Lessons Relearned
Posted on 28 Feb 2023 @ 5:04pm by Lieutenant Commander Maurice Rubens
Edited on on 28 Feb 2023 @ 5:05pm
Mission:
M3 - Into the Deep
Location: Obsidian Command, Hanger 3
Timeline: MD09: 2200 HR
2885 words - 5.8 OF Standard Post Measure
Rice followed Izatti off the runabout almost as soon as the hatch had opened. It had been a hot, grueling day. Their civilian clothes had collected a thin layer of sand and were stained with sweat under the arms, around the necks, and down their backs. Their faces, covered with dirt from the surface and grease from the sunblock, were streaked by sweat long evaporated like dry riverbeds through the desert. Dark circles hung under their eyes.
Despite the hour, the hanger was alive with work. Three runabouts and five shuttles were evenly parked in the wide-open compartment. Most of the craft were idle, but two of the runabouts and a couple shuttles were not. One of the Arrow-class crafts had people dressed in yellow-and-black coveralls swarming over it with tools to repair minor damage or clean and patch paint from a near-miss from an Obsidian sandstorm, while the other had its crew doing a careful walkaround as it was being loaded. The shuttles, on the other hand, were being readied by a team of six engineers for maintenance work on the exterior of the station. Three of them were already dressed in the form-fitting EV suits, though their helmets, gloves, and life support were sitting on a nearby cart with their tools.
The work going on at a late hour was an aspect about Starfleet Rice had forgotten. Not that he hadn’t put in his fair share of late nights at the D.O.E., but he couldn’t imagine civilian spaceports were hives of action after the day’s last flights rose to the heavens. Obsidian Command never seemed have a ‘last flight.’
After crossing the width of the hanger, he and Izatti exited through a door and entered a white and gray corridor leading deeper into the station. Off to their left, a door opened with a whoosh and an ensign in medical blue exited, all but ignoring them as she zipped past. Rice’s eyes drifted into the room and, for the brief instant the door was open he saw a room full of Romulans and –
The door shut. Rice shook his head: he couldn’t have seen who he thought he saw. There was no question the exhaustion was getting to him. Still he stopped his plodding march and turned toward the door, allowing it to once again open with its familiar breathy sound.
The long desks that would have divided the room had been removed, but the monitors showing the status of flights, warnings of sun flares, and radiation levels in certain sectors of the system revealed that it normally functioned as a briefing room. Now, however, it was a waiting room filled with two dozen refugees. Rice allowed his eyes to trace over their anxious faces. There were a handful of single adults scattered among the group, along with couples clutching their hands or holding it each other, but the Romulans in the room were mostly family groups huddled with each other. Children sleeping across chairs or on their parents’ laps and parents with their heads propped up on soft blue duffle bags embroidered with the Starfleet logo. Gifts, perhaps, from a Fleet with everything to a people with next to nothing.
Rice was struck by their clothing, a detail he hadn’t noticed of those who’d already gone down to the settlement. At first glance the greens, browns, beiges, mustard yellows, and grays that painted the room a mottled earth tone, looked fresh and clean. But around their cuffs, collars, and hems he could see threads beginning to fray; knees on their paints and elbows on their jackets and shirts also looked worn, some already patched with round and square patches.
His eyes drifted from group to group, from person to person until they stopped on an older female, sleeping with her head slightly tilted back, lolling on the wall. Like shooting stars frozen in a black sky, white and gray hairs slid through the long dark hair that was knitted into a simple weave that hung over her shoulder to her breast. Her coat was more worn than the others, black patches on both elbows of her loose dark green blouse, and clear signs of repair on her gray skirt that hung nearly to the floor and only revealed the toes of black shoes. Even with only a peak, Rice could see her shoes were worn. She was alone.
He sighed and turned away, letting the door shut behind him. If not for the lack of spots cascading down her face and for her pointed ears, the woman was the spitting image of his grandmother, Saziana. As he walked to rejoin Izatti who’d stopped further down the corridor, Rice could suddenly smell Trill soup she made every Thursday. At least, it was almost Trill. Saziana had substituted most of the ingredients for those grown on Earth. Memories of sage and thyme floated through the air as thick as if they were real, filling his nostrils. The smell of the chicken on the grill, ready to be sliced and added to the mixture bubbling on the stove. After a moment, he could pick out the two Trill spices she did use. She would order them from her home province shipping them over long lightyears: tefta, bitter like olives, and rezu, sweet like honey.
Izatti was looking at him curiously as he approached, pulling his focus back to the present. “Sorry,” he said, “Something caught my eye.”
“Anything important, Sir?” Rice shook his head. “How many more refugees do you think?” she asked as she fell in along side of him. They continued walking toward the turbolifts.
“Can’t be too many more, but I’d have to look at the census.”
Izatti fell silent, but Rice saw her open her mouth once and give a slight shake of her head. Tell-tale signs of someone trying to decide to speak or not. “Out with it,” he finally said.
“You don’t want the Romulans in the settlement, do you?”
“No.”
“Why?’
“Do I only get one reason?”
Izatti shrugged. “No, is there more than one?”
“There’s always more than one,” Rice told her, but he fell silent without answering her question. He couldn’t shake the memory of his grandmother’s kitchen. She’d tiled the walls around the stove a kaleidoscope of colors: red, blue, orange, white, green, and yellow. Grease from the cooking would speckle it brown, but Saziana would wipe it clean each evening. She’d hum a tune while she scrubbed. Rice couldn’t remember the melody – music didn’t come naturally to her – but her voice still comforted him as a child. It was always filled with love.
“Sir?”
Again, Izatti yanked him out of his memory. “I’m sorry again. I keep drifting. You said something?”
“I asked…” Izatti took in a deep breath. “I’d asked about what you said to Hazami. About Starfleet.”
“What about it?”
“Do you actually believe what you said? About Starfleet?”
“Which part? The ineptness or being a pack of liars? I’d be surprised if they could get either right, truth be told. They’d find a way to muck up being inept by lying,” Rice smirked, but it faded when he saw her gently touch her comm badge pinned to her jacket. “I’m sorry, I’m using humor to dismiss your question.”
They arrived at the turbolifts and Rice paused their conversation until they could find the modicum of privacy inside. Izatti told the computer the floor she needed, while he called out his and they felt the lift begin to rise.
“I don’t generally make it a habit of outright lying. I’ll put different spins on the truth, but it’s the truth.”
“But you lied about the hajib.”
Rice chuckled. “I did, didn’t I? I needed to learn as much as I could about him so I can plan for our next meeting. I prefer fake bumbling to the natural sort of which there has been plenty in this sector. Sorry about that, by the way.”
In the corner of his eye, Rice saw her hand drift up to the comm badge again. Ah, damn it. He replayed his words in his head and felt a sinking sensation. The barely-there apology was bad enough; his continued belittling of the Fleet was worse. Izatti was a true believer.
He was about to apologize for his non-apology and cynicism, when Izatti bitterly blurted out, “Why did you come back? Why rejoin the Fleet if you think we’re a clumsy pack of…of…fools?”
A taste like tefta exploded on his tongue and a memory swirled.
The colorful kitchen caught the mid-afternoon sun that poured through the window over the white porcelain double kitchen sink set into an eggshell countertop flecked with tiny dots of red, blue, and yellow. The pattern matched well the multi-colored tile splash behind the full-sized stove. An 11-gallon bright purple dutch oven sat on the stove, lines of steam rushing toward a whirring range hood.
At the stove, Saziana, black hair flecked with white and tied back into a long ponytail, stood humming an off-key and discordantly slowly twirling a spoon around in the dark liquid filled with vegetables. Twelve-year-old Maurice – his grandmother insisted calling him by his full name, although he wanted to be called ‘Mau’ – rolled his eyes and grumpily continued staring at the table, head in his hands.
“Well?” Saziana asked, glancing over her shoulder as she flicked salt into the dutch oven and dusted the last bits that still clung to her hands on her emerald apron, festooned with yellow smiley faces in chefs hats.
“I didn’t do anything,” Maurice said bluntly.
“That’s not what Ms. Spencer said.”
“She wouldn’t tell the truth! Isaac’s her son.”
Saziana turned around, eyebrows knitted together sternly. He tried to give her the same treatment back, but there was a gulf between their abilities. He finally huffed, “I only said stuff to him, I didn’t do anything.”
“Words are powerful enough. What did you say?” she turned back to her soup.
“Sticks and stones can break my bones, but – ”
She whirled around and menacingly pointed the wooden spoon at her grandson. Hot droplets of soup arched through the air and landed on Maurice’s forehead and cheek. He was about to complain about the momentary sting, but the storm gathered on his grandmother’s face scared the words back down his throat. He mumbled a barely audible apology.
“What did you say?” She demanded as she turned back to the soup.
Feigning memory loss, Maurice stumbled through several ‘I dunnos’ and a few ‘I can’t remembers’ before he finally surrendering to the inevitable, “I told him that his favorite parrises squares sucked and that Trish McGivern was a cheat.”
“This McGivern plays on his favorite team?”
“Yeah. She’s his favorite player.”
“Is she a cheat?”
“Well…” He glanced at her face; now was not the time for trying to bend the truth. “No.”
She gave him a knowing nod and went back to the soup, asking over her shoulder, “That’s not the only thing you said, is it?”
“No.” Maurice tried to stretch out the silence. “I said that he’s weird because he talks about parrises squares all the time, but he stinks at it.”
“That really hurt his feelings, huh?”
“I guess.”
Saziana sighed. Twelve-year-olds were a lot of work. “I have two problems with what you said. First, you should never, ever tear someone down over the things that they love. Everyone has their own opinions and their things that bring them joy. You should always respect that.”
“Okay.”
“Second, when someone feels bad about something you said, they’re not going to like you. If they don’t like you, they probably won’t help you if you ever need help.”
Maurice rolled his eyes. He couldn’t even begin to imagine when he would ever need Isaac’s help. The kid was weird! As if reading his mind, Saziana said, “You never know when you might need someone’s help. It might be tomorrow; it might be ten years from now. Treat everyone like you’re going to need their help at some point.”
“What if I really don’t like them?”
“Your father, a quintessential Human if I ever meant one, had a saying: ‘Fake it until you make it.’ Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now you’re going to record an apology to Isaac and to Ms. Spencer – ”
“Why Ms. Spencer, I didn’t do anything to her – ”
“Because you called her liar. I won’t tolerate that. Two recordings. Go to your room, get them down before anything else.”
Maurice sat in his chair grumbling under his breath about how life was unfair until Saziana turned halfway around to look at him from the corner of her eye. The look – one he’d seen many times before – was louder than the wail of an emergency siren. He quickly bolted from the kitchen, his mind already running through sentences that might appease his grandmother and preserve some of his dignity.
The silence in the turbolift was deafening and, with each passing second, Izatti was convinced she’d just ended her Starfleet career. had poured out she’d even known what was going through her mind. Rice stared at her – maybe through her? – as if she didn’t exist.
After what felt like ten minutes to Izatti, although no more than ten seconds had passed, Rice blinked several times and smacked his lips a few times as if trying to cleanse his palate. He eyes quickly sought out hers. “I’m sorry,” he said, this time with meaning. “For how I treated you down there and for my tactless approach. There’s no excuse.”
It took several beats before Izatti realized he was waiting on her. “No, Sir. I’m sorry, I don’t know where that came from. I shouldn’t talk to senior officers that way.”
“There are times you should. There are times you need to. In this case, you were simply standing up for yourself on several fronts when I was making you feel like an ass. Not my finest moment. I think I’m exhausted and could do with a good night sleep before we attempt this conversation again.”
Izatti felt relieved to abandon their talk and had no desire to bring it up, rested or no.
The turbolift doors slip open: Izatti’s stop. After she stepped out, she turned back to Rice. “I’ll just forget about it, if that’s okay with you. You should, too.”
“Oh, I don’t tend to forget things like this. My grandmother has always been quick to correct me when I step out of line.”
“Sir?”
Rice smiled. “Never mind, Ensign. Have a good night.”
There were two more levels before the turbolift stopped on his. The vacant corridor stretched on under his heavy feet. To keep himself awake he concentrated on the lavender carpet with its golden geometric patterns. He followed the lines with his eyes in an attempt – a poor one – at keeping Izatti’s question from bubbling up.
Why had he come back to the Fleet? There was Moon, of course, but he wasn’t one to allow heartbreak to alter his course. He’d been there before. It would be strange for him to start now. The taste of the soup, a memory, but still potent, was another possibility. His grandmother had toiled for Bajoran refugees, not in an office, but in their homes with them. He’d been shackled to an office and meetings for nearly five years. Was there another reason other than that? He felt there was, though it evaded him.
“There’s always more than one reason,” he muttered to himself as he entered his quarters. He threw his bag on the nearest chair. Like his office, his quarters were nearly bare, with only the ascribed furniture, devoid of any personality. Nothing on the walls. Nothing on the shelves. Nothing.
The only new addition was a soft red light on his view screen. It was the alert he’d told the computer to send him if he had any messages waiting. For a moment, he considered ignoring the red light and going to bed. If it was an emergency or something that needed his immediate attention, someone would have simply called him through the comm badge.
Still, he craved something that could take his mind away and hoped that maybe it was Dae-Jung sending him an update on life on Earth. “Computer,” he said, “Play message.”
The view screen blinked to life and Rice found exactly what he was looking for. Everything slipped out of his head, forgotten immediately. Moon’s face filled it, as if she was sitting to close to the camera. She smiled and his stomach sank. “Hi, Rice. So, you’re going to laugh…”
