At last, Thriss looked up from her meal. “I’ve stayed here,” she said. “I wanted to stay close to Shar.”
“I can understand that,” Charivretha said carefully, “but really, you should occupy yourself until he returns.”
“I miss him,” Thriss said simply.
“I do too,” Dizhei said. “I just want Shar to come back from his mission and then come home with us. I want our shelthreth…”If there was more to her thought, she did not give voice to it.
“You know me,” Anichent said, shrugging. “I encouraged him to join Starfleet, because I knew that’s what he wanted.” He paused, and Charivretha thought he was deciding just how much he wanted to say about how he felt. “I just never thought he’d leave Andor so soon. Or stay away so long. I miss him too.”
“I know,” Charivretha said. She thought of her own bondmates, and how unthinkable—how unlivable—it would have been for any one of them to do to their group what Thirishar was now doing to his. “But at least he finally promised to come home,” she said, trying to focus on the positive. Both Anichent and Dizhei nodded and smiled, and Thriss returned her attention to her plate. Charivretha could see that none of Thirishar’s bondmates felt all that sure of his pledge. Either they doubted his word, or they doubted Thriss’s account of his giving it. Whichever the case was, Anichent and Dizhei at least seemed to be dealing well enough with their misgivings; Thriss evidently was not.
“I know Shar promised to come back to Andor with us,” Anichent admitted, “but I’m just not so sure that he actually will.”
“Of course he will,” Charivretha pronounced. “I won’t allow his Starfleet career to stand in the way.” She regretted the strength of her words at once; she thought that a lighter touch was required here.
Anichent put his fork down on his plate and folded his hands together, resting his elbows on the table. “Shar didn’t leave Andor to join Starfleet. He didn’t leave usfor Starfleet.” A strange quality in his tone made it seem as though he had discovered an unpleasant truth. “I know we talk that way, but Shar’s told us many times why he left.”
“What Thirishar may say and what may be true,” Charivretha said, peering across the table at Anichent, “are not necessarily the same.” No words and no reasons, she knew, could explain away the irresponsibility of what Shar had done.
“I know that,” Anichent said, meeting Charivretha’s gaze, almost challenging her. “But I’ve been wondering if he might be right about our people. Maybe the way of life we’ve chosen as a race won’t save us after all.”
“That’s absurd,” Charivretha said, no longer concerned about the force of her tone. “Since the reforms, the death rate has decreased significantly.”
“We’re not dying as fast as a people,” Anichent allowed, “but maybe…I don’t know…maybe some of us are dying a lot faster as individuals.”
“What do you mean?” Dizhei wanted to know.
“What he means doesn’t make any sense,” Charivretha said. “It’s simply doubletalk to allow Thirishar to obviate his responsibilities.” She felt angry not only at the negativity of the conversation, particularly in front of Thriss, but that anybody at all could try to justify her chei’s actions. She fought to keep her emotions in check.
“No, it’s not doubletalk,” Anichent said. “Shar wasn’t happy on Andor. He didn’t like not having choices about some important things in his life. To stay there would only have continued to hurt him.”
“He did—and does—have a choice about loving you, Thavanichent,” Charivretha said. “And about loving Vindizhei and Shathrissía. And he does love all of you.”
“I know he does,” Anichent said. “I know.”
“And with love comes certain obligations,” Charivretha told him. “And that’s true whether you’re an Andorian or a Klingon or a Tholian.”
“Obligations, yes,” Anichent said. “But I’m not sure love—real love—makes demands.An obligation is something Shar should want to fulfill, but our demands…the demands of our society…I think maybe we’ve been asking too much of Shar.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Charivretha said. She pushed her chair back and stood up, unable to remain still. “Nothing has been asked of Shar that hasn’t been asked of generations before him.”
“Then maybe we’ve been asking too much of all of us,” Anichent suggested.
“It doesn’t matter,” Thriss said suddenly. All eyes turned toward her. She still sat with her head down. “Nothing will matter if Shar doesn’t come back from his mission.”
“Thriss, don’t,” Dizhei said, obviously saddened by her bondmate’s despondency.
Anichent reached over and tenderly put his hand on Thriss’s forearm. “He willbe back,” he insisted.
Thriss slowly withdrew her arm from Anichent’s touch. She stood from her chair. “Excuse me,” she said, and Charivretha thought she saw tears in the young woman’s eyes. Thriss walked from the dining area and across the room, disappearing into the bedroom.
Dizhei looked over at Anichent. “I’m going to go to her,” she told him. He nodded, and she followed Thriss through the bedroom door.
Charivretha and Anichent regarded each other across the table. “I’m not sure what any of us are going to do if Shar doesn’t come back to Andor this time,” he said quietly.
“He’ll come back,” Charivretha said, as though stating a fact. “I’ve got to get to the reception. Thank you for the ale.” Anichent nodded, and Charivretha rose and headed for the door. She expected that he might say something more to her, but then she had entered the corridor and the door had closed behind her.
As she strode toward the turbolift, she realized that, if Thirishar did not come back to Andor this time, then she had no idea what she would do either.
51
Vaughn watched his daughter die, and in that terrible instant, he relived the moment of their separation, felt the weight of the years since, and regretted everything.
Prynn’s body landed in a heap beside the captain’s chair. The air grew heavy with the awful smell of her burned flesh. Vaughn stood in front of the chair and looked down at her, his heart aching. He studied Prynn’s inert face, her slack features a harsh contradiction to the horrific injuries she had suffered.
Vaughn felt the need to move away from his daughter, and to reach the console she had just been operating. He wanted to suppress his emotions and focus on keeping Defiantintact and headed away from its attackers. Prynn was dead, but the rest of the crew were not.
Except that there was no flight control console, no Defiant.There were no crew, and no attackers. And so Vaughn crouched down next to Prynn. He reached out to touch her, but stopped as a memory drifted through his mind. He turned his hand up, and was actually relieved when he saw that his palm had not been scorched.
There’s no conn for me to burn my hand on,he thought, but the notion floated through his consciousness like vapor, there one moment, dissipated the next. He stretched his arm out toward Prynn again. His fingers alit on her shoulder, pressing lightly. The texture of her uniform, the resistance of the unmoving body beneath, all seemed real—though he knew none of it could be.