Chapter Text
Part Two (Cont’d)
Tepal’s tour was proving to be as extensive as it was dreary.
“A magnificent craft,” he stated flatly, “The Romulans call it a D’deridex-class. Sixty-three decks in total. Maximum speed of warp 9.6, and, of course, you’re already aware of the cloaking device…”
The stout Vulcan may have embraced his emotional side, but as he led Denella and Jirel down yet another of the Tolaris’s dark metal corridors, he still needed some work on his presentational skills. For most of the tour, it sounded to Jirel like he was just reading facts off a trading card.
“…The whole ship is over 1400 metres in length,” he continued to drone on, not exactly disproving the Trill’s suspicions, “With a mass of some 4,320,000 metric tonnes…”
Jirel and Denella had been the only two who had ultimately taken up the offer of the tour.
Sunek had disappeared with T’Len as soon as dinner was over, holding hands and giddily rushing off like two furtive teenage lovers trying to get some alone time away from their parents. Meanwhile, Natasha had surprisingly volunteered to go with Klath back to the Bounty and help to unload the supplies. Jirel suspected that decision had been down to the particularly uncomfortable time she’d had during their meal. She didn’t want to risk any more faux pas.
Still, as Tepal continued with his lengthy description of the precise composition of the metal panelling in the corridor walls, Jirel found himself feeling a little jealous that he hadn’t decided to go with a couple of hours of manual labour instead.
“…The Romulans seem to prefer tritanium to lighter composites,” the Vulcan noted, as Jirel suppressed a yawn, “I believe this is designed to help with ship rigidity while at impulse…”
To Jirel’s side, Denella was at least paying attention to Tepal’s spiel. Although she was more unimpressed with what she was seeing rather than what she was hearing. The more she saw of the Tolaris, the less it looked like the unimpeachable Romulan Warbird that had first confronted them in Sector Gamma 432.
In fact, in her considered and semi-professional engineering opinion, the Tolaris was a complete wreck.
The disrepair they had seen earlier wasn’t even half of it. As they followed Tepal on his exhaustive tour, she noted wires and cabling hanging down from various panels all over the ceiling, apparently unconnected to anything, while every few steps they walked past an exposed section of isolinear circuitry in the walls. Barely half of the lights on the entire ship seemed to work, computer terminals flickered and blinked as if they were low on power, and when they reached the occasional section where the ship’s guts were at least covered up, the walls and decking were a hodge-podge of multicoloured panels, all badly sealed together.
Despite the vast scale and the grandeur of the Warbird, she wasn’t lying to herself when she thought she’d be ashamed if even a fraction of the Bounty was left in this sort of condition.
It also wasn’t hard to spot that the Tolaris was unnaturally empty for a vessel of her size. Aside from the odd smiling Vulcan here and there, the corridors were virtually deserted. But despite all that, Tepal delivered his dry tour with all the reverence and pride as if they were touring the decks of the USS Enterprise herself.
“…And once we’ve completed work on the internal sensors, we’ll have full automation of shipboard systems…”
They turned a corner and Tepal deftly swerved around a stray plasma relay spitting sparks out onto the deck as if it wasn’t there. Behind him, Jirel gave the crackling relay a significantly wider and more tentative berth, glancing over at Denella and matching her look of concern.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Jirel muttered sarcastically.
“There is still some work to do,” Tepal replied with a shrug, in what Denella thought was a contender for the understatement of the century so far.
“I’ll say,” she replied, noting that Tepal’s expression turned notably more annoyed at this latest comment on the state of his ship.
“Still,” he countered, “Before the Tolaris, we travelled on an old Tellurian freighter. It was old, run down, barely capable of warp 4. Sokar felt it was time for an upgrade.”
“I can imagine that,” Jirel mused, “But, I mean, back when I found the Bounty, I thought I’d bitten off more than I could chew just getting her spaceworthy. This is something else.”
“Yes, well. Yours is a perfectly fine little ship—” Tepal began.
“Little?” Denella muttered. This time, it was her turn to look offended by a comment about her ship.
“And yet,” the Vulcan continued, “If you had been fortunate enough to find a Vor’cha-class cruiser, or a Galaxy-class starship, would you have turned it down?”
Jirel considered this for a moment. “Well, I’d probably have needed a bigger crew.”
“You definitely would,” Denella added with a good-natured grin, “You think my overtime costs are bad now.”
They reached the doors to a turbolift and Tepal pressed the controls to summon a lift car.
“Speaking of crews,” Jirel added, “Seems a bit empty around here?”
Tepal’s face betrayed another look of irritation at this question. Or perhaps something even deeper than that. A look of anger. “There are eighty-seven of us onboard,” he admitted eventually, “Many of the other members of the V’tosh ka’tur decided not join us.”
“Huh,” Jirel replied, “Any reason why?”
Tepal didn’t even pretend to offer an answer to that question, and merely turned back to the controls to call for the lift again.
“I’m sure there’ll be plenty more onboard once word gets out about the Tolaris,” he replied, switching effortlessly back to monotonous tour guide mode, “After all, the D’deridex-class has room for a crew complement of up to 1500…”
The turbolift doors opened, and Jirel went to step inside, secretly glad that the doors had broken up Tepal’s latest monologue.
Suddenly, he felt the Vulcan grab him, stopping him from going any further. It was only then that he saw that, while the turbolift doors had opened, the turbolift itself didn’t seem to have got the message. His right foot dangled out into the empty lift shaft, a good forty-floor drop below it.
For his part, Tepal kept a firm hold of the Trill until he retracted his foot safely back to terra firma, watching the scene unfold impassively.
“Apologies,” he said simply, “We are still having some minor issues with the turbolifts.”
Jirel looked back at Denella, who was staring at the empty space where the lift was supposed to be with a fair degree of shock.
“Good to know,” he managed weakly.
* * * * *
If one half of the Bounty’s crew were finding Tepal’s tour of the ship hard to take, the other half found themselves stuck in an equally trying situation.
Natasha and Klath had returned to the hangar bay to unload their cargo accompanied by T’Prin, who wasn’t the most talkative of the Vulcans they had met so far. But they had been joined by a younger and considerably more excitable Vulcan man called Ronek, who had clearly latched onto the emotion of pride more than any of the others.
Natasha sighed with exertion as she dropped the latest crate of supplies into the Tolaris’s hangar bay, sending an echoing sound around the expanse of the room, as Ronek continued his own soliloquy on the subject of the Tolaris.
“It really is a fantastic ship,” the lanky Vulcan persisted, effortlessly walking down the Bounty’s cargo ramp with a crate in his arms, “I personally worked with Tepal on repairing the weapons systems. Six full-spread disruptor arrays, twin torpedo launchers. Remarkable.”
“Sounds…great,” Natasha managed with a forced smile.
He had been talking almost non-stop since they had arrived back in the hangar bay. And while she had hoped that helping Klath unload the cargo would be a welcome break from the awkwardness of dinner, Ronek had ensured she had just ended up with a slightly different type of awkwardness.
“I apologise for Ronek’s candour,” T’Prin offered as she descended the ramp with a crate of her own, “The younger members of our crew tend to get rather sidetracked with how…cool everything is.”
No matter how many times she heard a Vulcan say the word ‘cool’, it didn’t get any less strange. But after her experience at dinner, she decided to keep that particular observation to herself.
“Nothing wrong with being proud of what we’re building here,” Ronek shot back, with a slight edge of irritation in his voice.
Natasha left the Vulcans to their discussion and headed back up the ramp. She found Klath in the cargo bay assessing the remaining tritanium sheets, and glanced back to make sure that Ronek and T’Prin were still suitably distracted by each other.
“What do you think?” she said simply. She knew that she wouldn’t need to expand her question any further for the Klingon’s benefit.
“I do not like this,” he admitted freely.
Despite her own worries rattling around inside of her, she had to admit that she found the Klingon’s candid response settling. In fact, one of the other reasons she’d volunteered for this task was to spend time with him. He was the one member of the Bounty’s crew that she had struggled to connect with so far, and while there had been a softening to the edges of their relationship recently, she still wanted to do more to build a friendship.
Back in her cabin, her unfinished project remained. She had spent time here and there combing through the records of the USS Navajo’s dead crew, searching for the face of the ensign that still haunted her dreams. The man she had left to die. But with progress on that task proving slower than she had hoped, she felt like she needed all the friendships she needed right now. Even a friendship with a grumpy, often monosyllabic Klingon.
Klath, for his part, wasn’t worried about anything quite so personal. He was more concerned about the tactical disadvantage they were in right now, locked away in the belly of the Tolaris.
He was also somewhat concerned about the smell. Vulcans or no Vulcans, the Tolaris still smelt like Romulans to him.
“Me neither,” Natasha muttered back, checking over her shoulder to make sure they were still alone, “There’s something…off about all this. Especially the Vulcans.”
“The thin one talks a lot,” Klath replied.
Natasha stifled a smile and shook her head. That wasn’t quite what she meant. “It’s more…I mean, I haven’t known Sunek, or the V’tosh ka’tur for very long, but everyone we’ve met on this ship seems darker somehow.”
“Darker?”
“You don’t see it?” she persisted, “I know they’re still laughing and smiling, but there’s something underneath it. Something twisted. It’s like…they’re all unhappy. Angry, even.”
Klath didn’t reply. Given his own mood, he felt any comment on that would be hypocritical.
“It’s…unnerving,” she concluded. Deep down, for possibly the first time in her life, she wished the Bounty had a Betazoid onboard.
Klath looked down at the remaining tritanium sheets and considered this for a moment.
“I believe it may be prudent for me to return to the cockpit and find a weapon,” he said eventually, “From a tactical perspective—”
“As I was saying,” Ronek’s voice echoed up into the cargo bay as he ascended the ramp, interrupting their conversation, “The torpedo launchers really were a challenge to get back online. If this ship really was seized by the Dominion, they took those apart completely.”
Klath and Natasha shared another wordless glance, conveying their collected frustrations at the fact that the Ronek show was starting up again.
“Fascinating,” Natasha managed, without meaning it.
“Well, it makes sense,” he continued as he walked over to them, “After all, they were adversaries in the war. And it’s always important to know the weapons that your adversaries have available to them, don’t you think?”
He looked directly at Klath as he said this. The Klingon couldn’t help but feel like that had been deliberate. As ever, Ronek was smiling, but as Natasha had noted, Klath now saw that there was something behind the smile. They stared at each other for a moment, before Ronek gestured to the tritanium.
“Do you need some assistance here?”
Klath glared back as if he had just been personally insulted. All immediate thoughts of returning to the cockpit for a weapon were momentarily forgotten. “I am fine,” he replied tersely, reaching down and picking up another of the metal sheets with no little amount of effort.
As the Klingon staggered back over to the ramp, moving slightly faster than he had before to prove just how little assistance he needed, Natasha stifled a smile and picked up another of the cargo containers, getting back to work for the time being.
She still felt unsettled, though. Partly from the nagging feeling she couldn’t shake that Ronek and T’Prin were watching their every move like a pair of hawks. But also because she couldn’t shift one particular question from her mind.
It was a question that had first popped up when Sokar had introduced himself as a member of the V’tosh ka’tur and welcomed them onboard the Tolaris. And she was worried that it was a question that she didn’t want to know the answer to.
What does a hippie need with a starship?
* * * * *
The storm was raging all around.
He stood on the deck of the ship and tried to lean into the wind as it buffeted him, just as another wave crashed over the side of the vessel and drenched the thin tunic he was wearing. He shivered as the full chill of the wind hit his soaking wet form and desperately tried to keep his focus on the task at hand.
It was a deceptively straightforward task, the same task it had always been. Simply to achieve a state of perfect balance on the deck. Legs slightly apart, arms out to your sides.
The fact that it was so straightforward was the main reason that the Voroth Sea scenario was the first meditation technique that most Vulcan parents taught their children. Except in the traditional scenario, the sea was calm. Achieving harmony and balance was easy. In the midst of the violence of the real Voroth Sea, Sunek could barely stand up, never mind balance.
Behind him, he heard the main sail of the ship slapping against the mast as the storm whipped it back and forth. He tried to ignore it, wishing for a break in the weather, even though he knew that one wasn’t coming. Because that wasn’t what the Voroth Sea was really like. It was far too violent a place for breaks in the weather.
And so, as he faced down the impossible, instead of a feeling of inner calm and serenity, Sunek was just annoyed. Very annoyed.
“Screw it,” he shouted out above the tumult of the swirling wind, “This is dumb!”
He opened his eyes, blinked a couple of times and refocused on his surroundings.
He stood in the middle of T’Len’s quarters on the Tolaris, as she watched on from where she sat on the bed in the corner of the room. It was a generously sized room, with a bed, sitting area and a dining room with a food replicator. But it was also plain and cold, a lack of personal objects on display anywhere meaning that they may as well just been in some anonymous guest facilities.
“You know,” he sighed as he rubbed his eyes to help clear his head, “When you said we should go back to your quarters, just the two of us, I was kinda hoping—”
“You see the lack of logic now?” she asked, standing and walking over to him, “The hypocrisy, that they try to teach the Voroth Sea scenario to every Vulcan child? Don’t you hate it?”
Sunek’s mind was still fuzzy. He walked over to the dining table at the side of the room and sat down, trying to get his thoughts in order and attempting to hide his continued disappointment that she had brought him back here for a debate about meditation.
“Well,” he said eventually, “It was definitely easier when I was a kid.”
She sat down next to him and placed her hand on his. Sunek felt the familiar crackle of electricity, and that calmed him more than any peaceful meditation technique ever could.
“It was Sokar that helped me to understand,” she said, “Helped me to practise that form of meditating.”
“You really do that every day? Imagine yourself in the middle of that storm?”
She nodded. He considered this for a moment, remembering the tempest in his mind.
“You ever manage to balance?”
She didn’t answer, but she smiled. Behind her, the door to her quarters opened and Sokar strode in confidently.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he offered as he walked.
“Way to knock,” Sunek said with a grin. But Sokar didn’t grin back. He sat down with them, steepling his fingers in front of him.
“It’s been good to see you, Sunek. T’Len was right. You would make a fine addition to our cause.”
Sunek stifled a snort. “Your ‘cause’? Ok, who died and made you King of the Maquis—?”
He stopped himself and looked slightly awkward at his own comment, continuing in a slightly more sheepish tone.
“I mean…I know they, y’know, all actually died. I wasn’t trying to—Is it still too soon to joke about—?”
“Is he ready?” Sokar asked T’Len, cutting off Sunek midway through his confused rambling.
She didn’t reply, but she nodded.
“Ready for what?” Sunek asked, maintaining his grin but feeling an edge of concern, “Guys, come on, I know you missed a few birthdays, but you really don’t need to throw me a surprise party.”
Sokar stood and slowly walked over to a set of computer controls on the wall of the quarters. After a moment, music drifted out through speakers hidden somewhere around the room. Sunek didn’t recognise the piece immediately, but it clearly wasn’t designed to be soothing. Harsh percussion backed up by aggressive stringed instruments.
“Do you remember me telling you about Doctor Sevik?” Sokar asked.
Sunek blinked a few times in confusion. Did he remember that? He couldn’t be certain. And the cacophonous music wasn’t helping. “I…think so?” he managed, “Crazy Vulcan doctor, right?”
“Something like that,” Sokar replied, smiling without warmth, “I told you about his techniques for purging emotions. About the pain he caused. The mental torture. And I also told you that, one day, I would like to get my revenge on him for all of it. For all of the Vulcans that suffered in his hands.”
Sunek glanced at T’Len, then back at Sokar, not sure where this was all going. And not entirely sure that he wanted to know. “Like, leave a flaming bag of sehlat turds on his doorstep? That kinda thing?”
The music stepped up in tempo. The harsh chord progression made Sunek flinch involuntarily.
“It’s a Romulan piece,” Sokar offered, gesturing to the music, “The ship’s library is full of them, as you’d expect. Still, I quite like this one.”
Sunek was starting to feel a tad claustrophobic. T’Len gripped his hand again. The tingle that went through his body calmed him a tad. But not entirely.
“The composer’s name was Kolas, the database tells me,” he continued, “A prolific and quite accomplished musician on Romulus a century or so ago. I’ve been through his entire catalogue since we found the Tolaris.”
“You don’t say?” Sunek offered, failing to disguise his disinterest in Romulan composers, nor his growing concern about the situation he was in.
“He writes with such passion, such intensity. Makes a change from the Vulcan dirges we were forced to endure as children, don’t you think?”
The symphony grew louder and angrier. The strings screeched out the final section of the opening sonata. Sunek felt a growing intensity around them in the room that was making him distinctly uncomfortable. T’Len stood and walked behind him, starting to gently massage his shoulders. The tingle of electricity became stronger.
“But I suppose that’s Vulcans for you, isn’t it,” Sokar continued with a dry chuckle, “What do you expect from a civilisation that thrives on ignoring and repressing their emotions so completely.”
As he spoke, he started to pace around the table where Sunek sat, disappearing from view behind him before emerging on the other side.
“Vulcan music is so rigid. So precisely constructed and scrupulously formed. But ultimately, so…empty.”
The music shifted into an altogether more foreboding second movement. Sokar vanished behind him again on his second lap of the table, as T’Len massaged his upper back. Or was it his third lap? Sunek was struggling to keep track.
“Look,” he managed to get out, “If you’re both angling for a bit of kinky stuff, I’m totally ok with that, but I do insist on some ground rules—”
“Doctor Sevik was a lot more than just some crazy doctor, Sunek,” Sokar hissed from somewhere behind him.
A blast from the Romulan horn section pierced the room. Sunek felt a chill run down his spine. He tried to focus, through the music, the massage, the whole atmosphere.
“He was a revered Vulcan medic, one that my parents sent me to, along with many other Vulcans. Over and over again, for his…groundbreaking treatment.”
Sokar’s voice positively dripped with anger and bile as he spat out those words. Sunek felt his mouth beginning to dry up. The pace of the music picked up, an urgency in the crash of the drums. Sokar disappeared behind him again. On his fourth lap. Or was it his fifth?
“Guys,” Sunek managed to get out, “Come on now, this is getting a bit weird. Actually, more like a lot weird—”
“You never experienced it yourself, did you? You have no idea what the pain was like. What I had to endure. What all of his patients had to endure. If only you had, you would understand.”
The music reached a molto allegro passage. T’Len’s hands reached Sunek’s lower back. Sunek felt a bead of sweat drip down his face.
“So perhaps,” he heard Sokar whisper, “You need to be shown…”
Before Sunek could begin to process what he meant by that, he felt T’Len’s hands reach out and grab his arms with a vice-like grip, holding them in place behind him.
“Hey! What the hell—?”
Sokar moved back in front of him, staring back at him with an intense look of anger. Sunek tried to writhe away, but T’Len held him firm, seemingly with the strength of ten men. The tempo of the music rushed on, faster and faster. A cacophony of strings danced around the horn section. The chords kept threatening to resolve, but never did.
Sokar reached out towards him with his hands. Sunek’s eyes grew wider as he felt fingers making contact with familiar pressure points across his face.
“No!” he snapped, now very much in a full-on panic, “Sokar, don’t! Don’t do that—!”
The music played on. Faster and faster. Sunek writhed helplessly. He couldn’t see from where he was sitting, but T’Len had started to cry.
Sokar opened his mouth and began to speak.
“My mind to your mind…”
Sunek screamed.