“Please sit down, Lenissa. It’ll be easier to talk openly that way. I assume that’s why you’re here, because you finally want to talk. Nothing of what’s being said here today will leave this room. If you wish, I won’t even put it on record that you visited me.”
The security chief remained silent for a moment. Finally, she slumped back onto the sofa. Sighing, she put her katheka cup down and stroked her hair and her antennae with her hands.
“All right,” she said quietly.
Courmont waited another moment but when zh’Thiin didn’t begin to speak, she prompted her. “When did this begin—this reluctance to have a relationship? At the Academy?” If so, zh’Thiin was probably another sad example of Starfleet’s method of grooming the perfect officers, while the humane side of things was increasingly forgotten. The enormous pressure to accelerate education, in order to compensate for the recent staff losses in combat, didn’t help either.
Zh’Thiin stared into the distance. “I don’t know. Maybe. No, probably much earlier. I’ve always been someone to pursue my goals with a burning ambition, even during my youth on Andor. Friends were all right. People I could surround myself with to let off steam. I never wanted more. I didn’t have the time for a serious relationship, and I didn’t want all the mess that comes with it. Responsibility, arguments… It’s bad enough with a two-person couple, but for us Andorians? Four personalities clash when serious emotions are involved. I couldn’t be bothered with that. And why should I?” She looked as if she wanted to say something else, but remained silent.
Thoughtful, Courmont took a sip from her katheka. “So you built walls inside, to prevent anyone from getting too close to you. And whenever someone threatened to even scratch at these walls, you got rid of them. That was always easy. A few hurtful words, maybe a flirt with another colleague, and the unwelcome admirer was gone.”
Zh’Thiin gnawed at her lower lip, nodding quietly.
Courmont continued: “But it didn’t work with Geron. He’s a telepath. He knows what it looks like inside of you, and he knows that you didn’t erect these walls because you don’t want to love, but because you’re scared.”
“What should I be scared of?” zh’Thiin asked defensively.
“You tell me, Lenissa.”
The trembling antennae betrayed her. The young Andorian woman knew full well what the core of her problem was, even though she had shut it away deep inside of her, and it had taken quite a while and the quiet hours of a slipstream flight to make it surface again.
“Tell me,” Courmont repeated gently. “Why are you scared to love? Why are you scared of allowing emotions to come close to you? I can see that you have emotions. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be this worried about Geron. What are these walls supposed to protect you from?”
Instead of answering, zh’Thiin got up again. Slowly, she walked towards the shelf next to the office door and picked up one of the items—an adorned goblet made of blue crystal. Four blue figures were arranged around the drinking vessel, sitting next to each other and holding hands, like a circle of solidarity. The figures were naked, and if you looked very closely, you could make out the slender antennae protruding from their heads. Deep in thought, the security chief stroked the glass with one of her fingers. She turned back to Courmont.
“Do you know what this is?”
Courmont also got up and joined zh’Thiin. “Not really. I bought the goblet two years ago in a small shop in the Kaybin District on Denobula when the Prometheus made a stop there. The merchant said it was an Andorian fertility goblet.” He also said that the goblet would bring luck in love to its owner, which was probably silly… just like her impulse to purchase the trinket. But she had simply felt lonely that evening, on the fourth anniversary of her separation from Max.
“That’s not entirely wrong,” said zh’Thiin with a rare smile. “It’s a mashka, a… well, okay, fertility goblet is probably the best translation. In some of the more traditional areas of Andor it would be circulated among the bondgroup before the shelthreth. Everyone would drink from it, thus creating a bond.” The Andorian woman tilted her head curiously. “You know about Andorian reproduction?”
Courmont nodded. “I know what just about every Federation citizen knows.” She knew that there were four genders—zhen, shen, thaan and chan—and that they lived in so-called bondgroups. The shelthreth was some kind of ritualized mating with the intention to sire offspring. Because four different gene pools were required, and the fertility time frame was not very large, these bondgroups were extremely important on Andor—now more than ever because they had barely overcome their reproduction crisis.
It suddenly dawned on Courmont that Lenissa zh’Thiin had maneuvered herself into a more than awkward position with regards to her culture. She had refused to return to her homeworld during the reproduction crisis to do what she could as a zhen to produce offspring. Instead, she had sought her pleasure with non-Andorians—an act that the term rebellion didn’t even begin to describe.
“In which case, you probably know that the bondgroups are virtually sacred on Andor,” said zh’Thiin, turning the crystal goblet in her hands. “The group is more or less an arranged marriage. Some of them are already arranged during childhood. The bond is tied before the twentieth year of life. Our society has always been obsessed with that. But the events of the last twenty years, when it became obvious that fewer and fewer children were being born, have only made things worse. In the end, Andorian adolescents were taught to put this bond above their individuality. The shelthreth became a ritual, if not a religious service, and the birth of a child was celebrated as a miracle. It all revolved around this one thing—and yet, we are still doomed.”
The Andorian looked up, and her eyes met Courmont’s. Her antennae trembled. “I didn’t want that, you know? All this madness. I wanted to live, not for some bondpartners who were forced onto me, not for Andor, but for myself! So I fled. Did you know that? No, how could you, it’s not even in my records.”
“You left Andor and joined Starfleet,” said Courmont. “I can’t see anything wrong with that.”
“Maybe you can’t. But then, you’re human—there are plenty of you in the galaxy. You should try talking to my bondgroup.” Zh’Thiin laughed bitterly. “Yes, I’m married according to Andorian law, at least I was fifteen years ago—that’s also not in my files, because I withheld that information. I fled from Andor during the night after the bond had been tied. I abandoned my bondgroup, because they didn’t mean anything to me. Space meant something to me, the never-ending vastness out there. Andor wanted to take my freedom away, but I didn’t stand for that. So I committed the sacrilege of disappearing. I, as a zhen, was supposed to help by bringing children into the world. But I didn’t care. Andor didn’t matter to me. And when those idiots left the Federation three years ago, I cared even less about them.”
Zh’Thiin pressed her lips together, shaking her head. Tears shimmered in her eyes, and she wiped them away with two fingers. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, put the mashka back on the shelf, and started to leave.
But Courmont put a hand on her shoulder, holding her back. “No, don’t be sorry. You’ve done what your heart told you to do, Lenissa. And that was the right thing to do.” Gingerly, the counselor led zh’Thiin back to the seating area and sat down on the sofa with her. She handed the young Andorian woman the katheka cup, and Lenissa took a sip.
Courmont gave her time to regroup before asking: “Did you ever regret it?”
Zh’Thiin glanced at her from the corner of her eye. “Leaving my people to join Starfleet?”
Courmont nodded.
For a moment, the security chief considered, and Courmont believed that she was truly confronting that question for the first time in a decade and a half.
“No. Never,” she finally said. “I was happy in Starfleet, still am. The service is a challenge, but I like giving everything I’ve got to be worthy of it. And even when Andor called its citizens home, when so m
any of us left the fleet… that was never an option for me. Never. I just can’t see myself as a mother and the loving center of a bondgroup—but that would have been my role on Andor. Besides, it was all so useless, so desperate. I wouldn’t have been able to bear the mood on my homeworld.”
Finally, it all made sense to Courmont. “So you pushed everything away from yourself, built walls and denied yourself all emotions beyond casual pleasure.”
Zh’Thiin shrugged. “Looks like it. Pretty cowardly for an Andorian warrior, isn’t it?”
“I’d call it… human, if you pardon the term. Your people’s suffering during recent decades is a tragedy, something that wouldn’t leave any Andorian cold. Some resorted to compulsive proactive ways, others to deep desperation, and yet others pushed everything away. All those are natural reactions to a tragedy. In your case, being afraid of the restraints of a relationship was added to the equation.” Courmont looked at her, full of compassion. “But now you don’t need these walls anymore, Lenissa. The reproduction crisis is over. Andor rejoined the Federation, and things are looking up for your people. It’s only a matter of time. If you want my advice, try to look into the future with hope. Leave the burdens of the past behind you. And if you really have feelings for Geron, and you know that he also has some for you, you shouldn’t make your life unnecessarily complicated. Just let everything take its course.”
Zh’Thiin smiled woefully. “It would be the first proper love in my life. I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Take it slow,” said Courmont, “step by step, cautiously. And believe me—you couldn’t have a better partner for your first love than a Betazoid.”
The security chief’s smile vanished. “That’s assuming he recovers. I wish I could do more for him than just sit by his bedside.”
“Maybe we can.” Something crossed the counselor’s mind. “I will speak to Ambassador Spock. He was able to overcome the Son’s attack relatively quickly and without lasting damage. Maybe his strength could aid the other afflicted patients.”
“But how?” zh’Thiin asked.
“By conducting a therapeutic mind-meld.”
“Do you think that would work?”
“I have no idea,” said Courmont. “Therapeutic mind-melds are not unknown in Vulcan medicine. But I couldn’t say whether they are helpful for members of other species or, in this special case, a mental overload. It’s definitely worth a try, though. I will get in touch with the ambassador about it.”
“Please do,” said zh’Thiin. “And please let me know if this treatment is in any way successful.” She got up from the sofa. This time, Courmont didn’t hold her back. “Thank you for the katheka.”
The counselor watched the young woman reactivating her shield. Lenissa turned back into Lieutenant Commander zh’Thiin, the Prometheus security chief, a professional through and through. She took two steps towards the door, and it slid open. But suddenly, zh’Thiin hesitated, turning back one more time, the door closing again. For a moment her face softened.
“And for everything else as well,” she added. “Thank you, Counselor… Isabelle.”
“No, thank you, Lenissa,” replied Courmont, “for coming to see me and trusting me. It means a lot to me. And if I can do anything else for you… or even if you just want to have another cup of katheka, come and visit me, anytime.”
Zh’Thiin nodded briefly. “I will.”
She stepped again toward the door, which opened and let her out into the corridor.
Isabelle Courmont leant back on the sofa, staring pensively through the window into the blue swirl of the slipstream. She raised the cup of katheka to her lips, drinking the last sip. Somehow, the Andorian brew didn’t even taste all that bitter anymore. I could really get used to this stuff, she thought.
16
NOVEMBER 28, 2385
U.S.S. Prometheus, in slipstream
“You and your uniform… Here, let me help you.” Chuckling good-naturedly, Moba handed the man on the other side of Starboard 8’s counter a cloth.
Jassat ak Namur took it gratefully, dabbing at his black uniform jacket where a wet speck was visible. He had toppled over a Q’babi juice glass with a careless movement of his hand.
“Thank you,” he said to the Bolian barkeeper who was wiping his counter dry with another cloth. “That’s so embarrassing.”
Moba made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t worry about it. That happens to someone every other day. It was even worse when we were in that damn cluster. They didn’t just knock the glasses over accidentally, they threw them on purpose.” The Bolian shook his head. Finally, he realized who stood in front of him, and his eyes widened. “Oh, Lieutenant, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that about the cluster. Well, not quite. But you know…”
Now it was Jassat’s turn to raise his hand dismissively. “It’s all right, Moba. I know how difficult the journey through the home spheres was. I must admit…” He hesitated, before he continued, lowering his voice. “I must admit that I’m almost glad to leave the cluster behind, even if it’s only for a few days.” Downcast, he handed the cloth back to the barkeep.
Moba took the cloth, throwing it and his own into the recycler. He placed his hands on the counter, looking at Jassat sympathetically. “That wasn’t quite the homecoming you had in mind, eh?”
“No,” said Jassat. “Not quite.”
“If you want to talk about it…” Moba poured a new glass of Q’babi juice and placed it in front of Jassat. “I’m not Counselor Courmont, but how does the old Bolian proverb go? Whatever bothers you during the day, you should tell your head massager; whatever bothers you at night, you should tell your bartender.” He nodded encouragingly at Jassat.
“Thanks, Moba, but there isn’t much to talk about.” The young Renao cautiously picked up his glass, turning it between his hands. “You saw yourself what it’s like within the home spheres. And you witnessed the mood swing aboard the ship.”
The bartender mumbled affirmatively. “True, true. Here in Starboard 8 where people didn’t have anything better to do than drink and think, it was probably even more obvious than at the stations.” He sighed. “Luckily, things are improving now. With every passing light year we get farther away, things can only get better.”
“I really hope so,” Jassat said. It was this hope—and Jenna’s perseverance—that had brought him to Starboard 8 today. Actually, he had intended to stay away from the club since he had been the victim of seething xenophobia twice in there. But Jenna had convinced him that he needed to take a stand against idiots like Lieutenant Björn Jansen and Ensign Ricat Na Bukh. If he hid in his quarters because of them, they had won, and they didn’t deserve that.
While he waited for Kirk, whose steadfast friendship and support meant more to him with every passing day, Jassat sipped his juice, glancing around the dimly lit room. Most of the people here were crewpeople or ensigns from alpha shift security: Goran Tol, Pradnya Mandhare, and several others. A few of the science staff were huddling in a corner. Lieutenant Krish Iniri sat at the next table, staring out of the window at the hypnotic blue flow of the slipstream. The few who spoke did so quietly.
Jassat had noticed that during the past few hours, since they had left the Lembatta Cluster behind at slipstream speed, the mood aboard the ship was incredibly quiet. After the shields had failed in orbit above Iad, and artificial rage had overwhelmed many crewmembers, they had verbally abused their comrades or hurt their friends. Now that everyone was finally rid of the Son’s terrible influence and they were able to think clearly again, they became aware of their actions, and regret and embarrassment had taken over. Apparently it had dawned on many of them that Iad had only been the painful climax of an insidious disease that had had a hold over them for quite some time.
The door to the club hissed open. Expecting Jenna, Jassat turned around. Instead, three people walked in. Jassat’s heart rate increased. He didn’t know the human man and the female Tellarite, but the third person was the three-legg
ed, three-armed Na Bukh.
The Triexian joked with his colleagues, before turning his bald red-brown head to look around—and noticing Jassat. His slender legs stumbled briefly. A strange expression darted across his bony face.
Oh no, thought Jassat. Not again.
But Na Bukh looked away, walking to one of the tables with his colleagues. While the human and the Tellarite sat down, the Triexian remained on his feet. His torso swayed slowly back and forth.
“Maybe I had better leave, after all,” Jassat said to Moba, who was still standing behind the counter, as he wasn’t needed elsewhere.
“No, you’re staying here, Lieutenant,” the Bolian said firmly. “You’ve been abused twice in my club. That’s not going to happen a third time. Captain Adams might be in command on the bridge, but this is my domain. And I’ve watched people misbehave for the longest time. Na Bukh might have had an excuse in the cluster, but if he picks another fight now, he’s history.” Just to underline his words, Moba took two sidesteps, pulling out a handgun phaser from a compartment and placing it behind the counter.
Jassat stared at him incredulously. “You would shoot him?”
“Let me quote one of our finest thinkers: a smile is the strongest weapon—but it doesn’t do any harm to have an alternative at hand.” Moba grinned wearily. “My father was a wise man, that much is certain. Don’t worry, though, the weapon isn’t charged.”
Na Bukh turned around. Determination showed on his face. Jassat placed his glass on the counter as he didn’t want Moba to have to mop it up a second time. Jassat braced himself as Na Bukh strode towards him.
“Lieutenant,” the engineer said. His voice had a sharp edge, but that was normal for his species. “I’m glad to run into you.”
Jassat didn’t know what to say, since all he could think was that the feeling was not mutual.
“Ensign, don’t cause any trouble,” Moba said quietly.
“Be quiet, Moba, I need to say something,” he snapped. He stood next to Jassat, and suddenly hit the counter with his middle hand. He raised the other two arms, demanding attention. “Hey, listen up, everyone!”
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