Cadere a' gratia, Part Three

Posted on Sun May 15th, 2022 @ 11:58am by Lieutenant Commander P’rel M.D

Mission: Character Development
Location: London, Earth. P'rel's apartment.
Timeline: 2373.
1912 words - 3.8 OF Standard Post Measure

"Are you certain?" the Bajoran man asked in a hushed voice, so quietly that were his companion not Vulcan then only the full drink in front would have been able to hear him. The drink had not been touched for several hours, since the man sat down at the table with a view of the bar and the only entrance to the small establishment.

"Quite certain" replied his Vulcan companion, in a still muted tone though far more audible. "Your behaviours are conveying that you are trying to keep this conversation discreet, which is paradoxical considering that you wish to keep this conversation discreet" continued the Vulcan, his voice level and calm.

"What?" his confused drinking partner replied.

"Act natural" came the cool explanation. Though irritation would be too strong a term, the Vulcan man certainly found that dealing with other species in sensitive matters could be...problematic. In desperately trying to be discreet, the Bajoran recruiter was only drawing attention to himself.

"This is a big risk. She's working within intelligence." The Bajoran said, as though he were trying to talk them both out of what was coming despite the same conversation having been had several times already.

"As you are fond of recalling archaic and anachronistic scripture to justify your actions, I shall remind you of the 62nd Ferengi rule of acquisition - "The riskier the road, the greater the profit". The Vulcan was stoically making a barb at the man's illogical and unfounded devotion to supreme beings and the millennia of ancient documents which had been translated, re-translated, and widely interpreted which underpinned the devotion.

Picking up on the insult, the Bajoran quipped back - "Rule 68; risk doesn't always equal reward".

Looking to the woman who just entered the bar, the Vulcan rose and approached her. They greeted each other in the traditional Vulcan salute before the man bowed. P’rel noted that it was an odd experience to be looking at herself through another’s eyes. “Dr P’rel” the Vulcan said whilst gesturing to the table with the Bajoran. He exited the bar into the London street, a rare example of the ancient city still in tact with stone building and cobbled streets. His eyes rolled back, the street disappeared, a new room came into view blending together like a watercolour dropped into water and dissolving. The corridor outside her apartment. P’rel adjusted her fingertips slightly on the older Vulcans face, having to concentrate now to proceed into the much more recent memory…

As if waking from a dream, the new setting came into focus; a Starfleet facility of some sort as denoted by the storage containers and lettering on the floor and walls. A storage area, or a loading dock or some kind. Through the elder Vulcan's eyes she saw the Bajoran approaching again, wearing a gold Starfleet uniform. He was a Petty Officer, and with his rolled up sleeves was presumably in some kind of manual operations work. He looked cleaner and more well rested than the prior engagement in the bar. "She agreed" the Bajoran informed the Vulcan. "Medical supplies. Nothing else."

Both P'rel and the Vulcan in her grip spoke aloud, with the latter speaking directly to the memory playing before their eyes; "The outcome was a logical conclusion. Doctor P'rel is dissatisfied with much of current policy towards us, and as a doctor is inclined to help those under attack."

"Under attack!" the Bajoran practically spat incredulously. The Jem'Hadar have all but exterminated us. The Maquis are on the brink of total collapse" he finished by actually spitting on the floor, "Cardassian scum!". Appearing to calm down a little, the Bajoran held a PADD out to the Vulcan who took it. "Loading details. She needs to have those supplies ready and waiting at precisely those coordinates at exactly that moment, the transport beam will grab whatever is there."

"I shall inform her..." he replied. His eyes rolled back once again, and the scene blearily morphed into the even more familiar and recent memory of the lounge in P'rel's apartment. He was trying to withhold something, a thought perhaps, a feeling even; something she wasn't supposed to know. Adjusting her fingertips on the older man's face once again, she focused deeply, burrowing into his mind. Distant and muffled sounds came into focus and she was aware that she was hearing her own voice through his memory as she looked at herself walking into the room with a small pot of a Vulcan tea. Watching herself set it down and gesture to the man to help himself, she spoke aloud in synchronous repetition with the older man at the end of her fingers. "They are expecting your delivery" he said, handing P'rel a civilian data device with the necessary information. He noted she did not take it, and instead set it on the low beverage table between the pair; both perched politely and rigidly on the edge of their respective seats.

The old man considered the young woman; she was traditionally beautiful to be sure, and yet her mannerisms irked him. She was openly a V'tosh follower, and combined emotions and logic into a singular hybrid strength - as they saw it - and though to many she would simply appear to typical Vulcan; stoic, expressionless - to the eyes of a fellow Vulcan she was wildly uncontrolled. Her posture though firm was not quite so, her face though equally firm was calm; itself an emotional display. He had never knowingly come across a V'Tosh follower before, though if P'rel's outward displays were anything to go by then he suspected he would have known. Having poured some tea for herself, she spoke whilst he politely mirrored her taking of the offered beverage. "The logical conclusion is that I will instead turn you over to Starfleet Security, rather than supply the Maquis with medical resources. The Maquis are, after all, a proscribed terrorist group. Would you not agree?"

Considering his words carefully, the old Vulcan began with a thoughtful "No...", before taking a breath in preparation for his coming exposition of his logic. "You have been observed for quite some time now Doctor, it is clear to anyone you oppose Federation policy on a great many things, and Starfleet operations in particular. You believe that the problems within the Alpha and Beta Quadrants are the product of Starfleet violating it's tenets and interfering where it should not have." He eyed the younger woman as his words landed. "You believe a galactic turning point was, as you have referred to it, Starfleet's invasion of the Gamma Quadrant; though you dare not make that view overly public knowledge..." he trailed his voice to see if there was a reaction. The woman in front of him gave none but the slightest brow twitch. "You believe Starfleet had no business establishing colonies and sending exploration vessels into the Gamma Quadrant, that doing so clearly violated the sovereign space of the Dominion...in fact, you believed at the time of the destruction of the starship Odyssey that Starfleet would take the 'bloody nose' and stay in the Alpha Quadrant."

"But it didn't" she finally replied. "They instead sent in the most heavily armed warship Starfleet had available to them, fitted it with a cloaking device, and made a course right for the homeward of the Dominion's leaders."

"And in doing so provoked the situation we now find ourselves in." He finished for her. "I agree with your logic, Doctor P'rel" he offered. "Starfleet are the aggressors here, not the Dominion." He took a sip of tea. "And what does your logic tell you, of what happened next?"

Shifting in her seat slightly, the woman cocked her head curiously.

"Consider what begun to happen. Starships disappearing close to the wormhole in the Gamma Quadrant, and then Starfleet took a conveniently neutral stance during the Romulan-Cardassian invasion of the Dominion, did it not. Hardly the moral bastions of the civilised galaxy."

"Starfleet has a philosophy of non-interference" stated P'rel, though the old man perceived her to just be playing what humans called 'devils advocate'.

"When it suits" he replied. "Soon after a fleet full of cloaking devices was destroyed by the Dominion, ships then began disappearing on this side of the wormhole. Particularly in the badlands." He held his hand up to silence the coming interruption before it had manifested. "I can assure you, that the Maquis have not the capability nor the will to do such a thing. Consider this; within a short time frame two state of the art brand new Starfleet vessels disappeared in the badlands without so much as a hull fragment left behind. Logic suggests, the Dominion are operating in the alpha quadrant with a cloaking device, and that it was they who have destroyed or otherwise abducted the starships Voyager and Equinox, not to mention at least one of our own craft." He left the words hanging again, to see what her reaction would be.

"As you have indicated..." she begun, looking away for the first time, "my beliefs are that Starfleet has itself to blame. If the Voyager and the Equinox have indeed been lost to the Dominion - and I concede no other rational explanation presents itself - then I fear it is only a symptom of that which is to come."

He inwardly bristled at the appearance of a fellow Vulcan using the word "fear" in such a manner, though he didn't show his discontent. "Precisely" he answered, in a calm and measured tone. "This is why my logic tells me that you will not report me to Starfleet Security, and that you will arrange for the transfer of the supplies as requested" he concluded, returning the conversation to her original question.

"I must ask you something" P'rel spoke as she rose from her seat. "I must have your mind, lest this be in itself a trap".

Almost, but not quite, breaching his emotional suppression he could feel a deep wave on anxiety bubble up within him. He couldn't very well deny her, for she would think something was wrong and not arrange for the supplies; on the other hand he had to shield her from that which she must not know. He bowed slightly and readjusted himself to a more stable position on the seat, raising his face to grant access for her fingers. As soon as they made contact, he felt a thud reverberate through his brain as if it had been directly plugged into a plasma junction. "my mind to your mind..." she said, the words faint as a confusing jumble of images flooded his memory, or her memory, he could no longer be certain - "my thoughts to your thoughts..." he could see Vulcan, his father in a Starfleet uniform - no, not his father, hers. A Borg drone with Vulcan features. His brother? He was an only child.

He found his lips moving involuntarily, and was aware but in no control of the sounds coming from his own throat and how they were synchronised to hers "...ds are merging...our minds are one...my thoughts to your thoughts...our minds are merging....our minds are one....". His eyes rolled back, and the modern and clean apartment swirled away in a wash of dull colours, only to be replaced by the dark bar and the Bajoran recruiter "Are you certain?" his companion asked him in a hushed voice...