Chapter One

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alan Christopher was not fond of medical examinations.  He wasn’t sure why; it was merely one of those things that didn’t resonate with him.  Perhaps the reasons were based upon the fact that these were situations in which he had little control.  His fate was in the hands of one of the Starlight’s experienced medical practitioners—and in this instance, that experience was culminated in the eternally cranky form of Sarah Hartman.

 

“Nothing is wrong,” she said as she waved a cylindrical scanning device in front of Alan’s chest.

 

“Of course nothing is wrong,” he said pleasantly.

 

Hartman stopped mid-scan and looked at Christopher with a quizzical glare.  “Being hit with polaron torpedoes and phasing into an energy being certainly is not right,” she retorted.

 

The events were still vivid in Christopher’s memory.  The Doctor, of course, spoke of the events that had taken place on Ka’Tula Prime several weeks ago when Christopher had stumbled upon an ancient Elorg lab while searching for his sister.  The lab had contained a highly advanced weapon that had prematurely activated, striking down Christopher.

 

In the days that followed, he had “phased” into an energy being on several occasions.  At first, they had believed the weapon caused the instances, but now, Alan wasn’t so sure.  “My contact with Drayan must have had something to do with it,” he decided.

 

To heal her brother, Drayan used her advanced psionic powers to merge with him.  Certainly that theory had some merit, but it was not one that Drayan had been eager to pursue, for she did not want her abilities to become general knowledge among the Ka’Tulan population.

 

“I’m not worried about it,” Christopher added.

 

Jamming the scanning device into the top of the tricorder, Hartman raised yet another quizzical eyebrow.  “You could have a gaping hole in your head, and you still wouldn’t be worried,” she mused.  “Hell, you probably wouldn’t even come to sickbay.”

 

“And miss out on this wonderful bedside service?”

 

Hartman sighed.  “You’d be dead without me.”

 

“No,” countered Christopher, “I’d just have one less thorn in my side.”  He chuckled, and then slid off the biobed that he had been seated upon.

 

Shaking her head to the contrary, Hartman persisted, “Dead as a doornail.”

 

“Strange, I don’t see too many nails on these doors,” mused Christopher.

 

Slowly coming up alongside of him, Hartman matched his tone.  “That’s because I haven’t killed too many patients.”

 

Though the Doctor spoke in jest, Christopher knew there was some truth to the statement.  Doctor Hartman’s record was impeccable when it came to number of lives saved.  And reluctantly, he had to admit—if only to himself—that he was indeed among that group of saved patients.

 

Clasping his hands together, Christopher expelled a long sigh and turned back to face Hartman.  “So what are you going to do with me?”

 

“Observe you.”

 

“I said it was nothing to worry about,” said Christopher evenly.

 

Hartman frowned.  “Who’s the Doctor, here?”

 

That was an easy one.  “You are,” replied Christopher.

 

She nodded.  “And so, we will observe you until I am not worried.”

 

Alan didn’t know what to say; he was practically flabbergasted.  “You…are worried?”

 

“It’s my job to worry.”  The tone in her voice had been so utterly neutral that Christopher found himself unable to tell if she had been kidding or not…  And amidst that air of confusion, Hartman turned on her heel and made her way to her next patient.

 

 

 

Standing in the center of his relatively Spartan quarters, Talyere couldn’t believe that, after six months, they remained virtually untouched.  Everything was just the way he remembered it, so much so, that Talyere thought he could envision the very footprints he had planted in the carpet before his fateful journey to Inferno’s Citadel all those months ago.

 

Running his fingers along the edge of his desk, Talyere smiled at the opulent environment in which he currently resided.  Blood did not stain the floors, handcuffs did not adorn the chairs, and treachery did not taint the crew.  That was daily life on any given Elorg vessel, and after spending five months on one, Talyere had suddenly realized that he was not one with his people.

 

But that was hardly of consequence to Talyere.  The majority of his people believed him to be dead, killed at the hand of Xi'Yor only moments before the Inkhezi’s fateful demise in the sulfur lagoons of Gildebron III.  At the time of his rescue, Talyere had simply been pleased to be alive, but when he realized he was considered dead, he began to sulk… But knowing that he was not one with his people helped to lessen the blow.

 

Suddenly, Talyere was brought out of his deep thoughts by the chiming of his door.  He quickly came about.  “Enter.”

 

The doors slid apart to reveal Talyere’s good friend, Lieutenant Bator.  In his hands, the Phobian held the thick, archaic book that had landed Talyere in so much trouble to begin with, The Tome of Na’zar.  The Elorg smiled faintly.  “En taro adun, Lieutenant.”

 

Bator nodded politely.  “Talyere.  I was relieved that we were able to save you from Xi'Yor’s ship.”

 

“I, too, was relieved,” admitted Talyere.  “Death was not something I was looking forward to experiencing.”

 

Bator grunted.  “You were lucky,” he said.

 

“Perhaps,” allowed Talyere, nodding indecisively.  “Perhaps not.”

 

“Oh?”

 

Talyere nodded.  “During my stay, I spent many cycles in isolation, during which not even Xi'Yor would make his presence known.  Not wanting to squander the time, I naturally turned to meditation to focus my strength.”

 

“Strength and luck, then,” said Bator, revising his earlier statement.

 

Still, Talyere demurred.  “While it is certain that strength comes from within, it alone was not enough to keep one’s morale intact.  Consequently, I appealed to the chi-goehs for their strength and wisdom to assure my endurance.”

 

Chi-goehs was an Elorg term meaning “sacred echoes,” referring to the honored dead in Elorg society.  Even so, the very notion of sacred echoes was considered preposterous by most Overseers, and consequently, was not widely accepted by the rest of the Bloc.  But Talyere, no longer in the good graces of his people, had little else to turn to.

 

“And?” said Bator, waiting for Talyere to continue.

 

The Elorg expelled a generous sight.  “They did not speak, of course,” he said evenly, “but perhaps my appeal to their eternal wisdom prompted them to look out for my well being…”

 

Bator only nodded.  Clearly, he shared the feelings of the majority of the Elorg, dismissing the sacred echoes as myth.  Talyere had no evidence to prove that the chi-goehs truly existed, and consequently could not dispute Bator’s position; he would simply respect it.

 

With that said, Talyere turned his attention to the torn and tattered book in Bator’s arms.  “Did you find it useful?” he inquired.

 

Bator looked down at the book and nodded.  “On many occasions; the data on the Mersah Tolidas was invaluable.”

 

Though he had heard of the malevolent species, Talyere had never encountered them.  But from his understanding, anyone that did encounter them never returned.  “Was there an attack?”

 

“Yes,” said Bator.  “The Starlight.”

 

“And you survived?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Astonishing.”

 

“Indeed.”  Bator hefted the book from his arms and started to hand it back to Talyere, but the Overseer quickly refuted.

 

“Keep it,” he said evenly.

 

Bator frowned.  “I couldn’t,” he said softly.  “I know how important this book is to your people.”

 

Talyere raised his index finger and pointed at the sentiment.  “Genetic structure is the only thing I share with the Elorg; they are not my people anymore.”

 

“You can’t turn your back on them!” protested Bator.

 

Talyere sighed.  “The Elorg are a decadent species.  For 200 thousand years, they have sat in that subspace cavity and decayed into an abysmal, treacherous culture devoid of moral centers.  They have abused the greatness that was once The Tome of Na’zar, and reduced it to political shield.”  He paused, and looked Bator in the eye.  “Do you know when the last new law was passed in the Elorg Bloc, Bator?”

 

He shrugged.  “No.”

 

Talyere grabbed The Tome of Na’zar and opened the book to its table of contents. He slid his finger down the page until it stumbled upon a scratchy figure that was the date.  “Read it.”

 

Bator squinted as he made out the words, “Thirteenth Day of Rahvel, in the year…” But his voice summarily trailed off as he saw the year.  “You are saying that there has not been a new law in over 200 thousand years?”

 

It was pathetic, really—a species so stagnant that its laws had become something of an immutable legend.  “The Elorg are dying, Bator.  I will not serve that in which I no longer believe.”

 

The Phobian sighed.  “In any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing.  The worst thing you can do is nothing at all.”

 

“Wise words,” said Talyere softly.  “But committing another act of defiance against the Elorg would be comparable to tempting fate—and we cannot tempt fate without eventually getting scorched by it.  The time to deal with the Elorg will come soon enough, and I assure you, when that time comes, I will not back down from it.”

 

A faint smile suddenly cracked Bator’s stoic face.  “When that time comes, I would gladly be at your side.  If you will have me.”

 

“That,” said Talyere, “is what friends are for.”

 

 

 

“I’m worried about Kendall.”

 

It was not the first time that Alan Christopher had heard the words.  It certainly would not be the last.  But now that he had heard them from Rachael Meyer, he would certainly take those words much more seriously, for it was her opinion that something was terribly wrong.

 

They sat across from one another at the desk in Christopher’s ready room, casually sipping away at their beverages of choice.  For Christopher, it was a mug of hot chocolate—a habit he seemed to have picked up from Erin Keller.  Concurrently, Meyer was sipping at a tall glass of water.

 

“Jayla had some concerns about him earlier,” said Christopher, recalling his conversation with the young Trill in the science lab.  “He looked…depressed, I guess.”

 

Meyer nodded her agreement.  “It doesn’t take a doctor to figure that one out.”

 

“So I take it you talked to him…”

 

She sipped her water.  “I don’t know if you could call it that.  I got about a meter into his quarters before… well… Alan, he practically yelled at me.”

 

The words had caught Christopher so off-guard that he was forced to spit his mouthful of hot chocolate back in his mug to keep from choking on it.  “Yelled?”

 

She nodded.  “And insulted.”

 

“Why would Kendall do that?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Setting down his mug so he would not be tempted to take another sip, Christopher let out a long, nervous sigh.  “Should I talk to him?”

 

Rachael considered the question for several moments, swirling the water around in her glass the entire time.  “I don’t think so,” she finally said, sounding more than a little uncertain of herself.  “Kendall has always come to me with his problems; I’m one of his closest friends.  If he won’t talk to me, I don’t think he’ll talk to you.”

 

That was not what Christopher wanted to hear.  “Someone has to talk to him.  We can’t have him sulking in his quarters for the rest of his life.”  Interlacing his fingers on the surface of his desk, he locked his gaze with Rachael.  “What is your professional opinion, as ship’s counselor?”

 

“He’s clearly a troubled person that needs help,” she said softly.  “The problem is, he doesn’t want it.  I suggest that both you and I approach him.  If that doesn’t work, we may have a larger problem on our hands… something that requires more drastic measures.”

 

The moment he heard the words, Alan didn’t like what he was hearing.  “How drastic are we talking?”

 

Rachael shrugged.  “I wish I knew…”

 

 

 

Sprawled out on the floor without a care in the world, Cleo elicited several pathetic “meows” in order to entice her owner to visit her down on the floor.  But after several failed attempts to garner attention, the tiny brown cat flopped over, again calling to her owner for pets and rubs.

 

Unable to resist the cuteness any longer, Erin Keller’s heart finally melted, and she found herself kneeling down beside the ball of fluff.  “You’re just too cute!” she told the cat as she reached out to stroke its belly.

 

But she got no further than that.

 

With lightning reflexes, Cleo bolted from the floor and clamped his tiny teeth into Erin’s hand.  “You little shit!” she cursed as Cleo zoomed away at nearly the speed of light.  He zoomed by several more times before finally collapsing in front of the sofa—belly up, and meowing yet again.

 

Erin only smiled, and after shaking the pain out of her system, looked down to inspect the damage.  Sure enough, a tiny stream of blood trickled down her hand.  “You’re lucky I’m such a sweetheart,” Erin mused as she headed for waste extraction to wash off her wounds.

 

But her trip to waste extraction was cut short by the chiming of her door.  She wasn’t expecting company, which meant it was probably Alan, attempting to get himself out of the doghouse.  With that thought in mind, Erin almost ignored the chime and continued about her business, when it chimed again.

 

“Come in,” she beckoned, turning to face her visitor.

 

But when the doors parted, Alan did not appear.  In fact, it was probably the last person Erin had expected to see.  Her jaw dropped slightly.  “Kendall…”

 

 

 

Proceed to Chapter Two