Surprises
Posted on 10 Jan 2025 @ 4:52pm by Chief Petty Officer Ibis Xeri & Olivia Winetrout & Major Porter Wallace & Brek - Timeless Treasures Art Gallery
Mission:
M4 - Falling Out
Location: OC, Environmental Deck
Timeline: Immediately following Picture Day
2674 words - 5.3 OF Standard Post Measure
As they walked the path in the park towards the site, Ibis glanced back over her shoulder, up into the ‘sky’ of the enormous bubble in space. Somewhere up there, blotted out by the lighting and a thin holographic screen, was her living room window; from which they appear to be distant little colored dots. It felt like living within a giant snow globe. Minus the weather.
The largest of the trees that they passed, Ibis thought, must have been decades old. Probably they were transported with root masses from a biome specialized for supplying stellar arboretums. Most wild transplants would have a difficult time surviving the garden-like conditions. She distracted herself by thinking about the microbe soil conditions necessary for the cultivars she observed along the path and the necessary soil pH balance for each of the beds.
Eventually, as the little family rounded one of the paths over a gently rolling and well manicured hill, a live string instrument band could be heard, as well as the buzz of voices of a growing gathering.
Wallace’s long strides - he’d reveled in walks since regaining much of his strength - shortened until he was almost shuffling along. “Sounds like a concert. Are we headed in the right way?”
“No… this is the right way.” Ibis insisted. “Where the… uh… photographer is supposed to meet me.”
“Maybe it’s one of those pop up…” The appearance of Ferengi directly in front of them halted the family. Wallace, confused looked at Ibis. This was the photographer?
While the event, music and picnic, was rather rudimentary (no grand marquee, or interplanetary singer to mesmerize the public) it was no less charming. Brek had skillfully orchestrated the event on a tight budget, proving that resourcefulness can be just as impactful as extravagance. To keep costs down, the menu was vegetarian, featuring roasted vegetables, quinoa and pasta salads, lentil wraps, and a dazzling array of 24 ice cream flavors.
The music, on its side, was exceptional, being provided graciously by a group of teenagers who had been convinced to show off their musical talent. It’s amazing what you can achieve by simply using the magical words:’ for the good cause’. Presently the group was playing an instrumental version of an old Terran tune: One Republic - Counting Stars.
Brek, a figure clad entirely in white and standing by the sign, (an old fashioned blackboard), announcing the artistic event, stopped sending furious texts (the photographer would be somewhat late), when he noticed the approach of Ms Xeri and Mr Wallace - Junior.
He promptly produced his best commercial smile. “Ah here you are! Right on time. There might be a slight delay with the photographer, but otherwise, everything is running smoothly. As you can see there is a good turnout. Let’s head to the sculpture site. It's easy to find—I've marked the path with signs."
Indeed, colorful markers adorned the tree trunks, guiding the numerous visitors to the art zone, picnic area, bandstand, and playground.
Knowing her family would naturally be confused by the reception and the appearance of a guide, Ibis took Ikemba up in her arms and held Wallace by the hand, smiling up at him, half sheepishly, to try and glimpse his expression.
“‘Sculpture site?’” Wallace murmured to her, adding jokingly, “I hope you didn’t commission a statue of me.”
“I made some arrangements,” she whispered up at him. “To announce our engagement.”
Wallace glanced around at the people. Some of the faces were familiar: he spotted Moon, the clothing designer who’d struck up a fast friendship with Ibis - and filled their closets - speaking with the station’s Chief Diplomatic Officer. She smiled and waved at the family as they passed. They passed Agaia Adima, her head wrapped in a colorful scarf that matched her dress, drinking a flute of champagne. There were a number of other faces he’d seen around, but it suddenly struck him that while Ibis seemed to make friends quickly, he hadn’t. Without the anchor of an official position on the station, he’d simply never thought to make connections. The idea of announcing their engagement to a room full of people he barely knew made him think of everyone they’d lost.
“A lot of people…” Despite anticipating the likelihood of the turn out, it still felt overwhelming. Ibis spotted the officers she was working with in the science department and people she vaguely recognized from the Pathfinder mission that had rescued them. There were people who somehow looked familiar, but she took a moment to realize they were Marines, attending the informal event in casual wear. She didn’t see her parents, but she could already sense their telepathic murmurings questing for her. She fought against the tightening in her throat for the very event she had organized. “...a lot of people want to share with us.”
He reached out and grabbed her hand. “Glad I’m not the only one surprised. Maybe we throw the kids at them and run away?”
Ibis smirked as people parted in front of the Ferengi leading the way to a tall feature under a sheet. Although it shifted lightly in the ventilated air, there was no real breeze to make it flutter. Even in this enormous environmental space, Ibis felt the artificiality of the atmosphere. It was pleasant, and nothing like the whipping attack of the salty ocean infused gusts. Glancing over her shoulder, Ibis checked to be sure Olivia hadn’t been lost in the mix.
Wearing a guarded expression of disdain to hide her uncertainty, Olivia trailed behind Wallace and Ibis and the short guy with the giant lumpy ears. Ibis had led them into some sort of party, something she hadn’t told her about before. Oliva didn’t even have the chance to decide if this was even something she wanted to do. She shot Wallace a look so he would know she heard his comment.
When they arrived on the site, Brek produced a grin that betrayed both amusement and bewilderment. The photographer, Kyrill, had arrived just in time with his equipment. Beyond a tripod, a camera, flashes and lenses along with something that looked like a parasol, the youngster had deemed it necessary to bring his grand dad with him (tall, dignified, with a white beard perfectly trimmed). And - there was no mistaking it, for the creature was unique: Igor the dog. Thankfully the canine was presently sitting quietly between the two humans. They on their side were conferring quietly about f numbers, of all things...
He also recognised Mr Ch’Koloth, the Andorian museum director, and previous owner of Mr Wallace’s mural. He looked miffed, which was, of course, his default attitude.
The Ferengi felt a little moment of tension as he gathered his thoughts. It was silly really, but he had not made a public speech in years.
Never. Ever. Mind. Just get on with the task. But maybe don’t go too mad on superlatives...
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Brek started, “thank you for joining us on this special day! As we gather in this lovely park, where people come to relax and create new memories, we're reminded how much public art can brighten up our lives and make our community even better.
We owe a debt of gratitude to Mr John A. Wallace, the Terran artist who brought this vision to life, and also to Mr Ch’Koloth, who, for decades, took great care of this magnificent artwork in his museum.” Brek bowed slightly towards the Andorian, and he went on. “So, without further ado, Ms Xeri,” he invited her to join him, “will you do us the honor to unveil this sculpture?”
As if by magic, Brek was now holding a pair of scissors, meant to cut the white ribbon in front of the veiled sculpture. Cutting it would allow the light fabric that concealed the wing to fall gracefully to the floor.
Kyrill was now behind the camera, ready to immortalize the first important moment of this unveiling.
Setting Ikemba down again, Ibis brought him along by the hand and waited for Wallace and Oliva to move forward with her, looking back to prompt them. Porter’s face was disconcertingly blank – Brek’s introduction having illuminated the feature of the event. As Brek handed her the ceremonial scissors, Ibis passed them up to Porter, holding the blades with the loops towards him.
“I don’t think I can,” she said too quietly for any mic to pick it up. She felt the assembled friends gathered on the lawn around them leaning in and quieting themselves intensely, straining to hear if she’d made some statement of significance. Her hand trembled. “Besides, you should have the honors.”
Wallace looked like he’d been hit over the head with a large club and stared at the scissors as if they were going to jump out of Ibis’s hands and attack him. A memory swirled up unbidden and he could see clearly his dad’s workshop in the back of their house. Discarded sketch pads thick with black charcoal littered the floor. Final drafts were tacked up on a number of boards throughout the shop. A number of abandoned paintings – John had loved the idea of oil, but never finished a canvas – were propped up against all the walls or stacked haphazardly in leaning towers.
John had loved natural light and the roof had been constructed of transparent aluminum. On bright sunny days, he’d thrown open the large double doors that led into the studio to cool it; on rainy days the sound of pinging drops on the roof could deafen.
After their mother’s disappearance, Wallace and Marcus had basically lived in that place. Dinners, homework, play-time all under the watchful gaze of their father. Wallace knew that Dad had wanted them to follow in his footsteps. He’d taught them to draw, to paint, even to mold clay into something that looked as it was supposed to. However, neither would. Marcus, analytical and intellectual, was drawn to the law. Wallace, a boy who loved physical activity, hiking in the woods, and staring at the stars, went to the Academy and then into the Marines.
As the scene faded, Wallace caught a glimpse of his father’s worn and lined face the last time they’d parted. He’d lost Elisabeth and their baby to war, come home to grieve and left it angrier than ever. Marcus had refused the call to war, content – in his brother’s opinion – in his cowardice. His sister-in-law and child were dead and Marcus still refused. His father had tried and failed to bridge the brothers’ divide. He’d been unable; they’d been unwilling. When Wallace stormed out of the house, his father wore a crumpled face.
Now, instead of memory, Wallace was looking down upon this new scene as if standing apart from it. He robotically took the scissors from Ibis; he cut the ribbon and pulled the cover away. The crowd cheered.
It was all wrong. All wrong. Something was missing.
Ibis watched the sheet flutter away to the ground, and for the first time truly saw the whole of the block of granite. It cast a long, if diffuse, shadow over the grassy field beside them. The outline of it was mostly squared off, although the forms of the feathers where they had been chiseled started to create an uneven border, as if they maybe had plans of shaking off the stone that had formed them.
All around their friends and supporters made noises of awe and appreciation, some clapping, others looking on quietly, simply absorbing the new installation, impressed, Ibis was certain, by the weight and skill of the thing, and by the fact of its masterful maker having been the father of Major Wallace.
As the appreciation died back, there was a moment of awkward hush. Ibis looked to Wallace, searching to try and read him. There was only one reaction she had cared at all to have, and yet he appeared still frozen with the scissors in hand, looking for all the world like he was playing a role, cast as himself, a soldier, at parade, his face as stolid as the marble…
The one thing that Brek had not anticipated was that the event would be a flop. Terrans and Betazoid, they are usually so easy to manage. Bring them together, throw a few compliments their way, and even if they aren’t in the mood, they usually play along and pretend that everything is fine and rosy. Not Major Wallace. Dragging the past into the present, through John Wallace’s sculpture, had, it seemed, triggered a persistent discomfort. Something that should have been left in the dark, unseen and mostly forgotten. ‘Cause the sadness you can’t explain is definitely the worst...
The Ferengi made a quick ‘no’ gesture with his hands. This was directed at young Kyrill, who was tasked with photographing this event. They had reviewed every detail the night before: only happy pictures were allowed. Capturing smiles, big and small, creating a warm impression. Thankfully, the teenage Terran caught his sign, and responded with a shrug, as if to say ‘What’s going on?’
Brek mirrored the same gesture. He had no idea. However, upon rethinking things, if he had been presented with an item crafted by his own parents, he would likely have felt quite ill. After all, his folks, experts in near-misses and content to wallow in mediocrity and alcohol, had abandoned him.
He was about to break the reflective moment with a few cheerful banalities, intended to encourage the guests to head to the picnic area, but Ms Xeri spoke up before he did.
“I uh,” Ibis said to those assembled, waiting to know more. Clearing her throat, she tried to make her voice bigger. Someone compensated by turning up the microphone. But her words were jumbled, beautiful ones, rushing to her head and swimming through her nerves. “Am thankful. Parents, my parents. Our family. All of you.” No, it wasn’t coming out at all as she wanted to say it. She had meant in this moment for them to announce their engagement, but as Porter seemed to have his eyes shadowed by something unpleasant, a creeping doubt cut off the air to her larynx. “I’m sorry.”
Everyone laughed. It was the kind of soft, understanding laugh of kindness of a friend, rippling through the gathered dozens. It was an unexpected sound and it stirred both embarrassment and relief in her heart. Her face flushed. She wished for that woman that Brek was paying to read her artist’s statement to play her right now. She wanted to have a live stand in who would remember her lines.
Finally, she decided she couldn’t talk to the little crowd, so she turned back to Porter. “I’m sorry,” she said again, her hoarse voice barely registering in the audio pick up. “Maybe it was a bad idea. Being a surprise.” Olivia shook off her hand and Ibis folded it helplessly into her other.
Wallace blinked at Ibis’s voice, the hurt in it as jarring as the memory. He came back to himself. “No. No. It’s…” He tried to find words to explain. He cleared his throat. Once. Twice. Then realized all these people were staring at him. He robotically wrapped an arm around Ibis’s shoulders. After this, he’d try to explain.
He cleared his throat a third time and tried to salvage Ibis’ embarrassment with the small knot staring at them. “Sorry folks. This,” he shook his thumb over his shoulder, “took me back to a place I hadn’t been in…a long time. Caught me off guard. Dad would’ve really loved it - ” With that statement, he knew what was missing.
God damn it.
