Star Trek: Bounty - 201 - "Something Good Happened Today"

BountyTrek · May 6, 2024

Hello.

It’s been a while(ish), but the second ‘season’ of Star Trek: Bounty is ready(ish) to get going.

We’ll be picking up immediately after the events at the end of Season One, so it might be worth refreshing your memory of some of that, if you’d like. And if you can’t be bothered reading all those badly written words, there’s a sort of ‘Previously on Star Trek: Bounty…’ post in the Story Index thread here.

As ever, I hope you enjoy reading. And if you don’t, that’s cool as well.

Star Trek: Bounty is a slightly off-kilter series set in the Trek universe that focuses on the adventures of the ragtag crew of a small civilian ship, who do what they can to get by in the Alpha Quadrant. They're not exactly Starfleet spec, but they try to keep on the right side of the moral line where they can.

The story so far:

=============================================================

Star Trek: Bounty
2.01
“Something Good Happened Today”

Prologue

“I’m so glad we’re spending more time together.”

It was a perfectly innocent statement. A positive comment on an improved sense of friendship. One that even the most argumentative Tellarite or angry Klingon couldn’t take the wrong way.

Even the Borg Collective would have no issue with it, given that spending time together was their whole thing.

And yet, for the figure on the deck of the ancient sailing ship, that one simple sentence carried with it a distinct sense of unease. Partly because there was a subtle hint of menace in the tone of the voice that had spoken. But mostly because the statement had been delivered by a raging stormcloud, nestled on the horizon. Using the voice of the figure on the deck himself.

Sunek, the lanky, scruffy-haired Vulcan pilot of the merchant ship Bounty, opened his eyes to glare at the distant storm, and sighed.

“I’m trying to meditate,” he grumbled, “Can you shut the hell up?”

The storm didn’t reply verbally this time, which was a step forward. But it did emit a slightly hurt roll of thunder, and whipped up enough of a ripple across the marble-smooth surface of the water below to cause Sunek to stumble slightly as the ship’s deck rocked back and forth.

“Hey! Cut that out as well!”

The deck slowly returned to a steady state and Sunek breathed in deeply, returning to his meditative stance. As futile as he feared it was.

In the real world, the Voroth Sea was a ferocious tumult of fierce winds and rolling waves. Tens of thousands of years ago, many stoic Vulcan crews had dispassionately gone down with their ships attempting the hazardous crossing.

But this was a different Voroth Sea. One that formed a meditation exercise taught to Vulcan children as soon as they learned to stand up, where the individual pictured serenity over the chaos, and focused on standing stock-still on the ship’s deck. At one with the elements, and with oneself. It was, even for an infant, a reassuringly simple task.

Sunek blurted out an untranslatable Romulan expletive as the deck rolled again, this time with enough force to cause him to topple over entirely.

“Sorry,” the storm boomed out, accompanied by another roll of thunder that sounded unerringly like a burst of mocking laughter, “Couldn’t resist.”

Sunek sighed again and stepped over to the wooden railing that ran around the outside of the deck, staring out at the singularly irritating weather feature in the distance.

He still wasn’t entirely sure what it was. Only that it represented a version of himself that had been planted in his mind a year ago. Back when Sokar, one of his old friends from the V’tosh ka’tur, the Vulcans Without Logic, had violently mind-melded with him.

This more angry version of him had temporarily taken over, and he had helped Sokar and his equally brainwashed followers in an attempt to launch an attack on Vulcan from a salvaged Romulan Warbird. But in the nick of time, Sunek had regained control. And whatever Sokar had implanted had retreated to the depths of his subconscious. Or, in a more literal sense, to the horizon.

“I liked it a lot better when you didn’t speak,” Sunek griped at the storm, holding onto the rail for support should any more choppy waters be sent his way.

“But I like this much more,” the storm replied, “And you and I work well together, Sunek. Or, should I say, you and you—”

“Don’t start that again.”

“—Work well together. Surely we proved that, back in Sector 374?”

Despite the balmy conditions, Sunek shuddered.

It had been nearly two months since the Bounty’s fateful encounter with the Ferengi called Grenk, when he had been forced to channel the storm inside of him. He had remained in control, but he had used a fraction of that rage to help regain control of the ship from a dozen Miradorn interlopers.

And in the process, he had killed two of them.

“Vah mau vah tor-yehat ri stau,” he muttered under his breath in his native Vulcan tongue.

“As far as possible, do not kill,” the storm translated, “The Teachings of Surak? I thought we preferred our literature a little more on the…lewd side?”

Sunek didn’t respond. But he didn’t need to say what was on his mind for his mind to know what was on it. The two dead Miradorn had been troubling him for a long time.

“Come on,” the storm continued with a slightly impatient rumble, “It says ‘as far as possible’, doesn’t it? And you know you had to do that.”

“Did I?”

“Besides,” his voice added, tacitly ignoring the question, “You’ve been involved in the odd bit of killing in self-defence before. Even if you’re just in the pilot’s seat, you’ve still been complicit.”

Sunek knew that was true. It was a dangerous galaxy after all. But the two Miradorn hadn’t physically threatened him. Killing in self-defence was one thing. This was another. And this wasn’t who he was.

He wasn’t a killer. He was a joker. A prankster. An illogical funnyman wrapped in a logical shell.

With an irritated scowl, he looked up at the storm on the horizon, dismissing the persistent worry that it seemed a little closer than it had been before Sector 374.

“Anyway, it was you that killed them, not me. And you’re not me. You’re just some creepy mental echo of whatever Sokar put inside my head.”

There was a fresh roll of amused thunder, coupled with a cheeky flash of lightning.

“Oh, Sunek,” the storm chided him, “You still haven’t got it, have you? Sokar didn’t put anything inside your mind. He just unlocked part of you that was already there. I’ve always been here…”

This shiver was the strongest one yet.

But that couldn’t be true. This wasn’t him. He was Sunek. He was a joker. And sure, he could get irritated or annoyed every now and again. Sometimes even angry. But nothing like the rage that was fermenting inside the stormcloud. That definitely wasn’t him.

“Definitely is you,” the storm replied, reminding Sunek that there were few secrets to be kept here.

“Whatever,” he grouched, “Either way, stop distracting me when I’m meditating. Otherwise I’m gonna have to start…suppressing you.”

“Suppressing me?”

“Yeah. Whatever else I am, I’m still a Vulcan. I can suppress emotions. It’s in our DNA. It’s our thing.”

“Come on, Sunek. You couldn’t suppress a belch, never mind an emotion.”

“Could too.”

“Could not.”

“Could too—!”

He punctuated this latest childish back-and-forth by slamming his fist down onto the handrail with enough force to crack the aged wood clean down the middle. He stopped himself and looked down at the damage with shock.

“Calming meditation going well then,” the storm offered knowingly.

Sunek, now as far away from de-stressing himself as ever, glared back at the storm.

“Will you ever just—”

****************************

“—Shut the hell up!”

“I beg your pardon?”

Sunek opened his eyes to see Denella, the Bounty’s Orion engineer, staring back at him across the Ju’Day-type raider’s cargo bay. Hearing his unexpected vocal outburst, she had paused in the middle of packing away a cushioned mat, her own morning meditations now complete.

“Oh,” the Vulcan awkwardly replied, “Um, nothing. Sorry.”

He stood up from his cross-legged position on the deck and stretched himself out, as Denella finished packing and slung the mat bag onto her shoulder.

“Are you ok?” she asked, with a note of worry.

Sunek studiously avoided her gaze. She was the only person he’d really opened up to about his mental struggles following Sokar’s mind melds, and her invitation for him to join her usual morning meditation was still a secret from the rest of the Bounty’s crew. But despite already having her confidence, he didn’t want to get any more serious than he already had done. He was a joker, after all.

“Yeah,” he shrugged, “Fine.”

“It’s just,” she persisted, “The last few sessions, it feels like you’ve been struggling to concentrate.”

Part of Sunek wanted to open up about the full force of the storm. About the dead Miradorn. About everything. But all of that was overridden by his more Sunek-ian side taking over.

“Just been trying a new meditation technique, is all. I picture myself inside this old Earth starship’s decon chamber with this super-hot Vulcan chick. Then, she takes all of her clothes off, and begs me to rub this special gel right onto her—”

“Not sure that counts as a meditation technique,” Denella patiently cut in.

“Meh. It relaxes me plenty. So, same universe.”

Satisfied that he had sidestepped the need for a serious discussion with a healthy dollop of cheap humour, he set off for the exit. But Denella fell into step alongside him, determined to keep pressing the Vulcan while they were still alone.

“You know, I’ve been trying some of these new Klingon meditation chants. Picked up a book on them at that Gallamite spaceport we made a drop off at last week. I could share some with you if you’re looking for something new?”

“Psh. Klingon meditation? Does that come before or after the module on Deltan manscaping in the galaxy’s shortest college degree course?”

As they entered the main corridor, the door to the Bounty’s small dining area opened and Klath, the ship’s hulking Klingon weapons chief, stepped out.

“Ah, Klath, help me win an argument here,” Denella called out, “Do you meditate?”

“No,” he grunted simply, terminating the attempt at small talk with his usual efficiency before handing Denella a small padd.

“What’s this?” she asked, tacitly ignoring the victorious grin she was getting from Sunek.

“The Bolian colony we are heading for has confirmed that we will have a window to use their cargo transporters and move the supplies from orbit. With the unloading time saved, I believe we will be able to make it to the trade fair on Gavis VI after all.”

Denella nodded in satisfaction as she checked over the flight plan on the padd. As the trio continued down the corridor, the door to the Bounty’s medical bay opened and Natasha Kinsen, the ship’s ex-Starfleet doctor, stepped out holding a padd of her own.

“So,” she began, passing the padd to Denella’s free hand, “I’ve checked over the inventory list the colony sent over, and while none of this is critical right now, there’s a bunch of medical supplies it couldn’t hurt to stock up on. Got them listed here in priority order.”

“Ok,” the Orion said, as the walking trio became a walking quartet, “I’m pretty sure we’ve got the latinum to cover all this. And more.”

“Is anyone else still finding it disturbing that we’re making a profit?” Natasha joked.

It was true that, for once, the Bounty’s crew had funds to spare. The delivery to the Bolian colony was just the latest in a succession of incident-free trips they had made since Denella had finished the extensive repairs the ship had needed following their run-in with Grenk.

The foursome made their way up the short flight of steps into the Bounty’s cockpit and took their usual positions. Denella slid behind the rear engineering console, Klath took up the right-side tactical position, while Natasha took the sensor controls to the left. And Sunek paced to the front of the room and slipped into the pilot’s position.

The cockpit, and indeed the entire ship, had been transformed since its near-destruction in Sector 374. While it was still clearly a well-worn thirty year old vessel, every trace of battle damage had been painstakingly repaired and, for once, then Bounty was as close as it got to peak efficiency.

“Right, Sunek,” Denella motioned from the rear of the room, “Let’s get moving.”

The Bounty had been parked up in orbit of an asteroid overnight while the crew slept, but the Vulcan deftly tapped his controls to power up the warp drive and break orbit. As he worked, a seemingly serene silence descended over the cockpit.

Except, as far as Sunek was concerned, it wasn’t quite so serene.

Vulcans were far from telepathic without the physical contact provided by a mind meld. But one as preoccupied with emotions as Sunek couldn’t help but pick up on the uneasy undertone in the cockpit. One that had been there ever since Sector 374.

And, frankly, after his earlier angry run-in with a talking stormcloud, it was starting to get to him.

“Stop doing that!”

The three other occupants of the cockpit all looked up from their instruments, more than a little perplexed at this latest outburst from their pilot.

“Nobody’s doing anything—?” Natasha began.

“Yes, you are,” Sunek persisted, spinning around in his chair, “You all are. You know you are. And it’s really pissing me off!”

He stared back at the sea of confused faces, all protesting their innocence.

“Ugh! Really? You’re really gonna play dumb? Fine, be like that. But I swear, if you all keep acting weird like this every time we’re in here, I’m gonna unscrew the stupid thing and throw it out the airlock myself!”

He punctuated his rant by gesturing at a specific object in the middle of the cockpit, before spinning back around with a fresh scowl and returning to his pre-flight work.

Natasha, Denella and Klath all shared a glance behind the Vulcan’s back, then looked back at the offending item he had gestured at. The one that, deep down, they all had to admit was the source of their Vulcan-irritating discomfort.

As well as life was going for them right now, that one object seemed to cast a shadow across the entire ship.

The Bounty’s centre chair. Standing palpably empty.

Will The Serious · May 6, 2024

I'm really liking this, ordinary citizen view of the Roddenberry Universe. This is where I want my own story to go, eventually. Just a crew trying to make a living, doing what the people of 3-4 hundred years in the future will do.

-Will

Robert Bruce Scott · May 6, 2024

Jirik's on walkabout and the team is making a profit and has the ship shipshape?

Somehow that is rather unsettling...

Nicely done with the angry vulcan. Thanks!! rbs

BountyTrek · May 8, 2024

Will The Serious said:
I'm really liking this, ordinary citizen view of the Roddenberry Universe. This is where I want my own story to go, eventually. Just a crew trying to make a living, doing what the people of 3-4 hundred years in the future will do.

Thanks! I thought it was important to make clear that, in between their weirder and wilder adventures, they do actually do some work.

Robert Bruce Scott said:
Jirik's on walkabout and the team is making a profit and has the ship shipshape?

Somehow that is rather unsettling...

Don’t worry, I’m sure things will become a lot more settlingly unsettled very soon. :evil:

BountyTrek · May 8, 2024

Part One

The Bounty hung serenely in orbit above the fluffy white clouds of the fourth planet in the Tranix system.

Denella stood in the cargo bay with Klath, Natasha and Sunek and watched in satisfaction as the final stack of cargo containers disappeared in the familiar shimmer of the transporter.

They weren’t exactly the most polished crew, clad in mismatched outfits from Denella’s oversized overalls, to Klath and Natasha’s plain tunics and trousers, to Sunek’s garish Hawaiian shirt. But right now, they were at least offering something adjacent to a professional front in their latest delivery.

And it seemed to be working, judging by the satisfied expression on the face of the fifth member of the group in the cargo bay.

“Ah,” the blue-skinned Bolian, a colony administrator called Pludd, nodded in satisfaction as he checked a small comms device in his hand, “Storage Coordinator Rast confirms beam-down and receipt of all cargo. Excellent work.”

Denella stepped over to Pludd and proffered a small padd of her own with a friendly smile. A smile she had practised for hours to ensure it gave the right amount of warmth without being misinterpreted as anything else. She often found that her Orion appearance had the frustrating tendency to allow other species to misconstrue any friendliness on her part.

“Glad we could help,” she replied, “And if you just sign here to accept the latinum transfer, minus the cost of the supplies we requested, then we’ll be on our way.”

The officious Pludd offered no sign that he was misinterpreting her actions, and merely offered a cheery smile of his own through well-fed cheeks as he took the padd and signed the transfer with the flourish of a long-serving administrator.

“On behalf of everyone down on Tranix colony, thank you. And it would give me a great honour if you would all join me and the colony administration team for lunch before you depart.”

Denella maintained her not-too-friendly smile, while trying to picture the precise scowl that had broken out across Klath’s face at the suggestion of a long lunch on a Bolian colony in the company of half a dozen officious administrators.

“That’s a…very generous offer,” she effortlessly lied, “But I’m afraid we’re on a very tight schedule. Still, next time you’ve got some cargo that needs moving, please bear us in mind. We’re just a subspace call away.”

Pludd nodded at this offer with continued good grace, but didn’t seem entirely ready to roll the red carpet back in just yet.

“Is there anything I can do to make you reconsider? The chefs in our staff canteen have just whipped up the most delicious Spiceroot Soufflé.”

“Hey, buddy,” Sunek suddenly piped up from the end of the line, irritation clear in his tone, “She said no, ok? Take the hint already, you stupid—”

“Sunek!” Denella barked, a little too sharply.

Her snapped response, coupled with a dark glare from Klath, was enough to shut the Vulcan up. But not before there was a clear souring of Administrator Pludd’s expression.

“Like I said,” Denella continued, doing her best to recover the situation, “We’re, um, just a subspace call away.”

“Yes,” the Bolian mused, eyeing up the rude Vulcan in the garish shirt with trepidation, “Well, we use a lot of vessels for our logistical needs. But if we need your services again, we’ll be in touch…”

On that significantly less positive note, Pludd signalled to the colony on his comms device, and was transported back down to the planet below.

Denella maintained her merely-friendly-and-nothing-more smile, to the point of nearly straining several facial muscles, until the Bolian had completely vanished, then spun around on her heels to offer Sunek an entirely smile-free expression.

“Good work. Really good work, Sunek. Keep up that level of customer retention, and you’re in line for a hell of a bonus this quarter.”

“Ah, he’ll get over it,” the Vulcan snorted back with an air of defiance, “He said he’d be in touch, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Natasha chimed in, “Sounded like the second they’ve got an old waste reclamator that needs scrubbing clean, they’ll be right onto us.”

“Well, it wasn’t just me. You should’ve seen the face Klath made when he asked us to beam down for lunch.”

“I did not—” Klath began to protest.

“You did,” Denella correctly guessed, “But at least you kept quiet, unlike our Salesperson of the Month over there.”

Growing visibly more irritated, Sunek emitted an audible scoff.

“Ok, you know what? I don’t have to stand here and listen to this—”

“You’re right, you don’t,” Denella interjected again, “In fact, you can head back up to the cockpit and set course for that trade fair on Gavis VI.”

For a second, it looked like the Bounty’s pilot was going to push things even further. But in the end, he relented. Suppressing the storm inside him a little deeper in the process.

“Fine,” he muttered, before stalking off towards the cockpit.

The other three watched him leave, none of them missing the fact that their often unpredictable pilot was behaving even more unpredictably than usual.

****************************

A short time later, the Bounty was back underway, warping towards their next appointment.

In the dining area, Denella sat at the single table, a set of padds spread out in front of her and a half-eaten plate of food to her side.

She set down the padd in her hand, detailing the potential list of running repairs she had time to complete during their journey to the trade fair and leaned back in her chair with a tired sigh, closing her eyes and massaging her temples as she suppressed a yawn.

“Do you ever sleep?”

The Orion opened her eyes to see Natasha standing in the doorway with a lop-sided smile on her face. She walked over to the Bounty’s single replicator and tapped the controls, as Denella straightened up in her seat again.

“I sleep just fine,” she replied defensively, “Once I’m finished working.”

Natasha sat down opposite her and pushed a freshly replicated mug through the sea of padds.

“Haliian moss tea,” she offered by way of explanation, “Recently voted the most calming beverage in the Alpha Quadrant by a team of top nutritional specialists. Apparently.”

Denella stared down at the murky dark green liquid in the mug with a dubious expression.

“Are you trying to poison me?”

“I’m trying to help you relax. You’ve been working a hell of a lot these last few weeks.”

“We all have,” Denella countered, “And I thought we were glad to be so busy?”

“You’re working harder than any of us. Don’t try to deny it. So either drink the tea and take a break, or else. Don’t forget that, whatever the vessel, a ship’s doctor is the only one qualified to override the captain.”

“I’m not the captain.”

Natasha shook her head patiently, almost amused by the other woman’s modesty.

“Are you kidding? You’ve basically turned the Bounty into a profit-making entity in a couple of months. All while pretty much refitting the whole ship and dealing with our resident Vulcan manchild. Whatever you wanna call yourself, you’re in charge.”

A little uncomfortable with this unexpected level of praise, Denella absently picked up the mug and swirled the tea around inside, still coming no closer to actually drinking it.

“But,” Natasha continued, “As the Bounty’s sole medical professional, it’s my responsibility to look after the crew’s health. And it’s not good for you to be working two jobs like this. Engineer and captain. That’s too much without a break here and there.”

Denella set the mug back down and shook her head.

“It’s fine, honestly. Besides, this is just temporary, until…”

She tailed off as she locked eyes with the other woman across the table. Neither of them were quite willing to mention their absent colleague by name.

Nobody onboard had seen or heard from Jirel Vincent, the unjoined Trill and erstwhile de facto captain of the Bounty, since he had disappeared following the tragic events in Sector 374.

After so many foolhardy adventures around the cosmos, the death of his former business partner and occasional lover Maya Ortega at the hands of Grenk had apparently been too much for him to process. He had walked away from the Bounty, leaving without even saying goodbye.

And despite their best efforts, the rest of the Bounty’s crew had been unable to find where he had gone. By the time they realised what had happened, he simply vanished into the galaxy.

Natasha suppressed the unexpectedly strong wave of emotion that bubbled up inside when she thought about the missing Trill, and ignored the complicated feelings she had built up for him over the past year to focus on her more immediate concern.

“Temporary or not,” she persisted to Denella, “You’re tired. We’re all tired. And there’s no harm in taking a break.”

The Orion still wasn’t convinced, gesturing to the padds in front of her.

“There’s too much to do to take a break. Maintenance schedules, a list of vendors on Gavis VI to check through, plus a bunch of…personal messages to reply to.”

“Ah, I see,” Natasha responded with a suddenly impish look, “Would those be from Juna Erami?”

Denella shot a frustrated glare across the table. Juna Erami’s name was indeed on some of the messages in front of her. The Bajoran woman she had struck up a rudimentary friendship with on Kervala Prime*, who was proving very determined in her efforts to stay in touch.

But those messages remained unread. She wasn’t quite ready to deal with those.

“No, and shut up,” she retorted at the human woman who seemed determined to live vicariously through the Orion’s personal life, “Actually, this one was from…Sarina.”

As Denella picked up the padd containing her personal correspondence and focused on one of the messages in particular, Natasha nodded back in recognition.

Sarina was Denella’s childhood friend from the Orion colony on Orpheus IV. Nearly a year ago, she had rescued Sarina from deep inside the Syndicate, and rescued the Bounty’s crew to boot†. After that, they had ferried Sarina to a safe haven on a Betazoid colony on Corvin III.

“We’ve kept in touch over subspace,” Denella continued, “But I keep meaning to visit her. Apparently she’s got herself a job. She asked the Betazoid staff if she could help look after the gardens of the facility.”

“Well, there we go,” Natasha nodded triumphantly, “Sounds like the perfect place for us to take a nice little break.”

The Orion fixed the human with a more patient look.

“No, I can’t. Even if I really am in charge around here, that doesn’t make the Bounty my personal shuttle to go off running errands whenever I feel like it. We’ve all got a job to do.”

“And we’ve all been doing that job really well these last few weeks. We’ve got latinum in the bank, we’ve got a ship that’s fully functional for a change, and this trade fair isn’t all that important. Plus, we’re your friends. And trust me, neither Klath nor Sunek are going to say no to some R&R.”

Denella looked up from the padd at the kind, but no less determined expression on the face of the Bounty’s medic.

“Just so I’m clear, if I don’t agree to this, are you gonna force us to go there anyway?”

“No. I’m gonna force Sunek to take us to the Federation colony on Tassik II. Then I’m going to book us both a day at the fifty-acre spa complex they have there. Full body massages, long soaks in the geothermal heating pools, and apparently the eight hour herbal mask treatments take years off your complexion.”

“I’d genuinely hate every second of that,” the dirt-streaked Orion pointed out.

“I know,” Natasha replied with a victorious smile.

Sensing that the Bounty would be making a course change towards Corvin III very soon, she stood up and walked to the door.

Once she got there, she forced herself to turn back with one final piece of advice.

“Oh, and…it might not be easy, but you really do need to start seeing that you’re in charge. This is your ship now, ok? Not Jirel’s.”

Despite her friendly expression, the mere mention of his name seemed to ratchet up the tension in the room a notch.

But after a moment, Denella mustered a nod of understanding back.

“I take it that means you don’t think he’s coming back?” she added quietly, reasoning that, as long as they were on the subject, it was finally time to ask that question.

Natasha searched for an answer.

In truth, she was surprised how much Jirel’s disappearance had affected her. Regardless of what their latest drunken night together on Kervala Prime*, just before Maya’s appearance, had meant, and that was something she still wasn’t willing to explore too deeply, she felt like she had lost a friend.

Perhaps, given the sudden end to her time in Starfleet, and her nomadic life on the Bounty since then, her closest friend. Which was an odd thought.

And which also explained why she had been making an extra effort to forge closer bonds with the remaining crew. And, with her other options being the pathologically monosyllabic Klath and the pathologically everything else Sunek, also explained why the majority of that effort had gone into forming a closer friendship with Denella herself.

Dismissing all of that from her mind, she tried to muster an answer to the Bounty’s new captain’s question.

“I’m not sure if he is coming back or not. I really don’t. I guess I just hope that, wherever Jirel is now, he’s doing ok…”

* - See Star Trek: Bounty - 111 - "Love, but With More Aggressive Overtones" for more details.
† - See Star Trek: Bounty - 104 - "It’s Not Easy Being Green" for more details.

Robert Bruce Scott · May 8, 2024

Looking forward to seeing what sort of inextricable mess Jirel has gotten himself into now. Probably just mired in PTSD and Saurian brandy, which, when mixed, provide a hell of a knock out punch..

Thanks!! rbs

BountyTrek · May 10, 2024

Part One (Cont’d)

The blazing light burned into Jirel’s eyes with coruscating force.

Suppressing the lancing pain that stabbed into his temples, he forced himself to keep them open and tried desperately to focus on anything. But all he could make out through the agony was a blur of half-shapes.

Have I gone blind?

He dismissed the thought immediately. Of course he hadn’t gone blind. It was just a hangover. A really bad hangover. Yet another really bad hangover. But still, just a hangover.

Putting as much focus as he could into his throbbing brain, he managed to start making out objects in the fuzzy blur.

A plain metal nightstand.

An empty bottle of Andorian brandy.

A hastily discarded pair of underwear that, based on the delicate lace material they were made from, he was pretty sure didn’t belong to him.

Each new object brought a fraction of a semblance of a memory of where he was, and how he had gotten here. Growing in confidence in his new-found ability to recognise simple shapes, he decided to really push the capacity of his hungover brain to the limit.

He decided to figure out what time it was.

He stared intently at the chronometer on the wall of the room and tried to make sense of what he could make out. His aching brain worked through the conundrum in stages, firstly refreshing itself on the concept of numbers, then recalling how to visually identify individual numbers, and finally putting them together into an appropriate time format.

By the end of that surprisingly lengthy process, Jirel had at least managed to ascertain that he had overslept.

With a groan that seemed to emanate from the depths of his soul, he forced himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, before awkwardly beginning the hunt for some more appropriate clothing than the underwear draped across his nightstand.

“Well, good morning sunshine,” a voice purred from the other side of the bed.

He didn’t bother to turn around in acknowledgement as he pulled on his clothes. Everything that was happening, from the hangover, to the discarded items on the nightstand, to the mysterious voice, was all part of what had become his somewhat pathetic morning routine.

“Yeah,” he grunted, “Morning.”

Eventually, as he pulled a slightly stained top over his head, he turned back to the voice’s owner where she reclined under the bedsheets and smiled back at him.

He didn’t recognise her, didn’t know her name or even her species. Whoever she was, she had a lustrous head of long red hair, piercing blue eyes and a delicate rim of bony protrusions around her cranium. As his foggy brain tried in vain to retrieve any further information about her whatsoever, she looked him up and down and pouted.

“Aw. Getting dressed already? I thought we might at least work up an appetite before breakfast?”

Jirel forced a wan smile onto his face, struggling to recall the last time he had actually managed a genuine expression of happiness.

“Yeah, listen, um…” he began, leaving a long enough pause to accidentally make it clear that he had tried and entirely failed to recall her name, “This was fun, ok? But I’m not—I mean, it might be best if you…got going.”

In what he assumed was at least a vague display of chivalry given the situation, he idly picked up the underwear from the nightstand and tossed them over to her.

“And, um, once you’re ready, we can square up whatever I owe you.”

Around halfway through that follow-up sentence, Jirel’s struggling brain managed to proffer the controversial theory that this particular encounter might not have been of the transactional nature. And perhaps it might be a good idea to ascertain a few more details about that one way or the other before saying what he was in the middle of saying.

But by the time Jirel’s slow-moving brain had fully conveyed that message to Jirel’s fast-moving mouth, he had already reached the end of what he was saying.

And even in its current alcohol-affected state, it didn’t take Jirel’s brain to pick up the signs that he might have got entirely the wrong idea.

****************************

As the young Kobheerian patiently worked away in the apartment’s small kitchenette area, he heard a series of telltale events that confirmed that his roommate was awake. And was already managing to get up to no good.

He heard the unmistakable sound of a violent slap being delivered to someone’s face, immediately followed by the sound of a bedroom door opening and high-heeled footsteps emerging.

He looked up from the stovetop in time to see an elegant red-haired woman stalking angrily towards the front door, dressed in a long fur-lined coat. She didn’t even bother to acknowledge him before she paced straight out the door.

A few moments later, the bedroom door opened again, and an altogether less hurried set of footsteps plodded out.

“Another redhead, huh?” the Kobheerian grunted in amusement, “You definitely have a type.”

Jirel felt his hackles rise on hearing that phrase, his groggy head filling with images of a woman that had used that off-hand phrase with him before*. A woman he’d been working hard to try and forget.

“Shut up, R’Asc,” he grouched without amusement.

“I take it that means I don’t need to remember her name either?”

“Guess not,” Jirel shrugged, “I didn’t.”

If his old self could have heard his dismissive tone, he would have been shocked. But Jirel had slowly but surely become so accustomed to the emptiness of his new routine that he could barely muster anything other than a feeling of indifference towards the latest woman he had just driven away.

“Still, it’s a shame she had to leave so soon,” the Kobheerian continued as he began plating up the breakfast he had been slaving over, “I made enough for three this morning.”

Jirel stumbled into one of the high metal chairs at the countertop that delineated the kitchenette from the rest of the small shared living area, just as R’Asc pushed one of the plates in front of him. He looked down at the blackened mess on the plate, then back up at the expectant eyes of his wannabe chef of a roommate.

“It’s that old Earth recipe you told me about,” he explained excitedly, “Bacon and eggs.”

Jirel had indeed told him about bacon and eggs. A comfort food the Trill had been raised on by his adoptive parents back in Colorado, and one that he still liked to return to whenever he needed an old-fashioned morning boost.

But even from the most optimistic of viewpoints, nothing on the plate in front of him resembled either bacon or eggs.

He pushed the plate away and gestured to the replicator on the wall.

“Why didn’t you just use that?”

“I did,” R’Asc replied with visible confusion, “I replicated the ingredients, and then cooked them. Just like you should do. Everything tastes better this way, trust me.”

Jirel gave the charred remains on his plate another glance. And not for the first time since he had left the Bounty behind, wondered what the hell he was doing with his life.

He knew he had to leave that life behind. After the death of Maya Ortega, just as she seemed to have finally turned over the leaf he had wanted her to for years, everything was too raw for him to deal with. He had to get as far away from his life on the Bounty.

And so he had set off, leaving most of the latinum in the Bounty’s accounts behind to cover the repairs that the ship so badly needed. What little latinum he had taken hadn’t lasted as long as he had hoped. In fact, he had only made it a few sectors before he had washed up at the Mivara II spaceport virtually penniless.

And he had been here ever since.

It hadn’t taken long for him to find some employment, working shifts behind the bar of one of the port’s more downtrodden casinos. And after a few weeks spent hopping from bed to bed of whichever woman his dwindling charm could impress at the end of the night, he finally struck up a more professional living arrangement with R’Asc, one of the casino’s regulars.

And he had struck it up before he had realised how terrible a cook the Kobheerian was, and how nevertheless insistent he was about doing all the cooking.

Oblivious to his latest culinary disaster, R’Asc sat opposite Jirel and began to loudly crunch a blackened piece of bacon from his own plate.

“You know,” he offered between crunches, pointing at him with the sad strip of ruined meat, “You really do bring a hell of a lot of women back here.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

There was none of his usual cockiness or humour in Jirel’s reply. He’d left all that behind as well, along with everything else.

“Mmm,” the Kobheerian mused as he scooped up a mouthful of carbonised eggs, “And each one with red hair…”

The Trill’s head shot up to flash R’Asc a sudden angry glare. Silently telling him to back off from this particular topic of conversation.

“Say no more,” R’Asc offered, holding his hands up in surrender, “Just…still trying to figure you out, that’s all.”

Jirel’s scowl didn’t lessen, despite the Kobheerian’s concession.

It didn’t take a psychology degree for him to note that particular physical similarity between all the women he had been with on Mivara II and the woman he had lost. But he’d stopped trying to figure out if he was trying to remind himself of her, or if he was trying to replace her.

He even found himself wondering whether his feelings for Natasha Kinsen, which had been kindled almost as soon as he had met her, had merely been an extension of his hangups with Maya. Whether he was projecting those unresolved issues onto some of Natasha’s surface-level physical similarities.

He prayed he wasn’t quite that shallow and pathetic, and that there was something deeper to those feelings, but he couldn’t tell for sure any more.

His life had spiralled into such levels of incoherence that he wasn’t really sure of anything.

He didn’t really feel anything any more. Whatever he did, and whoever he did it with, his senses were dulled and deadened. Ever since he had seen Maya’s life ebb away, and he had walked away from the Bounty, he had felt nothing.

“Still,” R’Asc continued, oblivious to the ongoing mental turmoil inside the Trill’s head, “Even if I can’t figure you out, we make a pretty good team, don’t we?”

“Do we?”

“Absolutely. We’re perfect roommates. We don’t judge each other. We give each other space. And we always provide for each other, hmm?”

To underline that last point, R’Asc gently pushed Jirel’s untouched plate of cauterised breakfast back towards him.

Recognising the telltale signs of the Kobheerian angling for a favour, Jirel sighed and looked up at his roommate’s leathery, slightly bulbous head.

“What do you want, R’Asc?”

The Kobheerian mustered an entirely unconvincing display of shock.

“What sort of question is that? A man can’t cook his roommate a delicious meal and pay him a few compliments without being accused of—”

“Just cut to the chase,” Jirel sighed again, his aching head not taking kindly to the amateur theatrics on display.

R’Asc looked a little annoyed that his carefully rehearsed display had come across so poorly, and took another crunch out of a charred strip of bacon.

“Well,” he began, “If you must know, I’m a little…short of funds right now—”

“Nope.”

“But I’d just need a few slips of latinum! I’ve got a really good feeling about tonight. That Dabo wheel has to start paying out sometime, and if you could just—”

“Still nope.”

Jirel stood and ambled into the kitchenette area, rifling through the limited storage space for something to quell his hangover. Undeterred, R’Asc turned around to continue his plea.

“You’re really going to be like that? You’re not gonna cover me?”

“R’Asc, I’ve covered you plenty this month already. I even paid your half of the rent up front, which you still owe me for, by the way. And I’m not exactly rolling in latinum myself. That job doesn’t bring in much cash, y’know?”

“It might bring in a bit more if you didn’t drink half your paycheck away,” the Kobheerian muttered bitterly.

Jirel whirled around to confront that accusation, but stopped short when he realised that the bottle of Risian whiskey in his hand, the one he had just fished out of storage in pursuit of something to cut through the hangover, might undermine his point slightly.

“Point is,” he managed instead, reluctantly putting the bottle back into the cupboard, “I can’t cover you for another gambling spree. You need some more latinum, take on some extra shifts down at the repair yard.”

R’Asc studied his roommate’s face, and saw from his cold gaze that there was no chance of any movement on this matter.

“Huh,” he tutted eventually, “I guess I thought you liked helping people out.”

Jirel grimaced deeper and fended off the fresh desire to reach back for the whiskey bottle.

“I used to,” he offered back, gesturing around the confines of his new living space, “And look where it got me.”

With that, he stalked back out of the kitchen area, forcing a fresh image of Maya from his mind as he did so.

Leaving R’Asc, and three portions of ruined bacon and eggs, behind.

* - Maya Ortega used that phrase in Star Trek: Bounty - 12 - "The Woman Who Cried, Among Other Things, Wolf" when she met the red-haired Natasha for the first time.

Robert Bruce Scott · May 10, 2024

Okay - that was worthy of the best of the existentialist writers that I hated so much (with the exception of Albert Camus, who is an amazingly enjoyable existentialist.) Really well done - some of the best character portraiture you've reached with this series. Dostoevsky would be proud - Thanks!! rbs

Will The Serious · May 10, 2024

Jirel needs help, but he may not be in a place where he will accept if. :weep:

That just makes it harder.

-Will

BountyTrek · May 12, 2024

Robert Bruce Scott said:
Okay - that was worthy of the best of the existentialist writers that I hated so much (with the exception of Albert Camus, who is an amazingly enjoyable existentialist.) Really well done - some of the best character portraiture you've reached with this series. Dostoevsky would be proud - Thanks!! rbs

Well, I wasn't expecting to be compared to Dostoevsky when I woke up this morning, but here we are. :lol:

Thank you for the comment!

BountyTrek · May 12, 2024

Part One (Cont’d)

The force of the hug threatened to squeeze the air out of Denella’s lungs, as the shorter Orion wrapped her arms tightly around her.

It was safe to say that Sarina was delighted with the surprise visit.

The two Orions hugged it out in the shadow of the Bounty, which had set down on the landing area in front of the Betazoid recuperation facility on Corvin III that they had brought Sarina to following her rescue from the Syndicate.

A respectful distance back, Natasha smiled warmly at the reunion, while Klath and Sunek appeared significantly less invested. A short distance away on the other side of the hugging forms stood a trio of Betazoids, a welcoming party from the facility.

“I’m so glad you came,” Sarina beamed as she finally broke the hug with all of Denella’s ribs still mercifully intact.

“I wish I could have come sooner,” Denella replied, wiping away a happy tear.

Sarina looked much better than the last time she had seen her. Back then, she had still been meek and frightened, her head usually bowed in unwarranted deference to anyone and everyone. Just as the Syndicate trained you to do.

Just as Denella remembered she had done, when the Bounty had first rescued her.

But now, Sarina cut a far stronger and more confident figure. And the same smile Denella recalled from their childhood together on Orpheus IV was now almost constantly on her features.

Sarina looked at her friend’s face, still a little unfamiliar to her after so long apart, and studied the tired expression with a tinge of concern. The sixth sense of a friendship nurtured since childhood cut through everything else.

“Are you ok, Denella?”

Denella paused and considered expanding on everything that had happened since her last proper talk with Sarina over subspace. About Juna Erami. And Maya Ortega. And Jirel.

But it felt like too public a forum to get into all that right now, and she was suddenly aware of the small but attentive audience that was gathered around them.

“We’ve…been through a lot,” she managed, “But yeah, I’m ok now.”

It wasn’t quite the whole truth. But it would do for the time being.

Seemingly satisfied with that answer, the younger Orion’s gaze moved from her friend and onto the rest of the Bounty’s crew, and then up to the Bounty itself.

“Perhaps,” one of the Betazoid women offered in a gentle, lilting tone of voice, “You might want to show your friend the work you’ve done in the gardens, Sarina?”

Denella recognised the woman from their last visit. The head of the facility, a kindly middle-aged Betazoid called Palia Rani. She didn’t recognise the two younger women that flanked her, but both smiled equally peaceably at her, displaying the twinkling ink-black eyes of their species.

“She has transformed the place,” the left-side Betazoid added.

“It’s not much really,” Sarina insisted, looking a little sheepish all of a sudden, “But I just wanted to try and give something back. Everyone here has been so kind.”

“I’d love to see what you’ve done,” Denella nodded supportively, before she gestured over to Klath, “And…actually, I’ve got something for you.”

Having been given his cue, the Klingon stepped forward a little stiffly and proffered the small container in his hand to Denella with a curious amount of ceremony. Denella accepted the container, before holding it out to Sarina, who gazed inside.

“Oh my,” she gasped, “Is that…?”

Inside the container was a single small flower, deep orange in colour. It was a flower that Sarina instantly recognised.

And one that was, technically speaking, in the process of being re-gifted. Originally, it had been given to Denella by Juna Erami*. A flower that, as far as Denella knew, only grew on Orpheus IV, her home that was now under Syndicate control.

When she had first seen it, she had been as overwhelmed as Sarina was now.

“It is,” Denella nodded happily, “It was a gift. From…a friend. But it’s the only one I’ve got, and it’s too dangerous to keep it on the Bounty.”

She recalled how the plant had nearly died during the Bounty’s crash-landing in Sector 374. Only a lot of luck had allowed it to survive.

“So,” she continued, “I thought maybe you could try and cultivate it here? Make the place feel a little more like home? You were always better with living things, after all. If it hasn’t got a warp core, I’m hopeless.”

Sarina looked back up at Denella, and seemed a little reluctant to accept this unexpected gift, for reasons the older Orion couldn’t immediately discern.

From his vantage point, Klath’s eagle eye noted that she seemed to be looking past Denella and the container, and off into the distance at something. But when he glanced behind him, all he could see was the parked-up Bounty.

“Maybe…I could try,” Sarina managed eventually, “But first, I should show you the gardens.”

Denella nodded and smiled, keeping hold of the container with the flower for now. Sarina looked at the colder form of Klath with an earnest expression.

“Would you like to see the gardens as well, Klath?”

The Klingon felt every pair of eyes on the landing pad suddenly directed at him. Denella caught his gaze and subtly nodded her head in a way that suggested that he should do the sociable thing. Which wasn’t really the thing he wanted to do in this circumstance.

But, as was so often the way, his need to respect his friendship with the Orion engineer overrode his own wants in the situation.

“I would be honoured,” he managed, with all the enthusiasm of someone who had just been given two tickets to the finals of a Zakdorn debating tournament.

Seemingly oblivious to the Klingon’s rather equivocal stance on her plan, Sarina’s face lit up and led Denella and the scowling Klath away.

“And what about you two?” Palia Rani calmly asked Natasha and Sunek, “Would you care for a tour of the facility?”

Natasha couldn’t help but feel a little conflicted.

On the one hand, this rather formal response to the arrival of the Bounty by Palia and her helpers was as close to a diplomatic Starfleet welcome she had experienced for some time. And a not insignificant part of her was enjoying it.

But on the other hand, she knew all too well how many emotional scars she had lurking just under the surface, doubtless prominent in the vicinity of so many telepaths. And she felt undeniably uncomfortable.

She hadn’t always been nervous around telepaths. In fact, during her wilder days as a fresh-faced Starfleet ensign, she had indulged in an intense holiday fling† with a Betazoid civilian during a spot of shore leave on Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet. But she also knew from that experience how innately a Betazoid could pick up on a human’s thoughts and feelings.

At the time, she had understandably only seen the positives, having never before been able to instantly direct a man in her bed to just the right area at just the right time simply by thinking it.

Back then, though, she had been carrying a lot fewer scars.

“Don’t worry,” the younger Betazoid to Palia’s left offered in a peaceful tone, “We don’t probe minds without consent.”

“Then how did you know I was worried?” Natasha couldn’t help but fire back.

If any of the trio of Betazoid women were put out by the slight accusatory tone her question carried, none of them let it show.

“Please excuse my colleague,” Palia offered, “This is Lyssa Halan. One of our newest volunteers here at the centre. But she is right. Humanoids give off emotions that we cannot help but pick up on, but anything deeper than that must be a consenting act.”

“I know,” Natasha replied, a little friendlier, “I worked with a few Betazoids in Starfleet. And, um, in some other capacities.”

She ignored the knowing grin Sunek gave her as she awkwardly made that comment. Thanks to a mind meld he had carried out with her in an attempt to help free her from the effects of a psychoactive plant venom last year, the Vulcan was well aware of those memories of hers.

She just prayed he was still abiding by his promise to keep that secret to himself.

“Still,” she continued, “A tour seems a little…formal? Would it be alright for me to just wander by myself for a while?”

“Of course,” Palia nodded back, “Our home is your home. But I do hope you will all join us for dinner this evening.”

“We’d love to.”

With diplomacy restored, Palia and the other two Betazoids bowed their heads slightly and started back towards the main complex of the facility.

As Lyssa passed Sunek, she couldn’t help but stop and stare at him with her dark eyes.

“Um,” the Vulcan offered, a tad unnerved at the intensity of this sudden attention, “Hi?”

For a second, Lyssa continued to stare, as if in a trance. Then, she shook her head slightly to recover her senses and looked a little sheepish.

“My apologies. It’s just, as Palia said, we cannot help but pick up on emotions. And your emotions are…fascinating.”

“Well,” Sunek shrugged, “I’ve never had any complaints before.”

Lyssa seemed to fall back into a trance for a moment, before Palia gently led her away by the arm, offering an apologetic smile back to the Vulcan.

“As I said, Lyssa is new. And perhaps a little…earnest.”

Natasha felt a tad concerned as she watched the little scene play out. Then she noted the lop-sided grin emerging on Sunek’s face as Palia and Lyssa walked away.

“Was it just me,” he couldn’t help but ask through his grin, “Or was she totally coming on to me?”

Natasha’s concerns melted away in the time it took her to organise an eye roll back in his direction.

“It’s just you, Sunek,” she sighed, “It’s always just you…”

* - The flower's origin story can be found in Star Trek: Bounty - 11 - "Love, but With More Aggressive Overtones".
† - A holiday fling that was only semi-lewdly referenced at the start of Star Trek: Bounty - 7 - “One Character in Search of an Exit”.

Robert Bruce Scott · May 13, 2024

Nice to see Bounty's crew in a different kind of dangerous situation... The danger of becoming vulnerable. Which isn't easy for people used to having to be tough all the time.

Thanks!! rbs

BountyTrek · May 14, 2024

Part One (Cont’d)

Sarina had definitely been busy.

Denella stood at the top of a set of steps that led down to the gardens on the opposite side of the facility to where the Bounty had parked, and couldn’t help but gasp in awe.

Stretching out in front of her was a picturesque landscape garden, with a succession of flower beds criss-crossed with interconnecting stone paths that radiated out from a central pavilion area like the spokes of a wheel. Each bed was filled with a carefully coordinated type and colour of flowering plant, coordinated to produce a symmetrical pattern around the whole wheel.

Only a few empty spots remained, spaced out around the spokes and clearly waiting for their own turn to be populated with a new plant species.

Around the perimeter stood sections of tall wooden trellises, each one adorned with blossoming climbing plants covering every colour of the rainbow. And in each corner, where the circular flower beds met the square fencing, were lush patches of green turf.

“Wow,” Denella managed, “Sarina, it’s incredible.”

Sarina flinched slightly under the weight of the compliment, then looked over to Klath where he stood, his arms folded across his chest as he viewed the scene distinctly more dispassionately than the two Orions.

Realising that they were again anticipating a response from him, the Klingon scanned the garden again. But he saw little more than a poorly fortified location whose low-lying terrain and lack of obvious cover would make it near-impossible to defend from an approaching enemy force.

Suspecting that this wasn’t the sort of observation they were expecting, he reluctantly grasped for something more appropriate.

“It is…colourful,” he settled on eventually.

“Don’t mind him,” Denella chimed in with a wink, “I don’t think Klingons are big on botany.”

“On the contrary,” Klath retorted, “The Gardens of Morvok on Qo’noS are a glorious sight to behold. Field after field of toxic thornweed, each vine with spines as big and sharp as a kut'luch. And each spine piercing the skull of a fallen enemy of the Empire.”

And, Klath thought to himself privately, also designed to make the entire area defendable by any reasonably-sized battalion from a surprise ground assault. Just as a garden should be.

Denella shook her head in amusement, and Sarina suppressed a giggle, before she led the pair of visitors down the steps and onto one of the stone paths.

“Either way you’re both being too kind,” she offered modestly, “I’m just trying to be useful. The colony provided me with all the tools and resources I needed, and I’ve been learning from the computers as well. About soil preparation, how different species interact, and so much more.”

She stopped and crouched down in front of a particular bed filled with several plants consisting of rich green oval leaves and topped with spectacularly colourful flowers, each one spanning the colour palette from a warming yellow centre out to a deep purple at the tips of their petals.

“These are Deltan lilacs,” she explained, “They bloom all year round, the same flowers. And they change colour with the seasons, regardless of what planet you cultivate them on.”

“They’re beautiful,” Denella noted.

Klath maintained a respectful silence. Personally, he would have preferred something with more spines. But to each their own.

“They were the first non-Betazoid species I cultivated,” Sarina explained, “The first four attempts all died off, until I did some research and figured out the right way to approximate the nutrient content of the soil back on Delta IV. They’re so sensitive that even replicated soil didn’t work.”

She paused for a moment, and looked back at the container in Denella’s hand.

“If I only have one specimen to work with, I’d worry that the same thing might happen to that…”

“Hey,” Denella offered supportively, gesturing around the gardens, “Look what you’ve done here. You’re an expert. You’ll get it right.”

This didn’t seem to entirely settle the younger Orion, but she mustered a nod before she stood back up and quickly changed the subject again.

“I have to show you the best part,” she smiled, grabbing Denella’s free hand and rushing off towards the central pavilion.

Momentarily left behind, Klath wondered whether there was a respectful way he could extricate himself from the tour at this point. But again, his loyalty to Denella overrode his other instincts, and he slowly strode after the two women, trying not to feel too much like a loyal pet targ following its master as he did so.

As he reached the pavilion, he found Denella and Sarina standing by a curious tall plant with blue leaves connected to improbably thin and spindly stems. From a distance, it looked as though the leaves were floating.

The two women were gently touching the leaves, which, in return, were emitting a faint humming sound.

“A Talosian singing plant,” Sarina explained enthusiastically as Klath arrived, “This sapling arrived on a transport two months ago. Palia ordered it specially. When it’s fully grown, she hopes to cultivate more with cuttings from this one, and decorate the whole pavilion.”

“Bet the thornweed in the Gardens of Morvok don’t sing to you, do then?” Denella added with a grin, as she touched another leaf to produce a subtly different harmony.

“They do not,” Klath conceded, “But the designers did ensure that, when the prevailing wind blows across the gardens, the noise sounds like the screams of a thousand enemies, slain on the battlefields of history.”

Sarina didn’t entirely know what to do with that. Denella just kept smiling.

“Well,” she added, as she looked around at the tranquillity of their surroundings again, “Enemy screams notwithstanding, this’ll definitely be the perfect place for a bit of R&R…”

****************************

Deep inside the main administration building of the Corvin III facility, Lyssa Halen scurried along the corridor.

She turned a corner and slowed her pace. With an affected casual glance behind her to ensure she was alone, she silently ducked through a nondescript doorway to her right.

Inside, she found herself in one of the maintenance stores of the facility. Tall shelving units filled with crates of supplies ran in orderly rows across the expansive interior, with wide walkways between them. She crept on, passing row after row of shelving. She already knew where they were waiting without having to call out to them.

She could sense their worries.

I wasn’t followed, she thought as she walked.

Are you sure?

To a non-Betazoid, the new voice suddenly arriving in one’s mind would have been a singularly unnerving experience. But Lyssa had been experiencing the power of telepathic conversation even when she was still in her mother’s womb. Throughout the final trimester, Betazoid mothers often telepathically sung to their unborn children to soothe them.

And so, the voice inside her head was nothing unusual to her.

Yes, she thought back, I’m always sure.

She reached the ninth row of shelving and rounded the corner. The owner of the voice, along with three other young Betazoid women, stood waiting for her.

What is it then, another voice in her head, which Lyssa instantly recognised as belonging to the tall Azaria Ida, thought.

Yes, the original voice - from a jet-black haired woman named Jenna Puri - chimed in. What couldn’t wait for our next meeting?

Lyssa didn’t need to be able to sense emotions to tell that she had annoyed the other women with this impromptu request to speak with them. They all knew that there was a significant risk to each of their little trysts.

Not only the risk of being followed, or otherwise detected by one of the other helpers. Which was mitigated somewhat by them meeting deep in the maintenance section, well away from the prying minds of Palia Rani and the other senior helpers. But also the risk that they would fail to keep their thoughts and feelings about the meetings fenced off from the others when they returned. Each of them had to take care with every stray thought and shared emotion not to let anything slip through.

When every one of your co-workers could literally read your mind, it was that much harder to keep a secret.

But still, Lyssa was sure this was worth the risk of the unplanned meeting.

You all need to feel this, she thought insistently at the sea of unconvinced expressions in front of her, I promise you, you’ll understand.

With that, she closed her eyes and focused hard, separating the part of herself that she was now so eager to share with the group.

And then she let the emotions flow.

Each of the other women couldn’t help but gasp as the intense feelings swamped them.

It was enough of a rush to make two of them buckle at the knees, steadying themselves on the shelves next to them as their breathing grew faster.

Together, the coven of five women bathed in the flood of raw, conflicting, uncontrolled emotions, feasting on it ravenously like starving beasts tearing into the flesh of a fresh kill.

And then, just like that, the flood dissipated. The snapshot that Lyssa had been able to replicate fizzled out all too soon. Each of them, even Lyssa herself, were left frustrated and wanting, panting slightly on the verge of emotional euphoria.

Where? Azaria greedily asked.

Who? Jenna followed up quickly.

Lyssa pursed her lips into a knowing smile, happy that she now had the group’s full attention.

One of the visitors, she explained silently. A Vulcan.

A Vulcan? One of the other women repeated in shock.

Yes, she continued. And as you just felt, I’ve never touched emotions quite like those that lurk inside of him.

The other four women all responded with overlapping thoughts, each as captivated as the other.

So intense.

So chaotic.

So powerful.

So…emotional.

Yes, Lyssa responded with satisfaction. All of that, and much more. I think we can say he will suit our needs.

There was complete and silent agreement between the rest of the group on that point. If the small morsel they had just tasted was anything to go by, he was exactly what they were looking for.

He would be perfect.

He would also die, of course. But that couldn’t be helped.

The important thing was that they were in for one hell of a feast.

End of Part One

Robert Bruce Scott · May 14, 2024

Ooohh - a coven of hedonistic, sociopathic betazoids... niiiccee...

This will be fun. And I suspect they're about to bite off a lot more than they can chew.

Thanks!! rbs

BountyTrek · May 16, 2024

Part Two

The warm, dry evening weather across the colony meant that conditions were perfect for dinner to be taken outside.

The Betazoid helpers had set up a long table on the stone deck at the rear of the main building, which not only allowed everyone to take in the sunset of the binary Corvin star system, but to also take in Sarina’s gardens, visible in all their glory at the foot of the steps at the end of the deck.

The Bounty’s crew sat with Sarina along one side of the table, their backs to the main building with the gardens in full view, while Palia, Lyssa, Azaria and three other Betazoid helpers selflessly sat on the other side, with their backs to the botanical wonders below.

The table itself groaned under the weight of generous communal plates of rich, colourful food. The menu was entirely Betazoid and, to Klath’s silent dismay, entirely vegetarian.

Each place setting also contained a generous glass of local wine, which were regularly topped up by several other helpers, who milled around as impromptu waitresses for the evening’s proceedings.

All things considered, dinner was a lot more of an event than the Bounty’s crew were used to.

“You really, really didn’t have to do all this,” Denella insisted, entirely truthfully, “We’re just here to visit Sarina, and to relax.”

“No better way to relax than with a good meal,” Palia countered in her soothing tone, “And we so rarely get visitors here that we like to properly welcome them.”

“It really is no effort,” Lyssa added.

She smiled directly across the table at Sunek, who smiled back with a slightly lascivious edge.

She’s definitely coming on to me, he mused.

He instantly tried to silence that train of thought, remembering that he was surrounded by telepaths right now. And while he was pretty sure that the woman sitting opposite him was coming on to him, he didn’t want the whole dining party to know about it.

Then he remembered what they had been told on the landing pad. Betazoids don’t probe anyone’s thoughts like that. Nobody was inside his head.

Liar, a distant voice muttered, accompanied by a crackle of thunder.

Sunek silenced that thought even faster than the first, and returned to smiling at Lyssa. She, for her part, hadn’t stopped smiling at him for nearly a minute now.

Yep, Sunek affirmed. Definitely coming on to me.

Further down the table, Sarina proffered one of the communal plates to Klath.

“You have to try the blue-leaf salad,” she insisted, “I’d never had it before, but it’s delicious.”

Klath eyed the mass of vegetation on the plate in the Orion’s hand and suppressed another deep sigh, before taking a handful of the leaves and dropping it onto his own plate.

“Thank you,” he nodded back, proud of himself for how little detectable sarcasm he had allowed to slip through into his words.

Sarina seemed happy enough. While Klath silently pined for a plate of gagh. Even replicated gagh would do.

Natasha smiled in amusement at the Klingon’s culinary plight as she swallowed a piece of bread topped with a type of Betazoid soft cheese whose name escaped her, before she returned her attention to Palia.

“I really can’t believe you don’t get more visitors,” she admitted as she took in the view, “It’s beautiful here.”

“You’re very kind to say so,” Palia smiled back warmly, “But perhaps a small Betazoid colony isn’t quite exciting enough for most travellers.”

“Mmm,” Sarina muttered through a mouthful of uttaberry tart.

She stopped immediately when she realised she’d spoken out loud, looking up to see a series of curious looks being sent her way.

“Um, sorry,” she managed, trying to cover for herself, “I was just—The uttaberries are really fresh today.”

Palia took a troubled moment to study the expression of the Orion woman. She also noted the tinge of embarrassment that emanated from her, but in keeping with Betazoid morals, she elected not to probe any deeper into her thoughts. Leaving whether or not Sarina was indeed reacting to the uttaberries, or agreeing with her comment about how boring life could be on the colony, as an unanswered question.

It was Azaria who broke the moment of awkward silence that followed.

“How are you enjoying your food, Mr Sunek?”

The Vulcan, who had barely been following the flow of the conversation in favour of continuing to rather gormlessly smile at Lyssa, suddenly jerked his head up at the source of this new unexpected query.

He was a little surprised to see Azaria smiling at him as well.

“Oh, um,” he managed, trying to remember what he was actually eating, “It’s, yeah, good.”

“You should try the steamed cavat,” she offered, gesturing to a large serving bowl filled with an aromatic vegetable that looked not too dissimilar to ears of corn, “They’re delicious. And, did you know that in ancient Betazoid history, it was considered an…aphrodisiac.”

Sunek’s gormless smile found a new target.

Next to the beaming Vulcan, the other three members of the Bounty’s crew exchanged bemused glances. Even Natasha’s scepticism when it came to Sunek’s belief in his irresistibility to the opposite sex couldn’t deny that it sounded like Azaria was flirting with him.

“An aphrodisiac? Really?” the Vulcan replied as he reached out to the bowl, “Guess I’d better take a couple, then…”

As best as Natasha could make out, it sounded like Sunek was at least attempting to flirt back. Though it was difficult to tell.

“Well,” Palia cut in quickly, trying to steer the conversation somewhere more appropriate, “All ancient cultures have their curious beliefs, don’t they. In fact, just the other day, Sarina was telling me about one of the plants in the gardens, and how Bolians used to believe that—”

“Would you care for some more wine, Mr Sunek?”

Everyone turned around in the direction of the new voice, to see Jenna, one of the helpers serving as a waitress for the feast, standing a little too close to Sunek and proffering a bottle in his direction, while smiling intensely at him.

“Um,” he managed, his brain starting to struggle to process the unprecedented number of women around the table that seemed to be coming on to him, “Actually, just Sunek is fine—”

Knock, knock.

Sunek stopped in the middle of his sentence and looked around in confusion. He could have sworn he heard someone knocking on a door. But he couldn’t possibly have heard that. They were outside, on a stone deck.

Feeling increasingly flustered, he focused back on Jenna, who was still proffering the wine bottle.

“But, so, yeah. Sure. More wine would be…yeah.”

Still smiling, the Betazoid woman appeared to deliberately lean into the Vulcan as she reached down to pour the wine, gently pressing her body into his back as she did so.

If Vulcans possessed sweat glands, Sunek was certain he would be in the middle of the mother of all flop sweats right now.

“Sunek?” Denella piped up in the direction of the squirming pilot, “You ok—?”

“Fine. Yep. Good. Just…having some wine over here—”

“It’s an excellent wine, isn’t it, Mr Sunek?” Lyssa jumped in from across the table, bringing her own glass up to her nose and taking in the aroma, “We make it ourselves, elsewhere on the Corvin III colony.”

“Really? Oh. That’s…interesting—?”

“Perhaps,” Azaria chimed in, still smiling at the Vulcan, “We could give you a…personal tour of the vineyards later on, Mr Sunek?”

“Yeah. Um. I dunno. Maybe?”

Sunek paused his rambling by grabbing his refreshed wine glass and taking a long, steadying gulp to quell his sudden nervousness. Even though she had stepped back after topping up his drink, he could still feel Jenna’s presence disconcertingly close behind him.

Once again, Palia took it upon herself to try and steer the conversation back on track.

“So, Sarina, why don’t you tell the others about—”

Knock, knock.

“Who’s doing that?” Sunek snapped irritably, causing the rest of the group to turn back to him in fresh bemusement.

“Doing what?” Natasha asked, on everyone’s behalf.

The Vulcan looked around, doing his best to keep his composure despite the ever-increasing list of reasons he had to lose it.

“You, um, didn’t hear anything?” he forced himself to ask, knocking on the tabletop with his knuckles for effect, “Was someone doing that?”

He could see from the sea of confused reactions that nobody had been doing that. And despite the fact that they were outside, he was starting to feel a little claustrophobic.

Knock, knock.

“Ok,” he said, jumping up out of his seat quickly enough to cause Jenna to have to take avoiding action, “It’s been—I’ve had a great time tonight. Really. But—I just need to, um, turn in. Off to bed, y’know? Now. By myself. That cool? That’s cool.”

With that, and before anyone could protest, the flustered Vulcan awkwardly extricated himself from his seat and scurried off in the direction of the Bounty.

Taking with him the distinct impression that the three Betazoid women were still smiling at him as he left.

****************************

Moments later, Sunek was back in the familiar confines of his cabin. And a few moments after that, he was on the equally familiar deck of an old Vulcan sailing vessel, trying to meditate his way towards some sort of inner calm.

As he closed his eyes, he heard a telltale rumble of thunder, and he suppressed a grimace.

“I don’t have time for you right now. I’m trying to meditate.”

“I didn’t say anything,” his own voice rumbled out of the storm on the horizon with mild indignation.

“You just did.”

“Well, that’s not fair!”

Sunek sighed in frustration and opened his eyes, glaring out at the stormcloud.

“Was that you? Messing around with me somehow?”

There was no response, same for an innocent roll of thunder.

“Ugh. You know what I’m talking about,” Sunek persisted, “The whole ‘knock, knock’—”

“Who’s there?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Ok, fine. Yes, I heard it. And no, it wasn’t me. I mean, you already know who it was, don’t you?”

“I do?” Sunek asked, scrunching his face up in confusion.

“Ok, I swear you’re getting dumber somehow,” the stormcloud replied with an exasperated flash of lightning, “It was obviously the Betazoids! They’re just messing with you.”

“Messing with me?”

“Come on. You heard what they said about needing consent to start probing someone’s thoughts? That’s probably how they do it. Y’know, you answer the door and let them in. Surely, given the circumstances, you can appreciate someone getting a bit literal with these things.”

Sunek took in the fact that he was in a conversation with a thunderstorm that was serving as a manifestation of internal rage, and conceded that point without argument.

“Besides,” the stormcloud continued, “What’s the alternative theory? That we just happen to have stumbled across three gorgeous young Betazoid women who all desperately wanna get up close and personal with a scrawny, weird-looking Vulcan?”

“Hey!” Sunek fired back, a little hurt, “I do ok with the ladies, you know.”

“Really? When was the last time you heard from that wife of yours?”

That was a low blow. Sunek hadn’t heard from T’Len, his wife from a marriage of convenience years ago designed to help her leave her parents and join up with the V’tosh ka’tur, since his run-in with Sokar.

T’Len had been another of Sokar’s brainwashed followers. And husband and wife hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms after Sunek had helped to foil their plans. In fact, she’d made it pretty clear that she hated him*.

“Either way,” the stormcloud continued, “It’s clearly the Betazoids. So, just, don’t let them in, ok? Metaphorically, or literally. I don’t want a bunch of telepaths in here with me. And let’s face it, neither do you.”

Sunek had to concede that point as well. Right now, his mental landscape wasn’t something that anyone should be seeing.

And while he still held out a sliver of a belief that the Betazoid women had genuinely been interested in him in a more lascivious way, he had to begrudgingly concede that the stormcloud’s theory made a lot of sense.

In an instant, he left the storm and the Voroth Sea behind. And he was back in his cabin.

And before he settled down to try and sleep, he scurried across the room to make sure that his cabin door was firmly locked.

* - A story told in Star Trek: Bounty - 3 - "The Other Kind of Vulcan Hello".

Robert Bruce Scott · May 17, 2024

Well... It appears the inner mad Sunek isn't an idiot... And Sunek, despite his hedonism, seems to have a very strong survival instinct.

Of course, they're going to get to him anyway...

Thanks!! rbs

BountyTrek · May 18, 2024

Part Two (Cont’d)

The silvery metal cocktail shaker glided through the air in a spinning arc, before gracefully falling down into a waiting hand. After a quick flourish, the shaker was again tossed up, heading back to the other hand in an equally graceful arc and landing with a satisfying thud.

With one final brisk shake for luck, Jirel flipped the lid off the shaker and poured two colourful Romulan starbursts into the waiting glasses on the counter, before finishing the drinks off with a cocktail stick apiece, each with a ripe icoberry on the end.

It was far from the most professional display of mixology, but it was enthusiastic enough to garner a polite round of applause from the two women on the other side of the bar.

“Please, ladies, save your applause,” Jirel gushed with false modesty in his voice, and an even falser smile on his face, “But if you really wanna say thanks, you can always buy your favourite barman a shot, hmm?”

The two women, one a rakishly thin Andorian and the other a more shapely human, glanced at each other with amusement, then turned back to him.

“You’re cute,” the Andorian ventured, her antennae waving suggestively in his direction. “But you’re not that cute.”

Jirel’s false smile wasn’t done yet. It was still early, but he could tell that there was definitely a free drink for him in this particular exchange. At least.

“I can be cuter,” he offered, gently pushing the cocktails towards the women, “For a start, what if we said these were…on the house, hmm?”

The women glanced at each other again with knowing looks, but Jirel could tell he was sealing part of the deal.

This was another aspect of his new routine that he was getting used to.

In the past, his often misfiring charm tended to be used to talk himself out of danger, or to negotiate a better deal for the Bounty, or even save a friend or two. Now, he just used it to score free shots from anyone who visited the casino and was willing to put up with his unrelenting charm offensive.

“If these are on the house,” the human woman replied, slipping a small credit scanner out of her purse, “Then I think I can buy the cute-ish barman a drink.”

Jirel’s false smile widened further. He proffered the payment terminal to her, while simultaneously grabbing a bottle of Takarian gin and pouring himself a generous measure.

With the free drink aspect of his new routine successfully secured, he set about trying to complete the rest of it.

“So then,” he said, as he picked up the shot, “What are you two ladies doing later—?”

“Jirel!”

He paused mid-line and sighed, downing the gin in anticipation of the impending interruption to his routine.

The women watched with some amusement as a grey-haired Bajoran, his face covered in scars, marched up to the Trill behind the bar.

“How many times do I have to tell you to do your job?”

“I am doing my job,” Jirel insisted, gesturing to the two women, “I’m trying to give these very important customers a—”

“I know what you’re trying to give them. But put it back in your goddamn pants and get back to work!”

The simmering Bajoran gestured further down the bar, where several other customers from myriad different species were impatiently waiting for service, before turning back to the two women with a more amenable tone.

“Ladies,” the wizened man offered, “Please, enjoy your drinks. And you make sure you win big on those Dabo wheels tonight, alright?”

They nodded and smiled, collected their Romulan starbursts from the top of the bar and set off into the bustling expanse of the casino itself. Soon, both were lost among the bright lights and clamour of activity.

“Great,” Jirel sighed, his false veneer of charm entirely dissipating in an instant, “I really lucked out with you for a wingman, didn’t I, Tudra?”

Tudra Napor, the casino’s ill-tempered bar manager, fixed the Trill with a redoubtably angry glare.

“You’re not here to get laid, Jirel. You’re here to work your ass off. People come here to drink and to gamble. And the more they do of the former, the more they do of the latter.”

He jabbed his thumb back down the bar in the direction of the waiting customers.

After a tactical pause, just long enough to convey a message to Tudra that he wasn’t about to instantly snap to action whenever he ordered him to, Jirel slowly slouched off.

He only got a few steps before he felt Tudra’s hand grab his arm, forcing him to turn back to the Bajoran with some irritation.

“You know,” Tudra muttered, “I used to be like you.”

“Terrifying thought,” Jirel offered back sarcastically.

Tudra shook his head and smirked back, bereft of warmth.

“Yeah. I see it in you all the time. Brash, cocky, full of myself. And the worst part was how I thought I was better than everyone else, above everyone around me. Until someone decided to teach me that I wasn’t. And I never forgot that lesson.”

To emphasise his point, he ran his free hand down the scars across his face.

Jirel forced himself to maintain an expressionless stare, despite the internal flinch that the gesture caused inside him.

“So,” Tudra concluded, “Just serve the goddamn customers, ok?”

He shoved Jirel’s arm away, and after an extra sullen pause, the Trill reluctantly headed off to the line of thirsty customers.

He was only a few more orders in when another familiar voice sounded out from the crowd.

“I think I’ve figured you out, Jirel.”

The Trill finished pouring a frothy mug of ale for a stout Rigellian and glanced over in the direction of the latest unwelcome distraction.

“Not now, R’Asc.”

He hadn’t seen his Kobheerian roommate since their paths crossed in their apartment the previous day. He had slouched back home in the early hours of the morning, and by the time he had woken up, R'Asc had already headed off to work.

But now he was here, leaning casually over the bar, and apparently as oblivious to Jirel’s lack of desire to have a conversation right now as he was about Jirel’s regular lack of desire to eat his breakfasts.

“See,” R’Asc continued, “I’ve been looking at you all wrong. I was studying you like I study most people around here. Trying to figure out why you were trying to escape from Mivara II. But that’s not what you’re doing.”

The Trill ignored the Kobheerian as best he could as he presented a rotund Berellian and his wife with their requested beverages and grimaced slightly at the lack of a tip.

“No. You’re not trying to escape from here. You came here to escape from something else.”

Jirel paused midway through preparing another cocktail, feeling a whole host of feelings and regrets welling up inside. Forcing them all back down, he shot an angry look across the bar.

“Ah,” R’Asc nodded with satisfaction, “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“What the hell do you want, anyway?” Jirel fired back, clumsily sidestepping the question, “I told you yesterday, I’m not giving you any latinum.”

“No need. I’m here to order one of your finest Kobheerian spice ales, and then I’m off to hit that Dabo table. Found myself some extra funds without your help.”

Jirel eyed him suspiciously as he poured the ale.

“From where?” he had to ask.

R’Asc’s scaly face widened into an enigmatic grin as he paid for the drink and took the glass.

“Let’s just say I had a visit from…oh, what was that stupid old Earth character you were telling me about? Ah, yes. From Santa Claus.”

“R’Asc,” Jirel began with a sigh, “Don’t do—”

Before he could finish his plea, the Kobheerian was already on his way to the Dabo tables in the main pit of the casino.

“—Anything stupid.”

Jirel sighed and shook his head. He considered heading after him. To wrest a portion of the rent money he was owed from this new-found stash before it all vanished, if nothing else. He also wondered exactly where R’Asc had got the extra money from in the first place. Knowing that there were plenty of loan sharks around Mivara II.

But before he could start to worry, something caught his eye at the other end of the bar.

A female Ktarian slid onto a bar stool and waited to be served. Her head was topped with long flowing locks of red hair.

And Jirel remembered who he was these days.

And so he stopped worrying, and started off down the bar, a false smile painted back onto his face.

Robert Bruce Scott · May 18, 2024

Nice ongoing character portrait of a man very much on the run from himself. In the best of walkabout tradition, he has to keep going until he meets himself. And that's going to be a great moment. Very much looking forward to that - whatever guise it takes. Thanks!! rbs

BountyTrek · May 20, 2024

Part Two (Cont’d)

Once, many years ago, when he had been a young lieutenant in the Klingon Defence Force, Klath had served aboard the battlecruiser IKS QajunpaQ.

During a skirmish with a Tholian battle wing in the Kordan Cluster, the QajunpaQ had been severely damaged and boarded by raiding squads after its warp core had overloaded. Klath had left his post at secondary torpedo control, fought his way through a dozen armed Tholians, before braving the radiation from the core to bypass the damaged relays and bring main power back online.

With the Tholian fleet having let their guard down after crippling the QajunpaQ, Captain Mekvar was able to launch a surprise counterattack using the ship’s main battery, destroying two enemy vessels and causing the remainder to flee.

While Klath was initially fiercely criticised by Captain Mekvar for leaving his post at battle alert, his actions resulted in him receiving a commendation from Chancellor K’mpec himself and a promotion to full commander.

Even though he was now a discommended exile, likely never to return to his people, Klath still felt a rush of pride whenever he recalled that day.

And now, a decade later, here he was. Planting flowers in a garden.

The formerly decorated officer of the Klingon Defence Force stood next to Denella and Sarina, holding eight small seeds in his hand that had been carefully harvested by Sarina from the Orpheus IV flower that Denella had brought with her.

The two Orion women were kneeling down next to an empty space in the spokes of the garden’s flower beds, with a portable soil sampler next to them.

Klath waited patiently to be called on, and silently pictured the moment he had plunged his bat’leth straight through the neck of a Tholian soldier’s pressure suit.

“You see,” Sarina explained to Denella as she tapped the controls of the sampler, “This is the mineral composition of the soil the flower was growing in, and this is what I’ve put together from the nutrients I have available. It’s not an exact match, but…I hope it’ll be good enough.”

Denella stared down at the readings on the screen of the unit, doing her best impression of someone who was entirely clear on what she was looking at. If it had been a warp core power curve, or a tricorder reading from a faulty power relay, she would have been right at home. But the spectroscopic analysis that was being presented was just a jumble of incomprehensible data.

Still, she endeavoured to offer a supportive expression to her childhood friend, amazed at how deeply she had studied this craft. And, whether she understood the exact cultivation process or not, she was definitely desperate to see it work.

“I see,” she managed.

Klath couldn’t see the readings from where he stood, nor was he really all that interested in what they said. But from his silent vigil, he had noted something about Sarina. He wasn’t always the fastest at picking up on body language, but even to him, the younger Orion seemed distracted.

“So,” Sarina added, as she began to use a small tool to hollow out eight carefully-spaced holes in the soil, “Let’s just hope for the best.”

Denella picked up on something in the tone of her friend’s voice and looked over at her.

“You sound a bit uncertain?”

Despite the gentle tone of the question, Sarina flinched slightly and avoided making eye contact, keeping her focus on her work in the soil instead.

“I…do hope they grow,” she whispered, “For your sake, Denella. But…”

She paused in the middle of hollowing out hole number six, and finally looked over at her friend with a distinctly sad expression.

“You want them to grow to remind you of Orpheus IV. Of home. I guess you still have a lot of happy memories. But, when I think about that, I just remember…”

She paused, suppressing something that, despite her stronger outward appearance, still remained somewhere deep inside her.

Denella put her hand on her shoulder for support. She didn’t need to hear the full details. She knew.

She remembered when the Syndicate had arrived on Orpheus IV. When she and Sarina, along with hundreds of other Orions, were rounded up and taken away. How countless more had been killed as the entire colony had been razed. She remembered how she and Sarina had both ended up in the possession of a particularly cruel Syndicate slaver called Rilen Dar.

And she remembered how much more she was still suppressing, deep inside of her.

She had rescued Sarina from Dar nearly a year ago*. And in the process had gained revenge on him by killing him and destroying his entire operation to boot. But despite the catharsis of that moment, she knew she still wasn’t entirely rid of the scars that the Syndicate had left behind. She was reminded of them when she even thought about replying to the messages from Juna Erami, back on the Bounty.

And she also felt fresh guilt somewhere inside whenever she looked at Sarina. She had always promised to look after the younger Orion, right back to when they were infants.

But she hadn’t been able to protect her from the Syndicate.

“I guess,” Sarina continued, “When I smell the scent of that flower, I just remember the bad times, not the good times…”

Denella felt the tears rising inside of her. But she held them back, for both of them. She put her arm around her friend, but struggled to find the words to say.

Unexpectedly, the words came from a different source, as Klath crouched down next to them and held out his burly hand, revealing the eight tiny seeds in his palm.

“There is an old Klingon saying. In defeat, a warrior should never think of his past glories, but of his next victory.”

The two Orions looked over at the Klingon, who gestured to the seeds with a nod.

“Perhaps…this act will enable you to associate the scent with some fresh, good memories.”

Denella mustered a thankful smile at the Bounty’s least likely therapist, as Sarina looked at Klath and nodded in understanding. She gently took the seeds from his hand and deftly placed one in each of the shallow holes she had made in the soil.

“It still might not work,” she pointed out with an air of pessimism, “But we should hopefully see some shoots growing in the next couple of days.

“You have…given them a fighting chance,” Klath, the equally unlikely botanist, offered.

Sarina smiled back at the Klingon as she carefully moved the soil back over each seed and watered them with a small metal device.

“I hope so,” she nodded, “Besides, I think it would be a nice gift for me to leave the colony with.”

At this, Denella looked confused.

“What do you mean, ‘leave the colony’?”

“Oh,” Sarina replied quickly, “Sorry, I hope I’m not being presumptuous. But…I’ve decided, I want to come with you, Denella. On the Bounty.”

She returned her attention to watering the seeds, as Denella stared blankly back at her childhood friend, who seemed entirely content with that statement.

And for the second time in the short conversation, she was at a loss for words.

****************************

On the other side of the Corvin III complex, Natasha stood at the top of a raised platform next to the landing pad.

The Bounty remained parked behind her, next to a trio of small support craft assigned to the Betazoid facility. Each one was a sleek design, dwarfed by the Bounty, but slightly larger than a standard Starfleet runabout.

The platform was positioned on the edge of the hilltop where the facility was located, affording a stunning view into the valley below.

The green landscape that plunged away underneath her was studded by scattered buildings here and there. The Corvin III colony had elected to spread itself through the natural beauty of the planet, rather than removing a wider expanse of vegetation for a larger habitable area.

And as Natasha gazed down on the peaceful splendour of the sight below, she silently thanked whichever of the first colonists had chosen that design strategy. There was something innately relaxing about the scene.

She closed her eyes and felt the gentle breeze blowing across her face, carrying crisp, fresh air right to her.

And yet, she wasn’t quite able to relax.

When she had suggested the idea of some R&R to Denella, she had to admit that she had something of an ulterior motive. As overworked and in need of a break as the Bounty’s new de facto captain was, she was feeling just as bad. And she was as eager to try and relax as much as anyone.

Physician, heal thyself.

She didn’t feel as though the fatigue was coming from any one issue. More that it was a build up of multiple different factors.

The loss of Maya Ortega in her medical bay. The subsequent, entirely sudden disappearance of Jirel. The recent out-of-character message from Admiral Bryce Jenner, Jirel’s adoptive father back in Starfleet, specifically requesting that she update him on their situation.

And on top of that, she knew that she was still weighed down by an extra slab of guilt inside her. About Daniel Cartwright. The mortally wounded young ensign she had left behind on the doomed USS Navajo.

She had sent a letter to his surviving family some months ago, to try and offer some sort of closure about his death. But while that act had at least appeased her sense of guilt to an extent, it had never truly erased it.

And she had never received a reply.

“It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?”

Natasha opened her eyes with a start to see Palia Rani standing a short distance away from her on the platform, gazing out into the valley.

“My apologies,” she smiled, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, I—You didn’t,” Natasha managed to lie, doing her best to suppress any strong thoughts or feelings despite what she knew about Betazoid ethics.

Palia’s calming demeanour was in stark contrast to her flustered moment, but somehow the sense of tranquillity that the Betazoid woman was giving off seemed to calm her.

“The original colonists who first moved here called it Loneel Valley, after the region on Betazed. But, after a public vote three years ago, we changed it to Serenity Valley. Seemed more fitting, don’t you think?”

Natasha looked back down at the view and nodded.

“From up here, it looks so sparsely populated,” she observed.

“This region is,” Palia nodded, “There are larger conurbations elsewhere. But many of the first settlers came seeking peace and solitude. So many of them opted to build homes out here. Close enough to feel a sense of community, but far enough apart to gain a measure of isolation. For Betazoids, being alone with one’s thoughts is…a rare pleasure.”

“I can imagine,” Natasha nodded again, still struggling to undo the fresh knot that had developed between her shoulder blades as she tensed up in the presence of the telepath.

Peace and solitude, she found herself thinking. Chance would be a fine thing.

Palia took a slow and entirely unthreatening step towards her, and Natasha found herself fighting off the urge to mirror that move with a step back. As if she could somehow keep out of range of her abilities like that.

“If I’m not intruding too much,” the Betazoid offered, “May I ask a question?”

A significant part of her wanted to say no. But Natasha reluctantly realised that if she really wanted to block herself off, she would have stayed in bed. As Sunek appeared to have done today.

“Of course,” she replied, not liking where this was going.

“As I told you yesterday, we do not probe thoughts without consent. But we do get a general sense of another person from the emotional cues they give off. And, please don’t take this the wrong way, but ever since you arrived, we have sensed how…troubled you all feel.”

Natasha forced herself to focus back on the view in front of her, willing some measure of serenity to come from the aptly-named valley below.

“I don’t mean to pry,” Palia continued in her ever-affable way, “But it would be remiss of me, given my profession and abilities, not to at least offer you the chance to talk about it. If you want to…let me in.”

Still feeling no different, and idly wondering if she could sue the colonists who voted for the name change for false advertising, Natasha mustered her friendliest smile and glanced back to the kindly Betazoid, deciding to at least give her a sliver of the truth.

“That’s a very generous offer. But I don’t think that’ll be necessary. We…lost someone recently, but we’re getting through it. Just being here is helping.”

She offered the lie out of hope more than anything. She couldn’t speak for the others, but she was still feeling some record low levels of serenity.

Still, whether the telepath picked up on her minor untruth, and she was sure she did on some level, Palia seemed to accept the answer.

“If that is your wish, I will of course respect it,” she nodded, “But, should you change your mind, I would be available again this evening. After my day’s lessons.”

“Lessons?” Natasha asked, teacher to divert the conversation elsewhere.

“Yes, We have had a number of new helpers join us just recently. We’re very grateful for the additional help, but we also need to make sure they are appropriately trained. Fortunately, Lyssa and the others are very fast learners.”

Something deep in Natasha’s Starfleet-trained brain was further piqued by that comment. Back then, before she had ended up in the more agricultural world of the Bounty, she was just like all Academy graduates. Eager to find mysteries. And answers to those mysteries.

“Lyssa and which others?”

Palia seemed a little puzzled at this sudden line of questioning from the visitor, but she calmly responded nonetheless.

“Azaria, Jenna, a few more of the younger helpers. They arrived here on a transport from another Betazoid colony out in the Rasmis sector.”

Natasha considered that list of names. Names that just happened to belong to the group of women that had been showing Sunek an unexpected level of interest at the dinner table the night before.

Granted, Sunek’s bizarre irresistibility to a sizable portion of the female population of Corvin III wasn’t exactly the sort of vast cosmological mystery that her Starfleet brain had been trained to deal with. But at this point, to distract herself if nothing else, she was taking what she could get.

“Is there a problem?” Palia pressed lightly.

“No,” Natasha smiled back, “No problem. I won’t keep you from your lessons. But…I might have some more things to talk to you about later, if that’s ok?”

“Of course,” Palia nodded.

With that, the senior helper turned and walked back towards the main complex, literally leaving Natasha alone with her thoughts.

She considered the odd scenes at the dinner table the night before, and the information that Palia had just offered, as she looked back out at the serene view in front of her.

It was probably nothing.

Maybe she had just misinterpreted the situation. Maybe the women were just being friendly, in that innately Betazoid manner that often came across as flirtation. Maybe she was just in the minority of women in the Alpha Quadrant who found Sunek intensely irritating, rather than innately desirable.

But she couldn’t shake a nagging thought in her Starfleet-trained brain. A thought that told her not to accept anything at face value, and to do some more digging. The universe was rarely that straightforward.

And whether there was anything to it or not, it would at least be a short-term distraction from her own internal strife.

So she considered the list of names, and their apparent origin from the Rasmis sector, and wondered how she might do some more digging.

Then, she realised that she had a potential way in. And she walked off in search of Sarina.

Leaving serenity behind.

* - See Star Trek: Bounty - 104 - "It’s Not Easy Being Green" for the full story.

Trek Writers Room · May 20, 2024

Just found this and Im going to try and figure out how to follow this thread... I really liked where (I think) you are going. New to this site, so there is a bit of a learning curve.

I want to put my own fic up, but there is a learning curve there as well. Anyway good job and thanks for the read.

Star Trek: Bounty - 201 - "Something Good Happened Today"

Commander

Captain

Commodore

Commander

Commander

Commodore

Commander

Commodore

Captain

Commander

Commander

Commodore

Commander

Commodore

Commander

Commodore

Commander

Commodore

Commander

Lieutenant

Similar threads

We value your privacy