Chapter Text
Conroy liked to think of himself as a moderately progressive man. While he didn’t see non-Terrans as true equals, and he couldn’t support Spock’s extreme reforms, his views were more charitable than most. In their own way, he thought each individual–regardless of their species–had their own strengths, their own advantages that they brought to the proverbial table, and sometimes he could convince himself to have an open mind to try to learn from people who weren’t just like him. Furthermore, he wasn’t fond of needless killing just to assert his dominance or make an example of someone. Oh, he had murdered plenty of times, but each had a good reason. Such an outlook had practical advantages as well. The less likely people thought you were to end your life, the less likely they were to end your own.
Ensign Shyraal was one such non-Terran who Conroy thought he could learn from. He had heard that the Andorian had impressive skills in martial arts and wanted not only to see it for himself but to experience it, so he arranged for the two of them to spar together. Once he gave it a bit more thought, he realized that Shyraal might be an ideal sparring partner. The two of them were close in height and in size…something that made it difficult for Conroy to find someone who was a fair match. Conroy had an open mind toward learning from the Andorian, but in his heart he still had a feeling that he would win in the end.
He arrived a few minutes late, a power play to leave the ensign waiting, just to remind him who had more important things to do and places to be. Ensign Shyraal was waiting, dressed in black athletic attire. His shirt was sleeveless, and as he gave the Terran salute Conroy noticed that the young Andorian was significantly more muscular than the drape of his uniform jacket led him to believe.
“Captain.” Shyraal also offered a polite bow. “I’m honored that you wanted to spar with me.”
Conroy returned his bow. “If the rumors I’ve heard are true, I think the honor might be mine.”
The two men took a starting stance. Physically, they were evenly matched with strength and speed, but they had different experiences and different training. Their bout was more like a game of chess fought with bodies, a competition of one strategy against another. Each fighter employed a skilled dance of feints, dodges, and blocks.
Shyraal began to show signs of exhaustion first. The expression on his face didn’t change, and he still had the endurance to keep up his strength and speed, but his breathing was heavier and his face turned a brighter shade of blue, the way a Terran’s might flush red or a Vulcan’s green. Just as he predicted, Conroy felt as though this match was his. He couldn’t help but move with a bit of cocky bravado, his strategy beginning to neglect defensive choices.
But then the damn Andorian started fighting dirty.
Shryaal reached in to grab Conroy by the collar of his shirt and pulled him in close. With his free hand he pulled a hidden knife from his boot and held the blade against Conroy’s throat.
“Doctor T’Ralia sends her regards.” Shyraal pressed the blade in firmly, and Conroy began to feel the sting of its edge against his flesh. “And if she was here, I think she might thank you.” Shyraall dragged the knife across Conroy’s throat. The flesh tore easily, cold steel creating a waterfall of hot, red blood. “You made her first officer, which means she’s captain now.”
Shyraall didn’t stop to clean off Conroy’s blood before leaving the practice room. He did try to wipe off as much as he could on his shirt, but streaks and splatters of red (making it clear that the blood was not his own) lingered on his face and hands. The front of his shirt was wet, but the black fabric hid just what it was wet with. He walked with a sense of confidence and purpose that he had never felt before: spine straight, shoulders back, head tall, and a half-smile on his face. As he moved through the ship’s corridors, the crew he encountered would freeze with a look of shock that a moment later turned into a quiet nod of approval and a Terran nod. A successful assassination would always guarantee respect aboard an Imperial ship, and these people didn’t even know who it was that Shyraal killed.
He had to tell T’Ralia first, and so he went to sickbay. She was almost alone there, her only company was the patient she attended to, a young woman. T’Ralia paused her work to stare at Shyraal when he entered, her dark eyes darting from one smear of red blood to my next.
“I’m not hurt. This isn’t my blood,” Shyraal explained, still standing just inside the doorway.
“Clearly. I take it there is a badly injured Terran somewhere on the ship who needs immediate medical attention.” T’Ralia asked. Vulcans were notoriously difficult to read, but if he had to hazard a guess, he’d say that T’Ralia was annoyed. Well, if that was the case what welcome news this would be.
“Not anymore. He’s dead.” He took a few more steps inside. Shyraal still held himself with confidence, but his shoulders relaxed a bit. “I thought you might like to be the first to know, Captain.”
T’Ralia stepped away from the biobed and moved closer to him. She stood tall with her shoulders broad, as if she was trying to prevent him from coming further into sickbay and closer to her patient. “I hope you didn’t put yourself at undue risk on my behalf.”
“Not at all. I had an opportunity I would have been an idiot to let slip by.”
“Understood. I would like to talk more later, but my patient requires privacy.”
“Of course Captain.” Shyraal gave a Terran salute.
“Please, no more of that when we’re in private. Do what you must to keep up appearances in public, but I have no taste for that display.”
“Well, I don’t have much more taste for ‘Live long and prosper.’” Vulcans and Andorians working together...unusual but not unheard of.
“Yes, Captain will suffice.”
“Yes, Captain.”
There was a chime at La’an’s door. After so much time waiting anxiously, unable to focus on anything but the waiting, hearing that sound was enough to make all the tension she felt sudden snap. La’an felt a jolt surge through her body and had to take a deep breath to calm herself before answering. “Come in.” Her voice was still tense and tight.
When she saw Maya standing in the door frame, La’an breathed a sigh of relief so intense her shoulders heaved. “Good to see you again.”
Maya narrowed her eyes. “Why are you acting like you expected something terrible to happen to me again?” She collapsed back on the bed.
“I’ve been worried, and I can’t break myself out of it.”
“Because you have so much to worry about.” Maya stared at the ceiling as she spoke. “Anyway, I’m glad I spoke to Doctor T’Ralia like you suggested. I didn’t need medical attention, I’m uninjured, but talking everything over with a Vulcan was more comforting than I expected. No sympathetic noises, no acting like I’m suddenly fragile, just an objective observer. And she and I have a shared the same sort of trauma.”
“Maya.” La’an spoke softly yet firmly. “You can’t go telling other people’s secrets, even to someone you trust.”
“It isn’t a secret. She made it seem like everyone on board knows about her and Albrecht.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
Maya sat up. “Noted, but I don’t think she’s going to care about it too much. She’s captain now. Some Andorian killed Conroy.”
La’an gasped. “Really?”
Maya nodded. “Things might begin to turn around.”