowned, tapping at his cards. "Who the hell knows—you might be drafted for all we know, anyway. But the three of us have combat and tactical training I'm sure you didn't get while you're looking at ancient humanoid cultural development."

"Well, I'm still not happy with it…" Laurence glanced at Taurik. "How's Saalle handling the news?"

Taurik gave a small sigh, though not because of her reaction. "We haven't yet discussed it. The orders that all civilian personnel disembark by the time we leave Earth were not exactly unexpected."

As for him… he was not anticipating her absence, but it seemed like his experiences over the past two years had prepared him for the separation.

"I just know I'm not looking forward to heading into a warzone…" Oxley said, and Sam squeezed her hand. "But I'd rather that than whatever the hell the Dominion has planned."

Sam pulled his hand from Lieutenant Oxley's, and returned his cards to his hand. "So how about we get to gambling?"

The others at the table considered that mildly amusing, and the game resumed. The overall anxiety seemed to be helped in some way by the redirection of attention alone—nearly like a sonic shower with an unpleasant frequency or engaging in physical exertion.

Sam was the best poker player of the group, while Taurik was much more middling. Lying was too impractical a skill to cultivate among his telepathic peers—which was not to say he had not learned. He had decided over the past twenty-six months that Vulcans were, in general, exceptional liars… and he was not.

For the next hour, they engaged in meaningless speculation on each other's cards. Taurik didn't have the energy to attempt to mislead Sam, so fell into calculating the odds that Sam's hand was better than his instead. He had played enough of the game to know that it mattered only somewhat whether Sam's cards were better or not—it was much more important that everyone believed they were. Sam was good enough at statistics to pick his battles and only feign a successful hand at believable intervals.

Laurence soon excused himself with the explanation that his mate was about to return from her shift. Lieutenant Oxley left shortly after, depositing a kiss on Sam's cheek, and saying she'd see him tomorrow.

With a sigh, Sam tossed the cards on the table. "What are you going to do?"

"Saalle is due to return in approximately one hour."

"I mean about the Dominion."

There was nothing he personally could do. "The Ramsar is being redirected to the Cardassian border. I will either continue in my duties as directed or be reassigned to more tactically-focused systems like shields or weapons power systems."

Sam smirked, glancing at him. "That's what I like about you. You're so calm all the damn time."

He was calm. There was no reason not to be. Nothing, realistically, had changed. "We were involved in several tense situations on the Enterprise, even some battle situations. I believe our training has prepared us to some degree… also, there are many veterans of the past war with the Cardassians onboard the Ramsar. I believe their expertise will be invaluable, and we would be wise to imitate their response."

In general, they seemed to be a confliction of states. Taurik would only describe it as anxious tranquility. One of the former soldiers Taurik worked with in engineering had put it more colorfully: hurry up and wait.

"Doesn't mean we aren't heading straight to our deaths."

That was true. "I only intended to communicate we've faced similar situations before." And the universe was truly random. Taurik had accepted a very long time ago that this was a risk of his joining Starfleet—though at the time the possibility had seemed remote. He refrained from speculating on the anxiety he'd be experiencing if Vorik were still alive.

He let his gaze flick back toward Sam. "What do you intend to do?"

"Try for the Enterprise." Sam's grin had turned incorrigible. "It won't get me out of anything, but it'll be a hell of a ride. Also, I'd like to see if Riker is any less intimidating with Jem'Hadar on the other side of the view screen."

Taurik sighed. The notion that Sam would die in any of the battles that seemed inevitable at this point was extremely unpleasant to consider. At least he would be at ease knowing Saalle and their child would be hidden away safely in a desert somewhere.

"At some point he'll find some scrap of ambition, and he'll get his own ship. And I'll be there when he does. He's my nemesis."

"Remaining with those one finds important isn't an indication of lacking ambition," he said, though he hadn't intended to say it. Sam's tone was too facetious, his comment about Riker obviously intended to be taken as a joke. "Technically," he added. "It may be viewed as simply a different kind of ambition."

Sam eyed him. "You sure you're staying on the Ramsar?"

He hadn't considered that, somehow. It was somehow a foregone conclusion, but now that Sam mentioned it… "I do not know."

Sam rubbed his eyes and stared after the door through which Oxley and Laurence had gone.

"I should speak to Saalle," Taurik said, though he wasn't sure why he'd announced that.

Sam didn't look confused, nodded. "I should call my mom."

"Give her my greetings," Taurik said, and left.

Saalle hadn't yet returned from her shift, so he spent the time reading and waiting. He pondered whether they had much to talk about: the decision to have all non-Starfleet personnel disembark once they reached Earth (if not before) had already been made. Saalle had no choice.

Taurik did have a choice.

He felt Saalle's approach, and her mild unsettled feeling at the new orders that she would have to leave. Still, she projected a sense of calm—not because the situation was wanted or expected, but because it was entirely manageable. She stepped through the door and found his waiting gaze almost immediately.

"I trust your work was productive?" he asked.

"It was. However, you desire to discuss other things." She went immediately to the replicator and requested a glass of water. She now walked a bit unsteadily and was usually exhausted, expecting the birth of their first child in approximately three months.

Despite her usual discomfort, there was little he could do to help her besides provide a stabilizing telepathic anchor and for her physical needs when she requested—to attempt to help her when she did not request was usually ill-advised…

"I only wish to know what your plan is since the announcement," he said.

Her response was a mild curiosity. "I will disembark on Earth. I anticipate finding lodging there may be difficult, but I believe it is the most logical next step. There are many highly-skilled Starfleet and civilian Vulcan doctors on Earth that will be able to assist in the birth, which is perhaps an unexpected benefit."

She turned to face him, searching his eyes and expression as if she thought he was hiding something.

Perhaps he was hiding something. He didn't intend to, but he decided to simply illuminate it. "I am willing to resign my commission to return to Vulcan with you if that's what you'd prefer," he said. He waited for Saalle's response for several seconds, but she didn't say anything.

When he finally looked up at her, she was staring in what seemed to be confusion. "Vulcan? I do not understand," she said. "Why are you saying this?"

That, he wasn't so sure about. He could find interesting and meaningful work there. It wouldn't be what he had designed to do. It wasn't what he wanted. He would have to rethink his plans, but they were only plans. Plans changed.

"Are you afraid?" she asked quietly, taking a step closer to him.

"No." To be afraid would have been illogical, even in this situation—but he wasn't afraid. "No, I am not afraid. I would prefer to maintain my station on the Ramsar."

"I thought that was the case," she agreed with a nod of near relief. "But if you do not desire to return to Vulcan, then what has precipitated this?"

She was within arms' reach now, her hands folded over her expanded belly. For less than a moment, he watched her move, and then spoke. "I don't remember asking what you wanted… in regard to our cohabitation."

Saalle shook her head. "I know we spoke about it. We concluded that we would live together during your service, then when you obtained a posting at Utopia Planetia we would live on Earth. The modification required to these plans is only slight."

"I only recall the options being that you could live with me aboard starships… or you could not. You could join me on Earth, or you could not." He hesitated to look at her, since that was probably a fine line she didn't care to distinguish. But it was a line that made some difference. "I don't remember discussing my living with you, on Vulcan, so you could continue your work there. Be near our family."

Perhaps the revelation that she hadn't truly been consulted in all these years shocked her—that was the only thing he felt from her at the moment. "I see."

"I apologize for the oversight."

"I accept the apology," she said, and stepped closer. "Though I doubt you will understand it, being as single-mindedly ambitious as you were, my goals have very little to do with career advancement, and less to do with where I work."

She was correct. He didn't understand that. He tried, for several seconds, to imagine what she might have in mind to accomplish if not work. He considered the child he had yet to meet, the one he could only barely sense, and reached out. She desired children more than he had, so perhaps that was encompassed in her goals.

He should have been more aware of what those more abstract goals might have been. He should have asked.

Saalle seemed nevertheless unfazed. "I assure you, working with the Science Academy, living on Vulcan—neither of these things are necessary for me to be fulfilled in my life's purpose."

Taurik would just have to take her word on that. He gave a shallow nod. "You are truly… mysterious," he offered, and hoped she took the compliment as he intended it.

Saalle was pleased. "And you… are truly not."

She intended it as much as a compliment, and he couldn't take it any other way. She knew him well, even now that he'd changed so much. Perhaps he hadn't changed as much as he thought. At the moment, though he knew it wasn't true, it seemed that he had never loved her more.

Chapter Text

"I find it hard to believe there's anything logical about a surprise party," Sam said. He pressed on the package that Taurik had left on the side table, misaligning its edges from the table's.

Taurik redirected his attention to the cake he'd selected—Gabi had once said her favorite flavor was buttered popcorn. It had proven impossible to find a cake in that flavor pre-programmed in the replicator, so he'd had to manually request the combination.

"There is," he offered, "a tradition in my home region of Vulcan that is somewhat similar to what Humans call a surprise party. It is a rehearsal of adaptability when presented with unfamiliar and unplanned situations." Of course, it was very much unlike anything a Human would call a party, though the rituals were not entirely dissimilar. The goal was to catch the recipient of the party off-guard, even startle them if possible.

The next time he looked at Sam, his grin was disbelieving. "There is not."

"There is."

Sam laughed. "I can't believe you're lying to me!"

"Why would I lie about this?" he asked, dispensing with the common retort that Vulcans didn't lie at all. He knew Sam didn't believe that, and neither did Taurik, anymore. Vulcans too often made honesty a matter of personal perception.

Sam didn't seem to have an answer for that. "There's no way in hell a surprise party is a Vulcan tradition. Why would you ever want to surprise someone?"

"In the Vokau Mountain range, the weather is unpredictable and erratic. The temperature regularly ranges over forty degrees within the same twenty-five hour period, and storms are formed without advance warning as is common in other areas of the planet," he said, and could see from the curious, glazed expression that his explanation wasn't going to help his case. "Because traditional travel through the region is dangerous even today, Vulcans historically adopted various strategies to survive. Because preparation was often impractical or impossible, adaptability became the region's maxim. Surprise is a true test of one's adaptability."

"So it's like a rite of passage."

"Most illogical."

"I told you!" Sam said, as if in triumph.

"No, to assume that a tradition predicated on surprise would involve a specific life milestone is illogical." He watched Sam appear to unravel his sentences with no mean difficulty before continuing, "The event is to be planned without warning for the target or targets, and may happen to anyone at any time or never. Rites of passage imply a predictability."

"It's hardly a surprise party with just the two of us, anyway…" Sam still sounded incredibly amused with the notion.

Even though it was clear Sam had moved on, it was also clear he didn't believe Taurik for some reason. "Should you ever elect to visit Vulcan, I insist that you tell me. I will arrange for you to attend the event," he offered. "You would not refer to it as a party, but you cannot deny the element of surprise."

"No." Sam chuckled. "I can't. When is she supposed to be here?"

"She is, no doubt, already aboard."

"Oh." Sam was quiet for several seconds, looking around the room. "Should we turn off the lights?"

"Is that the appropriate Human ritual?"

Sam didn't get to tell Taurik either way when the door slid open and Gabi gasped.

"You guys!" she squealed and dashed into her quarters to nearly tackle Sam in an embrace.

Sam laughed, wrapping his arms around her waist. "Surprise."

To Taurik, she offered the greeting gesture of his own people. "Welcome to the Ramsar," he said, though he was certain she had already received such a welcome from the transporter operator and any of the engineering staff she may have met upon boarding.

"Thanks. I'm so happy to be here." She looked around the bare room, and her eyes landed on the cake. "You really shouldn't have."

He wasn't sure whether she was being polite or expressing that cake was an inapt confection for the event. Taurik glanced at Sam. "I was led to believe that cake is an appropriate food for a surprise party."

"No, it's appropriate, I'm just—"

"Did you know that there's such a thing as a Vulcan surprise party?" Sam asked as Taurik began cutting the cake. His understanding of geometry was, unfortunately, not represented in his ability to cut even slices.

"I think it's called a datorik ak'wikmun." She glanced at Taurik, possibly for confirmation.

He nodded, and gave her a plate with the piece of the largest volume. "That is correct."

Sam shook his head. "I still think you're pulling my leg." When Taurik paused to look at his leg and contemplate how such an idiom had come into use, Sam said, "I mean I think you're tricking me."

"I deduced the meaning from context," he said, and gave Sam a plate. "I assure you, I did not coach Gabi in anticipation of your disbelief of a simple and inconsequential fact. I believed Gabi would appreciate a welcome of this sort."

"And you were right. Thank you, Taurik," Gabi said with a nod, and speared a portion of the cake with her fork.

They each took a bite. As Taurik was contemplating the incongruously light flavor in combination with the heavy cake, Sam covered his mouth with one hand.

"Oh, my god," he said, and gagged slightly. "Taurik, what the hell is this?"

"Is there something wrong with the flavor?" he asked. He didn't find it offensive—in fact, with the inherent sweetness of most Human cakes, he found this one more palatable in that it was more salty than sweet.

"What is the flavor?" Gabi asked, smacking her tongue on the roof of her mouth as if it were, perhaps, too salty. "It's, uh… it's unique."

"I attempted to recreate the cake with the buttered popcorn flavor you once indicated you preferred," he said, and Sam barked in a laugh.

Sam did take another bite, though, which was at least an indication he found something about it acceptable.

"For candy," she said with a smile.

"And I suppose candy is not a term encompassing all sweet confections," he said, and inspected his next bite with more interest. Somehow, perhaps, he had created something new.

Sam and Gabi talked a bit about what candy was, and the various sweet treats in Human traditions. Though they disagreed about whether cake was a pastry, they did not disagree that neither were candies. It was a semantics discussion Taurik could see no point in discussing—except that such semantics had led to his misunderstanding of what was an acceptable flavor for a cake. Many of the flavors they listed as "candy flavors" were also acceptable cake flavors, though the distinction seemed arbitrary.

Upon her final bite of cake, Gabi declared, "I don't hate it."

"That's as good as an endorsement to him," Sam said.

"I do not hate it, as well," Taurik said. At Sam's look of scandal, he offered, "Of course, I am speaking idiomatically. Applying such an emotive characterization to a flavor sensation is illogical. I consider the flavor and texture to be palatable."

"Good. I was wondering if we'd have to send you to sickbay." With a small sigh and shrug, he gave Gabi another hug. "Well, it's good to see you, Gabi, but I have to get to my next shift. If you want to, you can join me for lunch at thirteen-hundred hours."

After Gabi agreed to meet him, they gave one another a final embrace. Sam left.

"So how are you doing?" she asked, helping herself to another slice of cake. He watched her drag her knife with no regard to uniformity. "Saalle's due soon, isn't she?"

"I leave for Earth in two weeks," he said. "The baby is expected to arrive in approximately twenty days, and her pregnancy has thus far been average."

Gabi nearly threw her new slice of cake down on her place with force. "I cannot wait to see the holos!"

"You and Sam will be receiving holoimages of the infant as soon as they are available," he said, and hesitated. "However, in my experience, infants of the same species tend to look practically similar."

"Get out of here with that 'you've seen one Vulcan baby, you've seen 'em all' crap," she said, and frowned. "Infinite diversity in infinite combinations. This is a combination I'm particularly interested in."

Taurik had never heard the philosophy applied that way, at least not that particularly succinct way. "I do not mean to imply I'm not anticipating the birth of my first child with due positivity. Regardless of appearance, the child will be distinct to me in telepathic properties. In fact, in a distant way, we have already been acquainted."

Gabi seemed interested in the idea of having met the infant before birth, and pursued him for answers as she unloaded her single bin into the room. It was mostly clothing and very few decorations, and her questions had mostly to do with personality and wondering what unborn infants thought about in the womb.

Taurik tried to tell her that the connection had not crystalized to that degree and would not be for several months—but it did not stop her from speculating.

She speculated into the late morning, and then asked if they could meditate before joining Sam for lunch. Since he hadn't yet meditated today, he agreed. He joined her on the floor, on a newly replicated pillow, and searched the room for some glint of light or spot of pure silence or color to substitute a meditation lamp before realizing how unusual this was.

He turned to her, struck by the strange sensation of an outside anxiety tugging at him. "Are you unwell?"

Gabi shrugged, adjusting her posture and hand position. "The Klingons have gone insane."

Of course. Taurik had observed his Human companions become tense and uncomfortable as time progressed. "The quadrant's political equilibrium does seem to be… shifting," he said with a small sigh and nod. He had been ignoring that largely in favor of preparing for new familial duties—though they would be limited, as he would be expected to return to the Ramsar and Saalle and the child were disallowed. That did introduce a different element of anxiety. "However, with new situations come new opportunities. You have exhibited an uncommon ability to adapt and make yourself useful."

She smiled, but didn't look at him. Closed her eyes. "No offence, but that's one surprise party I'd like to miss," she said. She took a deep breath and was silent for some time. He joined her in her deep breathing exercises, feeling the distant disquiet lessen even without his focused attention.

Gabi shifted suddenly, and looked at him. "You're in a desert?"

"Very well," he said, and guided their meditation before leaving to join Sam.

#

The journey to Earth had been quick and effortless, allowing him to spend most of the time meditating. Those six hours of meditation seemed to have been the most productive six hours in meditation he'd spent in recent memory. He was no longer anxious for his ability to share responsibility for an infant, no longer concerned for Saalle's health through the ordeal. He wasn't even apprehensive about attending the birth—an event he'd never before witnessed.

For the first time in what seemed like years, he was still. Some of that might have had to do with Saalle's nearness, nestled against his chest, with her head resting on his shoulder.

Saalle, on the other hand, was hardly tranquil. He suspected that was because she was never physically comfortable. He regretted not being here, even if his only role was as a calming telepathic pillow as he seemed to be now, but not enough to feel anything about it. He had his duties, and she understood.

Only a vague sense of emptiness persisted. He wondered if it would ever leave him—the sensation that he'd somehow left a limb or vital organ somewhere. It was most illogical, but it was the only description that approached accuracy.

For the last two days, though, his thoughts and days had been occupied. There were final preparations to be made for the birth. The infant would have a place to sleep and trinkets to begin learning about spatial balance and logic. This afternoon, Saalle tasked him with rearranging their bedroom to accommodate the additional bed until the child was old enough to sleep alone—and now, though she hadn't engaged in any physical labor at all, she was tired.

He took the opportunity to lie quietly beside her, as he had not had the opportunity in months. To simply be with her, to feel her presence in mind and in body, was a sensation he'd very much missed.

With a mild sigh mostly intended to refill his lungs, he directed his attention to Saalle. "Are you comfortable?"

Saalle responded to his thoughts with a sudden pleasant contentedness. "This arrangement is quite relaxing. Are you comfortable?"

"Yes. You don't need anything?"

"I need a series of chemical reactions to induce labor…" With the comment came amusement. "Perhaps tea would settle my stomach, however I would not have you leave."

"I would return."

"Which, while pleasing, is less so than your remaining." She passed her fingertips over his collar bone, the sensation of her light touch arcing down his spine and whispering on his skin. "I am pleased you were able to utilize your familial leave stipend."

"As am I."

A solitary chime of an incoming request to connect sounded in the main room outside, and he felt her disappointment. He projected his regret and promised return quickly and with tea as he rose and went out to the main room. He turned the kettle to boil water for Saalle's cup of tea, and accepted the message.

The image of an unfamiliar admiral appeared, and Taurik pressed down the anxiety that he was being recalled from leave because the war had begun in earnest. The admiral's grim appearance gave him no reason to suspect otherwise.

"Good afternoon, Lieutenant," the admiral said. "My name is Admiral Dawson."

"Live long and prosper, Admiral."

The admiral gave a brisk nod, and continued immediately. "I am attached Project Lost and Found, the venture initiated when the Voyager went missing in the Badlands two years ago."

Perhaps to keep himself from guessing anything else, he added silently, four months, thirteen days… "Yes, sir. Is there news?"

"Yes…" The admiral paused long enough to sigh, and fold his hands on the table before him. "The project has been discontinued," the admiral said. "We know this decision will be unpopular, but we've exhausted our options. As we continue to search, the likelihood that even hull fragments or propulsion trails still exist decrease. We did want the families of those missing to hear from us directly the official word."

"Yes, sir…" Somehow, his voice felt as though it almost got stuck in his throat.

It was logical. In addition to the reasons stated, Taurik was sure that the new situation of the war with the Dominion had changed things. They could no longer dedicate resources to locating the remains of a lost science vessel in a region of space renowned for tearing ships apart.

"As of this afternoon, Voyager and her crew is recorded as lost." The admiral paused, perhaps long enough for Taurik to say something.

But what was there to say? His brother had been dead for two years. Everyone else was only now accepting what he'd always known. He hastily nailed back the illogical anger as the admiral relayed additional information that seemed to be meaningless in the wake of this news.

It was not news.

The notion that Vorik was dead, had been dead for a long time was not new. So why did he feel this way? Why was it as though he had just heard this for the first time? Perhaps he was more affected by recent and upcoming events than he thought, meditation or not…

"If you have any specific requests, please forward them to my office."

"We will not require any object or notification to perform funerary rites," he muttered.

The admiral nodded, perhaps understandingly. "If anything changes, please let us know. Good afternoon, Lieutenant."

"Peace and long life, sir."

Taurik bristled as the admiral's communication blinked to black, an empty and dark black he was too familiar with. He felt… dizzy. Ill. He reached for the wall as he walked to the counter in the kitchen where the kettle clicked. He mechanically removed a tea cup from the shelf, poured water into it.

"Taurik?"

Hearing Saalle's voice from the bedroom, he scrambled to put away the overwhelming grief as he retrieved one of Saalle's pre-packaged tea packets from a clip on the wall. It smelled of aster. Why did it smell like aster? "Which tea would you prefer?" he asked, aware his tone belied his raging emotional landscape.

"What's happened?" Saalle said softly, her voice closer than he thought it should be.

He brought the packet of tea to his nose, inhaled. "You should be in bed." It was, indeed, Vulcan aster and soft v'tal bark. She grew both of them in the garden, but she must have obtained the bark shavings elsewhere. The incense Vorik had used smelled like aster.

"I am pregnant, Husband. Not dying," Saalle said.

"The doctor—"

"Taurik." Her voice was only a breath, and he could feel her reaching through the Bond they shared to, please, let her in. She must have felt his distress through the walls, his inability to breathe and think. "What's happened?"

He shook his head. "It's nothing." And yet, it was as if it was all new again.

The pain was so great, he couldn't even tell her to leave him alone. Let him bring her tea and sit with her quietly. Remember the future he'd been anticipating only ten minutes ago, a future that had not changed. Sleep and put yet more distance on this loss he always had with him no matter what he gained.

Taurik slid the tea back, away from him. "An admiral Dawson called," he said, and she nodded to show she was listening. He steadied his gaze. "Voyager is declared lost. There will be a memorial service, and…" He took a sharp breath to pull back in the sorrow that threatened to escape, compressing it as much as he could. "But I have always known," he added, and blinked in surprise and frustration at the tears in his eyes.

Saalle crossed the space between them as he struggled to speak, standing beside him in resolute and supportive silence.

He leveled his breathing, or at least tried to. It seemed as if the news had strangled his lungs. "I have always known," he said, as if to remind himself he shouldn't be responding this way. Even more so, since Saalle reached her hand down to his, her first two fingers hooking his.

The gesture drew him back enough. "You should be resting."

"But you are in pain," she said.

"Give me a moment. I will recover."

"Let me help you."

"But the—"

"I will protect myself and the child."

He felt her step against him, the child in her upset by the ambient emotional turmoil. For one second, he let himself be angry. He should have left the house immediately if he couldn't control himself. But it was an idle reprimand now, especially since he was fairly certain the only outcome would have been his weeping in the garden instead of here.

He would not weep. He already felt everything, so surely there was nothing left. "I have always known he was dead. This changes nothing."

He felt Saalle's fingertips slide up his cheek and press firmly under his eye.

"May I?" she whispered, and he blinked. She didn't usually ask.

He nodded and wrapped his fingers around her palm.

She was a wash of crimson calm—she shared his sorrow, but she was at peace. As he leaned into the comfort she imparted, he felt her wordless request that he share more with her. As always, she refused to pry, to search for herself.

There would be no more searching. This would be the final update. Voyager's crew was to be memorialized with a service on the Starfleet Academy grounds, and he was invited to attend. Taurik, as his sole beneficiary, would receive on Vorik's behalf the Vulcan jade and obsidian IDIC for those lost in the pursuit of space exploration, a Starfleet commendation for valor, and Vorik's final rank pips—full lieutenant. For the first and last time, Vorik would outrank him.

Should Taurik desire, Starfleet would provide an official uniform for funerary rites, for there would be no bodies to bury or burn or… whatever else others did. He didn't know.

Only a moment ago, he had been so angry, he thought he might never feel anything else. But, of course, when the emptiness and the silence returned he wished he could have stayed angry forever. He was only a moment from weeping when he managed to tighten his hold on the familiar stoic calm.

He had survived this long, and, really, he'd always known. This was illogical.

This is normal, he heard Saalle in his mind.

How is this normal?

You may have always known he was dead, lived as if you knew. But now Starfleet will never speak to you about him again. There will be a ceremonial goodbye. His service record will be closed. Her whisper on his mind was light rain on fire. She settled securely against his anger, his grief, his regret. She released him from their meld and pressed her forehead to his jaw. There is a reason the entire family shares the grieving together. Such deep sorrow would be too much for anyone alone.

It almost made sense, the way she said it.

But he didn't point out that most Vulcans did not weep. All of his concentration was consumed in maintaining an even rate of respiration.

No one was looking. Even the Humans had released the ghosts to rest. None of them were Starfleet officers anymore. All that remained was a funeral and empty space. Vorik's service was over.

Saalle took his arm and directed him back to their bed, neglecting to bring the tea. She sat beside him, folded her hands, and waited for some time until he quieted the storm.

"Will you go to the memorial?" Her question was quiet, gentle.

"Yes. Provided I'm not occupied by other matters." He cast an unsubtle glance at her belly. "Vorik would forgive my absence for reasons of my first child's birth." Illogical a sentiment, though, it was. He could only manage to think of the small flicker of life within her, though not much else.

Would Vorik have requested leave to be personally present at the birth, or if he would simply wait at his post in quiet anticipation and hound Taurik for news every five minutes? How many of his colleagues would see holoimages of the baby on those distant starships? Would Vorik have had a child of his own first, or later, or about the same time?

Oh, how he wished Vorik were here…

He felt Saalle brushing softly at his restless regret. "It is logical to feel this way."

Even though he'd had no intention of acting on it, Saalle's gentle assurance was somehow permission. She didn't even give any indication of what she thought this way was. She only wrapped his fingers in hers and offered her support.

Shedding no tears, they wept together.

The next morning, he awoke to messages from assorted family members of the missing—lost Voyager crew consoling one another. Professor Ballard offered to host a meal for everyone after the service. Though most had accepted the inevitable conclusion, some were angry. Many of them seemed relieved. He offered his own meaningless support to the string of meaningless messages, echoing that the decision to discontinue the search had been a logical one. As he read, he accepted Saalle's drowsy embrace. Probably sensing his distress even in her sleep.

Personal messages had arrived from Sam and T'Leall and Gabi. He listened to them, but set aside any reaction he might have had. T'Leall expressed her surprise in only that they had continued the search for so long, and requested that he return to Vulcan to perform rituals that would be empty without a katra to fill them. That Vorik's had been lost, now so surely, so irrevocably…

He shook that off and turned to Sam and Gabi's messages. Each of them expressed condolences in their unique fashions. Their support, however useless… was somehow not meaningless. Eventually, he set the PADD aside, as well.

He carefully extracted himself from Saalle's arms and left her sleeping comfortably in the thin sheets. He retrieved the meditation lamp from its drawer in the table and sat unfolding and refolding his grief until the shapes were manageable and the creases were worn. The sun was shining in the long windows when Saalle called him.

"Taurik?"

He blinked once at the flame, turned it off. She seemed… annoyed. And, to be fair, he hadn't brought her breakfast, though it was late in the morning. "I apologize, I wasn't attending to the time. What may I get for you?" he called back, and went to the replicator.

"The doctor," Saalle answered.

"The doctor?" He stopped his walk midstride to spin, go back to the room. He leaned in the doorway. "It's time?"

"I believe it is."

"But the date isn't for three days."

"You may take that up with the child when this is over." She took a small breath, pressing her back up against the headboard. "There is no hurry, but—"

"No, I'll—" Taurik was about to go to their communications panel in the main room, but thought better of it.

He quickly crossed the room, kissed Saalle's forehead, and then went to call the doctor. He had forgotten to be anxious last night, and now that it was time… he could only focus on Saalle's needs and wait. He had become very good at waiting. This outcome would, in all likelihood, be better.

#

The baby cried, and Saalle leaned against the pillows at her back. She turned her eyes up to him, giving his hand a weak squeeze before letting go. He didn't need the Bond between them to know she was exhausted, relieved, and impatient to see the child.

And to sleep. Of course, she wanted to sleep.

Taurik couldn't think of sleep. His thoughts were an inexplicable jumble as the midwife turned to him, holding a squirming infant, screaming and flushed olivine, in her two hands. He accepted the baby in his own. "We have a son," he said, unsure how he was supposed to suppress the emotion thickening his voice and clouding his eyes.

"A son…" Saalle said, very softly with a sigh. "Good."

Taurik didn't question Saalle's reaction, and turned his attention fully to the new one in his hands. "We welcome you to our family," he said to the baby, and showed him to his mother.

Saalle opened her eyes to see the baby, and smiled. It was so small and so brief he almost missed it. He hadn't seen that from her since they were children. She looked at the baby's small face, scrunched up as he cried in obvious discontent.

"What will we call him?" Taurik asked, and shifted the baby to hold him against him more securely. The baby flailed his tiny fists even as his screaming quieted in apparent confusion and interest for the new sensation of Taurik's shirt on his skin.

It was traditionally the mother's prerogative to name children, though many parents collaborated in recent centuries. Taurik only preferred that the name be decided before the Bond was initiated.

"Would you be opposed to naming him Vorik?" she whispered, and looked up at him.

He hadn't expected to be shocked into silence. With a sharp intake of breath, he shook his head. Fought to retain his stoic demeanor, but felt he was failing. "I would not," he managed, bent, and kissed her forehead.

"Then his name is Vorik." Saalle sighed, and waved at the midwife to come to her side. "Take him. I must wash and rest."

"Yes," Taurik agreed. He watched her for a moment, ignoring the midwife moving around to clean the bed. He pressed his palm to her cheek before he left, saying softly, "You did well."

"And you, Husband." She kissed his hand, and pushed him away. "Return in an hour."

"I will." Taurik left the bedroom, not daring ask what he'd done that deserved any recognition. He'd held her hand when she asked, provided mental stability as needed, followed the midwife's instructions, and generally stayed out of the way. The intense feeling of helplessness had been unpleasant, but twenty hours was short, relatively speaking.

It was traditionally the father's to Bond first with their children—he didn't know why. Perhaps because the mother was too tired, in body and mind, to do so. After all, she would have been aware of her own distress as much as the child's in a way much nearer than Taurik had experienced. So he swaddled the baby according to instructions and tucked him in one of his arms.

The infant was so small, and evidently appreciated being wrapped tightly in soft blankets, and stopped wailing almost immediately.

She wanted to name him Vorik.

It was an emotional request on his behalf. She was certainly permitted any emotional reaction she wished during this time. Most Vulcans named their children for important historical individuals or ancestors most often. As the first born between them by twelve minutes, Vorik shared his name with their mother's fifth great grandfather. Because twins were relatively rare, his parents had elected to give Taurik a name that rhymed with Vorik's. Taurik didn't expect any of his distant progeny to be named for him, and it meant nothing without Vorik.

It almost meant something again.

Though the infant would not understand the words, he could identify the tone of Taurik's soft speech as he walked to the back of the house, to the windows filling the walls and looking out on the desert night. Though it seemed illogical to speak to the child, it had been demonstrated that conversing even with infants yielded a host of benefits. So Taurik told him he could see the lights of the town as much as the lights of the Milky Way when the house lights were off on nights like this. If he knew where to look, he could see 40 Eridani, the station in Earth's orbit, and, some nights, Utopia Planetia shipyards.

The baby's large eyes were open on Taurik, apparently, to listen to his running commentary. Even if he could not have recognized Taurik's voice, he must have recognized his telepathic presence, even if only in a small way.

Settling on the floor, he searched the baby's wrinkled face. He could identify Saalle's nose, and it looked like the child's skin color was an almost-equal mix of his own pale skin and Saalle's umber.

"We will Bond," he said, running his fingers gently over the baby's soft head. "And then we will meditate."

The baby whimpered as Taurik carefully, lightly touched his cheek with two fingers.

It was incredibly easy to focus on this little mind, to see the simple workings and the few emotions the baby had experienced. Even now, at less than an hour old, the baby's mind was a swirl of shimmery copper, the color of the desert in these foothills where they lived now, with an undercurrent of blood-green.

Welcome to our family, he whispered into the newly formed parental Bond. Little Vorik.

The smallest telepathic presence beheld his communication initially with anger and fear. After all, the baby had a trying day and couldn't understand what had happened to him. But at the sense of Taurik's affection and protection from those few unpleasant emotions that were already large for his small size, he settled just as strongly into the tiniest flickerings of contentment, of trust so large Taurik could hardly contain it. Soon, he even reached out in bold interest towards the simple meditation Taurik beckoned him to join.

The time went far too quickly in Taurik's estimation, but the infant approached hunger. But he was also tired and impressively calm, having taken well to the new Bond. In fact, he whimpered unhappily when Taurik handed him back to Saalle for feeding, even though the baby had been more telepathically aware of his mother during his fetal development. He showed his familiarity with her more distinctly when she formalized their Bond.

"Are you well, Saalle?" he whispered once they had settled in, laying down beside her.

She sighed, fussed with the baby's position against her, and then turned her clearly-tired eyes on him. "I am well. The healer has assured me the birth was typical and we are both healthy."

"I am relieved." It was a pale, if aspirational, characterization, but she could feel that from him in their closeness. It had always been illogical to dwell on the possibility of disaster, but it seemed especially close lately.

Still, with the small new presence in his wife's arms and their new strength in a growing family, it was easier to see peace.

Chapter Text

Vorik looked around the warm yellow walls of the resort, remembering a sense of hope and welcome in these halls. He'd invited B'Elanna to share a meal with him, and she'd accepted. They'd conversed mostly about work, though he'd been surprised she was amenable to other, more personal topics. Not much more personal, but he'd considered the interaction a success.

Now, the sensation seemed to belong to another person. In a way, it did. That other person wasn't dying and alone.

Two days ago, he'd been ill, he hoped, with a simple flu. The symptoms were not pressing, though they got worse as time progressed. His concentration faltered with the imposing knowledge of what it must be—and must not be. He wasn't ready. It had to be something else. So, illogically, he ignored the simplest explanation and continued to treat an illness he did not have.

Only after he humiliated himself and everyone else, assaulted B'Elanna, and received a due dislocated jaw… he had to acknowledge his illness was the pon farr. He had to acknowledge he was dying.

"I don't understand the purpose of coming here," he said, and faced the EMH.

The hologram gave a smile that might have been condescending, but it was impossible to care about the perceptions of a computer program at the moment. "Trust me. Ensign Vorik, I'd like you to meet T'Pera."

The EMH gestured to a woman. A Vulcan woman. A Vulcan hologram with a name.

Vorik resisted the urge to leave immediately, pressing away the insult to himself and thousands of years of attempting creative solutions that never amounted to anything. The EMH's audacity to believe it had devised something truly novel seemed one insult too many today. Hologram technology of this nature was novel, but the notion of a substitute mate was as old as the first Vulcans scrambling after rock lizards on red dunes.

"Surely you're not suggesting that she become my mate."

How was this misunderstanding possible? Had everyone forgotten he was telepathic? He'd possessed a telepathic bond with his mate not because it was expected or beneficial or pleasant—but because it was required.

Even Vorik had been caught out and blind to the difficulties. He knew the horrors ahead, because the stories of failure were rampant. Convulsions and sweating blood. Madness and tongues bitten off. Vulcan males were prone to senseless violence during this time, if left alone too long, and he put precautions in place to prevent that. He only hoped that the end wouldn't be as painful as the rumors suggested.

He would try to live. He doubted he would succeed, but he would try.

"Well," the Doctor said, "I wouldn't recommend a lifetime commitment, but she might be able to help you with your immediate problem."

"She's a hologram. She isn't real."

The EMH frowned. "Then I assume you have the same low regard for me."

Vorik gripped his hands into fists. Of course, he would, but he couldn't say that. An EMH could understand this no more than a Human could. The Doctor did not have a mind. He had banks of knowledge, he had skin and could even display blood if he chose. But, as far as Vorik was aware, he did not have the capability to either accept or project the telepathic connection that was innate to most organic creatures, beings with brains.

The telepathic connection that he needed to remain himself, and to remain alive.

"You're a skilled physician, Doctor, but let me point out the limitations to your own experience with physical matters," he finished, since that was at least true, if vague.

"I believe we're discussing your sexual difficulties at the moment, Ensign," he snapped.

Yes, of course. Vorik needed no further proof the doctor was as inadequate a physician for this condition as he would have been a mate.

"And this holographic mate is the best solution I can think of."

"She won't be the same as a real mate," he offered weakly.

What he meant was: she wouldn't be enough.

"The difference is all in your mind, which, if I've understood you and Mister Tuvok correctly, is where the pon farr must ultimately be resolved." The Doctor circled around behind the hologram of the Vulcan woman, and Vorik avoided her blank and empty eyes. "Let your mind convince your body that she is exactly what you need her to be."

If such pale substitutes were possible, didn't he think that they would have been preferred? He must have known that Vulcans in Starfleet were given special medical leave precisely because there was no alternative to a living and breathing and thinking mate. If it were only a matter of Vorik's mind, then surely… surely, he could have solved this problem on his own.

But he couldn't. Men who did defeat the pon farr on their own trained exclusively to do so for years—most often those who did achieve the feat had obtained such heights of emotional suppression and mental control that would take Vorik decades to even approach—even then, he imagined some sort of bond was required. At the moment, he would have taken anyone's mental and emotional support were the sense of embarrassment and exposure not intolerable.

If anyone understood the urgency of the situation, they did not care.

"Think of this as an advanced self-healing technique," the EMH went on. "It will still require considerable mental discipline on your part."

Perhaps this solution was similar enough to the types of meditations the celibate monks of Gol engaged in to resolve their fevers. Despite his knowledge that solely psychological resolution was possible… he knew it was impossible for him. He had already proven he was not mentally strong enough. He had already bonded with an unwilling mate.

"There is a certain logic to your suggestion, Doctor." He adjusted his gaze to the hologram—the Vulcan woman he tried to tell himself was real enough. "I will try."

"Good!" The EMH looked between them for a moment, and Vorik glared. "Well, then, I'll leave the two of you alone."

The EMH disappeared in a blink, and Vorik looked at the remaining hologram.

It was impossible to imagine he was in a room with another Vulcan… he couldn't sense her. But he couldn't simply sense other non-telepathic species, either. Not really, not to the extent he could feel another Vulcan in close proximity, especially one in great emotional turmoil as a prospective mate would be.

"Computer," he said softly, and waited for the chime. "Replace the T'Pera hologram with a Human female character." After a moment's hesitation, he added, "A Starfleet officer," since he didn't want one of the beach-dwellers native to this program to appear.

In a wave of imperceptible photons, a Human woman, average in every way, in a command-red uniform, replaced his dubiously-Vulcan companion. She smiled a little, adjusted her stance to something that appeared more natural. "Have we met?" she asked.

"No, we have not," he said. "Do you have a name?"

"Melissa," she said.

He nodded. "Vorik," he whispered, pressing away the nearly-overwhelming embarrassment at the genuine attempt to connect with a hologram. And he would soon be faced with the unimpeachable reality that she was not Human. She was not real.

But he told the Doctor he would try, so he was going to try.

He ignored her unrealistic receptiveness as he stepped forward and raised a hand. He was nearly overcome with the shame—both of his earlier actions and in the desperate insanity of what he was trying to do now. At least she was a hologram, and she would never say no unless explicitly told to do so.

Still, he asked. "May I?"

She looked first at his fingertips, then back at his eyes. "Yes," she said, a bit breathless.

He shook off an impatient revulsion, then pressed his fingertips beneath her eye, his thumb beside her mouth.

She wasn't real. She was a sheet of blank paper or an empty vessel. There was no more depth to her than a wall or breeze. He could engage in whatever physical ritual might have been necessary, but it would never be enough. He didn't even know if such a solution would be enough for B'Elanna, since he'd seemed to transfer his condition to her.

For all he knew, it might be fatal to her, as well.

How was he supposed to know? He hadn't known it could happen that way…

He fought the rage and hopelessness, but the tears rose, anyway, when the holographic hand raised to caress his cheek. She drew in close, just as she was programmed to do.

He pulled back, turned away, and hid his eyes in his palm. "Computer, delete character."

The computer whisked away the mirage of companionship, leaving him only as alone as he'd been when he entered the holodeck.

With a barely suppressed sob, he slipped to his knees. He had brought shame to himself and his people by bonding with an unwilling partner, and there was little left for him to do now.

He would die.

He asked the computer for a meditation lamp. Since he could no more woo a new mate here than he could suddenly appear on the threshold to his home on Vulcan now, he turned his attention to the writhing emotions threatening to surface. Five days from now, maybe less, he would be dead. His body would be entombed in a torpedo shell, abandoned to drift among foreign stars, and his katra would never reach home.

He would die, alone and in agony, and it seemed so illogical… The least he could do was not be so afraid.

#

Taurik walked into his empty room on the Ramsar and dropped his small bag. Sam had neglected to recycle his small coffee cup before going to his shift. The PADD he'd been reading before he left sat next to the couch. Nothing at all had changed.

He sent a quick message to Saalle that he'd arrived on the Ramsar, but he had no desire to wake her if she was currently sleeping. The baby had made her schedule unpredictable.

Was it unreasonable that he should miss them both this much? Saalle, perhaps, certainly. Her stability would have been beneficial, but they agreed that travelling with an infant wasn't ideal. Also, Little Vorik would likely be upset and possibly even harmed by the immense emotions brought about by funerals. He regretted the decision, but acknowledged it would be better if they stayed on Earth.

Taurik would have skipped the ceremony had he not been obligated to go—it was a pointless exercise. Vorik had been dead for two years, and they'd always known.

Saalle almost immediately returned a connection request and, when her face appeared on his screen, he found he had no desire to speak to her. He asked how the baby was developing, and told her he was tired.

It was true. He was tired. But despite feeling tired, he couldn't sleep. Despite being unsettled, he could not meditate. It was unreasonable to feel this way. Nothing at all had changed.

She acknowledged he'd had a trying week and his transit to the Ramsar had been convoluted, on two Federation starships and a local trading vessel.

"I would welcome conversation with you tomorrow," Saalle said finally, and Taurik nodded. He could see her concern, but didn't acknowledge it. If he did, she might view it as an invitation to investigate further.

"I will contact you," he said.

"You require rest," she went on, as though he'd said nothing. For a moment, he wasn't sure he'd heard Saalle say it, or the priestess in his memory.

"Yes, I do…" He nodded, and, despite not wanting to speak to her, regretted ending the conversation. "I will speak to you tomorrow," he said, and Saalle ended the connection.

The screen turned black and Taurik seemed unable to stop staring at it. The priestess who performed Vorik's funeral had been gentle in her investigation, looking for pieces of Vorik that had been left behind. There was some question of whether he'd been able to perform some sort of transference across their Bond—a rare reflex between twins.

He had successfully rolled up his fear of the procedure, knowing it would do him no physical harm. It might be painful, but that would pass. He was prepared to be searched, his mind ransacked by someone he did not know on the day he was expected to put his brother to rest. He should have known better than to believe himself prepared.

Most funerals included a transfer of the deceased's memories to an ark for preservation, but this was obviously impossible in Vorik's case. Though speculation was illogical, Taurik had decided that even if Vorik had been able to perform a transference the event would have been torment. A priestess would remove the memories and place them within a katric ark. Then, long after Vorik's body was burned, his physical form relegated to time's ashes, Taurik would have been allowed to return if he wished. Some small part of Vorik's soul would survive, possibly forever.

With surprising skill, her mind had flown straight through what others might have considered a maze to the place Vorik no longer was. She noticed his flinch at her touch, but drew no attention to it. She saw the tears, reflexive from the telepathic needles she pressed behind his eyes. Calmly, softly, she peered into every corner and ran telepathic fingers over every ragged edge to see if Vorik had left him anything.

He could still hear the priestess's voice in his mind. I see no evidence of a transference. I only see what remains when a Bond is violently broken. Pieces of him. Strands.

He didn't know until that moment he'd desperately wanted to hear Vorik's soul hadn't been lost after all. He wanted to hear Vorik had been with him all this time, and now he could return home. He could rest. Both of them. He needed to rest.

You require rest, she'd said, and the sense of precognition was alarming. Return this evening. I will close the Bond and preserve what pieces remain.

He'd objected. He had no desire to return. Is it harmful to complete to procedure immediately? When she replied the negative, he said, Then I request that you finish. She told him, again, before continuing, that he could withdraw consent at any time. Maintaining the small ragged bits that had been ripped off would do him no harm.

Less than two minutes later, before she had quite yet begun, he withdrew his consent.

His mother would be disappointed. Humiliated. He had only come to torment her with the face of her lost son.

The priestess waited quietly, politely, while he wrapped up his reaction and shoved it into the nearest dark corner. She waited patiently while he rubbed his tears into his sleeve and caught his breath.

He apologized, and she assured him that was unnecessary and then apologized for being unable to close the Bond.

Taurik wondered under which perspective she considered that to be the truth. He rejected her offer to help him regain control and stood. He had a funeral to attend.

Though he was there physically, listening to the words and participating in the ritual motions and chanting when appropriate, he didn't attend to what was happening. At the end, when the ritual was over and all that remained was silent contemplation, he rose and left the hall before anyone else in his family. The ark was empty.

It was empty because he couldn't let go.

Brother…?

He knew it was illogical, but he reached out anyway. Vorik could not hear him, even if he could sometimes hear Vorik.

He heard him now. A distant echo over water running through a canyon. He could feel Vorik's back against his, his head leaned back, and the rain on his closed eyes. It wasn't words, but a feeling. A sense of peace, of belonging, of relief.

Leave me alone… he tried to withhold the welling emotional dislocation, the sense that he was feeling something that wasn't his. It was the only way to explain the peace, the relief. The only logical explanation was that he was losing his mind.

Or else he was dying.

Was he dying? He'd been told as a child that losing control of his emotions could lead to death, but surely he'd disproven that by now. It was illogical to cry, but not deadly. He would have wept over the empty ark if he'd thought it were.

The only thing those small shards of his brother had to tell him was that he would be okay. He would find peace. He could let go.

Vorik knew nothing. It was illogical to live like this.

Leave me alone! Taurik's being lashed out against the empty darkness, and the sensation shriveled slightly, though it didn't leave.

He thought he should meditate, but he couldn't. He tried, but he couldn't.

The only remaining slivers of rationality left to him distantly speculated how he might be coping had he born up under the mental operation and let those pieces be removed. Though there had been, of course, pain associated with the removal of the psionic equivalent of dead tissue, keeping the pieces of Vorik with him was now an emotional impulse.

And even though he knew that, he could not bring himself to believe he should return to Vulcan to complete the procedure. He'd made the illogical choice, the harmful choice, the wrong choice… and he had neither desire nor will to change it.

When he could no longer sit here in the room alone, he went to the mess hall nearest Engineering with every intention of finding an empty corner and sitting there to simply listen to the ambient meaningless chatter. The boots muffled on the floor, the cycle of breath in laughter or speech. Anything for a distraction, no matter how small.

As he entered, he heard a familiar voice, felt a familiar pull, and his mind settled somewhat. He was no longer frantic with anger, but embarrassed. He'd allowed his lack of control to drive him from his quarters this way. He composed himself, and looked for Gabi in the crowd.

#

"That's it for me," Gabi said, rising from the table. "I got somewhere to be. See you all later."

Taurik was due back on board about an hour ago, and she figured this was all the time he needed to settle back in. She'd already seen all the pictures of the new baby Vorik, but still felt like she should be gushing over each of them individually and in person.

Lawford grinned at Johnson. "Told you."

Johnson sighed, shrugged. "You win."

"Win what?" Gabi hesitated to look from one of them to the other.

Lawford looked shamed, and Johnson seemed to be refusing to make eye contact with her. Even Dawes just shrugged at her even though her attempt to repress a smile told Gabi what she already guessed anyway.

"Seriously, what?" Gabi sat back down in the chair.

"Nothing." Lawford brushed her away with the back of his fingers with a dismissing nod. "You said you have somewhere to be. We don't want to hold you."

"Petty Officer Lawford Roth." Gabi didn't know what she thought a stern recitation of his full name was going to do… "Come on, what is it? It obviously has to do with me; it's not fair if you don't tell me."

"We just had a bet that you were going to excuse yourself early since Lieutenant Taurik's back onboard," Johnson said despite the venomous glare Lawford was shooting him. "That's all. In my defense, I thought he was exaggerating."

"Exaggerating about what?" Gabi looked at Lawford, hoping that her expression was communicating all the disappointment and anger she hoped. "What did you say? We're just friends—good friends, sure, but…"

"Nobody said anything, Gabi," Dawes said. "No need to get defensive."

"I'm not defensive." Though, even she had to admit she sounded like she was. "I'm just sick of explaining this like it's anybody else's business. I swear, petty officers gossip like they have nothing else to do."

"They." Johnson snorted. "I'll remind you, you're one of us."

"Besides, it wasn't gossip," Lawford said. "It was just a bet."

"What else were you betting on, then?"

A quick look around the table told Gabi everything she thought she already knew. She hated being a topic of conversation like this, especially since she was sure none of these people were her friends. She was moving too quickly, both from ship to ship and up in terms of her career and responsibilities, for any of the friends she'd made in the last year to feel like they were even in the same quadrant as she was anymore.

She'd never heard back from Chloe, Taurik had taken a significant step in her life, Sam had orders to join the Enterprise within the next two months, and the only thing she was doing was running in circles.

"How long it's gonna take for these two to get a room, for one thing," Lawford said, gesturing toward Dawes and Johnson.

The way Dawes blushed and Johnson averted his eyes, Lawford wasn't wrong about that.

"See?" Lawford grinned. "I win all the bets. I'm not saying your feelings will ever be reciprocated—he'd a goddamn Vulcan—but that doesn't matter if the bet's that you wish he did."

Gabi waved that away, even though her blood was boiling—not because Lawford was right, but because Dawes and Johnson seemed to think he was. "It's not exactly attractive that the one time I saw any emotional response at all he thought he was dying."

She couldn't believe she'd said that.

Fortunately, Dawes, Johnson, and Lawford didn't seem to think she'd said anything weird. In fact, they seemed to think she was joking, which was probably a good thing. Still, her heart felt heavy and her hands were shaking. She tore her eyes from the table, from Lawford agreeing that didn't sound appealing, to anything else in the room.

Damnit. Damnit, damnit, damnit.

Gabi stood, her eyes fixing on Taurik's only two or three meters away. He stood stiff and straight, the blank expression telling her he'd heard every word. "Excuse me. I have to… I have to go."

A low whistles sounded from the table, but she ran for the doors Taurik had just gone through anyway. "Taurik, wait! Taurik!"

He waited like she asked in the midst of officers and crew walking around them to and from the cafeteria. He held his hands behind his back, and said nothing.

"I'm so, so sorry."

"There is no need to apologize," he said.

"Yes, there is! I didn't—I shouldn't—" She wasn't even sure how to say what she meant. She was sorry for everything, but felt like she should be specific. "I didn't mean that," she said, and shrugged helplessly, even though she was sure that didn't say exactly what she wanted to say.

She wanted to say he was important to her. Why hadn't she just said that?

"I was merely…" He paused, and took a small breath the way he did when he was buying time to think. "The journey to reach the Ramsar has been physically taxing," he said, and nodded as if checking agreement with what he'd just said. "I am attempting to expend excess energy by circling the decks. I didn't intend to interrupt."

"You didn't, I—" She gestured back toward the cafeteria, and those friends she was going to scream at later.

He glanced at the door. "I must continue."

"Taurik."

"Good night, Miss Dixson." He turned and started walking down the hall again, leaving Gabi blinking at tears in the middle of the hallway.

"Miss Dixson?" A few eyes strayed to glance at her, maybe wondering what could be wrong with her. Or, maybe not. She ran after Taurik again. "I don't know why—I shouldn't have said that, and I'm sorry—" He had only been walking, so she caught up easily. Put a hand on his shoulder.

"Please!" He spun back on her, stepping into her space more than she'd ever seen him do willingly before. "You are making a scene."

"I'm making a scene? You wouldn't be saying any of this if you hadn't heard—" She paused at his raised eyebrows, and redirected. "I mean, if I hadn't said…" She stopped, and shook her head again. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry—I know… this week has probably been hell, what with Vorik's funeral and everything, and I wanted to come see you."

"Why?"

"Why?" She huffed. "What do you mean why?"

"I have known my brother is dead for years." Taurik straightened and looked around before pulling her into a nearby science lab. It was deserted. Probably what he was going for as he waited for the door to close and fixed her in his gaze. "Participating in the ritual motions of putting his imagined soul to rest is of significantly less consequence. It would be illogical to consider this arbitrary day of any more significance."

Gabi hesitated. "You can't believe that."

"It doesn't matter what I believe. Vorik is dead." He blinked, and Gabi wasn't sure she didn't see tears. "I don't know how to respond," he added, straightening and blinking his tears away.

Gabi tried to remember what Taurik had said once about emotional control being a choice… and that he had a difficult time choosing. "Don't you get to choose…?" she asked in a whisper.

He focused on her more intently. He almost looked angry, and that… she'd seen it before. It was still scary. "I am accustomed to insults and… derisive remarks. Vulcans are often misunderstood for our values and philosophy, but—?" He looked off toward the black consoles. "You were not mocking us; you were mocking me."

"I—"

"That night was the worst night of my life." He paused long enough for Gabi to look back up. He was no longer looking at her. "And I'm not sure why you were there."

She shook her head, even though she could explain it. Maybe it was because she was alone, and so was he. They had things in common beyond an interest in starships and rock-climbing. It was because she could be herself, and she hoped so could he. It was because she cared, and so, even, did he. "Please, Taurik, tell me what to say. What can I say? How can I fix it?"

He sighed, and she somehow knew what he was going to say. "You can't." He didn't say anything else. He left, and she didn't stop him.

#

The Doctor suggested both he and B'Elanna take several days to recuperate from their mutually-inflicted injuries—it had been several days, and Vorik imagined she was back to work already. She hadn't suffered mortal humiliation. At least the challenge had broken their bond. He couldn't tell where she was anymore—if she was close or far away.

He got out his lamp, lit it, and sat on the floor next to his bed.

He'd replicated a new one early in the voyage, though the lamp that matched Taurik's was still in a drawer underneath his bed. This one was a hanging fire pot, wholly foreign to the people in the mountains of his home, despite still being distinctly Vulcan. It was illogical, but he found his old lamp reminded him of his isolation every time he tried to meditate. It was tiring.

He hadn't meditated, just as he hadn't slept despite having spent most of the last three days in bed. He had never spent so long in such a state of inaction, barely convincing himself to rise to eat or perform other necessary functions. Only after he discovered he hadn't taken any water in two days did he realize he was allowing his emotions to ruin him even further.

Still, he could hardly bring himself to meditate.

Denying his biology would do him no good: he was still Vulcan, and his undisciplined and turbulent nature had to be curbed. The entire day following his final humiliation, he wished he could simply curse his nature, his home, his people, and die.

The next day, he didn't want to die. He did not despise being Vulcan, he missed home more than he could express, and there were certainly specific Vulcans he missed even more. To wish he was something he wasn't or from somewhere he couldn't truly understand was as illogical as wishing B'Elanna had—

It didn't matter. Thinking about it wasn't beneficial. He was Vulcan enough to realize that.

This test of his character had shown him to be extremely, dangerously lacking. He had no doubt that the crew would be better off without him.

Still, he had not died of what would have been called natural causes, and it would be illogical to deprive the Voyager of his skills and work hours while he could be of use.

Vorik had gone to the mess hall today. It seemed that everyone was looking at him. And it seemed like he couldn't look at anyone. B'Elanna, certainly, never again. Tuvok either, probably. Not that they spoke that often.

He would have to, of course, speak to both of them again. It would be impractical not to. But he could never recover from this.

So he hadn't meditated. It made no sense, but he was far too angry to meditate. It somehow seemed illogical to try.

But he knew he couldn't do that forever, so here he was.

Except he wasn't. He just watched the flame, fingers laced together as he idly and illogically imagined where T'Pring was at this moment. He set that aside almost immediately—the amount of anger and sorrow resulting from even thinking her name was unbearable.

He turned his imaginings to Taurik. For the first time, he considered it might not be so terrible that Taurik thought he was dead. Taurik would be correct by the time it made any difference. He wondered if he was still on the Enterprise or if he'd been transferred. If he'd retained his service or resigned. If he and Saalle had completed their Bond, or if they were still waiting. If they still planned to live together, or if circumstances had changed.

Circumstances had changed.

Their minds had been ripped apart—so it was understandable Vorik was less than half the Vulcan he used to be. A significant portion of his control had been removed. Sometimes, at random, he thought he heard Taurik on the far side of a vast and impenetrable desert. Vorik couldn't hear what he was saying, but he was content. That was a sensation that Vorik certainly wouldn't have conjured on his own.

Or, perhaps, he would have. He was miserable. He hoped Taurik was not. One of them should be better, should be more than this.

He closed his eyes and opened the door that he usually kept shut. That place between himself and his brother was empty and dead and even distantly painful. There was no reason to be so constantly aware of it, so he'd shut it away and repressed the pain and anger. Still, he spent a lot of time thinking about what had happened, why their Bond had snapped the way it had.

They should have been together.

It certainly would have made this circumstance more tolerable—even if they didn't discuss it, he would have told Taurik everything. He'd decided such secrecy was frustratingly illogical, and he would have preferred the impersonal shame of discussing uncomfortable topics than the personal dishonor of having telepathically assaulted someone, having bonded with her because he hadn't known it could happen that way. Even though they didn't discuss it, Taurik would have comforted him while he wept.

Sliding the lamp a bit closer, he inhaled the sweet aster aroma and focused on the flame.

How was he supposed to know it could happen like that? If only he'd known, he thought he might have been able to prevent it. It was difficult to defend against an attack blindfolded.

The edge where Taurik wasn't radiated a blackness he'd closed away for three years. It made some sense that today it should be hotter, more powerful. It made sense that he should feel worse right now. It was symptomatic of his condition, of the mortal need to be close to someone.

He avoided thinking of B'Elanna, of T'Pring, and focused on something else.

Vorik stood on the edge of his consciousness and tried to imagine that Taurik was there, listening. Offering some kind of advice or comfort or something that no one else would ever offer… but he couldn't even do that anymore. He couldn't accurately recall his blue shade, as every color he came up with was somehow off. He could almost hear his voice, but couldn't make out the words.

If only he wasn't sure Taurik would be just as angry and grieved if in thirty years or so when Voyager finally reached a distance to make communication possible… He turned away from the illogical imagining. Vorik would be dead, so it didn't matter what Taurik would think of him when he found out.

But it mattered. Taurik would be in his fifties or almost, probably. He would have lived without Vorik for thirty years, believing he was dead. He would hear that Vorik had survived his first pon farr and surely understand when he heard Vorik had died seven years later by the least painful method he could find…

Taurik would understand. He had to understand. Vorik never wanted to die, but circumstances had changed.

He could only imagine Taurik's face—until he realized it was just his own. Taurik would never look so sad. It was illogical.

Chapter Text

At six minutes past zero-four-hundred hours, Vorik sat in the corner of the otherwise vacant mess hall facing the stars. A light dinner and tea would occupy him for the next twenty-five minutes, as well as a letter to Taurik on his PADD.

Despite what he'd thought two months ago, in the hours and days after his unfortunate confrontation with B'Elanna, he had recovered his former control. Less so had he regained his former outlook, but he considered this merely a delayed reaction similar to that depression other crew members had endured the first months of their being stranded in the Delta Quadrant. He'd been disoriented and distressed, but mildly. He'd enjoyed the challenge of maintaining a vessel without the resources to which they would otherwise have easy access.

He requested to be placed on the opposite shift from B'Elanna, and she'd approved his request almost immediately. That didn't speak well to the state of their relationship.

Not that it mattered anymore.

He was just as assured of his impending death today as he was two months ago, but still hopeful he would find another solution that didn't involve hopeless humiliation. He had seven years to try again.

The prospect of trying, again, to ingratiate himself in the eyes of a non-Vulcan was daunting. He was generally well-liked, but not like that. His idea of romance did not complement others'. His way of communicating was clearly uncommon in mostly-Human circles.

It would be difficult to save himself. It might be impossible.

He couldn't put that in the letter, though. It would only be harmful to Taurik to know that he regretted the inevitability of his death. But, then, it would probably be equally harmful for him to believe Vorik had been miserable enough to desire it.

He was misdirected, uninterested, and restless.

He was misunderstood, excluded, and afraid of being rejected again.

He was not miserable.

Precisely on schedule, at zero-four-ten hours, Mister Harren walked into the mess hall, his eyes glancing over Vorik in glazed disinterest. It was the extent of their interactions, and Vorik hadn't actually known his name for the first month of his assignment to the overnight crew. Mortimer was a name one did not frequently cross—not like T'Pel or Selek, and rather something more like Taurik. He seemed willfully isolated, owing to his abrasive demeanor and singular interest in certain stellar phenomena. Vorik's passing familiarity with Schlezholt's Theory of Multiple Big Bangs certainly did not qualify for Mister Harren's attention.

Nevertheless, Mister Harren usually occupied the table directly next to the one Vorik always selected—despite an entire mess hall of empty tables. Vorik had once considered that an invitation to open conversation. Since Mister Harren began to routinely sit next to him with no overtures for interaction, he had begun to question that assumption. It was clear to everyone that Mister Harren was uninterested in conversation of any kind.

Except, perhaps, on Schlezholt's Theory of Multiple Big Bangs, provided his conversation partner was suitably knowledgeable.

Vorik considered him a working model of antisocial behavior: what not to do if he wanted to be considered likeable and suitable material for a mate. Consequently, he was potentially a valuable source of information on Human mating rituals, provided his advice was considered in the negative.

And since he had nothing to do for another twenty minutes, continued research on the topic with the potential of irritating only the most disliked person on board—even including himself—had very few disadvantages.

However, it was clear to Vorik that he had no friends on board after his behavior toward Miss Torres, and it was illogical to ignore a deteriorating mental state. Mister Harren, while certainly not a desirable option for companionship, seemed to be the only option he had left.

"Mister Harren," he said, and directed his attention that way.

Harren visibly startled, whipping his head to the side to seem to discover for the first time that he was not alone on Voyager after all. "Yes? What?"

"May I make some inquiries of you regarding Human social interaction?"

"Who are you?"

Vorik supposed it bore to reason that, despite Harren's having been noticed by everyone, almost no one was noticed by him. "I apologize. My name is Vorik. We have taken our meals at the same time these past two months."

"Oh." Harren thought about that, but only for a second. "And what do you want?"

"Advice."

Harren looked skeptical, perhaps reasonably so. The only reason Vorik wanted his advice was to explicitly not follow it. "On what?"

"I have had some… difficulties in relating with the crew. I thought you might be able to provide perspective, since you and I do not have many overlapping social circles."

Vorik watched for almost a full three seconds before Harren eyed him. "I bet we don't have any. I'm sorry, but I'm very busy."

"Wang's Second is quite probably impossible to break," Vorik offered, and Harren's interest was rekindled.

"What do you know about it?" Harren asked, almost a snap.

"Nearly nothing," he admitted. "Another area in which your knowledge exceeds my own. I do know that Schlezholt's is not intuitively acceptable, but Wang's Second does seem to imply it. And Wang's is considered indissoluble by general cosmologist consensus."

Harren huffed, slightly, his eyes darting first from one corner of the room to the other.

"I am not a cosmologist," Vorik said. "Only an engineer."

He was only an engineer the same way blood was only a liquid. He played a vital role in Voyager's passage back to the Alpha Quadrant. He could play a vital role on any ship, and his work was productive, often in a literal sense. Vorik couldn't say the same for Harren. In Harren's defense, it was unlikely he intended to remain on Voyager very long.

Though the topic of universal inception didn't come up in his work very often… he wondered who possibly cared enough to study it full-time whenever it did. His curiosity in the matter did not make up for the lack of productive efficiency such study necessitated.

"It's not unbreakable," he said, finally. "I can prove it. I'm close."

Vorik doubted that, but many improbable things had happened in his life quite recently. Perhaps as improbably as multiple big bangs. "I'm certain many people will find your paper interesting when we return."

Mister Harren seemed unsure how to respond to that, unsure if he should. Clearly, he wasn't considering giving a favorable answer.

"May I make a proposition?" Vorik asked.

"Clearly I can't stop you," he said.

"While I am not as versed in the academic study, I am reasonably skilled in several disciplines of interstellar physics and theoretical mathematics. I would be capable of reviewing your paper on a basic level until more skilled individuals are within communications range," he said.

"And I… advise you on Human relationships?" Mister Harren didn't seem convinced.

Vorik nodded, to no greater positive response from Mister Harren than originally.  "Yes," he said. "At least until more skilled individuals are within communications range."

To his surprise, Mister Harren's condescending, confused glare cracked. He smiled. "Was that a joke?"

He inclined his head in an affirmative gesture. "It was an attempt."

"Then you're already better at this than I am," he said, and turned to his PADD.

Vorik sighed, and turned back to his meal. "And yet the desired outcome continues to elude me."

They both stayed quiet for several minutes. Vorik could only conclude that Mister Harren was continuing to read, write, and research; he should focus his attention elsewhere. Perhaps on someone else. There were one-hundred fifty crew on board Voyager. It seemed unlikely that all of them would remain unforgiving of his unwilling assault and inept attempts to be social…

"Fine," Mister Harren suddenly snapped. "Fine, if you really need help."

"I do."

"Alright. But we aren't friends."

"Of course not."

#

The last two weeks had been quiet, and nearly depressing except that the work was almost enough to keep Gabi busy. Taurik hadn't talked with her about anything that wasn't work related in two weeks, and she almost thought she deserved it.

Well, almost. She'd apologized, and she really meant every word of her apology. But, even if she couldn't imagine him being angry at all, never mind this long, he never accepted her apology. He didn't even address it.

Professionally, he engaged in conversation and even initiated it. Sometimes even when conversation was unnecessary… which made Gabi wonder if maybe he had forgiven her and just never said anything.

Maybe she was letting her embarrassment get in the way. She could have joined him at his table in the mess hall for drinks and pick up like nothing had happened.

But something had happened. She admitted she was wrong, but that didn't seem like enough. However illogical it seemed to her, that was his choice. She had to respect that. She was damn good at giving people space if that was what they wanted. There was more than enough space to go around out here.

Less these days, but still… lots of space.

"Gabi, hey, news." Jensen's familiar timbre interrupted both her musing over the energy maps of the Ramsar and her current social trouble. "Transfers incoming."

"I figured…" She watched Jensen lean on the console next to her, looking at his PADD and the brief lines of text that told them their lives were about to be uprooted again. "But at least things are looking up for once, right?"

"How do you figure?" Jensen asked, his grin more disbelieving than anything positive.

"Well, the Klingons know a Changeling was manipulating their war and spoiling our relationship, so maybe they'll take the Dominion seriously now." The moment it came out of her mouth, Gabi knew that those words were just wishes.

The look Jensen was giving her said the same thing.

Gabi sighed and waved him away. "Let me dream."

"That's why we're being moved around like pawns," Jensen said, and charged ahead without giving her a chance to argue. "Getting us ready to serve this wartime Federation. We're going to be called to the front lines every time. You know that, right?"

"I would have enlisted to join the war now even if I somehow found something else to do before enlisting," she said, and shrugged. "This is exactly what we signed up for, and exactly what I would have signed up for again even now."

"Really?"

Since she'd said it, she didn't know. But since she said it she figured she'd better at least look like she knew what she was talking about for once. "Really. What else would I do? Sit around on Mars until the Dominion's knocking on our door?"

"You buy that existential threat stuff?

"You see what they were doing to the Klingons and you don't?"

Jensen was quiet. He shrugged. "Okay, well… good point. But you know this is just going to get worse before it gets better, right?"

Gabi looked back at the energy maps, since she wasn't even sure that was true. Things were going to get worse. That didn't mean they had to get better. Still, she offered Jensen the smallest smile, and shrugged. "We can dream."

#

"Gabi's leaving this evening. I was going to bring this over to her." Sam held up a box marked with the word Federation English calligraphy: Fudge, a Human confection Taurik was extremely familiar with, thanks to an Academy "hazing" ritual. It was a suitable cake flavor, as well. "What to come?"

Taurik looked at the PADD in his hand, the latest research from Doctor Nils Dias. Though the paper was originally also in Federation English, this paper had been traditionally translated due to the paper's widespread use and acceptance. The swirling circles and lines looked much more orderly and symmetrical than the loops and whorls of Federation English.

"I am working," he said, and pressed his thumb to the screen to scroll even though he wasn't finished with the page.

"Alright, what the hell happened between you two?"

Taurik sighed. "I would prefer we didn't speak about it."

"That makes two of you," Sam grumbled. "I swear, you guys are more loyal to each other when you're fighting than when you're getting along."

"We are not…" Taurik hesitated, then tried to figure out what to say. Since, obviously, they were certainly not loyal to each other. He put the PADD down, and pushed it away. "We aren't fighting."

"What do you call it?"

After all these years, Sam had learned how to get Taurik to admit to the illogical things he was doing. Too many things he did were, indeed, well-considered. He thought about them all, sometimes too much, and still rationale escaped him. Taurik couldn't find a word in his lexicon for Sam that would translate to anything other than fighting.

Taurik sighed. "We had a… disagreement."

"A disagreement." Sam sounded surprised. Then he sighed, pressed his fingers to his forehead. "Fine. A disagreement. I guess I didn't realize you were capable of a holding a grudge."

"Holding a—?" When put that way, it was even more illogical than he originally conceptualized. He couldn't come up with a dispassionate synonym for this, either. "Because of your estimation of my character or—?"

"Because you're a goddamn Vulcan!" Sam laughed, but unhappily. Sarcastically. "How is this logical? What did she do?"

Taurik considered that for as long as he thought necessary. Of course, it wasn't logical… he never thought it was. But, apparently, pride was at the very least a personal trait. "It no longer matters."

"Wait, she actually did something? What'd she do? Does she even know?"

"She is aware."

"So she thinks she didn't do anything wrong."

Taurik hesitated.

Sam stared, and Taurik had rarely felt so uncomfortable. "Oh, my god. She apologized." When Taurik didn't answer immediately, he scoffed. "What the hell did she do? Because I hope she literally killed someone."

He wasn't angry. After a few hours' distance on the interaction, he knew he didn't even distrust her. Still, he wasn't interested in speaking to her. At this point, it was uncomfortable, and to call attention to that fact seemed unnecessary. "It does not matter."

"It obviously does! She's leaving. We could all die tomorrow," Sam snapped. "We could never see her again, and you're okay with that? What's the last thing you said to her?"

With a small sigh, he admitted, "She asked me how to… fix it. I… my response was unfavorable."

With a brief pause to slam his feet to the floor, Sam rose. Pointed at Taurik as he walked to the door. "You know what? You are an ass."

The combination of his body language, expression, and the way he said each word as if it were a sentence unto itself was unmistakably angry. "And selfish," he offered. "Rude and arrogant."

"Don't I know? But staying that way isn't just hurting you." He hesitated a moment, then turned back. "You know she'd forgive you for that if you just accepted her apology, right?"

He wasn't sure that was true, given Sam's reaction. Perhaps, with the way he'd let the quarrel stagnate for the past six weeks, she had more reason to be angry with him than he'd had for the anger he'd let control him in the first place.

"While speaking with her companions in the mess hall, she mentioned… an extremely private and uncomfortable moment," he said, since he was sure he didn't want Sam to know. Only Gabi, Saalle, and his sister knew. The latter two politely ignored it. Gabi had spoken of it with an unkind humor—and he knew he shouldn't have given it a second thought.

He had thought he was dying at the time. And, with the exception of their last non-work conversation, it was the only time she'd seen an outsized emotional reaction from him. But she'd told him that she would keep the occurrence in confidence. That she'd been, perhaps, suitably vague, made no difference. She had stated she would tell no one, and told many. Taurik had no way of knowing if it was, as she'd said, the only time.

Sam looked confused, concerned. "I mean, I have to ask. What kind of moment are we talking about here?"

Taurik wasn't sure what genres Sam could have been referring to, so he defaulted to the cause of the reaction. "Shortly after Vorik's death. I responded poorly." Extremely poorly may have been a more accurate description.

And he clearly wasn't better, still allowing that sensitivity to bleed into other areas…

Several seconds passed, and then several more during which Sam seemed to search for words all while he continuously shook his head in response to a mental conversation to which Taurik was blind.

The truly distressing thing was that, now, it really didn't matter. Even though she'd said she would never tell anybody about his alarming response to his brother's death, that night shouldn't have been able to hurt him anymore regardless of who knew about it. Vorik's absence was only a muted ache, but it was as if in the gravity well of a black hole: time had no meaning there and mass was immaterial.

Reflection showed he was only angry with his inability to find any conclusion to the sorrow. He thought he should have by now. It had been two and a half years, but sometimes it was as if no time at all had passed. Especially recently, with the Voyager just having been declared officially lost almost two months ago.

"This is an emotional response," Sam said finally.

Taurik couldn't argue with that, but he didn't want to affirm that fact, either. To his surprise, he even bristled with indignation, even though he knew he agreed with Sam's position. He'd been wrong, and he continued to be wrong. Even worse, he chose to continue to be wrong and somehow managed to concurrently believe himself justified.

Before he knew what he was doing or why, he said, "I have neither need nor desire to receive a lecture on the rationality of my actions from you."

"I could say the same for all your smartass comments over the years, but I'm still living with you. Just do whatever you have to do, but accept her apology." Sam glared, and Taurik was certain he'd never seen him quite this angry. "We never have any idea what's going to happen. But now, with just the size of the Dominion fleet we saw come through, we know a lot of us are going to die."

"You seem unusually sanguine about that," Taurik offered, and only meant it to be complimentary.

Sam scoffed. "I'm not. Accept her apology. You don't want the last thing you ever said to her to be that she can't fix it. And I know you don't care about anybody the way you cared about him, but… what's the last thing you said to Vorik?"

A good night. Sleep well. It only just now occurred to him, he was still saying it.

"I bet it was something nice. Something meaningless. But something you don't regret." Sam hesitated, then shrugged, "But what if it was something you couldn't fix?"

Taurik watched him for a moment, just to be sure he was done, and decided not to answer him after all. "I will take your recommendation under advisement."

With a brief huff and a goodbye, Sam left.

Chapter Text

Taurik carefully applied the dermal regenerator to the burn on his wrist, obtained sometime during the battle. He found it mildly concerning that he couldn't remember exactly when it had happened, but watching the wound close beneath the thin layer of blood and expended immunocytes made the idle attempt to remember less and less important. As the burn disappeared, so did the pain. It was, he considered, the greatest of modern inventions—though it only healed surface wounds, it was well worth the investment to have one available in his quarters.

That his quarters had survived the recent onslaught seemed something of a miracle, but he no longer kept anything sentimental, and certainly nothing irreplaceable. Instead of framed holoimages, he simply downloaded a two images to his personal PADD. Instead of a meditation lamp, he employed a holographic candle. There was something comfortable about the minimalism to which the war had brought him.

There was nothing comfortable, nothing beneficial about the war. It was illogical to look for meaning in chaos. It was illogical to search for something good in what was completely and unashamedly evil.

It was for his own sanity he had to be content. His bare quarters, unshaken despite the disturbance, was as decent a reason as any.

He turned on his communications panel. It was working, though external communications beyond the immediate vicinity of the fleet and Starbase 375 were restricted. The Ramsar would be docked here for days, or perhaps even weeks—though he doubted the communications blackout would persist.

He would simply record a message for Saalle to be delivered at the next possible opportunity. He had done so after every battle thus far, as a sort of ritual. Most of them, he deleted after a few days. When he could, though, he always did send her at least a small message personally assuring her of his safety.

Safety was such an ephemeral thing.

They'd lost Deep Space Nine.

They'd lost control of the wormhole.

That the wormhole was currently blocked by a field of impressive and devastating mines was immaterial. The Dominion had time to dismantle them one at a time if they had to. Once that task was completed, reinforcements would descend on the Alpha Quadrant from the other side, and the war would be well and truly lost.

Taurik put aside his mind racing with options, trying to identify places to hide like a prey animal on the run. He'd even considered the Romulan Star Empire for the briefest of moments—but, really, exchanging one fanatic totalitarian government for another was hardly the solution he was looking for. He wondered how many Federation refugees the Klingon Empire could suffer to hold, if it would suffer any. He wondered how quickly and decisively the Dominion would attack Vulcan, or Earth, or Andoria, or any of the cornerstone homeworlds.

Would he live to see the destruction of Vulcan? Of Earth?

Would his wife survive? His son?

Before he could spiral too far, he searched the communications directory for the Enterprise and found it hovering within comms range. It had arrived at the Tyra system too late to make a difference. Their few ships with as many armaments as the Sovereign class had were precious, needed everywhere.

Sam appeared on his console, obviously in as satisfactory a mental state as Taurik. "Shit day."

Taurik considered, never quite knowing how to respond to expressive vulgarities. This time, he sighed, and decided to try what his crewmates had called gallows humor. "Quite possibly the understatement of the century."

To his gratification, Sam smiled. "Yeah, it is. At least, the Ramsar's still kicking."

"Kicking implies the ability to expend force."

"When you're not derelict chunks of debris or a billion pieces of glittering space dust, you're kicking," Sam said, and put his fingers though his hair. "Oh, my god, Taur, we are… ninety-eight ships, my god. You don't need to be good at statistics to know where this is going."

"I assume you know about Deep Space Nine, as well?" he asked.

Sam nodded.

"It seems dire…"

Sam nodded again. "I'm glad I wasn't anticipating a pep talk when you called," he said, and smiled. "You weren't hurt, right?"

"Only minor injuries, easily addressed by a dermal regenerator."

"Same," Sam said, lifting his hand and looking first at the back, then the front. "I was bridge ops during the battle, which I think I'd be happier about if not for, you know, the battle part." He hesitated, then looked at Taurik. "You know the crazy part? I'm not really even scared. It's like something in my head just flips over, switches off, and the amount of… of clarity is unbelievable. It's the worst—I'd never wish it on anybody—but, god, it's… euphoric.

Even though he wasn't sure that was a healthy response to danger, especially for Humans, it seemed to help him cope with the situation. "Your ability to remain calm in stressful situations is, no doubt, a benefit to your crewmates as well."

"Socially, I'm still a moron, but at least I can keep my head cool when people are losing their legs. How are you doing?"

"I am likewise," Taurik said, and turned his attention back to Tyra.

He hadn’t been calm. He hadn't been scared, either.

Certainly not euphoric.

He'd been acutely aware of each starship blinking away into nothingness, thanks to his work with emergency warp calculations. He wouldn't have needed the sensors at all if there were Vulcans on board. A few of the starships at Tyra were entirely crewed by Vulcans, though none of them had been lost to his knowledge.

"The challenges faced by Engineering are different than those on the bridge," he said, and wondered if there was any similarities. The bridge crew worked on fast reactions to movements they couldn't predict—Engineering had fractions of a second to predict damage as shields were breached. Taurik still hadn't been placed on shields. "And the Ramsar is… old."

"She acts like she's in her prime, though."

Taurik felt an incomprehensible rush of pride that he quickly put away. It was ridiculous, especially in light of the past twenty-four hours' activities. Still, "We have put in untold hours of work refitting the various systems between actions."

"You can tell."

They fell into silence, and it became all the more obvious they'd been avoiding the looming sense of defeat and impending death. He could tell Sam sensed it, too.

"We're gonna die, aren't we…?" Sam said, his voice small.

Taurik didn't look away. "It is possible."

Sam sighed, then, and leaned back. Taurik could now see he was sitting on the couch in his quarters. They were large, a benefit of his promotion as well as exemplary performance as a bridge officer. Still, there were no windows. "You hear from Gabi?"

"I regret to report we haven't spoken…" he said, though he was sure Sam knew that.

"Didn't think so. I'm getting a connection request from the Valley Forge, so I assume that's her. I'll call her back later…" Sam was silent for a second, then said, "Taurik…?"

"I know." Taurik looked off into his quarters. He knew, he knew he should have spoken to her months ago. He should have accepted her apology and apologized himself.

He didn't know what his reaction might be should she die.

He didn't know what hers might be if he did.

It seemed cruel to force her into that position. Death was not cruel, but he knew he could be.

"I won't say anything, then. How long will you be at Starbase 375?"

Taurik didn't have the time to be either grateful or annoyed Sam had redirected so quickly, and adjusted. "Unknown. The Ramsar requires extensive repairs. It could be weeks. Will the Enterprise?"

"Not long," Sam said. "Word is everything's getting reshuffled. Dominion control of Deep Space Nine puts their reach a lot closer to home." He hesitated, then looked at Taurik more closely. "Well, your home, anyway. Mine's barely a blip even on Starfleet's radar."

"The benefits of expeditionary life?"

"If everything goes to shit, there's plenty of room at my parents place," Sam joked. "But you'd hate the climate. It's cool and it rains almost every day."

Taurik doubted he'd be at all compelled to consider that if things were really so dire as to necessitate his relocating to Hataria VI of all places. "The offer is appreciated."

"There are moles—these goddamn moles that are like this big." Sam lifted his hands to approximate the size of the creature, reportedly as long as Sam's shoulders were broad. "They might make you want to start eating meat just out of spite."

The notion was so ridiculous as to be amusing. "I hope that is unnecessary."

"Yeah, me, too." Sam grinned. "I tolerated being your roommate, but living on the same planet for the rest of our lives? Give me a break." He paused, scrubbed his face, his tone subverting the levity in his words. "You and me, against the Dominion, with that kind of motivation? They don't stand a chance."

Sam heaved a sigh, one Taurik could nearly feel himself. "I gotta record something for my mom."

"And I, for Saalle."

"Call Gabi?"

Taurik waited a moment, but Sam made no indication he'd withdraw the request or follow up with some portion of a lecture. "After," he said.

"Thank you."

Taurik didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't. Sam told Taurik he was important, and Taurik returned the sentiment. They said goodbye, and the screen went black.

Taurik was continually surprised to find how talking about nothing of consequence could be that beneficial to his mental state. He wondered if it was an emotional reaction—but, if it was—it was so buried as to be indistinguishable from some autonomic function.

He granted momentary consolation that Vorik was one person about whom he needed expend no energy. There were plenty enough opportunities for anxiety given current events…

Just as he set the computer to record his newest message to Saalle, the chime of the door behind him nearly startled him. Perhaps, he thought as he crossed the room to answer it, he should meditate before beginning the recording…

The door slid open, and he found himself shocked and confused again. "Miss Dixson?"

He had the impulse to ask her if Sam had told her to visit him, but didn't. They hadn't spoken in anything other than a professional capacity in six months, and her mental state was in obvious disarray.

No, he decided a moment later, this was certainly some kind of emotional breakdown. Her eyes were reddened and swollen, her cheeks shining with the residual moisture of tears. "Hi." The timbre of even her single syllable seemed to shake her entire frame.

"Hello," he said.

"I'm sorry to bother you, it's just that Sam didn't answer and I can't—I don't—I just really need to talk to somebody right now." She paused to cover her mouth with her wrist, an inexpert restraint for an unsubtle whine of lament. "I'm sorry," she gasped, again, "I'm sorry."

"Apology is unnecessary," he said, and stepped aside to allow her entrance.

Should he have told her the reason Sam didn't respond to her call was because he'd been speaking to Taurik? Was now an appropriate time to tell her that he owed her an apology? That he had forgiven her? This was the first time in months that she'd called him, and he knew that was his fault. Perhaps that would be welcome news… or perhaps it would seem insensitive.

"I'm not certain what to say," he said instead.

She looked around the room as though confused she were in it. "I shouldn't have come."

"No—" he said, perhaps with more force than necessary. "No, I intended to convey concern, not that your appearance is in an unwelcome interruption. You are obviously in deep distress." He glanced toward the replicator, offered, "May I get you something?"

She shook her head.

The couch, then. "May we sit?"

"Yeah."

A number of deductions presented themselves as they sat on opposite ends of the sofa. Since they had emerged from a catastrophic military action that involved the loss of almost a hundred Federation vessels, it stood to reason that was the cause of her distress. But this was not what he expected from Gabi in terms of general compassion. He had to assume it was something more personal.

Sam was alive and well on the Enterprise, as Gabi seemed to know. Sam hadn't relayed to him that Gabi was engaged in any close relationships, so the loss of a mate or other close friend seemed unlikely. There was something different about her that he couldn't explain. A difference in her expression and a difference in her voice. Something different and yet familiar—

"Your sister?" he asked.

Gabi gagged as she nodded, covered her face with both her hands. "She's dead."

His words stole away on his breath, and he knew even less to say now than he did a moment ago. If she tried to speak anymore, her words were lost in weeping.

"I know consolation is impossible," he offered, and tried to remember what she'd said to him what seemed like a lifetime ago that had made an impression at the time. "However, I…  you were right to come."

It took several minutes before she was able to regain her composure—and Taurik of all people was in no position to think any less of her for it. She aggressively scrubbed her tears from her eyes as she apologized again, twice, and he was forced to simply ignore it.

"I can only offer… understanding."

He vaguely remembered apologizing to her for the inconvenience he must have imposed on her schedule as much as for his shame in his unseemly behavior. Her behavior seemed to him now as his might have to her then. Even though it was undeniably different—she was Human, and thus prone to emotional outbursts for little reason—he could only imagine his current sensation of distant grief on her behalf was something like what she experienced.

She covered her eyes. "I just wish I could've said something to her before, you know?"

"I do," he said and then shrugged. Mitigated. "At least, to an extent, I do."

"I never said goodbye."

Neither had he. Neither had Vorik. He said nothing, knowing it was irrelevant.

"Can I say something?"

"Proceed."

He thought the invitation to continue had been explicit, but Gabi seemed to be having trouble speaking. Of course… it may have had very little to do with whatever she wanted to say. He braced himself, and recalled the night he'd been in a similar position. The pain had dulled with distance, but the silence had not. It was still too quiet.

Of course, he somewhat often reminded himself of that. Others simply lived like this.

"I didn't mean to…" she whispered, and adjusted her posture. "I really didn't mean to say what I said. I never should have said it, and I'm sorry." Her voice lost strength as she continued, punctuating her sentence with a sob and hiding her face in her hands.

Taurik could easily and with nearly perfect clarity recall the incident, and her generally innocuous reference to another significantly more painful moment. He'd decided long ago she could have been more discreet, but it wasn't as though she'd betrayed some crucial confidence. She'd been anything but specific. He didn't understand her impulse to establish with clarity in what specific way he was unattractive, but none of that mattered. It never did.

It wasn't quite an apology like he was used to, but it was Human. "I should have told you a long time ago that I have forgiven you. And I regret my reaction." Her weeping quieted, and he continued. "Unfortunately, it seems my pride kept me from admitting that, and I ask your forgiveness."

"I felt like I had to say something," she said. "You never know if you're gonna get another chance."

Sam, as usual, was right. What if the last thing he said was something he couldn't fix?

"I know it doesn't matter what they think, but… they weren't just making fun of me," she said, and wiped her eyes. "They were making fun of us. And that's just… more important."

He considered that, and his illogical emotional reaction. He hadn't considered at the time, what might have led Gabi to her own emotional outburst. "Ironic."

She glanced up. "I didn't—"

"Perhaps we can agree that we were both, in some way, at fault," he suggested.

"If you want."

"I consider the matter closed."

Gabi breathed, once and deeply, before sobbing again. "Oh, god…" she laid back on the couch and stared at the ceiling, because some things couldn't be fixed. "What do I do?"

If he'd known that, they might have been sitting here like this at all… But speculation on that point was illogical. "May I guide you in meditation?"

She shook her head. "I don't know…"

He understood that, too.

#

Mother had admonished Vorik twice to not feed the yonkallar. The small lizards were not domesticated, but were otherwise quite tame, skittering between tourists and posing to earn a snack.

The yonkallar, scales shimmering blue, twisted over to stand before Vorik with its mouth wide open, tufted tail plopped between its eyes. It was clearly a natural adaption to its changing habitat, and it was to be rewarded for the innovation. Vorik had put many hours into its study, which he doubted Mother had done.

The high cliffs on this side of the lake were not, also, this lizard's original habitat. These lizards tended to stay out of the direct sunlight, usually preferring caves and caverns. In fact, Vorik had never observed a yonkallar in the sunlight outside of those that frequented this well-traveled trail. Even now, in the off season when the water was too cold to attract divers, Vorik had observed more than one visiting family besides his here. Most of them possessed trail snacks.

It was said that yonkallar were unable to be domesticated, but Vorik couldn't help but wonder if a thousand years of selection had made a new type of blue yonkallar. He wished even more that his mother wouldn't force him to release every lizard he caught. How could he test his theory without one?

Just as Vorik dropped several flakes of dried oats over the lizard's waiting mouth, a cry of surprise startled him just before a pain cracked through his skull. Vorik shrieked, covering his ears, and the lizard scattered.

He wasn't sure what had happened or why he was suddenly running when he heard something slap the water at the base of the cliffs.

He peered over the edge and understood immediately what had happened. As Taurik's fingers slipped beneath the black water of the deep lake below, Vorik screamed.

Three seconds later, Father bolted past him, his robe discarded and fluttering to the ground as he jumped.

Mother was suddenly beside him. "What happened?" She grabbed his shoulder, pulled him toward her. "Vorik, tell me what happened."

"I'm not sure—!" Vorik wrenched away from Mother's grip to try to see down into the water. "He slipped, I wasn't…" That was when Vorik made a terrible discovery, and he couldn't blink away his tears fast enough. "Mother, I can't—"

Mother wasn't listening. "Remain here, Vorik," she said and sprinted down the path.

Vorik looked down into the black water to see Father resurface, inhale, and dive down again.

Vorik didn't know how cold the water was, except that it was cold enough that Mother forbade him and Taurik from descending the stairs to the small shelf where jumpers climbed back to the top. Also, Father was not an accomplished swimmer, and neither he nor Taurik could swim at all—though that hadn't stopped him and Taurik from going up and down the stairs that led to the water forty-six times on their various visits here.

Vorik watched in an indecisive agony as the water stilled from the turmoil. Surely Mother did not intend for him to remain in this exact spot.

Taurik was down those stairs. That was where Vorik should be.

Vorik counted the stairs as he carefully descended, not because he didn't know how many there were but because he didn't want to count the number of seconds since Taurik had disappeared into the water.

Two-hundred and twenty-one.

He redirected his attention from the twelfth stair and the two-hundred fiftieth second to the space between them that had quite suddenly turned so silent.

Brother? Vorik called into the dark.

There was no answer, but this was nothing like other no-answers. Even when Taurik was sleeping, Vorik could hear him thinking. Even when Taurik was ignoring him, Vorik could sense his emotions. Even when Taurik shut the door between them to keep Vorik out of his mind, Vorik could feel his being.

Taurik was not thinking or feeling anything. He could still see his blue, but the color grew dim as the seconds slipped away.

Vorik's only theory was one he refused to consider. He had been in the vicinity of death three times in his nine years. People did not die this way—suddenly, silently, sinking away into blackness. People died when they were old and in bed, with the face of a family member held in shaking hands.

Vorik came to the bottom of the steps, where the eight-point-three meters of cliff above him met the water at a shallow shelf that extended from the cliff. Vorik and Taurik had explored this shelf thoroughly, despite the rock chips being harsh to bare feet. Vorik had never cared less about that, and ran out to the boundary of the shelf. Here, the water reached halfway up his calves and tiny fish took refuge in the shallows.

Father flailed to the surface—dragging Taurik up behind him.

Vorik waved and called. "Here! The shelf is here!"

Father struggled to keep Taurik above water, to heft him up onto the shelf even though Vorik did his best to help, burying his fists in Taurik's shirt to drag him up onto the rock. Vorik had counted an interminable three-hundred and thirty-five seconds.

Vorik knelt at Taurik's arm, swallowing a sob, and tried, again, to speak to Taurik and to hear him—sense him in any way at all. He wasn't breathing, and his lips and eyelids were a deathly copper color. He wasn't moving.

Brother, speak to me. Vorik reached out to touch his face.

Father suddenly shoved him away as he hoisted himself up over Taurik. He breathed into Taurik's lips, pulled away to inhale, and blew into Taurik's lungs again.

"Father…?" Vorik nearly choked as he watched, shivered with the water dripping from Father's black hair onto Taurik's closed eyes.

Father ignored him, pressing the water from Taurik's lungs and filling them with oxygen in rhythm.

Vorik's fingers burned to touch him, to find any of the points on his face or wrist, and bypass the filter of his own mind to only see Taurik's… but Father had never pushed him away like that. Father must have known what he was doing.

Father was not a doctor. He was a structural engineer. There was no logical reason for Vorik to believe Father had the knowledge to help Taurik.

But Father still knew more than Vorik did.

Father did not know that Vorik couldn't hear him.

Just as the shimmering blue of a transporter began to take them, Father reached out, grabbed Vorik's wrist.

Vorik found himself in what looked like an emergency medical ward. He had been in five of these, mostly due to his own propensity toward injury. Taurik was typically the careful one.

He heard the healer speak to Father, quickly and quietly. He gave Vorik a glance, and then a second. "Twins?" he asked, and Father nodded.

The healer turned to face him directly. "It may become necessary to perform a mind meld to ascertain the extent of the damage. We will take care to remain in his mind, but it may be impossible to avoid yours," he said and bent ever so slightly to be closer to Vorik's short stature. "Do you consent?"

Vorik nodded, but at a look from Father added, "Yes."

The healer went down the hall, and Vorik looked around to find that Taurik had been taken away. Father directed him to the side, near a wall, the cold lake water still dripping off his nose and soaking his robes.

Vorik wished he were covered in water, and wiped away his tears. "Father, I cannot hear him."

Father nodded, but didn't seem surprised. But, also, Father never seemed surprised. "The temporary inability to meld properly is not an uncommon side effect of head trauma," Father said, and knelt beside him. Before Vorik could wonder how Father knew that, Father's hands grasped his arms. "I regret my harshness toward you," he said.

Vorik shook his head. "It was logical."

Father looked off and away, nodding. "Yes," he said before looking back. His grip tightened briefly. "What do you need?"

Vorik shrugged, trying to suppress the anger of helplessness and anxiety of the unknown. The sudden and intense loneliness of not only silence but of isolation. "Taurik," he found himself whispering anyway. "I need to hear Taurik."

Father watched him, and Vorik wondered if he would find a lecture shortly on the virtue of emotional restraint.

Instead, Father stood, pulled Vorik in just a bit more to rest his hands on his shoulders.

Father accepted the offer of a place to sit and dry robes. They were shown to a waiting room down a narrow maze of corridors where they sat quietly for fifteen minutes. Vorik could feel the intrusion of strangers into Taurik's mind, their gentle brush against his as they tried to communicate with him. They once or twice encroached upon the boundary into Vorik's mind by accident, but left as soon as they came. He could see them, but not hear them; feel them, but not understand.

As soon as they were allowed to see Taurik, Father contacted Mother. She returned to care for Baby T'Leall, and said that Skal would join them soon. As soon as Skal arrived, Father left to meditate.

Skal sat beside Vorik. He had possibly stopped working to attend to him, still wearing the black-and-white robes of an instructor.

Taurik still thought nothing, felt nothing.

"Do you require support?" Skal asked after silent minutes watching Taurik in a deep sleep.

"I am capable of coping," Vorik said.

Skal's proximity made their familial bond stronger and louder than usual. "Yes, but to what extent?" Skal turned his head slightly to look at him. "Where Taurik has endured a physical trauma, you have endured an emotional one."

Vorik was quiet, since that seemed correct. For the next several seconds, Vorik was engaged in walking backward through the events of the past two or three hours—and that was when he knew he wasn't coping very well at all. He didn't know how long, exactly, it had been.

Still, his anxiety that Taurik was severely injured was second only to the fear that he might somehow die. He had been angry at the doctors for lacking the skill to repair the damage completely and with immediacy, and he had been angry with Mother for not obtaining help more quickly. Father hadn't found Taurik quickly enough. Vorik hadn't been paying attention, and feeding a lizard contrary to his mother's instructions instead of making sure his brother wasn't in mortal danger.

"Your anxiety will not benefit you," Skal said. "Now or later."

"I am trying…" Vorik whispered, and felt the sting of the lie. He wasn't trying at all. He was too angry to deal with his anxiety or shame. "I should have been with him," he said without thinking.

"Speculating on alternative outcomes for past events is illogical," Skal cautioned. "It was an accident, and not all accidents can be prevented. You are not to blame for Taurik's injury."

"What if he dies?"

Skal turned toward him more fully, and the brief shock of surprise tugged Vorik straight into Skal's telepathic embrace. Vorik had not been held this way since he was a small child, and never by Skal—he hadn't realized their bond was capable of such closeness. Skal didn't seem to have realized that, either, as his grip loosened. "Regardless of the outcome, you are not to blame."

"If I had not been attempting to catch yonkallar—"

"To speculate on this point is illogical," Skal said again. "You might have prevented Taurik from falling. It is equally likely your interference might have caused you both to fall. It is impossible to know what might have been."

Vorik considered that, pressing his fingers together in his lap for a moment before glancing up at Skal. "It would have been impossible for Father to resuscitate us both."

Skal blinked. "Speculation is illogical."

Vorik wondered if that made his neglect somewhat better. If his interference with Taurik had a chance of guaranteeing one of their deaths, then perhaps this was the better outcome by certain metrics.

"May I guide you in a meditation?" Skal asked.

"I am capable of coping," Vorik said again.

Skal's annoyance was brief and only barely visible. Possibly, he was stressed from Taurik's injury, as well. "Then may I get you anything? Are you hungry?"

"I haven't eaten since breakfast," Vorik said, and he wasn't sure how long ago that was. The majority of his trail snacks had gone to lizards.

Still, Skal left him alone again with the promise he would return with dumplings.

Vorik twisted his fingers in his lap and considered his reaction to everything that had occurred. He had responded with, he thought, as much equanimity as anyone would. His reflexive scream had been born more from physical pain than emotional, though he couldn't clearly remember. He knew he was sincerely physically uncomfortable, though some of that was emotional as well. Surely he could be forgiven his lessened ability to control his emotions under these circumstances.

But, then, under such circumstances as these were when emotional control mattered the most. Anybody could be calm when one didn't get to eat the lunch one originally planned, for example. Emotional control under such a mundane circumstance was expected.

Solemn calm in the face of losing his brother, possibly forever, was much more difficult and, for that reason, much more necessary.

But it was illogical to forgo a comfort simply because it was a comfort. There was nothing wrong, either morally or with respect to efficiency, with the desire for physical proximity. No one would be hurt if Vorik relocated approximately two meters away from where he currently sat. Even if it was illogical—which Vorik wasn't sure it was—this small and harmless expression of illogic might be permitted.

Was the desire to be as physically close to his brother as he could an emotional one?

Vorik decided it wasn't, ultimately, since he was demonstrably and physically connected to Taurik. It was not an emotional reaction to feel one's limbs in their proper places, for example. It might have been emotional to wish to find his hands and feet where they always were. In some cases, such hope would be entirely practical and dispassionate.

It would be best for Vorik to be close to Taurik. By extension, he could assume the same would be best for Taurik as well. If that was true—and Vorik was sure he had shown that it was, logically—then it was most efficient and even morally obligatory for Taurik's health that he be close to him.

So Vorik crept across the room and crawled into the bed beside his brother. He carefully, gently draped an arm across his waist until his palm rested against his side to feel Taurik's heart beat steadily.

His heart could beat, but his mind be unsound… Vorik didn't consider that at length as he laid his head down beside Taurik's shoulder. Vorik had already considered what might happen to them if Taurik's brain was irreversibly damaged from the lack of oxygen, and his emotional control was distressingly lacking.

In the meantime, the warmth of his body and the feeling of his heart beating was all the security Vorik thought he needed—physically—for comfort. He closed his eyes and let his mind rest against Taurik's as he tried not to sleep. He heard Skal return and smelled dumplings, but didn't rise. Skal didn't say anything.

Skal was gone again when Taurik's mind finally stirred and he jerked awake with a startled mumble. "Brother?"

"Yes?" Vorik asked before finding wakefulness completely himself. He tried to find that ever-present sense of the time, but it was fuzzy.

Fuzzy because he was half-fuzzy. Taurik's blurry perception spilled over into his, and Vorik struggled to flatten and compress his happiness to feel him again. After a few seconds, Vorik was able to brush off Taurik's incoherent awareness and focus on his own.

Taurik didn't immediately answer, but lifted his head to see Vorik tucked against him. He seemed confused. Despite the notion running counter to intuition, Vorik could only see it as a promising sign. He was awake, alert, and observant of his surroundings.

"What are you doing?" Taurik whispered after seven seconds.

A valid question, which Vorik didn't know how to answer. "Resting?" he said.

"Oh." Under ordinary circumstances, Vorik wasn't sure Taurik would have accepted that answer. Now, he was only confused. He could feel Taurik's slow apprehension of Vorik's response, but didn't seem able to connect the answer with the question he'd asked to receive it.

Or perhaps Taurik simply had other things to think about. He waited nine seconds between his hearing the answer and continuing his interrogation. "Where are we?"

"The hospital," he said quickly, leaving off the more precise parts of the answer, such as which ward and in which hospital. They had been transported approximately one-hundred-twenty kilometers to one of the largest hospitals in the province, and Vorik wondered if that news would confuse him further.

"I see," Taurik said, and looked down again, this time at the soft pink hospital robes that wrapped him. "I am injured."

"You seem to have recovered," Vorik offered, realizing that Taurik's thoughts, emotions, and being had returned to him. Perhaps it had been so slowly that Vorik hadn't noticed… or perhaps he'd never really been gone—though he knew that wasn't true. He'd been cut off from a significant portion of his soul for hours, and the lack of pain now couldn't erase.

"Recovered?" Taurik turned his eyes back to the ceiling. "From what?"

"You fell in the water. You were without oxygen for five-point-five-eight minutes."

Taurik considered. "That… that is not recommended," he whispered, and Vorik heard the hitch in his voice.

Vorik extended his embrace to their minds, that same gesture of comfort even they'd not engaged since they were infants. But he was afraid—it was illogical to be afraid. It wouldn't change the situation. It wouldn't benefit him now or later.

Vorik decided not to share any further information with Taurik. Three to five minutes without oxygen was enough on average for a Vulcan child to sustain permanent brain injury. Their neural patterns were among the most complex in the whole quadrant, and that made them highly capable—it also made them fragile.

"I should go get Father," Vorik said and pressed up from the bed.

Father, despite a lack of training in medical sciences, would know what to do. He knew very little about brains, but he knew almost everything about Taurik.

Taurik clung to him like a leech as he blinked at the ceiling. "Please, don't go."

In indecision, Vorik waited. He glanced toward the door and reached with his mind for Father, but he was either too far away physically or deep in meditation so he could not be reached. Vorik supposed it was the former. They were nine years old, and no longer required constant contact with their parents to maintain control.

But they still had each other. It was a contact that only death could break.

"It's illogical," Taurik finally admitted. "You should go get Father."

"I believe it is both physically and mentally advantageous to us if we remain close," he offered, and tried to sort out the reasoning he'd developed for Taurik. "It's logical to stay."

Taurik took Vorik's rationale and spread it out, inspecting it. Taurik was much better at logical analysis, but only because Vorik was more intuitive. Vorik arrived at a logical answer immediately more often, though he couldn't always adequately explain how. Taurik, by contrast, took time to arrive at a conclusion—but he could verbally retrace his steps with precision.

Finally, Taurik gave Vorik his verdict: "It is."

Taurik slept for twenty of the next twenty-five hours. Vorik suppressed his relief as much for Taurik's sake as for his own. It didn't make sense to share what had transpired—so, Vorik folded up the pain and confusion and put it in a tightly sealed box where Taurik would never see it, and never see the new fear that Vorik had never before considered.

Vorik wouldn't open it again for sixteen years, only to find he had no more convincing answers now than he did as a child.

Chapter Text

Taurik wasn't sure how long he'd been staring at the same set of screens, the analysis of the battles that took place in the last week along the Vulcan border, but it was longer than it should have been. He'd elected to spend some time in one of the many mess halls of Starbase 375, where the Ramsar currently docked for repairs—again.

Taurik wondered if he'd spent more of his time on this station than he had on the Ramsar in the past three months, but it was a pointless query. The Ramsar had been vital to the defense of the border, as well as drawing Cardassian and Jem'Hadar attack wings from point to point as other areas of the fleet met more strategic objectives.

Illogically, he could sense the time between now and when his life—if he was still alive—would be under Dominion control vanishing. Every day was simply one day closer to their reopening the wormhole and allowing a deluge of reinforcements from the Gamma Quadrant to cross.

Most recent correspondence from T'Leal indicated that she was considering a strategic retreat of her own to Earth or, more likely, the more-distant Bokara VI where she preferred to pursue her medical studies. His older brother Valok answered the call to serve in the Vulcan planetary security fleet—things were not yet so dire as to require the same of Skal, the oldest. The only reason his sister had not done the same was her new infant. In another year, however, it was likely she would leave the child in the care of their parents and join him.

He readjusted his gaze out the window, refocusing on the distant stars and their synchronized movements that did not regard the machinations of force. There was something distantly grounding in that.

"Taurik."

The familiar voice sent a shiver through his soul, a nostalgia thick with regret and anger and disgust. Still, Taurik stood, because he hadn't stopped himself; turned, because that was the next logical step; and looked, because he had no choice. The memory of closeness and a second-hand affection flickered just beneath.

"T'Pring," he said, and cleared his throat. "I did not expect to see you…" Ever again, possibly. He hadn't thought about it.

Vorik's bondmate—former bondmate, T'Pring, was a petite and willowy woman, pale like a spring dawn. Saalle's holoimages of the four of them were, in that way, an interesting contrast—while he and Vorik were identical, T'Pring and Saalle could not have been more different. She raised a slender hand in greeting. "Live long and prosper."

"Live long and prosper."

"It has been too long."

Taurik wondered if her intentions in using the phrase were as polite as his would have been. Still, there was certainly no reason to be hostile towards her… it was not as though she had rejected him. Vorik loved her. Perhaps more importantly, Taurik believed she loved Vorik. That she had married another in the past year—a man whose mate had been killed in action—shouldn't have been so galling.

"It has been," he said, and dipped his head in mild apology and deference.

He no longer had any insight whatsoever into what she was thinking or feeling. When Vorik was alive, he'd possessed a second-hand sense of her—Vorik could lightly sense her when she was close, and Taurik could be aware of that response if Vorik let him. It had made him more at-ease in her presence, partially because she'd always been more socially intuitive than the two of them put together.

Now, she seemed as impassive as a rock. A living rock, of course, since he could still sense her presence in the same way he could sense the telepathic presence of all Vulcans, but a rock nonetheless.

"I saw that the Ramsar was docked here, and considered it advantageous to see you for the short time we're both here. I trust you won't consider this an intrusion, but I regret we haven't spoken," she said.

"I, too." She didn't send condolences, and neither did he. Now it seemed like an oversight. Besides his immediate family, T'Pring was the only one who'd shared in Vorik's mind. "I regret not expressing my condolences," he said. "The loss of a bondmate must be painful."

"It was." T'Pring didn't consider the statement long. "I suspect the loss of a twin is at least as much."

"Possibly." Almost certainly. 

She only nodded, as though she understood.

No one understood the scale of his loss, because no one could. Only a few more understood the form of his loss, and she was one of those. She knew what it was to lose Vorik. He'd avoided her, and now it seemed so impossibly illogical he couldn't explain what he'd been thinking.

Since she said nothing else, Taurik guessed she didn't want to talk about it. He wasn't sure if it was a sentiment he shared or not. "I was unaware you were in Starfleet."

She seemed to visibly startle from his redirection. "I enrolled in officer training shortly after the Dominion invaded the Alpha Quadrant in anticipation of the war. My training is useful, and it was logical."

"I'm certain your services are appreciated. And in high demand." He hadn't personally seen combat, yet, outside of a few skirmishes, but it couldn't be avoided. If the projections he'd studied were correct, even medical personnel like T'Pring would be compelled to fire phasers in self-defense in a few years.

The weight of the conflict reasserted itself in his consciousness until he pressed it aside.

"They are," she said, "and productive. The effects of war are… sometimes unbearable. But I have found that even things we think are unbearable often only require time."

"Saalle informed me you married."

She hesitated, only long enough for him to recognize she actually had wanted to speak of Vorik, and his redirection was entirely unwelcome. Even still, she answered. "Terol. He still grieves the loss of his mate. The timing was unfortunate, but we were distantly acquainted already. It was logical that we Bond."

He wasn't sure how to reverse course without seeming, as Sam would no doubt have put it, an ass. "I apologize," he said, and lowered his eyes.

"It is simply a fact, and not a private one," she said. "I anticipate that, perhaps at a later time, we might find solace in our like experiences. He is not resistant to the notion, though I am not fond of the element of coercion that seems to exist between us."

"That is… understandable." Understandable but entirely unfortunate. He wondered, with the knowledge he would never know, whether her experience was perhaps even more intolerable than his had been. After all, no one would suggest that he replace Vorik. T'Pring's life appeared to have been thrown from its course even more severely than had his. "I regret not having spoken to you sooner."

"Your reaction was withdrawal." She shrugged and looked off. "It is understandable, as much as anything in such a situation is." She didn't look back at him as she added, "You'll recall I did not send you any messages, either."

"My presence without Vorik seems to induce a sense of alarm in those that knew us both," he said. "Your reaction seems more explainable than mine. It is impossible to look at me without being reminded of him."

"I imagine the same is true to you, of me," she offered, and then looked down toward the seat he'd just left, the small table that sat between it and another identical chair looking at the stars. "If you would find conversation beneficial, I am presently unengaged for the next fifteen minutes."

That must have been intentional. Anyone could participate in an activity they otherwise found intolerable for fifteen minutes. "It might be beneficial," he said. "I did not see you at Voyager's memorial or at the transference." It only just now seemed odd to apply that term to the funeral. There had been nothing to transfer.

"I had no desire to participate in the memorial," she said. "And I was too far away from Vulcan to return in time for the transference. Though, I suspect, he was not able to perform one."

Taurik gave a shallow nod, and did not know whether to share his contemplations regarding Vorik's katra. It hadn't been quite a year since the declaration of Voyager's loss, since the bracket on Vorik's service date had been closed. Not quite a year since he went to Vulcan to leave unchanged and unhealed. He would have kept Vorik's katra even if he had somehow succeeded in fleeing beyond himself and into Taurik's mind before his death. Even the small and pointless ceremony without it had nearly destroyed him again.

"He was not…" he said, as she seemed to be waiting for a response.

"It was the most likely outcome." With a sigh, she put her hands in her lap gently, fingers tapping together lightly.

Taurik wondered if they would sit for fifteen minutes in silence like this, each of them wishing someone else sat between them.

"I miss him more than I thought I would."

Taurik was nearly shocked, perhaps because that was much more personal than he would have expected from her. They had been close, years ago, and the circumstances of their parting had not been pleasant. It had not been decisive. "I had never considered that I could miss him. Though I'm not sure how, in all my considerations on the dangers of pursuing space exploration, I never considered his loss a possibility."

She nodded. "I had considered it, but the possibility seemed remote."

"Precisely." Not that, of course, he'd never considered it. He simply hadn't considered it fully. "I doubt we would have adjusted our plans had we fully understood the consequences, regardless. The youthful disregard of cost seems to be universal to varying degrees."

He was twenty-eight years old now, and wiser, he hoped.

"Vorik was likewise aware of the cost, but dismissive of the possibility," she said, and he wondered if she sounded annoyed. "Perhaps he was correct, as individuals are lost by the fifties and hundreds to battles now. The loss of the Voyager was an aberration, then."

Taurik nodded, drawn back to his worn comfort that Vorik's death to the Dominion was not an option. "It is illogical," he said, "but there are times I consider his loss to the Badlands a benefit, since it eliminates the possibility of his loss at the hands of the Dominion. The prolonged anxiety would be unpleasant."

She nodded knowingly. "It is illogical… but I also speculate quite frequently."

Their silence was, he imagined, filled with speculation. He couldn't guess what hers were. Perhaps imagining the life she lost with Vorik, one in which she had a child like he did, in which she did not join Starfleet, in which she was not Bonded to a man she did not know. That he'd ever been angry at her for that was impossibly selfish, impossibly illogical.

He wasn't sure how to apologize. He wasn't sure if she would consider it logical for him to do so.

"It seems unlikely we will speak again," she said, then.

He had a similar apprehension of the conversation. Not that it was going poorly—just… why would they? They had nothing in common anymore. "In that case, I must ask your forgiveness again for not expressing my sincere condolences for the loss of my brother. I should have been more aware of how you could have been affected."

"You have it," she said. "I must likewise ask yours. I admit, I illogically resented you."

It was an illogical, if familiar, response. "I estimate you have nothing for which to apologize. However, you have my forgiveness, as well. I trust you know that you have only to ask should you ever require assistance of any kind."

The offer apparently shocked her.

"If it is not inappropriate to say," he added. "I will always remember when you were my sister. I would be gratified to still think of you that way, despite no material connection between us."

She looked at him a long time, though it were as if she was looking at someone else. "I find it difficult to think of you at all," she admitted. "When I look at you, I see Vorik."

"We have that in common."

She nodded, but said nothing.

What else could she say? The only thing they had in common was death. Death, and a distant familial relation that was too weak to count as life. "I regret we cannot part on better terms."

"Agreed." T'Pring slowly rose. "However, in the inevitability of time, life gains more importance that death, if only because it is more persistent in demands on our attention. We will never see that light again, but our eyes adjust."

Taurik stood beside her. "Then perhaps we will see each other again, when our eyes adjust." Is that a metaphor… Brother?

She looked directly into his eyes, and he very nearly felt an overwhelming restraint from her—he wasn't sure how he knew, but the desire to touch him nearly overtook her. "Is it inappropriate to ask that we…?"

She didn't finish, perhaps allowing herself the grace that Taurik could feign not understanding what she was asking and allow the request to pass unanswered. But he did know what she was asking. He did not know if it was inappropriate for her to ask, or for him to offer.

"Very little of him remains," he said quietly.

"I know." She turned her eyes away. "But I believe I would recognize him."

It seemed selfish to say no. "Come."

Taurik took her back to his quarters on the Ramsar, and they shared their grief. It wasn't surprising that the shape and texture of hers should be different from anyone else's, nor that he found it in some ways incomprehensible. She'd known Vorik in ways he hadn't. He let her see the tattered edge where Vorik used to be, an abyssal pit that had turned to an expanse, the roiling tar turned to dust and ashes. She let them sift through her fingers and wailed.

He gave her space, but joined in as much as he could.

When she withdrew, sat back on her heels in dignified restraint, he wasn't sure whether she'd been helped. Incredibly, he had been.

"Thank you," he said, not looking at her for the illogic of the expression. But, then, she owed him nothing, least of all to let him see her anguish.

"I trust it's not presumptuous to regret we'd not come together sooner."

He shook his head, though he wasn't sure he would have been capable not too long ago. He'd barely been capable now, but… he was surprised to find he was stronger now. He hadn't noticed. Not necessarily calloused, just sturdier. "I trust… you attained some sense of closure."

She didn't respond immediately, still looking at him. "Some sense. At least, to apprehend with clarity my sense of loss is not entirely unique. To know some part of him, however small, exists." She reached for his face, and he knew he flinched, but did not withdraw. Her touch was light and encouraging, like a sister. Like they'd lost nothing. "It is gratifying to see you again, Taurik."

"And you," he said, though he was almost certain she'd not meant that literally.

Shortly after, she left, having spent much longer than fifteen minutes in company.

#

Vorik stared at the ceiling. He should have been terrified… though it occurred to him a moment later that was untrue. He should definitely not be terrified. After all, there was no logical reason he shouldn't be sleeping at eleven hundred hours, but he'd managed to wake himself from an otherwise peaceful sleep to apparently convince himself, illogically, that someone he didn't know had entered his room.

There was no reason he should be drenched in sweat. There was no reason he should feel…

Something was wrong.

He sat up, shivering, and reached for his robes.

It wasn't the pon farr, was it? He didn't discard that completely, though he would have begun believing in luck simply to judge his own as being uncommonly ruinous. It was physically impossible that it return now, less than one year later, so he discarded it for the moment. Not all his symptoms seemed to align, anyway.

His head had never felt so full before, which was a strange thing to feel after three full years of absolute silence. Understandable, though, since he had become accustomed to it. And the notion of sensing someone in absence of any obvious change that would precipitate it seemed unlikely. But, before, he'd been in full control… mostly full control, anyway. There was no way for him to purposefully stop sensing Taurik's presence, only ignore it to greater or lesser degrees, but he was always there.

Always there. Someone had been in here with him all night. He was sure.

He could feel someone else breathing in here.

Vorik rose and walked the furthest side of his room, put his hands on the wall, and leaned his head against it. Even though he knew the sound of someone breathing wasn't reaching his physical ears, he was too desperate for that to be the case to avoid confirming it.

As he suspected, the walls were insulated well enough to prevent his being able to hear his neighbor's snoring. Ensign Hallison might have snored… it was impossible to tell from a visual inspection, and he'd never asked. Perhaps he should go ask her now.

No, absolutely not; he should not do that.

What a ridiculous notion.

But someone in here—someone was breathing.

Vorik turned his back to the wall, an unreasonable fear suddenly clamping on his internal organs. Someone was breathing here, in his room, and he couldn't see them.

"Hello?" he whispered, and waited.

He didn't know what he was waiting for. There was no one in here. And, besides, he was a haptic telepath. He wasn't touching anyone. And why should he have to touch someone to sense their breathing?

Of course, he needn't do that. Breathing was something he could hear with his ears, and right now he was not hearing with his ears.

Was he going insane?

He sounded insane.

"I can hear you," he whispered, anyway, and crept across the room.

Just who did he think he was talking to?

As he passed by his bed, the thrashing of a thousand gongs echoed in his skull, stopped him midstride as he tried to block out the sudden sound of a thousand voices screaming incoherently in his head. He only just managed to remain standing, though he could arrest the impulse to grasp his head as if to keep it from exploding.

With an effort, he grinded away the pain between his teeth, but couldn't hear his voice. The others in his head were simply too loud, screaming in whispers—yes, certainly not enough leola root—blaring in the tones of a common conversation—that's the third binary star system in just two days—splitting his skull with a volume he hadn't thought possible—in the Collective there was no need to ask permission—there must have been thousands—no, hundreds—no. No. There were a hundred, two hundred… more than two hundred, and one of them was right here.

It stopped.

Everything stopped.

Vorik bolted upright, looked around.

He could no longer hear the breathing, the voices. Whatever he'd sensed before was gone.

Or, no. No, since he could now think more clearly, it wasn't outside. It was inside. Something in him had changed. Something… someone…?

He pressed his knuckles into his eyes, as if that might help, and blinked at the dark room.

It was dark. He had been trying to sleep. "Computer, lights," he said, and blinked again when the lights turned on full. They were certainly on full. "Computer, reduce illumination by twenty percent." Much better. He could see.

He could see there was no one here.

Brother?

No answer.

He didn't know why he thought there might be. He couldn't even see Tuvok, that faint Vulcan star on the bridge.

He couldn't sense Tuvok. Not at all.

He should, should he not?

Vorik clawed himself back to center, trying to determine why he was so disoriented, why he felt ill, and what that telepathic noise had been… and why he could no longer hear it. He would have thought he'd been dreaming, but he clearly remembered rising from bed, going to the wall, walking back here where he now sat on the floor.

Brushing himself off, Vorik went to the closet and changed into his uniform. His shift didn't start for another eight hours, which should give him ample time to investigate this, meditate, eat, and even sleep a few hours.

He looked back into the empty room before leaving, just to make sure. There was someone there… he was sure.

Sickbay was empty, though he was wasn't sure why. He thought Paris was supposed to be here, but he could have been wrong. His memory wasn't what it used to be. His concentration was non-existent. His ability to think at all had slipped someone.

"May I help you, Ensign?" The holographic doctor stepped out of his office, looking confused.

Perhaps he'd briefly forgotten his function. Perhaps it was a virus the computer could catch, as well. "I'm uncertain…" Vorik said after a moment. "My telepathic senses seem to be faulty."

"Hm." The doctor led the way to one of the biobeds.

Though the doctor hadn't said so, Vorik assumed he intended Vorik to follow. He sat on the biobed with a strange sense of blindness that wasn't in his eyes as the doctor scanned him with a medical tricorder.

"Go on," the doctor said when Vorik didn't say anything. "What do you mean by faulty, exactly?"

Vorik straightened his posture, and realized once again that his experiences made him sound insane. Nevertheless, he told the doctor about the sense of being watched, despite being in an empty room; hearing someone breathing, despite that being quite impossible. "When I was crossing the room to check the other wall… it was as though hundreds of voices were shouting inside my head," he finished, and finally made eye contact.

The doctor frowned, snapped the tricorder shut. "Can you hear them now?"

"I can hear nothing now," he said, and looked up in the direction of the bridge. Nothing. Tuvok wasn't there. He turned his eyes downward toward Engineering and saw nothing there, either.

"Ensign…?" The doctor sounded concerned.

Vorik was also concerned. "Computer, what is the location of Commander Tuvok?"

"Commander Tuvok is on the bridge."

Even though he'd always been able to see Tuvok—though he realized now it hadn't been a literal sense such that it required turning his head to apprehend—he seemed unable to. Not that being able to telepathically connect with anyone was important. There was no one on board with whom he could commune so deeply.

"Want to explain what's going on?" the doctor asked.

"Yes, of course, Doctor. I apologize." Vorik faced him again, the hologram's face pinched in peevish concern. "Ordinarily, I can faintly sense Tuvok's presence… directionally. I am no longer able to do so. It is as if he does not exist."

The doctor began to pace away. "So, following a bout of insomnia and paranoia, your telepathic abilities increased dramatically… and then shut off completely?"

"That's possibly an accurate characterization."

"Was it the other crew you were able to sense?"

Vorik considered he voices he'd heard when they were too loud to comprehend. Some of them, he realized, he could pick out. He'd heard Seven of Nine conversing with B'Elanna. He'd felt Captain Janeway's excruciating headache. He'd seen Tal Celes dreaming about a small sehlat-like creature. "I believe so. It was exceedingly chaotic, but some of the voices were recognizable."

And some of them were not voices. He had no idea why he should recognize the telepathic fabric of Janeway's pain over someone else's, but he knew it was Janeway's headache. He knew the dream belonged to Celes, and not to Henley. There were still more, though, that he knew he did not recognize.

The breathing, for example. "I could not identify whoever it was I sensed breathing in my quarters, but I know I sensed… something. Something was there that I could not see."

"Well, I can tell you, the data does support your story. You're not going crazy." The doctor turned to the console in the wall behind him and tapped a few buttons to show a graph that looked something like warp energy signatures. "Your telepathic lobe has been active more than I'd expect for the past eight hours, with an intense spike here." He pointed at a point on the graph where it dropped off completely. "The feeling of paranoia could be explained by the unexpected increase in telepathic activity…"

"Am I in danger?" Vorik asked.

"Hard to say," the doctor mused, and then glanced at him. "I've never heard of an illness like this before. Not in Vulcans. Betazoids that rank high in extrasensory perception have reported similar sensations to what you described, but they are usually born with that ability. What I can tell you is that, besides these readings here, you seem to be perfectly healthy, physically."

Vorik considered that, nodding absently.

Betazoids almost universally ranked higher in extrasensory perception than Vulcans did, and there was no reason he should be an exception, especially not now. He had dedicated too much time in the past months to limiting his telepathic senses, increasing his control over them.

"I will go to the astrometrics lab. Perhaps there is some external factor that explains it." He slid off the biobed.

"Let me know what you find," the doctor said, and looked at the graph. "In the meantime, I'll review more of the literature. Vulcans are known to be sensitive to certain spaceborne minerals."

With a nod of farewell, Vorik left.

Despite having no reason for anxiety, and no ability to sense it anymore, he couldn't shake the feeling he was being watched. He traced back the day to try to determine when that feeling had begun, or what might have instigated it, but found nothing before reaching stellar cartography.

Kim was there, reprogramming the scanners. He glanced up once, said, "Hi, Vorik," and went back to his console. "Need something?"

"I intended to investigate any nearby anomalies," he said, and looked at the other open consoles. "I intend to engage in read-only interface; it should not interfere with your work."

"Yeah. Should be fine." Kim gave him a small smile, then went back to his tapping, reading, and adjusting. Vorik could see that he was, at the moment, engaged in clarifying the sensors by enhancing the connections between the Voyager's sensor points along the hull.

Vorik directed his attention to something more immediately useful to him, albeit much less interesting. He discarded the upcoming binary pulsar system as irrelevant, as there was nothing particularly interesting about it, except for a higher-than-usual gravitational pull. They'd passed by several dust clouds over the past few days, perhaps close enough to catch some debris on their hull. He pulled up the materials analysis and began to skim.

"Aren't you supposed to be asleep?"

Vorik turned his attention back to Ensign Kim, surprised. "If you mean I'm not ordinarily scheduled at this hour, you're correct. This is personal."

Kim's lips twitched in half a smile. "Personal anomalies?"

"I mean, I'm not investigating them on order from anyone," he said, and Ensign Kim's smile grew. "You were joking."

"Yeah, I was just messing with you. Sorry." Kim left his work at the central console to stand beside him—not closely, though. "What are you looking for? Anything interesting?"

"Not yet." With a hesitance he was sure even Kim could detect, he ran his finger back up through the list of adjacent stellar phenomena the Voyager had gone by. "I am attempting to determine whether some odd telepathic symptoms I've been experiencing might have been caused by some external factor."

"Hm." Kim looked at his list, with some less interest, probably because he wasn't as familiar with the minerals and gases that were known to interfere with telepathy as Vorik was. Vorik was about to go back to his reading when Kim said, "Just wanted to say, it's good to see you again." He patted Vorik on the shoulder and went back to his console.

Vorik was mystified. "I saw you last week."

Kim looked back up. "Yeah, I know. I'm just saying, we used to hang out. Remember?"

"Of course." He used to hang out with Ensign Kim, also Lieutenant Paris and Torres. Not frequently, but enough that they invited him to eat with them occasionally and participate in holodeck programs. He thought they might even be friends before he telepathically assaulted B'Elanna…

He redirected his eyes to his scans. "It is unfortunate my transfer to the nightshift often precludes the ability to engage in recreational activities with you."

"Or anyone else."

Vorik was unaware his personal schedule had been so transparent. Even despite attempts to draw friendships from unnoticed corners of the ship, his inroads with Harren had been predictably temporary. He sighed. "Yes."

"You ever going to transfer back to the day shift?"

Vorik bristled at the thought of it. "Only if necessary."

"I'm beginning to think you don't like us."

"I neither like nor dislike you." In point of fact, a lie. He liked them too much. One of them, anyway. That was the problem. "My waking hours simply occupy the portion of time you and Mister Paris and… and Miss Torres are asleep."

"I'm just saying we miss you." When Vorik looked at Kim, he revised. "Okay, me. I do." Vorik wasn't sure how Kim interpreted his expression, except that he continued plaintively, "Come on, they're good officers and good people. But we're Starfleet."

Vorik nodded, though he hadn't meant to. It was an interesting turn of phrase, and possibly an accurate one. "I continue to admire your dedication and efficiency. The occasions our work overlaps have always been positive."

"I meant we have more in common than just engineering or starship ops," he said, and sighed, shaking his head. "Never mind. Just trying to say don't be a stranger. You don't have to beat yourself up over the whole… the whole thing," he said weakly.

Vorik was certain Ensign Kim would not be having this conversation with him right now if he knew what he'd really done.

Of course, he knew about the pon farr. Everyone knew about that, and most of his offences were not easy to hide. Everyone had seemed accepting of the facts; after all, people were overtaken by psycho-affective maladies in space quite frequently. Still, they were even sensitive, as no one had even brought it up with him before right now—and even this could hardly count.

But those crimes were comparatively nothing. Sabotage was pardonable. Stealing a shuttlecraft was excusable. Criminal disruption, especially when it harmed no one, was often mitigated by circumstances; if that had been all, he would only have been mortified…

He could never be forgiven for what he'd done to B'Elanna, even if she'd graciously collaborated with Tuvok, the captain, Chakotay, and the doctor to hide his crime.

"On the contrary, Ensign," he said after a moment. "My actions nine months ago were intolerable. I have no desire to make anyone uncomfortable."

"No one's uncomfortable." Kim leaned on the console, looked at him. "Look, Paris kidnapped the captain and made newt babies. Your thing is… well, it's way less weird."

Of course, it was. The pon farr was a perfectly normal biological function. And, also, in comparison with kidnapping the captain, transforming into amphibious creatures, and apparently procreating, anything seemed reasonable. "You have quite possibly selected the most unusual event to have occurred since several parasitic worms nearly gained control of Starfleet."

Kim grinned. "See, this is why we need to hang out more. The only thing Tom wants to talk about are muscle cars."

Perhaps there was no reason to continue to punish himself when his ultimate punishment was set and fast approaching. He had six years to live, and to purposefully isolate himself would possibly deprive the Voyager of some skills he still had to apply. And, apparently, Ensign Kim… missed their time together?

"I will… attempt to align my schedule with yours with greater frequency," Vorik said.

Kim's happiness was clear. "That's all I'm asking."

Kim went back to programming, and left thirty minutes later for lunch. He did invite Vorik but he declined. The list of stellar phenomena was long, and he was beginning to feel a slight concern for his missing sense…

He wasn't sure why.

After all, it was probably to everyone's benefit that he be removed of his telepathic abilities. If this had happened a year ago, he wouldn't have been able to bond with B'Elanna. He likely would have succumbed to an agonizing death, but he wouldn't have hurt anyone.

Perhaps he should cease his investigation and tell the doctor to do the same.

Vorik closed out the list he'd been reading and glanced at Kim's work before leaving astrometrics. He got twelve steps down the hall when the whole ship barged into his mind, shouting about binary pulsars, leftover casseroles, and spontaneous asthmatic attacks.

He heard absolutely everything.

#

The Ramsar shuddered, lights flickering and sparks flying. The displays flashed their emergency signals in bright red and klaxons blared. "Taurik! Lock it down, Lieutenant!" Chief Emanon shouted from across Engineering, and then directed her attention to Lieutenant Bartosh.

"Crewman, cycle the magnetic constrictors again." Taurik felt something hot and liquid on his neck, but didn't check to see what it was or where it was coming from.

Crewman Workman ducked as his console sprayed sparks in his face, grabbing onto the edges to keep from falling to the floor. He gritted his teeth as his hands worked the console. "Yes, sir; trying, sir."

Taurik wished he had time to compliment the petty officer on his resolve and composure. He was only seventeen, and with the Ramsar for four months as his first assignment after training on Mars. Assuming there was a future, Taurik thought his might be promising.

His console flashed a new emergency, a breach three levels down that, in combination with another unplanned cavity in the ship's hull, severely compromised the antimatter chamber. The structural integrity field was not responding the way it should have "Dawes, Petrauskas: reroute power to the ventral structural integrity fields."

"We don't have the power to reroute, sir!" Petrauskas gripped his console as another volley rocked the ship.

"Find it, Ensign," Taurik shouted over the wailing siren. "There is no other option!"

Taurik ran to the nearest display for the antiproton injection subsystem, all the indicators showing a destressing array of negative symbols. Some were damaged, others disabled, and others were not registering at all. He couldn't be sure his lightheadedness was from blood loss or the sudden premonition of a white flash of light followed by nothing.

A few blinks, a breath, and his vision clarified. "Chief, the antiproton injectors are offline."

"That's great news," Chief Emanon said wryly. "We weren't going to warp, anyway." The chief turned away from the main console to join Petrauskas and Dawes at the power exchange console when the Ramsar bucked again.

The bright flash of light he'd seen before blocked his vision, the floor left his feet momentarily before crashing back into him, and the world went dark.

Dark, but not gone. The emergency lighting seemed to try to turn on, but only succeeded in lighting perhaps twenty percent of the cartridges. A painful wheeze and groan scraped the floor next to him as he climbed to his knees. "Computer, shield status?"

"Shields at thirty one percent."

Taurik could see the others picking themselves off the floor, ignoring their various burns, scrapes, and lacerations and staggering back to work. The remaining bodies on the floor were still, one of them Chief Emanon lying across Petrauskas' legs.

"Commander!" Taurik glanced up to the level above where Commander Sharma, next highest-ranking officer in Engineering was working with weapons.

"Don't tell me, Taurik!"

Taurik pressed his first two fingers to Chief Emanon's neck, under her jaw, and waited. Her blank, charred eyes staring at the ceiling and the way her neck hung over Petrauskas' thigh made it nearly obvious she was dead. After confirming no pulse, he stood. "Chief Emanon is dead."

"I said don't tell me—goddamnit!" Commander Sharma leaned over the railing, and Taurik could barely make out his shape, much less any features. "About half of the dorsal phaser array is burnt out. Hall, take over here!" Sharma proceeded to climb over the railing and down before dropping the final meter to stand baside Taurik.

Taurik glanced toward the ladder that led up to the second deck. There were other ways up, but none as fast—though, it was twisted into three smoldering pieces. "Perhaps we should repair that."

"Yeah, tell me about it." Sharma walked away, shouting orders and pointing as he went, hesitating to crouch beside the chief. After half a second of silence, he continued to take the chief's place.

The captain's voice crackled over a damaged communications system. "Emanon, where are my weapons?"

"Emanon's dead, sir." Sharma looked up in the direction of the bridge—Taurik still had no idea why Humans did that. "Lieutenant Commander Sharma, sir, and your weapons are somewhere between the third and fourth circles of hell."

"Helm tells me we don't have warp, either." The captain seemed incongruously amused.

Sharma waved at Taurik, and he quickly pulled up the display for his reference. "Yes, sir, that's probably more like the first circle."

"Well, I need at least one of those, Commander."

"Working on it, sir. I can get you full impulse in forty seconds." Sharma snapped his fingers at Ensign Geelen, who scurried to lift a response from the impulse engine console.

Taurik turned to the warp console and did the same. Power was a slow trickle, which wasn't surprising considering the antiproton injector situation.

"You have fifteen," Captain Song said.

"You got it, Captain." Sharma turned to him. "Taurik, I don't care what you have to do, but get me warp and get it now."

"Yes, sir." Taurik turned to the rest of his team, reduced by half in that last hit. "Dawes and Workman, with me." He led the way to the nearest Jefferies' tube access, found it without power, and manually levered it open. "Have you ever seen the spin reversal system, Crewman?"

"No, sir…" Workman said, and visibly gulped. Blood slid from a cut in his forehead and smudged his hand. "I mean, I worked with the model at training, but I've never seen a real one."

"You're in for a treat." Dawes said as Taurik descended the ladder before them.

Taurik led Workman and Dawes toward the Ramsar's underside. It was even less presentable than the main areas on a regular basis, and now was a tangle of crossing wires and cables, warped panels, and compressed passageways. Fortunately, his superior strength made most obstacles a matter of time to clear—but every second was time they did not have.

The ship quaked periodically, though Taurik recognized that some of the vibrations were not from weapons fire, but the ship losing field integrity. Every now and again, a juddering jolt signaled the explosive decompression of some section or other, and with limited shields rotating to block weapons' fire, there was nothing to save them.

Finally, they reached the spin reverse system, a complex maze of tubes and wires connected to a cylindrical machine. The network of cables led directly to the underside of the antimatter chamber, which led to the warp core—both hidden by the ceiling and wall panels and yet another web of supporting subsystems and mechanical necessities.

Taurik had rarely been as aware of the vacuum of space not six meters to his left and beneath his feet. "This was unexpected…" he mumbled.

"What?" Workman asked, his teeth chattering, possibly from pain or fear.

"I've got good news," Dawes said, dropping from her manual inspection of the seals near the low ceiling. "All the seals are intact. It's gotta be the generator."

"What's gotta be the generator?" Workman tried again.

"Agreed." Taurik turned to Workman, then. "Crewman, please inspect these lines for any breaches and attend this console. Dawes and I will work on getting the generator back online. Repair any defects in the lines."

Taurik turned to address Dawes, but was pleased to see she'd already begun removing the access panels from the generator, some of which were damaged from debris knocked from the walls and ceiling. The interior of the generator was less damaged, but it was easy to see what had caused the malfunction: a piece of insulated cable beam had torn through the wall and nailed through the adjoining wall. If the beam had enough force to exit the generator's opposite side, it would have pierced the ceiling. Directly on the other side was the antimatter chamber.

"One of us on board has got to be the luckiest bastard alive," Dawes mused, sorting her tools into her fingers.

"One of us, Ensign?"

"I figure if more of us were lucky, we might have warp or more shields or something."

It was almost amusing. Taurik assisted Dawes in dismantling the beam and repairing the generator to the best of their ability, but in the end it was questionable whether it would work properly. Between the periodic blows from Jem'Hadar and Cardassian weapons and the flickering lights and distant klaxons, concentration from his Human companions seemed a miracle on its own.

In the end, it was possibly the most slipshod job Taurik had ever considered good enough in his life. It wouldn't destroy them, but it was questionable whether it would do the job. He and Dawes backed away from the generator, and Taurik gave Workman the signal to activate the spin sequence.

The machine coughed and whined, but it came online after four attempts and agitating what was left of various parts into seated positions that were not exactly designed that way.

Taurik tapped his combadge. "Commander Sharma, please confirm status of the warp core."

"Acknowledged."

They waited weary anticipation, Workman and Dawes taking catalog of their various wounds. Taurik did the same, finally locating the laceration on the back of his head that had finally ceased spilling blood in a constant trickle down his back. His quivered from the exertion and sudden idleness and pain. He'd sustained multiple first- and second-degree burns on his arms.

Dawes sniffed and wiped tears from her eyes—clearly more a pain response than an emotional one. She also had first- and second-degree burns that he could see. Workman's hands were shaking nearly uncontrollably as he steadied his breathing into the back of his hand.

The sense of wrongness in inactivity was nearly overwhelming.

"Good enough, Taurik," Sharma said finally. "Get back up here."

"Understood. Dawes?" Taurik gestured for her to lead the way back through the Jefferies tube they'd come by.

As they crawled, the ship whirred and trembled. Taurik could practically feel the heat from the field coils in the nacelles trying to generate a warp field before finally succeeding.

Taurik heard Dawes release a breath, and Workman coughed. The ship heaved as it slipped through subspace, just one sign of many that it was badly damaged.

"Live to fight another day, huh?" Dawes asked from up ahead.

"Tell that to the chief," Workman answered bitterly.

They crawled the rest of the distance in silence.

Once they returned to Engineering, it was obvious their work had saved them from immediate death, as warp field integrity dwindled to nothing and ejected them back into normal space just thirty-six minutes later. Still, they were out of immediate danger, which would give them time.

Time for what, Taurik didn't know. He sent Dawes to sickbay and allowed Workman a few minutes to collect himself before getting to work on the field coils. When they couldn't identify the problem, they traced their way from system to system, making repairs as they went until something made a noticeable difference.

The most noticeable difference was the Sarek arriving three hours later to provide assistance. The rest of the attack group had scattered, leaving six starships disabled or destroyed in the fight.

Taurik declined the order to go to sickbay for treatment three times and worked through the night. He last slept nine days ago, and had eased his regular limit out from just over seven when he graduated to approaching thirteen.

The next morning, he found Commander Sharma sitting dazed in a Jefferies' tube junction as if unsure where he was going. A flux coupler hung loosely from his fingers, and his gaze was empty and distant.

"Commander?" Taurik asked, only somewhat comforted by the fact that he was visibly breathing. He had also clearly been to sickbay sometime in the night, as Taurik could not identify any visible burns or cuts.

Sharma blinked suddenly, looking up. "Oh, god. What happened? Was I… was I sleeping?" He wiped his eyes. He frowned as he looked at Taurik. "What's wrong with you? Why haven't you been to sickbay?"

"It seems like a poor use of time at the moment," Taurik said, and looked down the Jeffries tube over Sharma's head. His destination. "Are you unwell?"

Sharma smiled disdainfully. "You look like hell, Taurik; you don't get to ask me that."

Taurik looked at his arms, his tattered uniform. "Perhaps my current appearance isn't exactly inspiring for morale."

"You think?"

Still, Taurik couldn't imagine wasting any time changing. Running a dermal generator over his various scrapes and burns. Drinking or eating. The Ramsar was still dead in space, with Starbase 375 unable to send any support vessels for twenty hours. If the Dominion forces wanted to, they could easily be here in under eight.

"Perhaps you should rest," Taurik offered.

"I can rest when I'm dead." With that, he pushed up off the floor, scrubbed his clear eyes with his arm, and spun in the tube junction. "What the hell was I doing?"

"I assume you were repairing power relays." Taurik nodded toward the tool in his hand.

"Sure."

The ship shuddered, and Sharma winced.

"Structural integrity field failure," Taurik said, if only to assure him it hadn't been an attack.

"I know." He turned the coupler in his hands. "That's what I was doing. There's a whole series of—shit." He broke off to smack the wall with his open palm before bending to crawl into the Jefferies tube he'd been resting against.

"Sir, when is the last time you slept?"

"I don't know."

"If you are too tired to maintain concentration, your attempts to help could prove detrimental." Perhaps, evidenced by this very situation. Taurik couldn't be sure if the field failure could be attributed to Sharma's exhaustion, but it certainly wasn't helped by it. "Dawes has been off duty for the past three hours. She may be recalled."

Sharma nodded, but just crawled into the tunnel.

Taurik watched, but didn't stop him. At least, not immediately. He followed Sharma into the tube, since that was where he was going anyway.

"What are you doing?" Sharma snapped, looking back at Taurik over his shoulder.

"Attempting to reach the starboard nacelle field coils."

"Oh." Sharma looked down the tube. "That is this way, isn't it?"

"Correct. It's the only completely clear passage."

"Right. Well, go ahead." Sharma pressed himself against the wall to wait for Taurik to crawl past, which he did.

Taurik had more than enough misgivings leaving Sharma to continue to work despite evident exhaustion and obvious psychological damage, but, as Sharma so colorfully said, these were problems that could be addressed at a later time. He crawled out into the next junction and pumped the lever to open the door above him.

"Taurik?" Sharma said.

"Yes?" Taurik spun, bent to look at him.

Sharma was still on his hands and knees, staring at the floor. "I'm… I'm fucked up."

Taurik hesitated. The use of such strong language had become more prevalent among his Human companions as the war continued. He'd only impassively noted it at first, but now it seemed like a particularly ineffective coping mechanism.

Sharma's breathing had become ragged, irregular. "I can't do this."

"You can." Taurik wasn't sure what he was referring to, exactly, but it didn't matter. He crouched before the opening of the tube. "Your performance both as a technical engineer and as commanding officer has been exceptional." Not to mention that he simply had to.

"There's gotta be someone else."

There wasn't. At least, not right now. "It's unlikely you will retain the posting of chief once we reach Starbase 375. A higher-ranking officer will be brought aboard from some other vessel." He wasn't sure how encouraging that was, since he'd just told him his performance merited his position. But it was clear that hadn't exactly improved his disposition. "You need only maintain composure for another twenty-six hours."

"Twenty-six hours?" Sharma looked up. "What happens in twenty-six hours?"

Taurik wished he'd said nothing. "It's a Human expression, I believe. One day at a time."

Sharma cursed and looked back to the floor.

"But we may be at Starbase 375, if not on our way, by then." That wasn't necessarily false. It was especially not false if he on our way to mean they were continually making progress toward eventually moving in that direction.

"You're a goddamn liar, Taurik."

"That… that is true."

Sharma laughed. It was a real laugh, but devoid of energy or joy. "I thought Vulcans couldn't lie."

"That, too, may be a Human expression."

They sat in silence for several seconds before Sharma finally rose and continued his slow march toward the junction. Taurik waited for him, though he wasn't sure why. As soon as Sharma arrived at the junction, he discovered what he'd been planning to do.

He took the flux coupler from Sharma's hand. Though he tried to maintain his grip it would have been impossible even if he hadn't been exhausted.

"Return to your quarters," Taurik said. "Dawes will repair the power relays. It is part of your duty as chief to delegate duties appropriately."

Sharma blinked, obviously angry. Mortified. Exhausted. "I could put you on report for insubordination," he whispered.

"I will report for disciplinary action after you've slept."

Sharma set his jaw and looked down at the hatch beneath them. "You'd better be cleaned up and burn-free the next time I see you, Taurik."

"Yes, sir."

Taurik watched Sharma crawl away down the tube they'd come from, leaving the flux coupler with him. Taurik only waited ten minutes for Dawes to appear after recalling her to duty. She was obviously tired, but in much better spirits after her injuries had been repaired and having eaten. She took Sharma's flux coupler and went about the work Sharma had been doing.

The next time Taurik saw Sharma was at Starbase 375, cleaned of the blood and soot and healed of his wounds. His uniform had been too damaged to save, so he recycled it into a new one. It, perhaps, came as no surprise to anyone that there were no replacements available for the role of Chief Engineer on the Ramsar, so Sharma retained the position.

What did come as a surprise was the arrival of the Second and Fifth Fleets in the following three days. The Ramsar was patched back together, and cycled out for the other starships waiting for repair. The Enterprise arrived, as did the Valley Forge, where Gabi was still stationed.

Starfleet had apparently made a decision, and they could no longer wait.

Whoever controlled the wormhole held the fate of the Alpha Quadrant. They had to retake Deep Space Nine.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Each minute bursts in the burning room…

Workman looked up from Dawes' body, ash and blood smudging his terrorized features. "She's dead!" His voice was raw, and hands were trembling.

Taurik shook his head, dragging Workman up off the floor by his jacket. "Focus, crewman!" The air was charged with ions and dense with smoke, and Workman's knees were too weak to hold him up. He draped the stupefied crewman on the nearest console. "We must engage the field coils"

Workman's eyes were squeezed shut. "They won't—they can't…" Workman leaned over the console, his fingers pressing inexpertly on the glass until he slipped to the floor.

Taurik didn't pull him up again.

The great globe reels in the solar fire…

He might have been the only one left alive in Engineering. Sharma had been taken to sickbay eight minutes ago, and Taurik hadn't heard news on his status since. Six minutes ago, an explosion on the deck above had rendered him the highest-ranking officer in Engineering. Three petty officers died within his first two minutes of command. Shields had gone down a minute ago, and that brought him to now.

He was going to die.

He had no desire to die. Though, he didn't particularly want to be here, either.

The skin on his hands were tight and painful with burns on burns. A piece of shrapnel had lodged itself in his leg, but he'd left it there to preserve whatever blood he happened to retain in his circulatory system.

Despite the assurance of futility, he flew through a series of systems and algorithms on the unlikely proposition the ship to return to some semblance of functionality and allow them to fight another day.

Commander Sharma said once that he'd rest when he was dead. He was not dead yet.

The comms system overhead crackled. "This is Captain Song—all hands abandon ship! This is not a drill; all hands—!"

In a bright flash of light, the console at his hands flew into his chest, throwing him to the wall behind him and flipping up to pin him to the floor. Glass shattered, peppering the walls around him as much as his face and neck. He tried to breathe, to scream, but neither happened. The ship rocked, lifting the console off him long enough to for him to suck in a breath and realize explicitly that some number of his bones had broken.

He was going to die, spinning the trivial and unique away…

It couldn't happen quickly enough.

Taurik gingerly opened his eyes, unsure if he wanted his last sight to be his crushed chest and crumbling Engineering, but he'd rather that than… well, the insides of his eyelids, perhaps?

Only one eye opened. If the other was open, it didn't see. It was hot and sharp, beating and muddy.

Workman swam into view before him. "Help…" he rasped, tugging on the console. Taurik didn't know who he was talking to. "Help!"

"Abandon ship…" Taurik managed, and tried to reach for him, but he had no idea where his hands were. "Crewman Workman, abandon ship. Escape pods."

"In a minute, sir! I just—have to—" Workman screamed, gritting his teeth and bracing his legs on the wall. With an effort Taurik had never seen from a Human before, he shifted the massive console.

How all things flash! How all things flare!

Pain burst in his chest, shot up his spine, and into his mouth and eyes. He couldn't remain upright, slumped to the side with another shock of pain from his abdomen. He wasn't sure what had broken, but he had no doubt at this moment it was everything. The only thing he couldn't feel were his legs, but they couldn't have been better.

"Crewman…"

"Shut up!" Workman bent, dragging Taurik's broken arm across the back of his neck, and pulled.

Taurik managed to reduce the agony to a moan as his uncertain structure conformed into whatever shape Workman pulled him. He had no concentration left to argue, focused instead on blocking out the pain from all corners as he felt his bones clicking and grinding where they shouldn't have. If Workman was going to kill him trying to save him… there was no point to arguing. He would die. Either way.

Less than a minute later, Workman battered at the door to the escape pod, partially ajar from the general order to abandon ship.

Seconds later, he dropped Taurik through the door.

He couldn't ignore it anymore, as his ribs crunched against each other, and at least one of them must have broken the skin. He took in a slow, painful breath. Then another. Breathing took so much concentration he couldn't withhold from weeping.

The escape pod popped, and they were in space. At least, he thought they were.

"Crewman…"

Workman turned to him, his face wet with tears and blood and burns. "Damnit, damnit—" he mumbled, and started searching the walls for the various kits stored in cubbies.

Taurik didn't interrupt him. It seemed important…

What am I now that I was then?

Instead, he counted seconds and thought about Saalle. He tried to reach her, but she was too far away. He closed his eyes and imagined her with as much detail as he could, her hair drifting in the infrequent breeze, her eyes of an unsearchable depth, her skin smooth, and her mind… endless and lovely. He ducked inside that imagined paradise where there was no pain, only devotion and comfort and rested there for the moment between breaths. He hoped she was holding their child right now. He hoped she was gardening. He hoped she was in the sun and content.

He was so cold.

She spoke. She thought. She moved in and out of reach.

He couldn't hear her.

He thought he should be able to hear someone.

Vorik. He should be able to hear Vorik. He turned his eye around the tiny pod, vaguely noticing Workman tearing the walls apart, looking. He should be able to hear Vorik.

"Brother…" he whispered, his lips sticking together with sweat and blood.

He heard nothing.

Vorik was dead, too. He wouldn't hear him.

Soon enough, though, perhaps… Taurik wasn't sure, still, if he believed in an afterlife. Believing in one yesterday gave him some comfort. Knowing Vorik to be completely gone had been intolerable. Thinking the only thing remaining of his brother was the threads still tied to his own mind had been too much; he'd never completely admitted that.

There remained no point to lying, either to himself or others. He was strong enough to die in full knowledge of the truth: he was simply not strong enough to accept the truth. He only wanted to believe he'd find Vorik's katra somewhere close by… perhaps wanting back the pieces Taurik had refused to relinquish.

May memory restore again and again- the smallest color of the smallest day…

It was an imagining, but a pleasant one—his soul reuniting with the piece that had been Vorik, finding peace in death that he hadn't in life.

"Here it is; here." Workman settled back at Taurik's side with a hypospray. He paused, took in his face, the rest of his body, his face again. "You're crying…" he whispered.

He pulled his eye open. "Pain."

"Well, this is for pain. I don't know if it'll be enough, but—"

"No." Taurik looked at the hypospray, then at Workman, his progress toward giving him whatever pain-blocking medication was inside halted at his word. "Dying."

Workman shook his head. "No, you'll be fine."

Taurik considered that, then the hypospray again. He wasn't sure he needed it. He was in pain, but it was becoming a vanishingly small concern. Everything was. "Illogical."

"You don't want it?" Workman looked at it as though confused. "But you need it, I mean—"

Workman evidently swallowed down the urge to vomit, turned away, his face to the wall, where he breathed in rhythm. He even muttered a few words of peace, of control, of self-assurance.

"Time…" Taurik whispered, though he wasn't sure why.

Workman turned back to him, lifted him until his head was resting on his legs instead of flat on whatever surface he'd been lying on. It did somehow make it easier for him to breathe. "I'm gonna… I'm gonna give it to you, anyway," he said, and pressed the cold injector to his neck.

The relief was nearly immediate, even if not complete. Pain upon breathing was still distracting, and the lack simply made it obvious. The composition of his core seemed to have collapsed, displaced by the sudden movement and weight of the central console…

Workman looked up and away at the singular window looking back at the ship they'd left.

Taurik followed his gaze with one eye, but that he had one seemed enough. A bright white and blue explosion bloomed within, starting from the Ramsar's lower decks before consuming the entire ship in orange and red. "Oh…" It was all the lament he could offer, and perhaps even that was too much.

It seemed wrong to just let it go without saying anything.

"Please, don't die, sir." Workman shook, hiding his face in his arm. It wasn't until Taurik shut his only functioning eye that he began to weep, holding Taurik against him like a child holding a comfort item.

Taurik said nothing. It was the least he could do.

It was also the most he could do.

The pain grew, and he waited for unconsciousness that never came.

Time is the school in which we learn,

Time is the fire in which we burn.*

#

Vorik leaned over the edge, reaching until his hand was within Taurik's range. "Brother, here. Take my hand."

Taurik grabbed his hand, scrambling up the slippery rock to join Vorik on the boulder in safety.

He had to admit it was a relative safety… The Rala River had swelled beyond its banks to crash against the walls of the Osana Canyon and cover the path they usually traversed with over four meters of rushing water. As expected in flash flood conditions, the water was muddy-red with silt and carried debris from trees and shrubs that grew nowhere near this canyon.

Taurik looked out on the rain still falling on the canyon, and at the single pack between them. "Do you think Father will begin searching for us or simply assume we are dead without further investigation?"

Vorik didn't mask his amusement, though he considered it even odds whether his blithe attitude would annoy Taurik or pacify him. "He's been uncommonly pleasant lately," Vorik reminded. "Since your acceptance to the Science Academy."

"Illogically entertaining the possibility that I will elect to not attend Starfleet Academy with you."

Annoyance. Perhaps he'd better appreciate pointed irony. "At least he could accept the invitation for you posthumously."

Taurik was unamused.

Vorik couldn't entirely blame him for the short temper. They were cold and wet—evading the floodwaters would have been manageable had this sudden rainstorm not rolled in over them to make the climb even more dangerous than the flood would have alone. They had not planned for this, and Taurik never adapted quickly to such situations.

Vorik reached for their pack, removing the thermal blanket they'd brought and offering it to Taurik. "Your sense of scale is inhibiting your composure."

Taurik slapped the blanket away. "Put it back. We will wish to keep warm in tonight's cold."

Vorik did as he was told, though the blanket material was extremely difficult to soak through. He shook his head, flinging water from the tips of his hair despite the rain still falling, and sat. "I didn't intend for us to be stranded," he offered.

"I warned you that climbing the canyon during monsoon season was ill-advised." Taurik sat on the farthest edge of the boulder, letting his legs dangle off the edge over the rushing water.

"It has been eight years since Osana Canyon flooded like this," Vorik said, and huffed briefly. Even if he lost control now, who would ever know? Taurik would always know regardless of where they were. "To defer a plan simply because floods might occur is illogical."

"Vorik." Taurik spun, and Vorik turned his head reflexively to make eye-contact. "It rained yesterday, and it rained the day before. How much evidence and forewarning do you require to not engage in stupid choices?"

"You say it was a stupid choice, but I notice you accompanied me anyway."

Taurik turned away. "It is beneficial for you that I did—you might have been swept away and drowned had I not." He waited for several seconds before adding defiantly, "Additionally, had I not delayed you, you might be in the cavern already to the same outcome. With that in mind, I believe my sense of scale is appropriate."

Speculation was illogical, but Vorik was certain he would have escaped injury, not to mention death. Having Taurik here to assist him in the climb to safety was, of course, useful even if not necessary… With a small sigh, Vorik pulled himself back to center and tried to see the situation from Taurik's point of view.

Taurik pursued predictability, and efficiency therein. There were, to Vorik's view, better goals.

The canyon roared with the rush of the water, and Vorik wondered for a moment if the water would rise another four meters to cover their refuge here. He doubted it, since the canyon walls were over seventy-five meters apart this far down. Also, the rain was abating and the suns were beginning to shine again. Though the flood might not subside for hours or even days, it seemed unlikely to him that the situation would get more dangerous.

Eventually, Vorik found he was correct. The rain stopped and the suns reappeared from beyond the clouds that moved off. The water receded half a meter before holding steady. Vorik looked around where he sat for a safe path down to the water, since he was sure some of the debris rushing by was actually edible plant matter. They'd brought the most basic survival supplies, as they always did, and would be able to sanitize and cook anything they happened to catch…

"Vorik."

Vorik turned again, expecting another piece of a lecture that Taurik had been working on in the silence, but was surprised to see him standing instead, gazing at the canyon walls around them.

Water plunged from the canyon walls, first at two locations quite distant, then four more waterfalls poured down. The sunlight caught the droplets and shone like diamonds flung into the air, casting no less than thirty rainbows at various points around them on the canyon walls.

Even Taurik was impressed.

"I was unaware there were riverbeds leading to the top of the canyon," Vorik said, and watched the phenomenon with a sense of justification. He'd not expected this outcome, but he would have been disappointed to miss it… even though he would never have known. It was illogical, but his sense of scale was inhibiting his composure.

"As was I," Taurik said, spinning to look at the red rock walls until he'd turned his back to Vorik.

Vorik stepped back, pressing his to Taurik's. He felt a vague admission of awe, of wonder, and an apology somewhere in their bond that was otherwise thoroughly occupied. For three seconds, Vorik allowed himself to fully experience the physical senses of sight and sound, the mist and the cool breeze on his face and the roar of the crashing water in his ears. He turned the vision of glittering rainbows in his mind and even felt Taurik's bated breath in his lungs.

With a sigh, Vorik put away the thought he always had when Taurik expressed an uncommon awe for such mundane phenomena, the sense that he really should attend the Vulcan Science Academy.

Vorik did not have the aptitude, but Taurik should study physics. Nearly any kind—nothing struck him to silence more often than interstellar nurseries or hydrodynamic systems or black holes or interatmosphere flight. Despite anything Taurik might have said, Vorik knew that Taurik's desire for Starfleet Academy stemmed more from a desire for them to remain in close proximity to each other than anything else.

Both institutions only accepted two to three percent of applicants, but acceptance to the Vulcan Science Academy was more important to their family, and they had fewer applicants. Granted, being accepted to Starfleet Academy was impressive, statistically, and Taurik's second-hand pride for Vorik's acceptance letter had been more significant to him than the letter itself. Their joint speculation of what it might be like to live on Earth had been the subject of countless hours of attention and discussion, though it would be three years before they even began to pack.

The Science Aademy did not price the areas in which Vorik's intelligence concentrated. Taurik, though, was good at everything. He could do anything. Vorik was certain Taurik settled into the notion of becoming an engineer—and one of the best engineers—for so long he'd neglected to truly examine other options, despite Vorik's occasional plea that he consider it more fully.

Vorik sighed. "I regret ignoring your counsel and putting us both in danger," he said softly, "and ask your forgiveness."

Taurik turned to look at him over his shoulder. "Of course, you have it." He turned back to the view of the canyon before adding, "I regret my discordant approach. I admit my mental state has been unsettled since receiving my acceptance to the Vulcan Science Academy." Taurik stepped away from him, to the edge of the rock, and looked down.

"Are you considering it?" Vorik didn't know which answer he would have preferred to hear…

"More than I thought I might. I did not believe I would be accepted." Taurik sat again, turned his face up to the light orange skies. "That I have complicates matters."

Vorik dryly wondered how much evidence and forewarning Taurik would require to believe his acceptance was inevitable. Taurik didn't appreciate the sarcasm of Vorik's musing and reminded him he wasn't exactly a capable judge in these matters and was clearly prejudiced.

But, he admitted, reciprocation was balance.

Vorik didn't believe his prejudice would induce such faulty perception, anyway, but didn't argue. He pressed away the desire he'd had for Starfleet Academy since he first discovered starship operations and engineering, not to mention other peoples and their ideas and cultures so far beyond their mountainous home, and let himself down to sit beside Taurik.

"If you believe you might yet change your mind, I will reconsider my choices, of course," he offered. "If I am accepted, as well, the Science Academy offers a respectable engineering program."

Taurik gave him another unamused mental nudge. "It is certainly not known for that."

"No, but neither will I be." Vorik would not be known for anything except, perhaps, his association with Taurik. More personally, friends and family might associate him with his family more than his work, and that was agreeable to him. "You, however…"

"I have no desire to research," he said, and Vorik waited to investigate whether that was true or just something he'd always thought. "It is true that I find physics and its various natural expressions interesting—but it is the practical and efficient application which makes its study worthwhile. That is what engineering is."

With an explanation like that, Vorik could see how he'd arrived at the conclusion. "You have no intention to stay, then."

"I believe I've selected the most efficient course of action to achieve my goals."

They sat in silence for almost an hour before the waterfalls stopped and the rain completely rolled away. They fished some branches and leaves out of the river rushing by as it receded, and agreed their situation was not dire enough to eat them despite their hunger. When the night cooled their still-damp clothing, they lay together underneath the blanket and watched the stars.

"I should have taken your advice. We should not have come," Vorik offered. "It was foolish."

He felt Taurik's mental brush off before he spoke. "The flood was not guaranteed…" He sounded tired. He lifted his head to tuck his hand beneath his head, and closed his eyes. "And I had previously been unaware of the possibility of a series of waterfalls into the canyon."

"It was an interesting event." Vorik closed his eyes, too, though he wasn't tired.

"It was."

Reflecting on that, Vorik said, "I would consider the excursion a success based on a ratio of effort expended to natural phenomena observed."

Taurik nodded languidly. "I believe the experience was a positive one, though I will withhold my judgement of energy efficiency until we arrive back home." Taurik was quiet for several seconds, then he said, "I propose we research the conditions of the past few days and attempt to extrapolate which are responsible. We might prepare better in the future and witness it again."

Even with their constant contact, Taurik still had the capacity to surprise him. "I agree."

Vorik listened to Taurik's dreamless sleep for hours before finally sleeping himself. The sun woke them the next morning and warmed their bodies as much as their outlooks. The situation was never so urgent as to require they eat the bitter leaves they caught, and they waded through water that reached their knees to return home two days later.

When they got home, their father did, indeed, give them the longest and most comprehensive lecture they'd ever received—followed by the pleasant relay of information that Vorik had received acceptance to the Vulcan Science Academy, as well. They waited another two days to relay the less-welcome news that they would not be adjusting their plans. They would attend Starfleet Academy together.

Taurik's decision to forego what Vorik thought was a better match for him intellectually had given them an additional four years of close contact as they traveled Earth and the Sol system, took the same classes, and lived in the same Academy dorm. Four years after that, Vorik wasn't sure he would ever see his brother again. Now that it had been another four years, he knew he wouldn't. He just hoped that Taurik would continue to pursue his goals, no matter where Vorik ended his.

#

Two months after the recapture of Deep Space Nine, things had not gotten better. They'd gotten worse. The Dominion, obviously aware of their somewhat precarious position of temporary power, became even bolder, striking further and further into Federation territory. Vulcan suffered multiple attacks in the last week, as did Benzar and Betazed, devastating several centers of civilian population. Earth was still relatively untouched, but there were rumors that there were Changelings everywhere. And, soon, they'd be out in the open.

Every day, Gabi thought she couldn't possibly be more tired. That she couldn't be more scared. She never thought when she joined Starfleet that she'd be fighting in a war against shape-shifters and genetically-engineered super-soldiers, but here she was. She considered herself fortunate that she was an engineer, and a damn good one. Kept her out of the most immediate harms' way. She hopped from ship to ship, from planet to planet, as need dictated. How much sleep she needed was never taken into account.

She crawled back into the cubby that made up her bunk, isolated from the smell of others' sweat and blood. She'd be out of here in a few hours. Four or so. Just enough time for a nap, maybe. The Cross was coming to take her and a few other engineers away and to another battlefield. Another miserable planet pockmarked with laser burns and swimming in blood and ketracel white.

She pulled her pillow down from its rack and tucked it under her head. She was almost getting used to this.

Gabi.

She jerked up, smashing her forehead on her cubby's ceiling. "Ow…" she muttered, reflexive tears springing to her eyes. She painfully rolled over and looked out into the passageway. It was completely empty, and the voice she'd heard… it couldn't have been out there. There were at least a hundred other voices she was going to hear first if she started going crazy, anyway.

"Taurik?" she whispered.

Gabi, can you hear me?

"Yeah?" She pulled herself out of the cubby partway to see if, somehow, he was here. But, of course, he was on the Ramsar. The Ramsar was lightyears away on sorties in Cardassian space. She was just thinking she might put her shoes on and venture back out to see how delirious she was.

Why would she be hallucinating? Maybe something she ate…?

Before she could think further, a distantly familiar shade of blue nebula descended on her vision. She scrambled back into her cubby to find she wasn't in her cubby at all. She wasn't even crawling anymore, like she should have been, but standing in the middle of the blue expanse. Like a dream of stars. Like a memory of night.

What the hell?

Gabi.

She spun, Taurik's voice suddenly much closer, right behind her, a whisper inches distant.

Taurik stood in the empty space with her, a place she'd never seen before and a place she was sure she'd never been—even now. Uh—what's going on?

Fascinating…

What's fascinating? What the hell is going on? Where are we?

I wasn't sure I could reach you. Please listen.

I'm listening, she said, and carefully approached. Even though she was sure none of this was real, it felt incredibly real. It looked incredibly real, except for the surroundings. The quilted shoulders of his uniform coat were dusty, and somehow smelled like smoke. The diffused glow was coming from everywhere and nowhere, casting no shadow and shining no light.

The Ramsar was destroyed.

What? Gabi would have shrieked had she actually been speaking, wept had she had eyes.

Please, listen; I have limited time. Some of the crew have landed on Aschelan V in Cardassian space. Taurik took a shallow breath. It would be unwise to use subspace communications, as the enemy believes us to be dead. Alert Starfleet to our location and send a rescue.

Okay, got it, Aschelan V. Can I ask questions now?

Taurik sighed. If you must.

What the hell is happening? And what did he mean, "he had limited time"? She decided not to ask that. Not yet. He had limited time.

He looked around for a moment. You and I are telepathically bonded.

Excuse me—what?

We have been since Veridian III, he said, as though since when was the question she'd been asking. It wasn't. It absolutely wasn't. I initiated a mind meld with you when… you were near death. That procedure, coupled with your nearness to death, is what makes this communication possible. I thought it was only an expression that saving another's life shared one's soul… but apparently it was more literal than I expected.

It would have been nice to know that was included in the package, she hissed, even though that wasn't what she'd wanted to say. It was one of the things she wanted to say, sure. But not even close to half of it.

I did not know this level of communication was possible with a non-Vulcan. He seemed to think about that for a second. He looked tired. I didn't know… It seems I believe in souls. And I still have one.

Tears leaped to her eyes, even though she knew it wasn't real. You look awful…

He looked confused for a blink of a moment. I appear injured?

No, I mean… She didn't know how to say what she thought without sounding stupid. It was more a gut feeling. The way he was standing, the way he sounded and paused between some words, rushing others… Finally, she shrugged, and smiled. You're paler than usual.

He seemed to consider. Nodded a bit. As usual, Gabi, you are quite intuitive. You're correct. I'm injured. However, my ability to think is… somewhat unaffected.

Vulcans… lied all the time. But he didn't seem to even bother with that now. Gabi swallowed the thick emotion threatening to surface, even though they were nowhere near the surface as she knew it, and asked, Are you okay?

With a sigh, he closed his eyes. No. I am not.

What's wrong?

He seemed to take stock before answering. I am unable to move. Or see. Or speak. One of the engineers dragged me to an escape pod before the ship was destroyed. I have multiple concussive injuries and broken bones. Internal bleeding. Burns of various degrees over… most of my body.

It wasn't the report—it was that he didn't tell her the exact percentage. She covered her mouth. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do to save his life all the way over here when it seemed almost impossible even if anyone believed her. She barely believed her. I don't know what you want me to do, she said. I don't know if I can get there in time to save you.

I don't expect you to, he whispered.

She sobbed and closed the imaginary distance between them. Wrapped her arms around him. He was very rarely wrong.

Somehow, he rested a hand on her back for a moment, then two, and gripped her uniform jacket in his hands. He rested his mouth on her shoulder. Just as it occurred to her that he would never, ever return an embrace like this in life, he spoke again. I have a personal request, if you would consent.

Anything.

Saalle. Please, tell her that I… tell her I love her. Very much. And our son. He paused long enough for Gabi to notice the tears on her face were not imagined, but somehow real. I am not sure whether she will find our association upsetting, and I regret the uncertainty. But it is possible she will be consoled, and... I very much want that for her, in the event that I… am…

His voice trailed off, though she waited for him to continue, he never did. But he had to still be here—because she was still here. Yeah, of course. Of course I will.

And Sam. Tell him. You both are important to me.

Yeah, I'll tell him.

He hesitated. I should have listed you on my notification form.

Taurik and the blue nebula both blinked away, and she was in her cubby again wiping away her tears. "Taurik?" she whispered, and heard no answer. She wasn't sure if she could reach him the same way he reached her—but even if she could, the odds she could manage it without training or something seemed small.

Talking wasn't going to do anything now.

The corridor was dark, and she could hear soft snoring around her. The Cross would be here in just under four hours, and she wasn't sure where the Aschelan system was. She also wasn't sure the Cross would take her.

But, damnit, she had to try. Quick enough to save him.

His sudden disappearance wasn't doing much for her optimism.

She crawled back out of the cubby, shoving her feet into her shoes without stockings and ran down the corridor. The communications den was two levels down, carved out of the rocks to hide it. Antennae and transmitters up on the planet's surface were strong, but only when they were turned on—they were on perpetually since the planet had been removed from Cardassian hands.

Gabi vaulted down the stairs, almost tripping on her sloppily-dressed feet, and ran straight into Lieutenant Commander Ha. He was a no-nonsense type that certainly found his stride in a wartime Federation, and his furrowed brow and uncertain stare didn't give her any hope that she'd actually be able to get a message to anybody.

"Miss Dixson?" Lieutenant Commander Ha sounded confused.

"Lieutenant Commander," she said, throwing up a fleet salute for good measure. "I have an urgent message regarding the Ramsar, sir."

"It was destroyed about a half hour ago," Lieutenant Commander Ha said. "And where could you possibly have gotten a message from? Are you telling me—?"

"No, sir—!" Gabi sighed, "It's not a traditional message. Where is Captain Barnes?"

"Petty Officer—"

"Please, sir, lives depend on it!" One life in particular. She was gonna be sick… Hold on, Taurik, she begged, even though she was sure it didn't work like that.

On the other hand, she wasn't sure it didn't work like that. Either way, it couldn't possibly hurt.

#

It was a depressing morning ritual. Sam got up in the morning, got a cup of coffee, and checked the bulletins to find out which ships had been lost that day—arranged by crew complement, most crew to least. He had an algorithm designed to crosscheck his academy graduation year, and his service on the Enterprise-D and the Ramsar to see if he might have known anyone that had been killed. Some days, he didn't know anybody. On his days off, like today, sometimes he wrote letters to the family or spouses of people he knew better.

It wasn't much, but it made him feel like he was doing something good. Sam wasn't a tactician, but even he could see it was bad. The number of ships, the number of crews. It was unsustainable.

They'd won back Deep Space Nine, but the cost continued to grow. It didn't seem to make any difference.

Today, he opened the comms panel and saw the largest ship lost with all hands early this morning at oh-two-hundred hours. Sam dropped his coffee… and stared. He couldn't speak, because it felt like all the oxygen had been removed from the room.

The USS Ramsar NCC-71230 was lost in the Aschelan system in Cardassian space, after engaging a small division of Cardassian ships that were reinforced with one Jem'Hadar vessel. Three Starfleet vessels were lost in the engagement, and one, a Miranda-class called the Oriskany, escaped with heavy casualties. The order to abandon ship was given at oh-one-forty-six, and at oh-one-fifty-one, the Ramsar stopped transmitting. The Oriskany reported the remaining Jem'Hadar fighters destroying escape pods as a Cardassian warship chased them out of the system.

Sam didn't know why his hand hurt until he hit the wall again.

So he hit it again.

He knew so many people on the Ramsar—so why was the only person coming to mind that smug bastard with his dead face? The one that didn't feel anything, but must have felt a lot because he was so damn sarcastic and petty.

Sam had never been so angry.

Was he angry? Maybe. Hard to tell. The only thing he could think that he wanted to do was call Taurik and scream at him for dying.

He couldn’t do that, and he couldn't do anything else, so he hit the wall again.

It didn't help.

He spun to look at the room. His own room, no roommate. All this time and space to himself, sprucing up the place to invite friends over for poker or dinner or whatever, had been exactly what he wanted. He hadn't dated recently, because who could handle that anxiety? It was enough worrying about friends.

Sam stumbled to the couch and sat, pressing his palms into his eyes to watch the stars pop on his eyelids.

At least Taurik was with his brother now.

Sam wasn't sure he did in the intervening hours. He composed a few letters of condolence, one for Athena's parents, because she was gone; one for Laurence, because Alice was gone; and one for Saalle, because Taurik was gone. He thought about calling her, but he didn't know what he'd say if he did. In the end, it wasn't any of them that he wanted to talk to.

So, even though he was sure Taurik would tell him it was the most illogical thing he'd ever done, he wrote a letter to Athena. He reminded her of all their best dates, and told her every single thing he appreciated and loved about her. They'd been together for seven months, and he wondered sometimes if the stars would align and they'd get back together. He didn't believe in soul mates, but in circumstance, proximity, and history. They had two out of the three, and maybe it could have worked. He told her that, too.

He told that imaginary Vulcan in his head to shut up and wrote a letter to him, too. Even though Sam knew he had the commonly broad family support system Vulcans were known for, he told him he'd check in on his baby from time to time. More than he wanted to admit, probably. Even though Taurik's memory was generally better than his, Sam reminded him of the first time they met, circling one another like juvenile wolves sizing each other up for a fight. He was sure Taurik didn't remember it like that, but Taurik was always going to be a rival to Sam. He was behind Sam's quick achievement of Lieutenant JG, and behind his reaching for the Enterprise again. Even now, on another ship on the other side of the quadrant, Sam was looking at full lieutenant in less than six months and wondered if he owed Taurik even that. Sam liked to think behind every great Starfleet officer was a Vulcan he was trying to outdo. Maybe impress. Maybe both.

It wasn't true, but maybe it was for him, and he told him that, too. Yes, he was the worst thing about the Enterprise, but he was also one of the best things.

The letter to Taurik was already three times longer when the comms panel suddenly flashed orange with an incoming subspace message.

Gabi was calling. God, she was probably a mess, too.

He dropped his stylus on the PADD he'd been working on, rubbed at his dry eyes, and accepted the message. "Hi, Gabi." His words barely made it out of his throat.

"Sam—"

"You doing okay?" He hadn't meant to interrupt, but he felt he had to shake the dust from his lungs as quickly as possible if he wanted to actually hold a conversation. He should call Saalle… Surely she got the visit by now.

"Yeah—no."

Yeah, in retrospect, it was an idiotic question. Taurik was dead and she didn't get a chance to say goodbye, either.

Oh, my god, Taurik was dead. Somehow writing a letter baring his soul hadn't convinced him of that. Sam took a breath. "Me, either."

"Sam, listen to me!" Gabi smacked the screen frantically and leaned in close. "Taurik's alive. Or at least he was."

Sam could only manage a squint, and his brain felt like it was turning upside down trying to see what she could somehow see. What had he missed from the report? All hands lost seemed pretty comprehensive.

"It'd take too long to explain, but he—we—he sent me a message. He's alive, and so are some of the crew. I don't have a lot of time." Even so, Gabi waited for him to respond.

Sam frowned. "Well, can I see it?"

"See what?"

"The message!"

"It was telepathic."

Oh, great. So… she'd lost it somehow in the last four or five hours. He had no idea what time it was. "Gabi…" He tried to say it gently, but she hit the screen again.

"I'm not making this up! Taurik's alive, and I need your help, Sam!"

"Look, I…" Sam hesitated, brushed at his eyes again with his wrist. "Look, I can't believe he's gone, either. God." He leaned his elbows on his knees, resting his forehead in his hands.

"Even if you don't believe me," Gabi snapped, "you owe me."

"I owe you?" Sam looked back up, surprised that he was angry at the implication. He wasn't sure why. In any case, it was a hell of a lot better than attending to this gaping, gushing hole in his chest. What could he have possibly owed her for?

Gabi huffed. "Yeah, remember three years ago? Back on the D, remember, you were worried about Taurik because he just dropped off the planet? He missed lunch?"

Sam shook his head. He remembered talking to her on the Enterprise-D, but not exactly what he'd said. He remembered finding Gabi, the petty officer he'd only known of at the time, because Taurik talked about her and took him to the promotion celebration for, and he remembered it worked.

Saying he owed her after she agreed to talk to Taurik for him did sound like something he'd say. Looking back now, it felt completely random and desperate, and maybe a little cowardly. Why Gabi of all people? Why hadn't he just marched into Taurik's room and demand to know what was wrong with him? Because he was trying to surpass and impress—and since Taurik would never show concern about Sam, he'd be damned if he was going to show it.

"Right, sure, I'm sure I said something like that. But—"

"No. No, you said you owed me." Gabi pointed her finger at the screen. "I just need you to go to the captain. See if he'll help. I know at least some of the Ramsar crew is alive, and we have to get them out of there."

That was hilarious, actually, but Sam couldn't smile. Taurik was dead. "You want me to go ask Captain Picard of the Federation flagship USS Enterprise to go out of his way to rescue a presumed-dead lieutenant in Cardassian space?" Sam stared, just in case his tone hadn't communicated how crazy this was.

"Yes!"

"You sound insane."

"I know he's alive, Sam. Help me." Gabi's breathing became heavy as she very obviously tried not to cry. After a few seconds, she looked away, sniffed into the back of her hand. "Help me."

Sam rolled his eyes, leaned away from the screen as if that would keep him from losing it himself. He didn't think he could watch her cry. "God, Gabi…"

"Please."

"Alright, but I'm going to need you to explain to me how the hell a touch-telepath was able to reach across hundreds of lightyears to somehow communicate to you, a non-telepath…"

Sam hesitated, then, because he realized as he was speaking that was how it had worked for Taurik and his brother. They were always just a thought away, regardless of distance. As Taurik said, they had the same soul.

That didn't explain this. "Can't you see how insane this is?"

"Remember Veridian III?"

He nodded. He'd almost died; of course, he remembered. Gabi, by all accounts, actually did die. "Of course, I do."

"Well, he did some weird mind-meld with me, and now… apparently, that's what did it. Because I was dead, and… that's why he can reach this far." She paused, and almost laughed. "He said that part of his katra is what brought me back. Which means, I guess, he can reach this far because he's not reaching. He left a piece of it with me, so it's his own katra he's talking to."

Sam stared. It didn't make it sound any less insane.

"The universe is a weird place."

Sam couldn’t argue with that, either.

"You asked!"

"I know, I know." If even half of what she'd just said was true, then she owed it to Taurik to try. "He saved my life, too, you know." And, if that was even half-true, then, in a weird way, he really did owe her.

"I know."

With a sigh, Sam pressed his fingers into his eyes and tried not to hope, because this was insane. "Alright."

"You will?"

He glanced up at the screen to see her looking like she was going to try her best to crawl through subspace to hug him herself. "Don't get too excited. I don't know that I'll even be able to talk to him. And even if I do, I might get sent to sickbay for psychological evaluations because of how crazy this sounds. Because it does sound crazy. You know that, right?"

"I know. But you're going to try?"

With a shrug of resignation, he nodded. If there was even a chance, he knew he had to. "Yeah. I'll try."

She smiled. "Okay. I have to call Commander La Forge. You promise you'll talk to the captain?"

"What are friends for?" Except, of course, sharing quarters. And maybe even souls, apparently.

#

"Mind if I sit?"

Vorik nearly started with the question, and the voice asking it. He glanced up at Mister Paris and consulted the internal chronometer that insisted it was only just past five in the morning. The numbers on his PADD indicated as much. For some reason, Paris being capable of speech at this hour seemed… uncharacteristic. Still, he wasn't about to say no regardless of his confusion, so he made an inviting gesture toward the chair across from him.

"Thanks." Paris sat, taking a long look at the green salad Neelix had prepared the night before. "What do you think of it?" he asked, staring at the salad.

"It is nutritionally satisfactory," he said, spearing a shard of an extremely-familiar crunchy white root—sour and bitter, it was a more natural addition to the salad than most other things the crew found it in. "However, I estimate that each of us eats approximately our weight in leola root every three months."

Paris laughed. "Seems a little low."

Vorik gave a granting nod. "Its uninvited appearance in my breakfast inclines me to agree." He didn't pause to register Paris's reaction other than that he'd been amused. "How may I assist you?"

Mister Paris restrained his chuckle, and unearthed a PADD from where he'd been holding it beneath the table. "I'd like your help with something, if it's alright with you." He slid it, screen up, into Vorik's view, and waited with an anticipatory held breath.

With a solitary glace to see how truly excited Mister Paris seemed to be, Vorik slid the PADD toward himself and read. They were plans for what seemed to be a modified shuttlecraft or runabout. It was equipped with more defensive systems than the Class-Two shuttle, as well as more living space to accommodate the long-range missions that their shuttles were sometimes obliged to engage.

"Fascinating."

Paris seemed pleased with the declaration, smiled, and folded his hands on the table between them. "Is that a good thing?"

"Though I doubt these plans will be approved due to the amount of resources required to build it, we will, at some point, be unable to recover enough parts from disabled and damaged shuttlecraft to rebuild them…" Vorik slid the PADD back toward Paris a few centimeters. "I believe the design needs additional attention before calculations are made for the raw materials required for construction."

"Well, this is just the first draft…" Paris looked at the PADD, nodding at it. "What modifications?"

"I cannot advise you without further research. The nacelle geometry will require precise calibration based on the hull design, which is clearly more fanciful than realistic. For example, I suspect the system for power generation you prescribe is inadequate to the vessel's size."

"Want to help us with it?" Paris asked.

Vorik hesitated, glancing uncertainly between him and the screen. "Us?"

"Me, Harry, probably Tabor." Vorik should have guessed, but didn't interrupt. Paris took another deep breath and resettled. "B'Elanna, but I don't think she'll be interested in it until we have something actually, you know…"

Vorik restrained the immediate reaction he felt at her name. He knew he'd succeeded, based on Paris's lack of response. "Realistic?" Vorik suggested when Paris didn't continue.

"Yeah. Look, I know it needs some work, but…"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I will assist you." After all, reviewing designs for any solution to their current shuttlecraft problems sounded like a more beneficial use of his time than fifty versions of the same letter to his brother.

Paris grinned. "Welcome to Team Delta Flyer, then."

"Delta Flyer?"

Paris frowned. "Yeah? What's wrong?"

Vorik tried to figure out a way to say he expected much more creativity from him without saying that, exactly. It would certainly be seen as insulting. "As in… a vessel intended for flight in the Delta Quadrant?"

"A little on the nose?" he said.

"On the nose." He'd never heard that one before, and his amusement nearly exceeded his capacity to suppress it. "Yes, perhaps. On the nose."

"Well, we'll workshop it…" Paris seemed disappointed.

Obviously, the name was immaterial. "The name is more appropriate considering the design may one day be put into more general use once we return to the Alpha Quadrant," he offered, and was gratified to see his social practice hadn't been for nothing. Paris flushed with pride. "May I retain the designs for review after my shift?"

Mister Paris nodded, made an inviting gesture. "Of course, yeah. Harry and I were going to get together to talk about it later today. Say, sixteen-thirty? Does that work for you?"

"I will arrange my schedule to accommodate it." He, in fact, had no other plans. He was usually meditating in his quarters, or reading, or trawling Engineering for additional work to focus his attention. "Your invitation is appreciated."

"Well, you certainly bring something to the table that neither of us has," Paris said.

Perhaps, a sense of realism. Vorik looked again at the design. "Certainly not a sense of aesthetics." A much better way of expressing that.

Paris chuckled. "Let's just say you can leave that to me."

#

Gabi had never spoken to Captain Picard before. Actually, she had. In her last days on the Enterprise, she knew she had. He wouldn't remember her, of course. She was certainly not important enough to catch an eye what with everything else going on. Maybe she'd even been in Engineering one of the few times he ended up down there. It was a big ship, but not that big.

"Commander La Forge tells me you spoke to him early this morning about your friend stranded in Cardassian space." She nodded, even though she wasn't sure she was saving her friend at this point. He might have been dead—but it was what he'd asked her to do. Save the Ramsar crew. So, in absence of anything else, she decided she'd take him home, no matter what. "Commander La Forge is also not the only one you've called. Lieutenant Lavelle was quite persuasive. You seem to be running this flag up every pole you can reach."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Your dedication in this matter is admirable," he went on. "Considering the unique circumstances of your friendship with Lieutenant Taurik, I imagine most of the people you spoke to didn't appreciate the lengths to which he was willing to go for you—and you, for him, it seems."

"I know it's hard to believe, but…"

"On the contrary, Miss Dixson. I happen to have met another Vulcan that achieved that 'very specific set of circumstances' you told Commander La Forge about." He smiled, almost conspiratorially, like he knew even more than she did and she was the one who'd been resurrected. It did make sense, though, that someone, sometime, had this same thing happen. The universe was a big place.

"It seems like a right place-right time kind of thing," she offered. "Though, to be honest, at the time it did seem a little bit like a wrong place-wrong time kind of thing."

"Such is the benefit of hindsight. It does often seem as if the universe conspires to prepare us for the challenges we could never see coming."

He was going to help her.

Of course, he was.

"The Defiant will rendezvous with the Cross in two hours. You have been temporarily reassigned, in case the lieutenant contacts you again, and will assist in all efforts to rescue the survivors of the Ramsar."

"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!" It was entirely unprofessional, but if he were physically in the room with her at this moment, she would have hugged him. She didn't think that was an offence worthy of court-martial, unlike her backup plan of stealing a runabout. She tried not to cry, but… She swiped the tears from her eyes. "I'm sorry, sir; it's been a long day."

"I'm sure it has. Thank you for your persistence, Petty Officer. This is how we win."

Chapter Text

"The captain's gonna want to see you, Petty Officer Dixson."

"Um… yes, sir." Gabi eyed the chief, the pips on his station ops uniform. Now that… that was the dream. Another fifteen years, maybe, and it could be reality. Assuming she was still here in fifteen years, and Starfleet was still here in fifteen years. "Captain, um…?

"Sisko." The man gave her a friendly smile. "Don't worry. He doesn't bite."

She forced a smile. "I'm just not sure what I have to offer on the bridge. Stuff me into a Jefferies tube or show me the engine room, and I'd be fine. Even in a ship like this, I'd be, uh…" She paused to admire the tightly-packed optics bundled behind a panel undergoing maintenance as they walked past. Yeah, she could definitely work here. "I'd be fine."

The chief chuckled. "Well, we have a few sections of the lower decks that could use a bit of attention, and we're low on maintenance staff at the moment."

"Point me at it, Chief." She paused at his nonplussed expression. "After the bridge."

She hadn't realized the Defiant's Transporter One was located on the first deck. She'd have to pore over the schematics on her way to the lower decks—out of only five total, depending on how they were counted, she really wasn't sure where the "lower" started. Maybe halfway?

Anyway, didn't sound too hard. Probably could find Engineering without them. A Federation starship was a Federation starship, after all.

Two more seconds and Chief O'Brien ushered her onto the bridge. It was the most compact thing she'd seen in a Federation starship, with all the important stations in a horseshoe shape around the captain's chair in the middle. She noticed a Trill, the familiar Commander Worf (who would never in a hundred years recognize her), and a Bajoran uniform before her eyes landed on the captain.

He was staring at her, showing his teeth in a genuine smile. "So, you're the instigator of this little rescue operation?"

Gabi didn't know if she'd call herself the instigator. "Technically, sir, I think that would be Lieutenant Taurik."

"Yes, Lieutenant Taurik," Captain Sisko mused, wagging a finger at her as he did. "I will thank him when he gets on board, but in the meantime we'll have to make do with you. We have lost too many good people in this war. It will be good to win some back."

"Yes, sir."

"Keep us apprised of any new information. Has he contacted you again?"

Gabi sighed, shook her head. "No, sir. He was injured…"

"Then no time to lose." The captain looked to the woman at conn and ordered the cloak to be engaged. Damn, did she want to see that thing…

There was no way she'd be allowed. No way.

Gabi didn't know why she thought the viewscreen should look different in a cloaked vessel. It didn't. But it felt different. Taurik would say that was an emotional evaluation. And he was damn lucky that was all she'd been doing for the past fifty-two hours.

At least, she hoped he was lucky. Please, please be lucky.

Everyone at least agreed it would be best to put her to work, so she followed Chief O'Brien out of the bridge and back toward the turbolift in the uncharacteristically dark and narrow hallways.

"The Defiant almost doesn't seem like a Federation starship," she said. Not the least of which reason was the chief petty officer in charge of it. Not a commander or lieutenant commander, but a petty officer.

A really high-ranking one, of course. Senior chief petty officer, she was sure she could never.

"She's something special," Chief O'Brien said, and looked around the walls with a bit of affection. "Lean and efficient with the kinks worked out, and not a moment too soon, eh?"

"Yeah." Gabi watched him talk, a bit dazed. "How'd you get to—I mean, you must have had an amazing career to end up here," she said, adding quickly, "With the cloaking device and the station."

"Well, I have a few years on you, Petty Officer," he said with a wink. "Why, are you looking for more responsibility?"

"Not when you put it like that, sir." She sighed and brushed off her shirt. "I'm not complaining. I like being shuffled from place to place—the longest I've been on any one ship since we retook Deep Space Nine was six days in travel time. I do miss the bunks on the Sarek, though."

The chief chuckled. "Well, don't get too comfortable. When I was about your age—" He paused to eye her, like maybe trying to decide how old she was or how old he was, before continuing, "I was fighting in the last war with the Cardassians. I didn't do as much hopping as you're doing, but I did see a lot of combat. I think I would have liked the Defiant's bunks back then…"

Gabi clicked her tongue, shook her head. She wouldn't have guessed him to be that old. "I'm not sure I even remember what I used to think comfortable meant. Now, I'm pretty sure I could crawl under a dark rock and feel at home."

The chief smiled, but he didn't look pleased about that. He led the way into Engineering, a tight room a fraction of the size of the Enterprise's beautiful blue room. This one was mostly red, with multiple levels and industrial catwalks ringing the space ahead. Even the ducts and vents were exposed, without a single interest toward aesthetics in the materials put forth.

"Well, Dixson, according to your file, you've done a little bit of everything," Chief O'Brien said.

"A little bit," she agreed, looking up and around and the calm and quiet work, missing the way things used to be. "I've even died before. At least that's what they told me when I woke up. I'm running out of unexplored territory."

The chief smiled, almost knowingly. "I don't have that on the schedule, so no worries about that. I was going to put you on monitoring the warp field, since you're certified with the new geometries."

"I've got a friend who's a real stickler for efficiency." At least, she hoped she still did.

"Well, it should be relatively relaxing for you. At the shift turnover, you can go to your assigned quarters and get some sleep. We have no idea what will happen once we arrive at Aschelan V."

"Do we ever…?"

O'Brien was right about the warp field console. The Defiant ran like a song, and she could only imagine how clean and flat the rest of the graphs this ship could pump out were. A true testament to O'Brien's skill, she imagined, and wondered what she'd have to do to get to be so good at this. She watched him work, going from station to station as he checked on each and every person under his command and what they were doing. Like she'd expect of any good officer, but especially a good chief, he crawled into maintenance tunnels, pried off panels, and got his hands dirty alongside his crew.

Gabi did get to see the cloaking device once when the wall panel that covered it was removed so one of the ensigns could do some routine maintenance. It actually looked Romulan, though she wasn't sure what that meant. It sure made for an uneventful trip, anyway.

Aschelan V had once been the location of a Cardassian fuel depot, but that had been destroyed early in the war in one of the Federation's few successful campaigns against the Dominion. The system's strategic importance was all in location now, though Gabi didn't concern herself with things like that.

She went where she was sent. It was simplicity itself.

On the other hand, this was different. She'd imposed this plan on hundreds of other people, if not more. She sat in one of the maintenance tunnels that ran underneath Engineering, sorting out a few errors in the injection system, and thought about that.

Gabi thought about a lot of things, mostly the lecture she was going to give Taurik about scaring her and Sam like this. None of them were allowed to die anymore. It was exhausting.

"Taurik?" she whispered, and braided a few frayed optic cables. "You're gonna have to tell me how this long-distance telepathy thing works when you get here." She sighed, shut her eyes, and rested her hands on the floor. "Please, just be alive."

As was usual on missions like this, nothing exactly went to plan. Gabi went back to her quarters and slept in the cramped little bunk. She woke up four hours later to the news that they still had forty-five minutes to go to get to the Aschelan system, thanks to having to dodge a whole line of Jem'Hadar ships doing intense sweeps of the border as they crossed. That the system wouldn't be deserted when they arrived was seeming like less and less of a realistic hope.

The hope died completely when they arrived.

Gabi was in engineering, getting a quick run-down from Chief O'Brien on the way the cloaking device functioned in concert with the weapons systems—which was to say, it didn't. It ate up a ton of power such that it couldn't really be used at the same time as anything but life support. The Cardassian patrol ship left in the system was obviously expecting them.

"Damn bloody Cardies," she heard Chief O'Brien spit when the ship first bucked under duress of the first shots fired.

Damn bloody Cardies, indeed. They had to have figured out sometime in the last two days that some number of the ships they'd destroyed had survived, and left them there. Gabi wondered if they left them there as bait or simply because prisoners required a certain amount of civilized treatment—though Gabi had seen a few horrors herself.

She didn't see a lot of ground combat, but the memory of a few Jem'Hadar soldiers within earshot laughing after converting a Federation medic into a roughly man-shaped piece of charcoal echoed in her dreams. He'd been trying to care for a wounded soldier—to make it even worse, the Jem'Hadar left that soldier to live.

Gabi shoved that thought aside, under the nearest rock because she knew it wasn't blowing away in the winds of any sandstorm anytime soon, and dove into the action. She rarely knew when a battle ended, but usually was one of the first to know it started. Chief O'Brien shouted orders to his crew as she imagined the Defiant whipping around and running circles around their Cardassian foe.

"Dixson!" O'Brien said, not turning to her as he kept his hands on the shield control console. "I need you to cut through their jamming to see how many crew there are on the planet. We don't have a lot of time for a rescue if we've got any."

"Yes, sir!" Gabi darted across the deck to where her gut told her the sensors were. A Federation ship was still a Federation ship, after all.

The Cardassians were using a pretty standard jamming protocol, and the rotations were, as usual, algorithmic. That didn't mean they were easy to sort out, but it did mean they were predictable. She worked with the computer to isolate a couple of sensors on the Defiant's hull and point them at the planet to see where their lost comrades were, she hoped.

"I've got a hundred and twenty-two lifesigns, sir!" That was just over ten percent of the Ramsar's crew complement. The Defiant was a tiny ship with only two transporter rooms, a total of three small transporter pads between them. A second of calculations later, she added, "All we need is five minutes."

"Your confidence in our transporter chief is cheering," O'Brien said, and the tapped his combadge to report the situation to the captain. He apparently shared her confidence.

Of course, confidence meant nothing if they couldn't lower their shields to transport in the first place.

Gabi watched the Cardassians send out a final call for help before their ship stopped transmitting altogether. Shields dropped, and O'Brien told his transporter chiefs to get to work.

Even though the battle was over, Gabi felt her heart race as she searched the transporter logs for Vulcan lifesigns. It would be impossible for her to tell if any Vulcan transported up was Taurik, but maybe… maybe… "Chief?" She didn't turn toward him, unsure if she really wanted to say what she was about to say.

"Petty Officer Dixson." Chief O'Brien spoke like he was interrupting her, and she turned to look at him. "The fiber optics and power systems in Cargo Bay One need inspection."

Gabi smiled, nodded. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Gabi ran out of Engineering to where the survivors were accumulating.

Gabi stepped into the Cargo Bay, watching the burnt and battered Ramsar crew crystalize from site-to-site transport, directed to the side by a medical or ops officer. Her legs felt fragile, like they might break if she tried to move, or stiff, like they were stuck right here where they were even if she'd tried. Out of the way, by the wall in Cargo Bay, she watched the frantic trauma team dash in and out of rows of the Ramsar crew as they appeared. It was getting crowded in there, beaming people up eight or nine at a time…

She remembered some of these petty officers, but didn't see anyone she knew yet. She kept on the lookout for Dawes or Johnson—"Lawford! Lawford Roth!"

"Gabi?" He looked like he wasn't sure he could trust his eyes. "Gabi Dixson?"

Gabi dashed across the room to tackle him, since he didn't look too injured.

He caught her, held her tight. "Oh, my god, what are you doing here?"

"Saving your butt!" she said into his neck before pulling back. "I can't believe you're okay! You're okay, right?" She stepped back to look at him. A little worse for wear maybe, a few bruises and cuts, but nothing too serious.

He took a breath, nodded. "Yeah. Alive. Breathing. Traumatized. Ready to get back to the fight."

Gabi paused, looked around. "Did Johnson and Dawes make it?" The odds, she knew, were getting smaller. That she recognized anyone in a crew of a thousand with ninety percent losses felt like a miracle. She paused, gulped at the anxiety and emotion, and added, "Taurik?"

"He's gonna die."

Both of them spun to see another crewman, practically a baby, hugging his knees to his chest on the floor.

"He is not," Lawford snapped, then looked at Gabi. "I mean… well, maybe. Workman here personally got him out, loaded him into an escape pod. He's beat to all hell and in pieces, but the bastard just keeps breathing like he's got some kinda score to settle."

Story of his life, probably. Gabi could have cried, but she managed not to. "Dawes?"

"Dead." Workman looked up at Lawford, and he didn't argue this time. "I had to leave her there, because she was already dead." With a sob, Workman covered his head with both arms and put his forehead on his knees. "I'm so sorry I had to leave her."

Gabi knelt next to him, put a hand on his sooty uniform. He didn't react, and she looked up at Lawford as he knelt. She didn't know what to say, because it wasn't okay. It wasn't going to be for a long time, if it ever was. "I know you tried…" she said softly, and let her hand rub down then back up his back. "I know you tried."

Lawford swiped at his forehead, knelt down next to them, planting his fists on the floor. Instead of looking at Workman, he watched Gabi. "This is the first time I've heard Ben talk since before the call to abandon ship."

Gabi imagined she'd be a mess if she had to, say, leave Sam's body on a ship she was abandoning because she had to save someone else. Yep, even thinking about that hurt. She smudged the few tears from her eyes. "It's been a rough couple of days."

"I thought for sure we'd bought it," Lawford mumbled. "What the hell are you guys even doing here?"

"Rescuing you guys, of course."

"Right, I got that, but how did anybody know there was anything to rescue?"

At his quizzical look, she forced a chuckle and patted Ben's back. "It's a really long story. Maybe three and a half years long." In the scheme of things, not that long. Felt like forever.

Workman might have been fourteen back then.

"Well, whatever the reason…" Lawford let himself down on the floor to sit beside Workman. "I'm glad."

She sighed and sat next to him. "Do you know what happened to Taurik?"

Lawford shook his head, and Workman hiccupped. "They beamed him directly to Sickbay for surgery prep," Workman said. "They didn't know if he was gonna make it. He's gotta have a hundred broken bones and—" He paused to cover his right eye with his hand. "He's gonna need a whole new skin and eye…"

Lawford gagged. "Can you stop? God."

Workman slumped until he was practically lying on the floor.

Gabi sighed. "I was too late to see him."

"Nah…" Lawford sighed. "Not that arrogant son of a bitch."

"I hope you're right."

#

Are you considering it?

Taurik stood in the vast blue expanse, gold veins stable across the sky right where he'd fixed them in place. He was imagining Vorik's voice, because he always imagined Vorik's voice. Despite not having heard it in three years, he'd developed a good enough imagination to hear him. Or to hear what he'd said once. To hear what he'd heard once. Considering?

He was imagining Vorik's presence, seeping in through the cracks in the sky and raining on this expansive and invisible floor. The dust where Taurik stood was once where he was. Vorik, the Vorik of his mind, the pieces that remained, was here, too.

Leaving, he answered. Are you considering leaving?

Taurik looked around at the blue of his mind, and the black beyond. I never intended to stay.

Vorik sighed, as though disappointed. It is logical to stay. There are eight other individuals in our family who are affected by your choices.

Taurik didn't know why the declaration made him angry. Perhaps, because, he knew it was right. Or, perhaps, because Vorik didn't know there were eight. Their parents, two brothers, two sisters, Saalle, and little Vorik. Named for him, but never to meet him. Taurik could not consider leaving now. I did not follow you. I should have. I stayed on the Enterprise. It was a stupid choice.

You might have been swept away if you had, Vorik said.

Speculation is illogical. With a silent sob, invisible tears, he wrenched the anger free from his chest. We should have stayed on Vulcan. Even that was speculation. It was illogical, and he knew it. Vorik knew it, or whatever was left of him.

Vorik was too intuitive to give that unexamined thought any attention. Instead, he took a step closer, held open his hand between them. Take my hand.

Taurik wasn't sure how that was supposed to work, and didn't take Vorik's hand. The sky flashed. I may accept the invitation posthumously…

Vorik smiled. It was brief, such that he might have missed it. He wondered if that were possible, since this Vorik was an invention. Taurik had not seen that expression from him in years, not even here. Not even here, where their emotions mingled and flittered like birds or butterflies, like scorpions or le-matya. Your sense of scale is inhibiting your composure.

My sense of scale is appropriate. I have been alone for one thousand three hundred and thirty six days. Or had he? Had Vorik's katra found him like Gabi guessed? Or was this just the echo of a sense he once possessed, the reflection of a feeling on past waters? I have missed you.

And I, you.

Where have you been?

I have been. Safe. Content.

And so, now, was Taurik. This might have been the peace he was looking for.

Am I dead? Taurik put his head on Vorik's shoulder. When he found him somehow solid, somehow real, he grabbed Vorik's sleeves with both of his hands. I am dead. He didn't know if that was relief or grief he felt.

No. You seem to have recovered.

Taurik looked around at the colors of himself and of Vorik. Too bright to be dying. Too saturated to be lifeless.

Vorik seemed to watch him for a very long time, perhaps both of them waiting for the moment Taurik left the threshold of death. Recovered enough. He sighed. Still not sure if it was relief or grief. I'm not dying.

Vorik nodded. May I guide you in a meditation?

Taurik looked back to Vorik, his form less solid and clear than it had been just a moment before.

Hanging his head, he nodded. Vorik joined him on the floor. The stars whirled in a sparkling sandstorm of diamonds, calmed at Vorik's recitation of pictures of serene winds gently moving the arms of an expanding galaxy. I cannot join you.

And I cannot join you.

Vorik looked at him when Taurik laid hold of what remained of his sleeve, the color and texture of robes he used to wear. Taurik wasn't sure when, and he tried to remember. Please, don't go.

Vorik turned his hand to rest on Taurik's wrist, as if to comfort a small child. As if the request did not even bear asking. As if… the result was foregone. It's logical to stay.

In a blink, Vorik disappeared, and so did the blue of his mind.

Now, it was dark, edged in soft red and orange, with a gentle and dull roar consuming everything. Taurik was lying on his back, and he might have thought he was dead except that Vorik had told him he wasn't. He had no frame of reference to know whether this was what death was like, and it didn't seem strange to think it might have been washed in these calming colors.

Equally likely, it might have been blue. It might have been gold.

That steady thrum wasn't quite continuous, but beat like the heart of a beast. A warp core. Something warm and flexible was covering his chest. Something was blinking just beyond his periphery and to his left. Something heavy was resting on his arm. He could hear the breathing of five…? No, seven others in close proximity. In the same room. Most convincingly, an ache creeped into his mind from his arms, his chest, his neck, his eye. He wasn't sure why a lack of pain in his legs should have been convincing, as well, but it was.

Because a doctor—a doctor he'd never met before… Doctor Bashir. Doctor Bashir had spoken to him after surgery. He'd been severely injured, but surgery had gone as well as could be expected.

Among other things, everything, his spinal column and cord had been damaged. Recovery was possible, but indefinite medical leave was more accurate than bounded speculation for a timeframe.

Taurik wasn't sure why he'd invent such a scenario. He hadn't exactly been cognizant that spinal cord injury remained difficult or impossible to repair in modernity, though he wasn't surprised by that, either. Being unable to walk without difficulty was not among his desired outcomes, but returning to the Ramsar for duty for at least a time was an agreeable proposition.

Yes, he would certainly not be returning to the Ramsar for duty. The Ramsar was gone.

Taurik carefully investigated his sensations, assigning meaning to them from his memory as he went. He had a headache, which seemed reasonable. Doctor Bashir said he'd suffered a severe concussion, like almost everyone on the Ramsar had. He picked up the headache, put it in a small box, and put it on a shelf. It was small enough that he could ignore it without difficulty.

A strange ache bloomed behind his right eye, and he realized vision from that same eye was indistinct, like looking through a thin sheet of gauze. Doctor Bashir said he'd replaced it. He wrapped up the pain and concern that he no longer knew exactly what his eye looked like, tied it up, and put it on top of the box on the shelf. That, too, was small. He ignored it.

He continued down his body. The pain in his neck was easily ignorable, and entirely muscular. The doctor had merely repaired that. His right arm, however, had an array of tight and aching muscles that Doctor Bashir had informed him were new. They would require time and exercise to attain the strength and elasticity to which he was accustomed. His chest was covered with a sheet, and something rested on his left arm. His lungs were sore from smoke and debris, but they'd been cleaned. His back was uncomfortable. All of those things, wrapped up or put in boxes he could close, were manageable.

His lowest three lumbar vertebrae had been crushed, and his spinal cord damaged. Beyond them, he felt no pain. Only a disorienting lack of awareness.

He returned to an awareness he could touch, possibly ignore. He lifted his right hand with a surprising difficulty, found he could only pull his arm across his chest utilizing weak fingers, to find whatever was restraining his left arm.

He reached an object, round and covered with hair. It lifted from his arm.

"Hey." The whisper did less to assure him he wasn't hallucinating than he thought it should. "Hey, it's good to see you."

Only then did he realize he hadn't moved his head. He turned to look at Gabi, sitting next to the bed he laid on, both of her hands gripping his arm where her head had been resting.

"How are you?" she asked.

"I…" His throat felt raw, twinged with a distant pain. "I am alive." At least, that still seemed most likely. The injuries he was currently healing from seemed relatively consistent with those he remembered having received. "I admit… that is surprising."

 Her grip on his arm tightened briefly. "That'll teach you to underestimate me."

He watched her, trying to figure what she might have meant. He might have underestimated her at one time, but it had been years. His assessment of her abilities was usually quite accurate… He looked back at the ceiling for a moment before looking to her. "This is not… the Enterprise." No, the Enterprise had been destroyed. So had the Ramsar. He wasn't sure which ship he'd been on most recently.

"No," she said. "This is the Defiant."

He didn't recall having ever been on the Defiant. "I see," he said, though he didn't. He wasn't sure why he'd lied.

"The Ramsar was destroyed in combat with Cardassians and Jem'Hadar. Your escape pod landed on Aschelon V three days ago."

Three days. "I remember." That was, perhaps, a generous characterization. He remembered a painful haze of black and green and brown. Sometimes there was fire, outside and in, but it let him meditate. He remembered a sandstorm constantly kicking up in the time of his mind, perpetually-present hands resting on his shoulder. He turned his gaze back to Gabi. They were her hands. "You were there?"

She shook her head. "No. I wasn't."

He thought for sure she was. "I spoke to you."

"You did speak to me, sort of, but I wasn't there. Not really. We're telepathically Bonded or something." She shifted to lean more heavily on her elbows next to his arm. "So, I guess, I was kind of there. But not really. I was running around like crazy out here trying to get to you."

"Bonded…" Yes, he remembered that. He folded the shame in on itself that he couldn't reach Saalle like he had Gabi, but he wasn't sure Saalle could have done what Gabi did. He was sure she wouldn't have. Saalle was logical and measured and perfect…

Gabi was emotional and haphazard and broken. Gabi was like him.

Somehow, she'd seen it before he had, and he'd tied their souls together without understanding what that meant. "I would… waste no effort to bring you back," he whispered, remembering what he'd told her then. He assumed she'd done the same now.

They'd died, but somehow lived anyway.

She breathed. It was almost a laugh, but it wasn't. "Right. Death is the end of a journey.  The trick is just being able to recognize it, apparently. Hindsight, maybe." She'd once said something about that, too.

"I couldn't see everything coming made it mean something," he said, and she looked shocked.

"Exactly."

It made sense she should agree. She was the one that had said it. Saying nothing, he settled back against his pillow to look at the ceiling.

"It's not the logical response," he said. "But I don't know what the logical response is."

"If you don't know, I sure as hell don't know."

A realization he couldn't hold fluttered on the outside edge of his periphery. He could hear it, like a lyre, or see it like a light from another room, but didn't know what it was. He suspected he could see it when his eye was working again. Grab it when his arm was in better condition. He took a deep breath, gratified to feel his lungs fill completely and without pain.

Gabi tapped his arm softly. "Do you need anything?"

"No." He didn't even think.

He wondered if he should have needed something. Something he couldn’t have. He was missing something that was once a part of him… but he wasn't sure it was lost. Not completely. He still couldn't see, but he wondered if Gabi was right.

Everything coming made it mean something.

He had everything he needed.

#

"We can take overland transport, or we can walk from the transporter to your house…" Gabi studied the map she'd downloaded to her PADD, and then looked at him. "It's under two kilometers."

His gaze shifted slowly in her direction. "I will not be walking. It is your decision."

She didn't know which of them was more hurt by the fact that he wasn't walking and even his sentences were contracted. He read a lot. Sometimes about osmotic eels. "You'll still be there," she muttered, though she knew that was unfair.

Nothing about this was particularly fair.

"If you intend to ask whether I prefer a twenty-minute excursion to a three-minute one..." He hesitated, his eyes searching his PADD. "I have sufficient leave time to complete the journey in either case."

She frowned, turned toward him. "No need to be sarcastic."

"It was hyperbole." He paused again, and distinctly looked away from her and out the window. "We will eventually arrive at our destination. To delay the reunion will make it no less… painful."

"Don't you… want to see Saalle?"

"I would never be separated from her if it were my choice," he said, and looked at her immediately to reinforce his apparently strong desire to be home. "I do not wish to concern or inconvenience her."

"Oh." She looked at his boots, new but starting to scuff on the toes. He was more frustrated by his slow physical recovery than she was worried—which was saying something. "Well, I think everybody's concerned about something right now. That it's you just takes up some of the space. And I'm sure she'd rather be inconvenienced than not have you at all. I know I would."

Taurik nodded, seeming resigned. "Yes. It was an illogical speculation."

When he was silent for a while, not explaining even though it seemed like he might, she offered, "You're doing better, though."

"Yes. There are times I can stand for minutes at a time."

If he were Human, he would have sounded bitter. He couldn't walk, and it was hard for her to make that sound anything other than crummy. "We'll walk," she hurried to cut off any other depressing thing he had in mind to say. "I could use the fresh air. And I've never been on Earth, so it'll be nice to see the countryside."

Taurik looked at her again, this time eyebrows raised in either surprise or interest. "You've never been to Earth?"

"Nope. Well, not on the planet. Probably should've made a trip when I was on Mars, but…" She sighed and admitted, "My sister lived on Earth then, and she didn't want to have anything to do with me. I was much more likely to accidentally run into her if we were on the same planet."

Taurik stared at her, blinked once before going back to his PADD. "That may be the most illogical thing you’ve ever said."

"Really? Of all the things?" Gabi tapped his shoulder with hers. "I'm right, though."

"Yes. However… planets are large, and Earth's population numbers in the billions." He looked at his PADD, and it was only obvious after a few seconds that he wasn't reading. "I should have guessed the reason. I apologize."

"Don't."

Taurik nodded, but said nothing.

Gabi sighed, leaned her head back to look up at the ceiling. "I just want to… live. I know it doesn't matter, but I think that was all she wanted for me. She was hurt I left her, and… I get it. I just think if I could find someone that thought I was important like she did, I'd be happy. Someone who wants me to stick around." With a scoff, she added, "Seems kinda ironic now…"

"With time and experience comes perspective." Taurik leaned back and adjusted his position, manually lifting first one leg and then the other to lean against one another in a slightly different way. He did it less now, and she wasn't sure it was a good sign. He couldn't feel anything in his legs a few weeks ago, but extensive and repeated surgeries had changed some of that. Did that mean he was in less pain? Or more? Was that good?

It would just be good to get home.

"And are you?" he asked, brushing off his spotless trouser leg. "Are you happy?"

She squinted at him, surprised for the question. "I guess. I could be a lot worse. Are you?"

He looked ahead, and seemed to seriously consider the question, even though there was an obvious Vulcan answer waiting to be said. For a whole second. "It would certainly seem ungrateful if I were to complain about my health at this time. I anticipate seeing my wife, and… I am pleased that you will meet my son." He glanced at her.

Gabi smiled. He'd decided to answer the question he'd asked her instead. "Yeah. I'm happy. I'd be a lot happier if you would answer a goddamn question every now and again, though."

"The number of questions required for both my physical and mental health screenings seem to be more than necessary." He picked his PADD up again. "I am neither happy nor unhappy."

And, hopefully, he'd meant that to be understood in a completely Vulcan way. "That's fair…"

The transport ship landed just outside the Academy, and Gabi wondered if Taurik would show her all his and Vorik's old haunts. When he seriously considered it, she was a little concerned: after all, his family was just a transporter away. Eventually, he declined, though said they should visit another day.

They crossed the historical red bridge to the intra-planet transporter—she was always amazed at these things. They could have been beamed directly to Taurik's living room with the exact coordinates, of course, but transporting from pad to pad was simply safer. And with tens of billions of transports happening every day, even tiny percentages mattered.

The small community in Death Valley was mostly populated by Vulcans, finding the average temperatures and humidity there nicer than those most other places on the planet. The architecture reminded her very much of their home planet, and the colors of the houses blended in with the rocky backdrop and washed out sky. On the way, Taurik told Gabi they'd considered this home and one in Syria, but Taurik had preferred the landscape here. There was a canyon an hour away by train he said was excellent for climbing.

She hoped he would be able to do that soon, but said nothing to that effect. She would be climbing alone, but she hated climbing alone now.

Gabi recognized the house despite never having seen it. Atop a hill, nestled back against a red rock and surrounded by a low rock wall, was a beautiful house a brighter, whiter color than the backdrop. Round windows looked out on the desert, the saguaros, and prickly pears; and Saalle knelt in the garden, an infant Gabi couldn't see tied to her back. She glowed in the sun and moved like the breeze.

When Saalle noticed their approach, she stopped her work and came to meet them at the gate.

"Hi, Saalle!" Gabi called, even though it felt irreverent or something to yell in a Vulcan neighborhood.

They could get over it.

Maybe it was disrespectful to yell, because she didn't say anything.

"Nuh'mau-pan, ashal-adun'a," Taurik said softly as they approached.

Saalle went through the gate, where she waited. Gabi had forgotten their hearing was good enough to have a normal conversation without yelling at this distance.

"Peace and long life, Miss Dixson," Saalle said, raising her hand when they were close enough. "You are always a welcome and honored guest in my home."

Gabi blushed, immediately casting her gaze away even though Saalle would surely think her response was ridiculous. "Thanks," she said anyway. It seemed the most polite. Gabi had saved her husband's life. Welcoming her to her home might have seemed, from her perspective, like the least she could do.

They hadn't yet arrived at the gate when Taurik spoke again. "Gabi, you may stop here."

"Here?" Gabi looked the near three meters between them and the gate. "Are you sure?"

"For the moment," he said, and looked up at her. "My physical therapy requires that I at least attempt to walk three times a day."

"I guess you do have somewhere to go…" Gabi put a pause on the assisted chair and watched and waited, feeling like a coiled spring ready to catch him if he fell.

 Saalle watched, silent and unaffected, from her side of the wall as Taurik pressed up to his feet. If either of them were feeling at all what she was, they didn't show it. Using a cane and the wall, he staggered toward the gate one step at a time until he stood directly in front of his wife.

"Nuh'mau-ir," Taurik whispered, and, carefully, let go of the wall to raise his hand to her.

Saalle raised her hand, her two fingers brushing the backs of Taurik's. It was possibly the most understated motion of passion Gabi had ever seen. She could feel the heat boiling beneath the surface. "Taluhk nash-veh k'tu."

"Isha nash-veh tu-tor."

Gabi directed her attention to the nearest mountains, listened to the way the Vulcan words sounded instead of the meaning the translator fed her while they talked.

Gabi listened until they fell into a few seconds of quiet, and turned back. Saalle was staring at him like she was making up for lost time. "I am consoled to see you alive—and walking much better than your original report indicated," she added, almost as if an accusation.

"I was not exaggerating." Taurik's hand was already back on the wall, leaning heavily on the cane. "It remains to be seen if I will regain my original mobility. The motor assist units are a temporary solution."

"Doctor Devi said he's already making great progress, though." Gabi rolled the chair behind him so he could sit without having to walk back. "You might not even need the neural transducers." Then she turned her attention to Saalle. "You know, to translate the electrical impulses that stimulate the muscles in the legs, just bypassing the damaged portion of the spinal cord. So cool."

Saalle looked blankly puzzled. "Cool?"

Yeah, probably the wrong word…

As Taurik sat, rearranging his knees and feet on the chair's rests, he sighed. "I am generally capable of transferring myself from one chair to another, but the concentration and effort required is sometimes… prohibitive."

"Then we should go inside." Saalle turned back to open the gate to allow them entrance.

Gabi followed the quietly whirring chair into the house, where the smell of spices and fresh vegetables pulled her in and soft white walls embraced her.

It looked nothing like she imagined Taurik's house would… except for the low table, a plain black meditation lamp next to a framed photograph… It wasn't Vorik's service ID portrait, though. It was Taurik and Vorik, engaged in a game of kal-toh. The holoimage moved, Vorik placing one of the pieces as Taurik tilted his head in that mildly amused and confused way.

The rest of the house was decorated with beautiful vases and flowers, artistic sconces for the lights, and colorful tiles on the walls of the kitchen. The back wall was entirely windows, looking out over the desert landscape. Gabi didn't like planets, but she was sure she could get used to living somewhere like this.

Well. It was a little warm, actually.

Once inside the house, Taurik stood and shuffled through the house, using the wall and his cane to get to what Gabi would have called the living room, to a frame of cushions and plush pillows like a couch on the floor. Saalle helped him sit there, and knelt beside him to ask if she could get him anything. He asked for the baby.

Tears sprang to Gabi's eyes, which seemed even more irreverent in the house of a Vulcan like Saalle. She turned to pretend to look at the rest of the house to brush them away before looking back.

The baby sat on his lap, blinking up and around as if reorienting himself to a world he'd left for a while. Taurik said hello to him, and the baby reached for his face.

Gabi couldn't help but smile. This was the best possible outcome she was afraid to ask for just a few weeks ago.

Saalle returned to Gabi after a few minutes seeing to her husband, though she still watched him with careful concern.

"He loves you very much, you know," Gabi whispered, and Saalle glanced at her. "You and the little guy."

To her surprise, Saalle didn't look scandalized at all. "I do."

Gabi held out her hands to Saalle. "Can I hug you?"

"I—?" Saalle looked back at Taurik, obviously confused, but Taurik was too busy with the baby. "Very well." Saalle seemed to brace herself, stand straighter. "If you must."

"Humans don't have telepathic bonds, so we have to do something else." At least, well… most Humans didn't.

It was awkward—but no more awkward than any other hug she'd inflicted on a Vulcan in her lifetime. Despite the external awkwardness, she knew she'd at least succeeded with Taurik. Not in a real way, but maybe in the most-real way. Maybe that baby balanced against Taurik's chest. Maybe it would be easier to teach a Vulcan puppy Human tricks.

Once Gabi stepped away, Taurik glanced at her. "Gabi. Do you wish to meet my son?"

She wasn't sure why she was so eager. One-year-olds weren't exactly the most interesting creatures on the planet—and certainly not on multiple. But Taurik was her best friend, so of course… of course, she wanted to meet that little bundle of "baffling illogic," as Taurik once called him.

"Yeah, I do," she said, and crossed the room to kneel beside what she assumed was a Vulcan couch.

"Vorik?" Taurik held the small hand in his fingers, and the baby looked at him expectantly. "This is Gabi. She is a petty officer in Starfleet. And your godmother." He hesitated, then looked at Gabi. "Assuming that is agreeable to you."

Once again, she had no idea what to say—almost cried, but that was apparently harder to do in this house. "What?" She glanced at Saalle, who didn't seem surprised. She even nodded, like this was something they'd discussed. "Yeah, sure, of course." Even though it felt incredibly silly, she looked at the baby, smiled when his huge brown eyes focused on hers. "Nice to meet you—I mean… I mean, live long and prosper, little guy."

Taurik looked at the child, and he crawled up his chest and slapped one hand clumsily on his cheek.

"Would you care to join me in preparing supper?" Saalle asked.

"Oh. Sure, I'd love to." Gabi had never seen so many vegetables—she assumed they'd been grown out of the ground in the garden outside instead of replicated. At least some of them.

Saalle set her to work with a knife, ensuring she knew how to slice with adequate dexterity. "Will you require animal protein for your meal? I could replicate some," Saalle offered, standing beside her.

Gabi glanced back at the replicator in the wall before looking back at Saalle. "Oh. No. I don't think so, thanks. What are we making?"

"A garden soup." Saalle looked at Gabi, she thought, slyly. "I have obtained genuine T'Ha'ge cactus paddles and flowers from Vulcan. I believe he will not anticipate their inclusion." She slid two large, leathery leaves onto the cutting surface in front of her.

Gabi couldn't help but grin as she went back to chopping what had to be plain, old Earth zucchini. She still loved that a "surprise" may have been as much a Vulcan tradition as it was a Human one. "I didn't know Vulcans had godparents," she offered.

"En'ahr'at is essentially a nominal position in these times," Saalle said. "Though… it is the reality that we live in a dangerous galaxy, now more than previously. Perhaps it is more practical than honorary now." She glanced up toward the couch, and Gabi did, too.

Taurik had laid down on the couch, apparently sleeping even though he'd only been left to the quiet for minutes. Gabi sighed. Finally comfortable. Finally safe.

The baby sat between Taurik and the couch back, investigating an icosahedron with depressions for buttons. Every now and again, he would pat Taurik as if assuring himself he was still there.

"I originally received a message from a Starfleet admiral to tell me that he'd been lost," she added, going back to the cactus, and sighed. "For three days, he was lost."

Gabi hesitated, watched Saalle. She was used to Taurik's unique brand of emotional instability… Saalle didn't seem to share it. She was still and expressionless, even when speaking about what she'd known as Taurik's death for three days.

Gabi had hoped for that time he was still holding on, and she'd been losing her mind with near-panic and the overwhelming pressure that the more time she took, the less likely it was she'd succeed. "I… I was so focused on trying to get him back," she said apologetically. "I should have sent you a message."

"It makes no difference," she said. "I consider your efforts in returning him to me a gift."

"A gift." Gabi chuckled, shook her head. "He saved my life once. It's only fair."

Saalle nodded, as though that made just as much sense to her. "He told me."

"He said you might find it… uncomfortable. Our relationship, I mean."

She shook her head, almost immediately, glancing at her once as she did. If she'd been anyone else, Gabi wondered if she would have been smiling. "You are important to him. I regret he thought I would judge him harshly for his response to Vorik's death, but… it seems his misunderstanding has saved his life. And yours."

Gabi had never thought of it that way, and wondered if Taurik ever had. Better not to ask. She changed the subject to geology, specifically the honeycomb holes in the Osana Caverns and whether she though Underliers had made them.

Saalle didn't think Underliers existed, though she had many interesting folk tales about similar formations across Vulcan that were the result of water movement and the compression of the constituent minerals. While she talked, she cut up Vulcan cactus and crushed Vulcan herbs and spices. Only a few of the vegetables—zucchini and kale—originated from Earth.

Saalle woke Taurik to eat, and he apparently had the correct response to the cactus paddles and flowers the floated in the broth. The meal was subdued—Taurik obviously accustomed to talking like most of the Humans in Starfleet did, and Saalle apparently used to more reflective mealtimes that were common on Vulcan. At least, that was what Gabi had read.

She really needed to visit more planets.

Gabi told Saalle the story of the hoops she'd jumped through and the favors she'd given and called. Even though she'd been told it wasn't really a Vulcan thing, Saalle thanked her again for rescuing Taurik. They moved out to the patio and talked about more and more mundane topics as time went on, like Saalle's garden, the weather, and her walking routes for errands, until it was time for little Vorik to be bathed and put to bed.

Saalle excused herself, leaving Taurik and Gabi to the still desert night.

It had become dark, and the stars were out while the moon was somewhere else. Gabi laid down on the cobbled patio, cradling her head in her palms, to watch them. The stars back on El Nath didn't shine this clearly—not that she'd spent too much time looking at them. She would never have thought of the stars back there, could have had no idea she'd one day consider them home.

This was pretty nice, though, for a planet.

"What are you doing?" Taurik asked, leaning in his chair slightly to see her more clearly.

She waved at the sky. "Just looking."

Taurik turned his face up toward the stars. "Did you not consider simply looking up?"

"This is more comfortable," she said. "Not that I want to sleep here or anything."

Taurik gazed at the stars for a moment before looking at the patio again. With cautious movement, he let himself down to the ground and laid on his back, folding his hands on his chest.

Gabi couldn't think of any words to properly express her surprise, so she didn't say anything. Turned her eyes back to the stars and the shapes they made. She didn't know any of their names. "Can you see 40 Eridani from here?"

"Yes," he said, and immediately followed with, "How do you find Earth?"

Gabi supposed he was allowed to change the subject if he wanted. She never thought of the home of her ancestors as some place she needed to visit… she wasn't even sure the star could have been seen from her hemisphere on El Nath. Anyway, now that she'd been here, she was glad she had been. All she needed now was to find a ladybug in the wild.

"It's nice. Kinda like any other planet. Glad I've finally gotten around to seeing it in person, though." She leaned her head back to look at him. "How about you? Do you like living here?"

"The proximity to various Starfleet and Federation agencies is convenient. The landscape and climate are both agreeable. Humans are… uncommonly accepting and cooperative. At least, in my experience."

Long way around to saying he liked it. She smiled. "I'm glad."

They fell into silence again, and Gabi closed her eyes. She didn't realize she was in danger of falling asleep, even though the ground wasn't exactly comfortable. She was just about to excuse herself when Taurik spoke again.

"It occurs to me… very few things would have to change for us both to be dead. Very few things… perhaps only one thing."

Gabi opened her eyes, suddenly awake. "Sounds speculative," she warned. "And morbid. And I'm not sure why I have to be dead in this scenario."

"It is speculative," he agreed, and hesitated. "Had my brother not died, I doubt I would have melded with you after Veridian III. You would not have survived," he said after a time. "Vorik likely would have requested assignment to the Ramsar with me after my reassignment from the Enterprise, as we agreed. Given Starfleet's propensity to grant joint assignments to twins, we would have been there together. At least I would be dead… and there would be no rescue."

Gabi tilted her head back to look at him watching the sky. She'd already followed this train of thought, more than once. Vorik had died, and she got to live because of it. Now, maybe even Taurik got to live, too. "Seems… random," she said, and hoped he understood what she'd meant by that.

"It is."

She wanted to say she was glad she got to live, but that seemed insensitive. She liked to think she wouldn't trade an absolute stranger's life for hers, but she knew better.

But it didn't matter what she would have chosen. She could not choose. None of them could. But, she was willing to bet, if Vorik could have chosen, he would have chosen to save his brother even if it meant he would die. Taurik would have, anyway, so… He probably should come to that conclusion on his own, too…

But no one could choose, in the end. So instead, she said, "Sometimes it turns out the universe prepared us for what we never saw coming."

He was quiet for a long time, long enough for her to wonder if that had been the exact wrong thing to say. When he did speak, he said, "I resent the implication something chose Vorik's death in exchange for saved lives…"

"No, I mean…" She shook her head. "Our synapses are constantly changing our brains, adapting to new situations and sometimes seeing dogs in rainclouds. Not because the dog is there, but because we are. It seems… less random."

He hesitated, and sighed, too. "It seems less… meaningless."

With a contented sigh, Gabi crossed her ankles, expecting to be here for a very long time. Maybe even fall asleep. She closed her eyes. It was still random. Illogical. And it didn't make sense. But maybe the universe really did have a way of making it make sense anyway.