Orlan – An Old Decision

Orlan’s eyes take a moment to adjust from the harsh overhead lighting of the bio-bed’s sensor cluster as he moves into a sitting position, his legs dangling slightly over the side of the dark fabric bed. As his focus returns, the aged face of Doctor Tolorn smiles back at him, the quiet chirruping of a tricorder being silenced with a swift click.

“Well, everything looks good.” She pulls the sleeve of his uniform down over the wrinkled skin of his forearm, aged beyond his already impressive years by the chroniton anomaly they had encountered at the Vandel colony. “The tachyon therapy appears to be helping somewhat. How are you feeling generally?”

“Okay, some nausea and double vision still,” Orlan responds as he rubs his forehead.

“That’ll linger a bit I’m afraid as a result of the tachyon therapy.” She lifts a hypospray from a nearby tray and places it against his neck. With a hiss, a flood of medications weave their way through his bloodstream. “It won’t solve it completely until the treatments are finished but this should help in the meantime.”

Orlan offers a thankful nod as the double vision settles into a hazy fuzz and the nausea falls to the dark corners of his stomach.

“It’s a small price to pay, it could have been a lot worse.” Doctor Tolorn offers a concerned glance to the corner of the sick bay where the severely aged Mr D lies on a bio-bed being treated by a nurse. The young officer had been trapped in the anomaly for far longer, and his body had paid the price.

A silence descends between the pair before Tolorn offers a curious look, like that of a child seeking answers to questions they know should not be asked.

“I know we’re not meant to ask, but was it scary?”

“You’re right,” Orlan frowns. “You’re not meant to ask.”

“I know that the young Ensign Daniels suffered a terrible transporter accident.” Tolorn pushed further, probing with a point as sharp as any of her medical instruments. “But chronitons and early ageing, that can only mean one thing.”

“You’re not mean to ask,” Orlan repeats, more forceful than before as he remembers the clear and specific instructions from the Department of Temporal Investigations.

“We all made decisions,” he offers quietly, catching the figure of Mr. D slipping into a weary slumber in the corner of his eye.

“Do you ever worry you might have made the wrong decisions?” Tolorn asks as she steps away to another bio bed in the ward, the figure of a sleeping officer lying beneath the covers. The young Bajoran is familiar, though Orlan cannot place from where.

“No. Never.” The El-Aurian replies with confidence.

“That seems short-sighted, other people keep suffering as a consequence of your decisions. Are you sure none of them are wrong?” Tolorn crosses to another bed that had moments earlier been empty. A Bolian officer lies unconscious, a large plasma burn across his chest.

Orlan’s mind twitches, the officer is familiar, like a faded picture in the corner of a scrapbook. But he met that man decades ago and a hundred thousand lightyears from here.

“I’ve told people not to put me in charge,” he mutters in frustration, the double vision beginning to bang against his brain once more.

“And yet, here you are. Having to make decisions that affect other people.” Tolorn reaches the final bed in the ward where a figure lies beneath a white sheet, still and silent.

“What is happening here?”

The deck begins to quake with the sound of footsteps that echo down the halls, it sounds like an army is on parade beyond the doors to the sickbay.

“Just my other patients.” Tolorn replies as the footsteps stop.

Orlan’s head begins to swim, a thick fog descending on his train of thought as he surveys Tolorn’s face to any indication of what’s happening. She remains inscrutable, her visage fixed in an apologetic downward turn.

As she returns to the central bio-bed where Orlan sits, the doors swing open to reveal a multitude of beings standing shoulder to shoulder. Their ranks extend far into the adjoining corridor and down into the warren of the ship’s heart.

“I think I must be missing some memories.” Orlan frowns again as Torlan takes his hand.

“There are so many people to remember, it happens. Sometimes we forget.”

As Orlan eyes the army of beings waiting patiently at the door their forms begin to shift and slough, muscle mass falls away as they turn into gaunt husks. A myriad of wounds spread across their feeble bodies, a veritable encyclopedia of injuries and hurts accumulated over Orlan’s long life.

“I think it’s time to lay down. I think I need to sleep.” Orlan lays back, the lights of the sensor cluster filling his vision as the familiar hiss of the hypospray is once again at his neck. Almost immediately Orlan feels his body freeze, a sudden weight fall upon his chest as the host of wounded memories slide into view, blocking out the light and surrounding him with the consequences of his decisions.

“What did you give me?” Orlan gasps as his leaden chest tightens further.

“There is a rot Orlan, a rot at the heart of things,” Torlan says as his eyes close to darkness.

Shaw – A New Consequence

Shaw is in the astrometric lab, recently refurbished for Pioneer’s deep space mission, it features a direct feed to the Federation News Network and Starfleet’s live strategic operations centre. An expansive map of known space unfurls before him, the familiar blue heart of the Federation spreading out in every direction from Earth. To the right, the blood-red form of the Klingon Empire and the varying shades of green that represent the myriad of Romulan governments, press against each other uncomfortably. On his left a rainbow of colours fade into nothingness as the territories of the Cardassian Union, Tholian Assembly and Breen Confederacy disappear off the edge of the map. Here, Shaw can see everything and feels more safe than he has in months.

Across the map pinpricks of light relay the official reports of Starfleet and Civilian vessels alike, filling the galaxy with just as many lights of life as there are stars.

“Anything interesting?” A deep baritone reverberates through the lab, sending ripples through the quiet peace as two large hands appear on his shoulders and begin working at the knots.

A smile spreads across Shaw’s face as he places the PADD in his hands on the console and intertwines the massaging fingers between his own.

“Klingon being Klingons, Romulans doing their thing, being fractured.” The knots in his shoulders are deeper than he realised as Kaz begins working harder, the Betazoid’s expert hands finding every bunch of tightened muscles.

“What about that?” Kaz reaches out with a long arm towards a cluster of red icons that flash ominously at the heart of The Triangle, where the three great superpower’s territories meet.

“Multiple reports of a missing freighter in the triangle, nothing hugely interesting. 86 will investigate when they get a moment.” Shaw waved a hand dismissively as Kaz continued his work on his tense shoulders.

“86 has a lot of guns, is that really the best way to handle the Klingons?”

Shaw turns to face Kaz, taking the man in a loose embrace.

“Did you ever hear about the Vulcan First Contact with the Klingons?”

Kaz shakes his head playfully.

“Ambassador Sarek talks about it in one of his early memoirs, how they lost a vessel to their aggression when they first met. They never made the same mistake twice.” Shaw swings the pair slowly in a comfy moment. “Shoot first.”

“Task Force 86 are there to shoot first?” Kaz tilts his head quizzically like a confused child. “Is that what you did on Carina? Shoot first and then ask questions never?”

Shaw is taken aback for a moment by the question, While his recent actions during the Carina mission were aggressive in nature they were in a crisis, without reinforcements and weighing the fate of the timeline. Shaw had taken what steps he felt were necessary to secure the mission and protect his colleagues.

“I did what I had to do,” Shaw offers with a quiet laugh.

“You vaporised him.” Kaz pulls away from their embrace and takes several steps back.

“I would have thought you would be pleased it was him and not me?” Shaw thought better of Kaz, as an experienced officer he knew these situations were more than a million shades of grey. Decisions were made in the moment, with what knowledge they had available.

A chirp from the console interrupts their discussion. Then a second. Then a third.

Shaw turns back to the map that spans the wall in front of them, clusters of green and red erupting across the blue ocean of Federation space. Another cluster appeared in the northern edge of space, and then a massive cluster of large green circles erupted in the centre of the map, drowning the core worlds. First Andor and Tellar Prime, then Vulcan, then Sol.

“What are they?” Kaz whispered fearfully from behind.

The attached reports began scrolling across the lower portion of the screen in a ticker tape of desperate bursts of information, most barely a half dozen words.

“Explosions, surprise attacks, massive offensives. I don’t understand how this is possible…” Shaw races to the console but barely takes a step before he feels a sharp pain reach through his back, piercing him like a skewer.

As he looks down the silver tip of a d’k tahg pushes out from the crimson of his uniform, its edge dripping with dark red liquid.

His thoughts are blurred.

His breathing is impossible.

He feels the warmth of a slow breath on his cheek as Kaz whispers in his ear.

“Shoot first,” he whispers as Shaw falls to the floor, his body frozen and unresponsive.

As the map continues to fill with great blinking terrors of green light Kaz looms over him. The blade still in his hand, a disappointed look on his face.

“There is a rot Shaw. A rot at the heart of things.”