Jot and Tittle
Posted on 26 Aug 2025 @ 9:10pm by Captain Silas
Mission:
M4 - Falling Out
Location: Science Outpost Director's Quarters, Kalara City, Planet Obsidian
Timeline: MD 28ish
1709 words - 3.4 OF Standard Post Measure
The Kalarans called it the Shalom-L'Chaim House.
One hundred years prior, it had been the primary location of the Federation's science outpost on the planet. Long since then, however, the labs had been moved to the much more extensive campus outside of the city's limits; even so, every captain of the outpost since David Rabin had maintained primary residence in the original building within the city's bounds. Besides extended allowances for living quarters, the interior labs had been renovated into many guest rooms for visiting students and professors.
The well designed structure remained sturdy, weathering a fair number of sandstorms having buffeted it and a twice, fires (of questionable causes). On three separate occasions the old roof had lost tiles and required repairs. Thanks to the regular wind-borne sand, from time to time there was need of fresh exterior whitewash applications and the lettering of David Rabin's original Hebrewscript on either side of the door having a careful coat of red paint.
Shalom
To the left of the door, a woman in a wrap dress and wearing a work kerchief over her hair carefully went over the lines as she had done a couple of times each year. First a light scraping; then a wash of lime to even it with the walls; finally a careful trace of the thick and thin of the ancient Terran script. She was perched on the top of a step ladder, reforming the powerful red graphic within her pre-drawn guidelines. Sweat ran down the nape of her neck under her dark hair where it escaped in curls from the headscarf, dripping along the spotted tracks of her skin, down the center of her back and under her dress collar. Long accustomed to it, she ignored the trickle and caught her lower lip in her teeth as she stabilized her wrist over a length of stick to prevent her hand from brushing in the wet paint.
L'Chaim
Alongside, a man on the right side of the door post held his long arm up over his head. Being as tall as the fellow who had originally written the signage, he was capable of reaching the apex of the letter forms without aid of a stool, and he filled the contours with practiced confidence.
On either side of the door the couple made perfect bookends to one another. Both of the same race. Both dripping sweat in the rising heat of the late morning.
He smiled over his left shoulder at his wife's intent focus. "Do you recall the first time we restored these?"
She grunted with agitated bemusement at the memory. "We had to get the paint analysed for the appropriate formulation to be made."
He completed a stroke before risking a shake of his head, his sandy brown cowlick flopping over its own boundary of receding hairline. "A wonder it wasn't on file."
She tilted her body to navigate a smoothed out corner of the lettering. "Could be it was lost in the house fire of eighty-five."
"That is entirely possible." His voice held a bit of pain over the thought. There were sadly a number of meaningful relics and resources lost in those days, during their immediate predecessor's watch. Most had been diligently backed up in hologram or digital likeness, and were viewable in account and description if no longer in person. All the same, the fire had led to a wall to wall clean-out of the entire house and allowed the new duo— Captains Silas and Valdine— to furnish the interior with Obsidian history, Starfleet regulations, and their own tastes in mind. After ten plus years the house had very much become a home, as much as any they had ever shared in all of their travels. If not more so.
"Well, the next director won't have to recreate it from scratch again." She said. "Not since we published the recipe with our first Obsidian Compendium." They had incorporated a significant chapter on paint and dye formulations from local materials for various application purposes in that year.
Silas carefully leveled his brush's bristles on the side of his can of paint, in order to create the narrow edge he would need to form a cornered edge of a tittle. With a practiced hand, he applied just the right amount of pressure and allowed the brush itself to do the work. "Next director?" he intoned. "I'm not considering quitting. You'd better not be."
"After all we've been through here?" It had been its own kind of hell in the past couple of years of upheaval. The proverbial fire-storm was only just breaking since the return of the space station and the re-normalization of diplomatic relations with the native population. In the interim, they'd had to keep their heads down to keep their heads at all. She shook her own head, the tail of the scarf trailing back and forth. "They can't be rid of us that easily."
Both calligraphers concentrated deeply for some time before Valdine resumed speaking. "Rabin certainly left his mark," she said through tight lips.
While the overall statement could not be argued with (considering Captain Rabin had been a legendary leader of his time) Silas wasn't sure he was in agreement with Valdine... he could sense some hidden antipathy in her meaning. Specifics might help to flesh out her intent. "In which way do you mean?"
"Silas..." She said her husband's name with a touch of exasperation. He tended to use neutral questions when he was purposely evading her. "Every director here has maintained Rabin's particular Terran blessing over this building for a full century, just the same as Rabin's first strokes. There's been five other directors between Rabin and ourselves, and none of them have updated the style of the letters or added their own language."
"David Rabin connected with the Kalarans by extending his own deep heritage to them. To change it would be to unmoor from that established trust." She said nothing, although Silas could sense she wanted to rebuff him. He decided it best to soften his commentary, worried she might resent him stating such obvious things to her. "As much as I'd like to add a line of Kriosian blessing."
"I was thinking a Valtese commission."
"Mm, yes. And I suppose we'd have to include something in Standard."
"Naturally." It was the Federation's working language, after all.
"A Trill proverb above," continued Silas. "A Bajoran incantation on that vertical. A Betazoid wish—"
"—Okay, okay." Valdine relented, getting the point.
"A Vulcan precept. One Bolian motto. Andorian maxim. Risan lyrics...." He managed to waggle an eyebrow salaciously without jogging the brush.
Valdine had more trouble maintaining her composure at his saucy implication. She laughed in spite of herself, imagining the disaster that would be having to explain a Risan dance house lyric to a stern Obsidian elder. Even though Kalaran men took multiple wives and clearly had no trouble with making babies, the taboos were strong. "Never mind," she said. "I won't add anything. Being all inclusive sounds like a hell of a lot of calligraphy work."
Just at that moment, there came an insistent chirping noise from inside the building. "I can answer it." Valdine said, descending her ladder while wiping a dribble of red paint from her palm.
Silas continued evenly moving through the remaining strokes in the rest of the Hebrew word.
L'Chaim. To Life. To accompany the claim of Peace in the word Shalom. A Terran echo of the Vulcan "Live Long and Prosper." He'd seen these words on the doorway in his comings and goings every day for over a decade now. Silas wondered if he took it for granted.
Before she even announced anything, Silas sensed it: marked surprise and uncertainty emanating from his wife. He stopped with the final letter only partially filled in, and lowered his paintbrush as he moved into the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the cooler, more diffuse interior lighting.
"What is it?" He called after Valdine.
She emerged from the office, looking a little confused. "It's Admiral Sepandiyar's office."
"What about?"
"They wouldn't say. Your presence is requested on the station."
"Ah. Well. I have a report to make next cycle... Perhaps he just would like the next one in person."
"Sepandiyar wants you to meet with him 'at your earliest convenience'." Coming from a fleet admiral, they both knew that was a polite order to board the first available shuttle. She moved close and lowered her voice, worried that one of their house guests might appear and overhear them. "What do you think it's about?"
Silas wrapped his brush and set the can down, freeing up his hands to draw Valdine into a quick, reassuring embrace. She knew, without him saying so, that he had no idea what it was about. If he had, he would have already told her about it. "It's probably just some parade or diplomatic dinner. I've begged off every optional invite for some time now. Sepandiyar probably wants to be sure I've not been replaced by a shapeshifter or relying on a hologram to stand in for me on our video calls."
That earned a silent laugh from Valdine. Silas felt her chuckle of amusement against his chest and stroked her back.
"I'll handle the dig schedule and the intern rotations for the week," she promised. "But you'd better be back before the next council hearing for the Pillar Valley field permits."
They both knew the council would prefer to hear from Silas; though she held the same rank in Starfleet and co-directed the Outpost with him, they would summarily send his wife away from the council's review unheard, letting the permits lapse with nary a shrug of their be-robed shoulders.
Silas kissed the top of her head and, still embracing, they swayed to the distant sound of a herdsman's flute across the market square a few blocks away.
"Well?" she said at last. "Do you want me to pack your overnight case?"
He smiled, heart-warmed. Silas intuited that behind Valdine's urging him to leave was actually her dislike of him going at all. "I do believe that I can manage it."
