Chapter Text
It's late when President Rillak beams over. So late Michael waits for her in the conference room that the president will use while she's here. Admiral Vance said the ship she normally uses is in spacedock for refit and repair. Most of Laira's staff is also taking the time to recharge, so Laira beams over alone, without ceremony.
Smiling as she looks at Michael, Laira folds her hands in front of her. "Captain Burnham, my apologies for taking over your schedule."
There's a sincerity there that's entirely unnecessary. A mission is a mission. "We're happy to have you, ma'am." Michael indicates the conference room. "I hope this will be sufficient. Your guest quarters also have a workspace. It might be a little antiquated—"
"I believe desks were old before they came to be on your ship, Captain."
Chuckling, Michael nods. "You've got me there." She leads Laira to the replicator, explains the security protocols and heads towards the door.
"At least it's under better circumstances this time," Laira says, fidgeting with her hands before she walks towards the replicator.
"Much improved, ma'am."
With a sigh, Laira orders a coffee, even though her day must have started earlier than Michael's. She turns, raktajino in hand, and her sheepish smile grows like one of Paul's mushrooms.
"Interesting nightcap," Michael says.
Taking a sip, Laira lets her shoulders fall a little. She starts to speak but Michael finishes for her. It's a guess, because Michael's known enough people who work too hard to know what that little wince is about. "You drink it because it helps with the headache."
"Very astute, captain."
"You're not hiding it well, ma'am. Must be getting tired."
Laira sips her coffee again. "Perhaps I've hid it for hours and just now it's starting to be obvious."
Gently, Michael touches her arm. "Or maybe I'm exceptionally perceptive, ma'am. You look fine."
"You have always been perceptive, but you're not a good liar." Laira touches her hand for the briefest of moments, smiling gently, then nods. "Good night."
"Good night, Madam President." Michael leaves her to her incredibly late coffee, thinking of Admiral Cornwell, and Captain Georgiou. Even Amanda would smile through a terrible headache and insist she was fine. It's a very old tradition Laira seems on course to uphold.
The second night, Michael convinces her to come eat dinner in the lounge. A change of scenery is good for anyone and it's potluck night, when everyone replicates something and they all share. It's an often an eclectic buffet, and Michael prefers to use the old style metal trays so some things don't touch. (Some flavors are not meant to be shared). Laira's very careful with her own tray, politely trying a little of everything - acknowledging all of the crew - and her tray is precariously piled high. Michael guides her to a back corner, so she doesn't have to worry about the crew watching her or any other protocols. She must be hungry.
Still, Laira's very careful with her fork and knife, cutting a piece from her flatbread. Michael tears a piece with her hands and dunks it into the one of the many dips.
"Don't have to stand on ceremony, ma'am."
Laira's eyes widen at the "ma'am" and the way she inhales has a hint of annoyance, but given permission, she attacks her food like a hungry sehlat. Her lunch meeting was nine hours ago, of course she hasn't eaten since then.
Michael swallows a smile. They eat in satisfied silence. Much later, after seconds and dessert, when Reno and Tilly start a card game that will end with someone losing their boots, Laira touches her forehead, just for a moment. The movement is quick, subtle, but it goes with crinkles around her eyes and the way she holds her head. Another headache then, but at least tonight she's smiling.
That's something.
"A local anti-histamine will have less side effects but since the airborne pollen's affecting her eyes, a local will be a little uncomfortable." Hugh shows Michael an ordinary hypospray and a modified one. "Stilll, she'll probably want the local. The antihistamines yesterday made her groggy."
"So next trip to Xugawa Five needs to be in winter?"
"As far from the blooming trees as possible." Hugh pats her shoulder, tucking the hypos into a small bag. "If you use the local, it has to go right into caruncles, the corners of her eyes. I'm happy to beam down—"
Michael smiles her thanks, shaking her head. "The negotiations are sensitive. I'm a good shot, don't worry."
"I'm sure you'll do great."
His faith in her helps a few minutes later when she's standing in a corner of the great hall on the planet, trying to help the president of the Federation stop crying.
Laira's eyes are red, and tears run down her face. She sniffs, and it has to be hell on her sinuses but she hasn't sneezed. "Are you going to tell me the pollen has some wonderful torture spikes in the shape of awful little hooks or something?"
"Horrible spikey polyhedra, with spikes in groups."
"Thank you." Chuckling, Laira daubs her eyes with her sleeves. "Now tell me why you're making a face."
"I'm not—"
The tilt of Laira's head insists that yes, she is, so fine.
"I have to inject it into your eyes."
"Oh is that all?"
"Well, you're so tall."
Laira's laughter has this genuine amusement that rings through her. "Should I sit down?"
"I don't know if you want me on my tiptoes while I do it, ma'am."
For a moment, they stare at each other, and Laira bites her lip, swallowing something she's not going to say. "I'm sure your hands are very steady."
She sits on a bench along the wall, and Michael takes the modified hypo from the bag. Lifting Laira's chin, she angles her head.
"I think it stings a little."
"Do your worst, Captain."
Michael could drown in her eyes, even red and weeping. They're blue and endless and there's so much faith in the way she looks through her.
Laira blinks and winces, gasping a little at the sudden pain but she holds still. She scrunches her eyes, blinks again, takes a breath and forces her eyes open so Michael can inject the other. Knowing it hurts, she should flinch, and she does, just a little, but it's in her hands and her body, but her head is still. Then it's over, Laira biting back a little gasp, and Michael holding her head so she can't rub her eyes, as much as instinct must want her too.
"Hugh said it should help almost immediately."
"So when I stop crying because I've been stabbed in the eye, the pollen won't bother me quite as much?"
"Exactly." Michael takes a handkerchief out of the bag - Hugh thinks of everything - and gently dries the tears from Laira's chin. Laira could do it herself, but there's something important about looking after her. President Rillak normally would have aides, probably even has her own doctor, but this is about Laira. She must know that. "How's the negotiation going?"
"Very smoothly, until I started crying uncontrollably." Laira sighs, looking away before she meets Michael's eyes. "The ambassador opened the patio doors so they could show me the redevelopment of their spaceport."
"And it's a nice spaceport?"
"It was a little blurry." Laira smirks a little and Michael hands her the handkerchief when she sniffs again. "Lieutenant Tilly and Commander Reno invited me to play cards again tonight."
"They invited you to clean out the competition."
"Like a palmiri beast?" That's Laira's real smile: the involuntary one that makes her eyes glow.
"Don't tell anyone I told you."
"It's our secret, Captain." Laira's hand covers her for a moment.
The air smells sweet and rich with flowers Michael doesn't know. "The trees making you cry smell incredible."
"Don't they?" Laira blinks twice more, touches her face a last time with the handkerchief and takes a breath.
"The card game starts at nineteen hundred."
"Are you implying they won't wait for me?"
"No ma'am." Michael stands, shifts Laira's sash of office on her shoulder so it's perfect. "Just trying to help your scheduling."
Laira starts to walk away, but pauses, looking back. "It's been awhile since anyone worried about how long my days are." She toys with her bracelet. "It's nice."
"Almost feels like we're alone together again, doesn't it?" Michael says, glancing down at her holo readouts on the empty bridge.
"I believe we are currently enjoying much better circumstances than trying to survive the subspace void left by the DMA."
"Much."
Zora's holographic self changes light patterns for a moment, as if acknowledging Michael's smile.
"It's quiet, isn't it?" Michael glances over the deserted bridge. Being able to give so much of the crew shore leave is a wonderful gift, even if it means the ship is just her and Zora. Tilly and some of her cadets are running some drills in engineering, since it's empty. Letting the crew all spend time on the gorgeous Vuutis II allows Zora to run a few complex diagnostics, even run some of the decks in low power mode.
"I find myself acutely aware of the absence of the crew's life signs. The air on the ship does not need to be recycled, nor do I need to account for their bioelectric signals."
"You're tracking them on the planet though, aren't you?"
"Of course, Captain." Zora pauses, reaching out to examine the crew. "I believe their dopamine levels indicate that they are having fun."
"I heard it's gorgeous down there."
"Sensor scans indicate an abundance of plant and animal life. The topography is also aesthetically pleasing."
Laira will be wrapped up in official functions all day and most definitely not hiking and surfing like the rest of the crew, but even she said it was beautiful. Out of everyone on board, she might need shore leave the most, but she's the one person Michael can't order to take some time off.
Michael finishes the last of the crew evaluations she was behind on, signs off on all the scientific research currently ongoing, and even takes the time to sit at her old science console, to track the passage of a cloud of micro meteors. They appeared to be in an elliptical orbit around the Vuustis star, but their trajectory is shifting.
"Zora, could you track this meteor cloud?"
"Yes, Captain. Do you believe it will endanger the ship or the planet?"
"It's not behaving as anticipated."
"I will continue to monitor it."
"Do you track all the space dust that doesn't behave how you want it to?"
Michael turns towards the voice. She didn't realize how engrossed she was in the micro meteors, but somehow she missed Laira transporting to the bridge.
"I try to, ma'am. Never know what space rocks are up to."
Laira's smile in return is so exhausted that Michael stands, starting towards her before she reminds herself that they're not— She doesn't—
"I have many extra chairs tonight, ma'am, if you'd like one."
Glancing around the bridge, Laira smiles a little more. She touches the back of the captain's chair. "Curious to see which one I'll take or is this a 'sit before you fall down' sort of thing?"
Michael can't tell her that she looks like hell, slightly warmed. The circles under her eyes are dark and there's something brittle about the way she's standing. Exhaustion? Something else entirely? "I would never presume, ma'am."
"You're too polite to tell me I look like shit."
Michael tilts her head, surprised. "Well—"
Passing the captain's chair, Laira touches the pilot's seat, then turns it to face Michael. "If Lieutenant Detmer won't mind?"
"I won't tell her."
"Our little secret then." Laira reaches up for her jacket, undoing the clasp. She sits very straight, forcing herself to have perfect posture. Michael starts towards her center seat, but takes Owosekun's place at OPS instead. Tapping the controls so it looks like she had a purpose for sitting here, she studies Laira under the better light of the viewer. She's flushed, not with pleasant exertion or the joy of shore leave; something else.
"Difficult discussions?" Michael makes the question light, finding things to check on her console.
"No," Laira answers with a sigh. "They were very pleasant. The planetary leadership council is charming and efficient, and the negotiations were mutually beneficial."
Michael looks at her again, careful not to stare too much. "Could you shift our orbit a few degrees south? I'm trying to get a better look at my errant space rocks."
Laira's eyeridges rise quickly. "I'm not a Starfleet certified pilot, Captain."
"Isn't that the beautiful thing about programmable matter? Do what you want to the interface, and move us to a higher orbit. Unless you're intimidated by the ancient controls."
"I've flown some old freighters, but Discovery would be the oldest ship I've ever flown, by several hundred years."
"I believe that would constitute an honor, Madam President."
Laira stretches her fingers, then rests them on the console. Programmable matter surges around her hands, forming an interface she's accustomed too. "What are you going to do if I fly her into the atmosphere?"
"Guess I'll have to trust that your dad was a good judge of talent."
Laira's proud little smile has a softness to it that Michael sees around her crew. Those who loved them are gone, yet they're with them. Discovery moves easily to a higher orbit and Michael broadens her scans.
"Captain," Hugh's voice interrupts them from sickbay. "I'm getting scattered reports of some kind gastroenteritis, could be viral, maybe some kind of toxin our initial scans missed. Eight crewmembers have returned so far with painful stomach cramps. "
"Should I recall the medical team?"
"That might be wise, captain. I'll keep you updated." Hugh's channel closes.
"Captain, transport activity is increasing," Zora says "Thirteen people have returned to the ship, all of them beaming directly to sickbay."
Michael turns, catching Laira's eye. She still seems distracted, like there's something on her mind.
"They have no reason to harm us."
"Did you hear any mention of a disease? Seasonal perhaps? Something they wouldn't think to warn us about?"
Laira turns her chair to Michael, keeping one hand on the console, steadying herself as much as the ship. "Most of their population is in the equatorial band, their weather is incredibly stable."
"Zora, use what Sickbay has discovered so far to search for a cause on the planet. Something microbial, perhaps a substance that's not toxic to the Vuustians."
"My space rocks are going to have to wait." Michael activates the biological sensors, turning all of Discovery's scanners onto the planet. "An equatorial orbit would be helpful, if I can impose again, ma'am."
Laira's hands glide over the controls, and the ship moves, sailing over the planet below so the sensors can get a better view. "Will this work?"
"Yes, I'm trying to get Zora enough data to help Dr. Culber figure out what it is."
Laira's the last person Michael thought she'd end up alone on the bridge with, but she's gently eager to help. She seems to need the distraction as much as Michael needs another pair of hands. Leaving OPS for the science console, Michael guides Laira through recalling the crew while she collates the incoming data.
There are more than thirty cases of some kind of stomach bug, most of them developing after the crew had been planetside for more than eight hours.
Laira was one of the first to beam down, and her hand's clammy when Michael accidentally touches her. Asking if she's all right will simply be ignored, so Michael works at the task at hand. The space rocks Michael never got to study swing close to the ship, providing the planet below with a spectacular meteor shower.
"Their meteor showers aren't usually until midwinter."
"Something jostled these rocks out of orbit, brought them closer."
Laira nods, both of her hands on the science console. The way she bites her lip seems to help her concentrate. "Is that a gravity problem?"
"Yes, probably a cosmic string fragment or dark matter. Nothing as dangerous as the DMA, don't worry."
"I was worried."
"This is a local phenomena." Patting her hand, Michael notices immediately that Laira's skin is damp with sweat, and the flush she had earlier is more noticable. Again she swallows the urge to ask if she's all right. Until she gets some of her bridge crew back, Laira is helpful and if she wants to ignore something, Michael can let her, at least for a little while longer.
Keyla and Joann arrive together, still dressed in their wetsuits, their hair wet from the sea. They had been talking about diving along the reef all of breakfast. Michael's happy they had time to do that together.
"Hear we missed out on the stomach bug," Keyla says.
"Maybe it doesn't affect the beach?"
Joann pats Michael's shoulder and Keyla wrings seawater from her red hair. "Hope you enjoyed your alone time, captain."
Laira smirks, taking a step towards the turbolift, ready to leave them alone, but she falters, balling her hand into a fist.
Catching her elbow comes more naturally than perhaps it should.
"Didn't go away?"
"And here I thought I was hiding it better." Laira holds her fist against her stomach.
Michael reaches for her badge, finding Keyla and Joann's eyes. "You have the bridge."
"You don't need to—" Laira swallows her protest, doubling up over her fist.
"Dr. Culber said it was painful."
Laira presses her lips together, reaching for the wall after they materialize into a busy sickbay. "Very."
Michael slides her hand along her arm, wrapping Laira's hand in hers. "Won't be long."
Whatever this is, there are more cases than beds, but Hugh, Dr. Pollard and the medical staff are moving through their patients, and there are a few smiles. They stand in a corner, Laira's warm fingers squeeze hers.
"Can you stand?"
"It's fine."
"You mean it feels like you've been phasered in the gut," Dr. Pollard breezes past them, runs a scan of Ensign Johnson before giving her another hypo. "We've come up with a functional anti-toxin for what seems to be some kind of algal-biproduct the Vuustians aren't affected by. They might even be adding it to their water for flavor."
Ensign Johnson slips from the biobed, the pain disappearing from her face. She's one of their nursing staff and she gets to work with them, still in her flowing yellow dress.
"See if Zora can find a way to replicate this faster."
"The anti-toxin is complex and the molecular construction needs to be precise or the incorrect chirality is dominant," Zora says from above them.
Gasping as she bends, Laira swallows her pain but it's clearly spiralling since the bridge.
Pollard meets Michael's eyes, and they guide Laira up onto the recently vacated biobed.
"None of our neuroblockers have been as effective as we like, but twenty-seven takes the edge off." Pollard runs another scan and mutters a curse. "Of course, twenty-seven is incompatible with your biochemistry, so give me a moment."
Sitting on the bed seems worse than standing, and there's sweat on Laira's temples now, creeping down from her hairline.
"Lie down."
Curling into her side, knees up slightly towards her stomach, Laira pulls both of her hands in, bringing Michael's with her.
"You drop the ma'am's when you're worried."
"Protocol can forgive me tonight."
Laira's incredibly soft blue eyes wordlessly insist that she does, before her eyes close tight. The dark glitter on Laira's eyelids makes a sharp contrast with how pale she's become.
"I'll be back," Pollard says, checking Laira's vitals above the bed.
Inhaling sharply, Laira keeps hold of Michael's hands, as if she's unaware of how tight her grip is. Her eyes open again, pain marring her expression, but she tries to smile. "Neuroblocker twenty-eight's always worked for me, must be my luck."
"They'll find an answer soon."
Nodding, Laira takes a shaky breath. "Thought they had."
Their cure is working around them. The patients on the biobeds vacate them for the crew on the floor and the speed of everyone around them is becoming less frantic. Pollard and Hugh will come to Laira when they can help her. She has to trust them.
"How was the handling?" Michael asks when Laira's focus drifts.
"What?"
"The helm."
"Thought we weren't telling."
"Keyla's on the bridge, she can't hear you."
Laira smiles at her, finding her eyes. "Have you even flown a freighter, captain?"
"Call me Michael, please, if we're ignoring protocol."
Laira nods, biting her lip. She whimpers, and there's an edge to her voice. "Freighters are huge. You have to monitor the bow and stern thrusters separately so you don't--" she stops, losing her ability to speak. Her grip is so tight that Michael's fingers are going numb.
"Spin the ship?" Michael finishes for her.
"Discovery is so small."
Chuckling, Michael leans a little closer. "I hope by that you mean quick and responsive, a real pleasure to fly."
"Not what--" Laira broke off again, fighting for words.
Michael whispers that she's all right. That she'll be fine, all the little nonsense things people say when they cannot alleviate suffering. Michael can do nothing to make it stop, but she can be a witness
Hugh and Dr. Pollard arrive together this time, hyposprays in hand. They speak to each other in low tones about Laira's vitals and her potential resistance to treatment.
"When did it start?" Hugh asks her, but the question doesn't get through. Laira's eyes are on Michael. "Ask her if she remembers the onset of symptoms."
Michael tilts her head towards him, confused.
"It's easier to follow one voice."
She leans in close to Laira's head, getting down by her eyes. "When did you feel sick? On the bridge?"
Laira shakes her head, shutting her eyes.
"Before?" Of course she'll nod. She works with headaches, kept working when she couldn't stop crying. Who knows how long she had this.
Hugh leans in, whispering. "We think it's waterborne, maybe something people on the planet drank, a flavoring or something in the ice. President Rillak was one of the first people to beam down."
They'd be hospitable to her, offer her food and drink.
"Why wouldn't she come to sickbay?" Michael whispers back.
"Nilsson said it started slowly, she was fine, until she wasn't. Sometimes people in positions of power put everyone before themselves." Hugh touches her shoulder, and his hand's warm. "You know how that is. This toxin gets worse the longer someone is exposed, Zora's making the anti-toxin as fast as we can, but—"
"Got it."
Hugh leaves her a stool, pulling it up to the bed.
Laira's breathing is too shallow, too fast, and Michael's all to aware of what that's like.
"Take a deep breath."
Grimacing, Laira opens her eyes. "That doesn't help."
"It does," Michael insists, leaning in closer. "Helped when I had a piece of asteroid through my leg."
"Are we trading stories?" Her attempt at a smile is a precious thing. "I—" she stops, swallowing a moan. She releases one of Michael's hands and Michael stretches her fingers.
When Laira looks away, Michael touches her forehead, then her cheek, trying to hold her attention. "I died, on Essof IV. We were trying to catch the Red Angel, who ended up being my mother in a time suit. The atmosphere was toxic." Shuddering at the memory, Michael shakes her head. "Not something I'd like to do again."
"We're lucky you're with us."
"Yes you are." Michael watches Dr. Pollard inject the first of many hypos and tries to think of something more pleasant to talk about.
"Detmer- Owosekun- were they…?"
"They went diving. They were talking about it at breakfast."
Laira finally takes a deep breath, perhaps only so she can better ask her question. "No, no, together. They went together." Something twinkles in her bright blue eyes, not pain or fever, but—
"You want to know if they were on a date."
Laira nods, lips pressed firmly together. That's what she wants to talk about. Joann and Keyla going diving together.
Michael grins, leaning against the bed so she can mock whisper. "They go on a lot of dates, never call them dates, of course, but they go together, every shore leave since we got back from the edge of the galaxy."
"What kind?"
So it's the gossip that makes her smile. Laira must not get to talk to anyone about their lives. Hers is too far away.
"Athletic things, hiking, diving, snorkeling— Joann says pilots don't like to hold still. Don't know if that's a problem you have."
Laira tilts her head towards Michael, making a little more space for Hugh to give her another hypo. "Sometimes."
"Not today."
"No." Laira's little squeeze of Michael's hand is not desperate and painful, but grateful. Gentle. "Saru?"
"Oh they garden. Walk the arboretum, go to the opera. I think Hugh and Paul got them into that. T'Rina has excellent ears for the opera."
That makes Laira smile, really smile, and she even mock stares at Michael. "You can't say that."
"I was merely insinuating that she enjoys opera."
Several more hyposprays later, everyone else has been released from sickbay and Hugh's frowning at Laira's life signs. "It's rather annoying that your metabolism burns through the anti-toxin like we're trying to poison you and ignore thes thing that's actually poisoning you."
"I like to provide a challenge," Laira says, almost cheerful. Neuroblocker thirty-one almost works and she's not in so much pain. That, or she's full of enough gossip about the Discovery crew to be fully distracted by where everyone is going for their dates.
"You've certainly kept us on our toes," Hugh says, checking another reading.
Pollard guides Michael back, lowering her voice. "We need to keep her overnight."
"Oh?"
"Her metabolism is unpredictable. We had to use some pretty heavy immune suppressors to get her system to accept the anti-toxin, and she'll need to avoid eating for about twenty-four hours."
"That's not going to go well with her schedule."
"I imagine not."
"I'll talk to Admiral Vance." Michael watches Laira and Hugh talk, then turns back to Dr. Pollard. "You need her to stay here because she'd be alone in her quarters."
"This is very unpredictable."
"I'll look after her."
"Captain?"
"If she comes home with me, you would worry less."
"We would."
Michael pats her arm and returns to the bed. Laira's finally on a suitable cocktail of neuroblockers and her smile's much more dazed than pained.
"Suppose it's been awhile since you had a roommate," Michael teases, offering her hand to help Laira sit up. "Luckily for you, I hear I'm an excellent one."
"Lieutenant Tilly and I will have to compare notes." Laira's still a little light on her feet, but she doesn't have to walk far. Getting to the bed would be enough.
"Zora will monitor your vitals, keep an eye on you."
"Make sure I behave myself?"
"Something like that." Hugh finally nods to them both. "Right straight to bed, don't stay up late talking."