T'aral

If you want to claim that this is 'horseshoes', I want to see the horse.

There was a datapad, a few datacards, and a book ... just minor items that didn't belong in her room anymore. There was no reason for them to remain; she had studied them all at length. They were all helpful in their own way, but T'Aral had assimilated the information contained - taking time to record any sections that would need review. It was time that they were all returned. T'Aral had intended to deliver them personally in due time to their owner only now there was a complication: Steln was dead. The next logical recipients would be Steln's closest relative: a sister now living on uzh-Ah'rak. It would be a simple enough thing to send the items via Fleet services, but that would raise questions T'Aral did not wish to answer. Starfleet personnel were notoriously inquisitive: civilian transport would be acceptable, if managed correctly. T'Aral gathered the items into a small bag, then made her way to the Medical bay. It was her preference to manage the transfer as swiftly and securely as possible, and she had the means. Medical containers sealed well, keeping out all but the most determined of thieves. Along with the general manifest indicating 'Personal Items, net value less than 20 credits' the box and its contents should be well protected. Sealing the case, she made her way onto SB North Star ... feeling Sasuke's eyes on her as she passed through the conduit. T'Aral wondered if every crewman with business on the station fell under the same scrutiny, or was it just her. It would be illogical to think that the Captain took any particular interest in her; T'Aral had made a point of keeping her composure through the entire ordeal. It was the duty of every Vulcan, after all, to be the solid base from which the other races could pursue their illogical and irrational courses. Her business with the shipping firm went quickly; no liquids, explosives, medicines, or harmful chemicals were being transferred. No, the contents were neither particularly fragile or perishable. No, she was not sending this on consignment - full payment was provided, and the case was on its way. Having no further business, T'Aral returned to the ship - again noting Sasuke's watchful eye. Were she of a less disciplined race, she would have taken the time to give the sentry a sharp word regarding her unwarranted attention. T'Aral was a Vulcan, and Vulcans were used to being stared at by others. She left the corridor and returned to the Medical bay, her duties, and her routine.

The Comanche Creek had been moving for hours; finally it was within Federation territory. Lieutenant T'Aral had decided to proceed through the upper hull, checking on various minor injury calls to confirm that all had been tended to. It was a tendency among Starfleet crews, especially those in crisis situations, not to report to the Medical bay when needed. It was a tendency that T'Aral accepted in the traditional Vulcan way. T'Aral must go to Seleya, for the alternative is illogical. The proverb was, however, itself illogical. Mount Seleya was gone, Vulcan was gone, and Steln was gone - a reality brought back to her attention upon observing Captain Mitros' arrival. The sight itself was not disturbing; it was agreeable to see that the Captain would have an opportunity for relaxation, for ship captains all required some kind of outlet. It was, however, a reminder that the Captain - as well as the vast majority of the crew - all had some place or someone they would be looking forward to reuniting with. T'Aral had no one. As she observed the Captain, a thought occurred regarding one of Calestorm's habits. With the stress of the crisis and the demands on Medical, she had not taken time to observe the Captain's response to the situation. Exiting for a turbolift, she signaled the car to take her to the bridge. She had little doubt regarding what she would find there, but the investigation would have to be made. Looking about upon her arrival she noted the helmsman 'decompressing'; leaning back and slouching in his chair after what had no doubt been a stressful piloting session. Lieutenant Kvar also appeared in better spirits. She was no doubt looking forward to a well-earned shore leave. Arriving at her destination, T'aral paused outside of the Ready Room door. Closing her eyes, she opened her other senses to her surroundings. She remained only for a moment, but the moment was long enough. Stepping away from the door, she made her way to just outside of the Captain's office. There she remained again for several seconds before stepping away. At both sites her senses detected the faint but very real acrid scent of burned tobacco. Calmly she strode to the nearest turbolift, directing it back to Medical. She was going to have to schedule a brief appointment for the Captain, consisting of a highly focused physical directed at the Captain's specific chosen habits. She would discuss stress management once again, and again provide her recommendations for the Captain to seek other less biologically damaging ways of addressing her addictions. Given that the captain was human, this process would probably have to be repeated numerous times before any actual consideration was given to her recommendations. This did not bother T'Aral - this was the manner in which dealing with humans progressed. It was neither good nor bad; it simply was.

*sigh* ... a slow week and a half. V'Roy - it's yours.

The sparring session between Lieutenant T’Aral and Ensign Kea went on for quite a while. Each tested the other’s skills, as they proved to be evenly matched. While T’Aral was formally trained in the Suus Mahna, she lacked Kerris’ natural advantages and she was very much out of practice - particularly regarding the less aggressive techniques she was trying to hone. As the session finished, T’Aral contemplated her performance. She would need many more sessions with a variety of opponents before her skills would show notable improvement. She would also need to spend more time going through formal maneuvers to train her body to move more naturally when she needed it to do so. This, however, was of less important than her true intention for the session. Ensign Kea needed to be kept busy to keep her from thinking about the ship’s situation and her own perceived inability to contribute. For her own part, T’Aral preferred not to have down time as well. Time alone without something to contemplate would mean thinking about Steln. That would not be helpful. After the session was the obligatory shower and re-dressing. After which T’Aral stepped over to the Ensign. “There is a lounge nearby … perhaps you would like some refreshment?” Kerris popped out of her thoughts. She had been thinking that maybe, just maybe, her thought tendrils might be strong enough to penetrate back to home, to Kaag, given that they made it back to their own time. To talk to Het, her brother, again, in that way, would be something that she would have given anything for. But the thought was far fetched-- anywhere on Kaag she was fine with communicating with back home, but she had never tried, not really anyway, off-planet. It was odd that they wouldn’t be able to. And besides, using her abilities in the way would mean asking the Captain for permission, and while she admired her, she wasn’t sure that the Captain would understand. After all, she didn’t think she fully understood it herself. She had been standing, her hair still wet and loose down her back, when the Doctor approached her, springing her from her thoughts. She ran back over what T’Aral had said, before nodding. “That sounds quite nice, actually.” Leading the ensign down the hall, T’Aral entered the lounge and turned right to the dispensers. “Tea - southern mint - sweetened - sixteen ounces.” Within moments a slot opened, providing a tall cup of simulated brewed tea. It was one of the human beverages she had acclimated to; a useful tendency for living in primarily human environments. Clearing the way for Kerris to make her selection, T’Aral chose a relatively isolated table to sit at. Perhaps Kerris would choose to converse - if she did, T’Aral chose to keep her conversations with others as private as possible. Kerris watched impassively as the Vulcan sat down with her Terran tea. She then looked at the replicator, frowning a little. She thought that having one of these back home would have saved her and her Yerta a lot of time dealing with shortages. She pushed the thoughts away and thought instead of what she wanted to drink. She had never been too fond of Terran tea-- she found it to be too mild for her taste, so instead she ordered a black coffee. The cup steaming into her shirt as she walked, she made her way over to the table where T’Aral had situated herself, and sat down in the chair opposite her. The lounge was pretty quiet, but this table seemed to be pushed even further away than the others-- something she didn’t altogether mind. She hadn’t talked to many people about her home, actually, just one other, and she had the feeling that that was a topic the Vulcan would probably want to cover. She took a sip of the still scorching coffee, then set it back onto the table, tapping a small tune with her fingertips onto the mug. T’Aral looked to the ensign speculatively. Conversation - specifically that which humans referred to as ‘small talk’ - was never a skill which she developed. Yet in many cases it was considered a useful ability, especially among Vulcans who had to interact frequently with other species. As a doctor, the art of conversation was most useful as a diagnostic tool, if one was able to initiate it. All things need a beginning - even a difficult one. As she remembered her mother’s teachings, T’Aral accepted that the next step would have to be hers regardless of her ineffectiveness in such matters. Taking an additional sip from her tea, her eyes focused first on Kerris’ hand. “You seem distracted, Ensign - among humans your mannerisms would be considered ‘nervous’. Is there something troubling you specifically?” Kerris raised her eyebrows a little. “I have noticed that humans tend to fidget when they are nervous,” she said quietly, contemplating the question. “In my case, I am simply remembering. The replicator doesn’t have drinks and food from my home, so I was remembering the first time I had coffee.” She smiled a little. “My tutor, the one teaching me about other cultures, she brought me into a little cafe. There was a human male, sitting upon a tall stool, playing his guitar.” She smiled into her mug as she took another sip. “I had never seen such an instrument before. We had drums and flutes, sure, but nothing like a guitar in the desert. He played it with such grace, like it was an extension of his body. And his voice-- I had never really enjoyed hearing a human talk until I heard him sing.” She turned the mug around in her hands, the bottom making a small sound against the table. “But I didn’t answer you, did I?” She glanced up and looked at the Doctor. “Assuming we do get back to our own time, somehow, will it be exactly when we left, or will it be a year or two later.” She paused, frowning a little. “Or earlier? And if that’s the case, then what will that do to our own timeline?” She shook her head. “I don’t know your feelings on the matter, but maybe none of our feelings mean anything, or our opinions. After all, we can’t change what will happen-- and if we do end up in a time that’s not our own, then no one will ever know what happened to us anyway.” She quieted, thinking moodily about her home. No one would know, and if they did, most of them wouldn’t understand. The thought of everyone she knew being dead-- maybe never existing at all-- made her chest ache. She took a long drink of her coffee to cover it up. “You have taken on a great deal, Ensign.” T’Aral sipped slightly before continuing. “I believe that I can assist with some of your concerns. Consider this - it is believed that our history deviated because Nero came to our time. Given that this is the case, then any such journeys that we make which would interfere with established history would have a similar effect - a deviation, or alternate timeline. We cannot change the history we are already a part of: if we arrive later, we will simply blend in with what has already occurred. If we arrive earlier, we may blend in … it is entirely possible that our earlier presence was part of our history already in a manner we are unaware of. In either case, one thing is certain: what we know has happened is established in a level of reality. Nothing we do will affect that in any way. Beyond that thought, one can only have faith that the universe will unfold as it is meant to.” T’Aral returned to sipping her tea, calmly considering Kerris’ concerns. She was concerned about others of her species - a sentiment that T’Aral was not entirely unfamiliar with. Yet she was not distressed: in their own time, New Vulcan was established and a new Vulcan society was progressing. Beyond that T’Aral had few concerns - she was without family, mate, or prospects. There were few who remained that held any specific interest to her, and none which humans would refer to as ‘special’. She considered the two of them: each carrying an enviable part of their own soul. Kerris was deeply concerned, and perhaps would envy T’Aral’s detachment. Yet T’Aral could not help but admire Kerris’ depth of feeling, while wondering what it would be like for her if she still had anyone in her life who mattered - and who wasn’t already serving with her and therefore in her immediate proximity. Kerris squinted her eyes a little, following the Doctor’s line of reasoning. “But if he changed the timeline by going through the rift, what’s to say that we won’t change it again when we go back through, or if we already have?” She frowned, rubbing her fingers on her temples. “I really do hate the concept of time travel.” She sighed then, picking back up her mug. She thought of the doctor. She had run across few Vulcans since being in the Federation, and she had had the pleasure of speaking with fewer. She took a long drink, wondering if T’Aral grew up on Earth, like a few others she had met, or if she had taken to New Vulcan. It was an interesting thought, but she figured that with the Vulcan’s impeccable mannerisms, she had to be from New Vulcan. And, upon quiet thoughts, she thought that T’Aral would fit in quite well at her own home. Wouldn’t be able to speak to -- she cocked her head a little to the side, wondering if she could share her thoughts with her mind, like her people did. If they could control everything else, then why not push their thoughts out to others? Though intrigued, she took it from her mind quickly. Like all her curiosities, this was probably something that would be looked at as odd, or at the very least, misplaced. T’Aral looked to Kerris passively. “If we do change what we understand as history, then we will create the same quantum effect that Nero did. Those who we left behind will continue on, and that time will unfold as it was meant to while we will proceed to develop a new course of events. It really is a matter of metaphysics: what we have encountered already exists, and cannot be ‘uncreated’.” She sipped her tea slightly before continuing. “It was what Nero didn’t comprehend: he could not change history. His homeworld - all that he knew - was destroyed despite the best efforts of the Vulcans. Nothing could undo that. In his own time his people were destroyed, and no amount of effort would ever change that.” Kerris frowned a little, pondering that. “Well, what about the fact that time is an illusion? I mean, if you really consider it, then you have to ponder about how any one life of any one person can be thought of as both linear, and as a ever changing... wave, for lack of better word. I can tell you what I was doing before Starfleet ever made contact, and probably what I would have been doing if they had never shown up. That won’t change. But in my line of time, I can be said to be in both this timeline, with all its confusion, and our own. And in this timeline, I was here twice, and things probably haven’t changed. The system is still apart of the Empire, along with my planet, and the rebels are probably all dead.” She shrugged, sipping on her coffee. “So, if we had come to this timeline from ours, but it in the same stardate, what would have changed? What has changed?” She shook her head. “Sorry, I was thinking out loud there. I’ve been thinking too much about it all; spending too much time with my nose pressed against a PADD.” She pondered for a second more. “And even though he destroyed Vulcan in our timeline, in this timeline, and in ours, Romulus will still be destroyed. There’s nothing that can stop that from happening now.” T'Aral looked to Kerris steadily. “Perhaps - the consequence of Romulus’ destruction, however, will probably be far less dire. Consider this: assuming the Romulans are effective in covert surveillance, they are forewarned of their fate by over fifty years. That will give them enough time to verify the circumstances through stellar physics and act on it via re-location, making the Vulcan attempt which created this situation unnecessary in our time.” She finished her tea. “There is no event so evil, but that some good can be brought about from it. Remember that, Ensign, when circumstances weigh heavily on you.”

So sorry - been a busy week. ( If I don't get to this sort of thing right off, I sometimes forget. Sorry again. )

What happens when the champion Slabovian Women's Soccer Forward tries to master a second sport?

The mission is proceeding without incident. Medical department remains at ready status. It was a simple report, and one that T'Aral filed regularly. She didn't approve of providing needless detail that the Captain and the rest of Starfleet hierarchy wouldn't bother reading anyway. As she finished the general details - name, rank, date - a chime from her monitor indicated an incoming message. From: Starfleet Communications Network To: T'Aral, Lieutenant, USS Comanche Creek Subject: Message delivery termination, Steln, Lieutenant, Starfleet Science Division Message could not be delivered as requested: recipient account has been deactivated. See incident report #SFDS-IR-2259.357-1047-d. T'Aral stared at the screen for several seconds, completely motionless. a '-d' classification on an incident report meant only one thing ... 'deceased'. A follow-up inquiry through the medical database soon replied with the only information required: Steln was dead. The details of what happened were not available from this database, but they were irrelevant to T'Aral. She had the information she required. Closing her eyes, T'Aral focused her thoughts to steady them. Sadness would be of no value - it could not change circumstances. Regret, remorse, and all other emotions which inflict other races were illogical. She had no involvement in what had happened, and no depth of feeling could change what had happened. Steln was gone, and a simple acceptance of that fact was all there was for her. She focused on clarity, clearing her mind of all errant thoughts. She had to let go of what could have been, but now would never be. She had to focus only on the present, for only the present mattered. The ship was the present. The Captain, the crew, and the needs of those in her care were the present. These matters were what required her attention. Steln required no further thought, for no further thought would matter to Steln. She rose from her terminal - there was a change in the ship's alert status. Something was happening around the vessel ... things that T'Aral would not know about unless she investigated in person, as the Captain and bridge crew would be far too occupied to explain the situation to her over the communications network. Rising from her chair, she left her office to make her way to the bridge. What was happening on the bridge was what mattered in the present. She would have to make a habit of spending more time there; the medical staff would be far better directed if she increased her awareness of events that impacted the ship directly instead of allowing her attention to be drawn elsewhere.

"If immediate effort isn't made, soon majestic creatures - like the purple tutu'd teletubby - will dwindle to extinction."

T’Aral rested in her office. The Comanche Creek had been in New Topeka orbit for ten days, during which she had been summoned onto the planet’s surface. Ten days of exams, reviews, consultations, recommendations, and scrutiny by over a dozen higher ranking officers within the Starfleet medical corps. She knew of some who found such testing to be taxing and wearying, though such people would also say that good things came to those who strove for them. For T’Aral, the message she received from Commodore Kimball was simply the universe transpiring as it was supposed to. “… be advised that you are now classified as Physician-in-residence, assignment: USS Comanche Creek.” A simple statement, but one which re-defined her role. She was no longer caring for the ship’s crew as a licenced nurse practitioner: she had entered the final phase of a full physician’s certification. There would still be other doctors on board to inspect and evaluate her work, but her abilities were being recognized. For T’Aral, however, one simple fact was more important than the rest - being called ‘Doc’ would no longer be in error. As she filed the daily report and caught up on the doings of the medical bay while she was away, her intercom chimed to grace her office with the voice of Commander Wesley. “... Doc, I’ve got a question for you.” “I am on my way, Commander.” Closing the com and her files, T’Aral quickly made her way through the ship’s corridors and lifts. Audraya’s question may have been simple, but T’Aral did not like consulting over an intercom if it could be avoided. One could never tell who was in the room at the other end, and reading body language was hampered even if visual communication was established. Speaking in person was always best. Arriving at the Commander’s office T’Aral chimed the door, taking a moment to straighten her appearance as she waited for the door to acknowledge the Commander’s permission for her to enter. Putting the pistol away, Audraya called out “Come on in, Doc,” and waited for the ship’s official surgeon to enter her quarters. As executive officer, she also dealt with quite a bit of the administrative side, including personnel, so she’d seen the email traffic from the Medical Corps board flagging T’Aral as “official” ship’s chief surgeon. The air in the XO’s quarters still had the lingering taste of gun oil of CLP in the air. She hadn’t fixed herself up, although she’d changed her bloody pajamas for a fresh set of PTs when she’d gotten back. Stress, though, appeared to be the predominant emotion playing out along her face.. “T’Aral, have a seat. First off, I don’t see any rank on my sleeves, so rank is off. Right now, I don’t care if you call me by my first name or my callsign. Secondly, I know you may require to record what ever transpires to cover your own ass, but I’d like this as off the record as possible.” Audraya’s request was a curious one, but not overly unusual. ‘Off The Record’ requests were fairly common among the medical corps. “Ms. Wesley, I am certain that you are aware that I am a physician before I am an officer. That is the ethic of medical service. As such, I would never divulge information about a patient unnecessarily. As I expect that you wish to discuss either yourself or a member of the crew, that rule certainly applies.” Given her wish for informality, T’Aral felt it best to seek an informal pose. Locating a chair, she settled herself and turned her full attention to Audraya. Dark eyes searched the Orion for every sign, twitch, or indication of her mental state. Nothing was unimportant or insignificant when it came to emotional beings. “Please try to be at ease. The sole reason I am on this ship is to be of assistance to you. What is your question?” “I’m concerned, T’Aral, about Tifa. Between the kidnapping, the events in the Maze, me being confined to the brig, and the shipboard invasion, there hasn’t been any real down time for either of us to digest what happened, and deal with those memories. I’d like your advise on what to do to help her. I don’t want her to wake up shouting in the middle of the night, like I do, because there was no one to help her overcome the bogeymen out there.” Audraya scrubbed her face. The stress was still there, but there was also an underlying fatigue. “I’m also tired, damned tired Doc. Ever since Bob Wesley freed and adopted me, it feels like I’ve been fighting for 20 plus years straight. Fighting the impression of who I am, what I was, thrown into guerrilla fighting, dealing with hormone-addled guys who think I’m an easy lay just because I’m Orion. Hell, I knocked Admiral Barnett on his ass when he was a Captain and instructor at the Academy, because the bastard thought he could get me into bed.” She chuckled at the memory. “The infirmary had to wire his jaw shut because of that. “There are days I feel like I just want to turn off my iDroid, disconnect the intercom unit, barricade the door, and stay in bed with the covers pulled up over my head until that feeling goes away and I start feeling better.” T’Aral sat intently as Audraya spoke, waiting for her to speak her peace. “Although Tifa is challenged when it comes to facing immediate threats alone, I believe you would be surprised to find how resilient she is capable of being. I have worked with her on multiple occasions under fire, and she has proven to be a capable officer. During our time with the Orions she remained controlled and focused, accepting the opportunity to learn some martial arts techniques for the purpose of defending herself. “With regards to Lieutenant Kvar, my recommendation would be to simply remain supportive. In situations when she is under immediate threat, she does need to be reminded of what needs to be done - and that she is not alone. So long as Ms Kvar is kept aware that she is not alone, she will continue to do well.” With that T’Aral leaned back. “With regards to yourself, I believe the answer lies in the question. You give the impression of one who does not take down time at all, or very minimally. It seems that even when you are with Ms Kvar you are constantly concerned. You must learn to relax - to take time for yourself. I would recommend shutting down for an hour a day: read, rest, swim, or engage in any form of leasure activity which takes you out of your role as Ship’s Commander. This can be done with or without company, so long as you are not thinking about work and are in a relaxed state of mind. “I am certain that the Captain will not begrudge you an hour a day to yourself. Fifteen effective hours a day is far preferable to sixteen hours of unreliable performance - and that brings up another point. Whenever possible you are to rest for a full eight hours out of twenty-four. This entire crew is negligent in this regard, and it shows in the crew’s performance, attitudes, and general behavior. While there are times when additional effort and reduced rest are necessary evils, this should not fall into the habitual behavior we have observed.” T’Aral shifted slightly in her seat. “Many Vulcans would recommend meditation, but that does not seem compatible with your nature. I believe that you would receive far more benefit from an hour of benign visual entertainment accompanied with two servings of popped corn and a carbonated non-alcoholic beverage - preferably shared with someone able to appreciate whatever you were watching.” “So, you’re basically prescribing Three Stooges time with Tifa, over popcorn and soda?” Audraya smiled, finding it it slightly amusing that T’Aral would suggest an hour of mindless entertainment to take the edge off of her duties. Of course, the kernel of an idea for their next shore leave began taking root, and while it would require the assistance of some of the deck crew, she could probably pull it off. T’Aral’s eyebrow lifted only briefly at the mention of the Stooges. She could not comprehend the attraction of watching the activities of three completely incompetent individuals with violent tendencies. However, she was trained in observation and she had observed many times that emotional beings exposed to human humor often found it enjoyable to the point of addiction. She did not understand it, but understanding was unnecessary. It was enough that it happened. “And I appreciate your professional observations about Tifa’s resiliency. That actually has taken a huge weight off my shoulders. I think I can actually begin to relax. I appreciate you taking the time out of your schedule to come talk, as well. Its been a wild ride since this crew was formed. And I’ve probably not come off as the most...personable of senior officers...” her voice trailed off, not knowing where it was going. T’Aral straightened slightly. “Taking time to talk with you is part of what I am trained to do. It is within my assignment on board this vessel and it is no trouble. Additionally, I find your assessment of your sociability in error.” She paused for a moment to allow her last statement to take effect. “I have noted that command officers tend to look upon their actions as hardened and unpleasant to others. However: if you examined yourselves through the eyes of those you interact with, I believe you would find yourselves cast in a far better light than you would expect. “There are few in Starfleet who are not aware that command duties require the enforcement of discipline. You should not feel that the demands of your position are held against you.” She settled back in her chair, seeking to maintain the informality of their discussion. “If you wish to improve the amount and quality of your social interaction with the crew, that is one consideration. This should be viewed as an opportunity to improve, though, and not as a criticism of who you are at present.” Audraya nodded, as a yawn escaped. “Sorry. Having Jiraiya as a guard tends to not lead to restful nights. I’m going to have to have Sakura move him out of the brig. “Doc, thanks again for the advice. And I’ll definitely start taking it to heart.”

T'Aral didn't even twitch as the door to the CMO office chimed. "Come in." A disheveled crewman carrying a pair of cases shuffled into the room. "Lieutenant? These are from Ensign T'Vala, in Fabrication. She said that it was urgent and classified." T'Aral nodded. "Thank you - please wait outside until I call for you." As the door shut behind the crewman, she stood and walked around her desk, opening a case marked 'B-p-g/bl/gs'. She examined the contents thoroughly, critically inspecting the workmanship. Although the order was rushed due to immediate need it was critical that quality was not compromised. The finest workmanship and care was needed, as such factors directly influenced the results. Several minutes of intense scrutiny eventually satisfied T'Aral. Logically it was unnecessary; T'Vala was a skilled and dedicated fabricator, who never approached a task partially. Each assignment was completed on time with an intensity and dedication which identified the best of Vulcan artisans. These were more than just fabrications, they were an expression of T'Vala herself. She stepped back to her desk, gazing at her monitor in an almost annoyed fashion. An explanation would be in order, and due to the nature of the item the wording would require an almost human quality to it. To be so ... informal ... was painful to T'Aral, but it was necessary. Tifa: I will be speaking to the Captain regarding your situation, though I cannot suggest what the outcome will be at this time. I regret that I cannot offer better counseling than patience, and I am reluctant to provide a pharmaceutical solution for your condition as that may create further problems. The results of my investigations on separation anxiety have, unfortunately, focused on juveniles; and have provided only juvenile answers. All the same: as this is a form of therapy which has proven results, I hope you will accept this in the spirit it is offered. I provide it with your well-being foremost in mind. Regards, T'Aral She printed out the letter, then stepped over to the case. Within it leaned a plush bear; 24" tall with soft, fine green fur trimmed in a blue-black. A tight gold-lame' shirt fit snugly about its midsection, and a close inspection suggested that T'Vala had deduced what T'Aral was attempting ... even the eye color was correct. The note was placed in the bear's arms as she packed it back away, sealing the case securely. Calling the crewman back in, she offered him the single case. "Deliver this to Lieutenant Kvar - see to it she receives it at her quarters, and no where else." With a nod the crewman was dismissed, and T'Aral closed the door. turning about she looked at the remaining case and its rather neutral descriptive tag: 'B-p-t/br/rs'. T'Vala was exceptionally intuitive; T'Aral was certain that what was hidden inside the case was exactly what she intended. Although the Commander was of a stronger resolve than the Lieutenant, she had no doubt that both of these emotional beings were suffering similarly. T'Aral would have to clear this with Lieutenant Haruno: providing gifts to prisoners was a questionable act, and there was the concern of embarrassing the Commander ... something T'Aral very much didn't wish to do. So many questions; she would have to meditate on the matter. The answer would present itself.

Peck him on the shoulder ... I promise - he'll jump five feet straight into the water, then Wally Gator can have someone besides us for lunch.

I, on the other hand, remain concerned.

T'Aral rode quietly in a shuttle, reading various mission event reports while monitoring Ensign Shalin's condition. He was progressing favorably, especially given the constant state of transition he was in. This would be the last move for a while: once they arrived in the medical bay she would assign him a bed and that was where he was to stay. While the return of Comanche Creek officers to their ship was proceeding reasonably smoothly, T'Aral was increasingly disturbed. Security was escorting Commander Wesley, while Lieutenant Kvar was cleared by both medical and security to proceed on her own initiative. There was no logical reason for T'Aral to object to this, yet something inside her did. She knew the unpleasant truth - the ordeal had taken some toll on her, and her control of her emotions was slipping because of it. This would have to be dealt with quickly, before familiarity became affection. While caring and protectiveness was all well and good for emotional races, such emotions had not place in the logical world of the Vulcans. T'Aral returned to her reading, calming her thoughts with the resolution to return to her routine as soon as possible. Normally incident reports were quick reviews, but this one required thorough study. Bar fights ... windows ... Kzinti ... the Captain had been quite busy in her absence. Further, several reports indicated that much of the crew was sleep-deprived. It was a most unfortunate circumstance based within the military drive - commendable in dedication, though deeply flawed in practice. The net result being that the staff officers would be unfit to man their posts for at least 48 hours. It was fortunate that the Comanche Creek had a capable crew - they would be able to get underway on reserves for the time being. T'Aral paused in her musings, wondering how the Captain was going to handle discipline. This was a most unusual situation: the XO was usually the executor of a disciplinary action, not the subject. The Captain would be on her own, with no one to consult with regarding her intent. Another CMO might consider it part of their overall mandate to counsel the Captain, but T'Aral did not sense any such mandate. She was only a lieutenant herself, and not deeply versed in matters of military doctrine when it came to discipline. Being a Vulcan, disciplinary action never came up as part of her Starfleet training. She was more than adequately disciplined already. The shuttle landed and the hangar bay pressurized, allowing T'Aral to lead the orderlies minding Ensign Shalin to the medical bay. Once the Ensign was settled and under proper observation, T'Aral stepped into the CMO office and closed the door. Shutting off the lights, she lit a single candle then sat - staring at the flame. Within moments all tension was gone, and all the problems that would need her attention quickly became simple tasks which required completion. There was no conflict or disturbance within her. Her mind was completely at peace, and her heart was perfectly serene. Five minutes later she ceremoniously snuffed the candle and stepped out into the medical bay to address the next matter at hand.

Herbert's macaroni and cheese fantasy reaches new heights ...

T'Aral leaned back, allowing skillful hands to work about her temples. At times like these she allowed herself to meditate: not a deep trance seeking enlightenment, but a simple quieting of thoughts to reorganize and categorize her experiences and observations. Such times were necessary to maintain an orderly balance. She had finished her preliminary physical and psychological examinations of Commander Wesley and Lieutenant Kvar. These were far from complete and would not detect any deep or subtle faults in their physical or mental health, but they did provide enough insight that she could speak to their current state. Both were in fine health - none of their experiences were severe enough to generate a limiting or disabling injury. Their mental states held a certain amount of anxiety regarding the upcoming consequences for the Commander's actions. This was temporarily neutralizing or delaying the onset of any post-traumatic stress response, making any further inquiry into their psychological health pointless. They were both reacting to a current stress based on possible future events. These would have to be resolved before a proper psychological re-evaluation could be performed. Ensign Shalin had just been returned from the Comanche Creek. He also was suffering from anxiety - a situation which in his case was counter-productive towards the intent of his recovery. T'Aral did what she could to ease any concerns regarding his physical state, but she could neither ease concerns over whatever actions he had taken in her absence nor provide time as a sympathetic listener. Even though T'Aral's Vulcan heritage eliminated the any need for a sympathetic listener in her case, as a medical professional trained in xenotherapy she accepted the need for it among emotional races. Once she established that the medical protocols for his recovery were acceptably in place, T'Aral assigned Ensign Khole to stay with him to monitor his status and provide a nurturing presence. Perhaps it was Khole's expressive eyes, her soft voice, or something more subtle about her race - whatever it was, T'Aral observed that patients were comforted by her presence. While some would consider her manipulative for using it, T'Aral recognized Khole's talent as a resource and was unremorseful in its use. The Captain wished to see the Commander, but was still tied up in ship's duties. T'Aral had at least fifteen minutes to herself, which was more than enough time to tend to a quick matter. Skilled hands finished moving about her ears and neck, then a steady voice spoke. "I am finished, Reldai." T'Aral sat up and examined herself in the mirror. The grown hair for the assignment was gone; in its place was a traditional short and squared-off cut indicative of the Vulcan people, restoring her appearance to what was proper for a Vulcan officer and priestess. "Thank you, Strenn. Your efforts are acceptable." The words were minimalist, but the tone behind them communicated what was necessary; Strenn's effort and skill allowed T'Aral to present herself properly which would allow her to relax just a little - an appreciated gift among such a tightly restrained race. Strenn knew that he had done well, and she appreciated his help.

"I'm gonna catch a fox, and cut his tail off!" Not if I get yours first, Einstein!

T'Aral stepped off of the shuttle with firm intent. The brief resistance the security guards provided proved wilting in the face of a determined Vulcan who had so recently been through the challenges she had. The Commander and Lieutenant Kvar required physicals before they were going anywhere. Security was welcome to post as many guards outside as they wished, but they were not to be inside of the Medical bay. Her stance on the matter was final. As T'Aral stowed her belongings and began to return to her duties, Lieutenant Baliss stepped up. "It's good to see you again, Ma'am. I hate to be a bother so immediately, but there's a matter that needs to be addressed. Our helmsman - Ensign Shalin - he's taken ill after a rough transport. Lieutenant Ratchet says he should be fine, but I'm not so sure. He looked rather bad the last time he was here." T'Aral paused only briefly before looking about. She had her doubts from the beginning when Starfleet assigned Nurse Ratchet to the ship; she did not believe that a ward nurse ( regardless of how many years of experience she may have had ) could effectively serve on a front-line vessel where triage skills were in far greater demand. "Where is the Ensign now?" "He's in his quarters, Ma'am. Confined there - orders from the Bridge." A slightly less experienced Vulcan would've cracked the polished shield of logic to allow a sigh of exasperation. Sick patients were to be in the medical bay - under guard if necessary, but also under observation. She scanned over an incident report on the matter and her brow furrowed ... ever so slightly, but for a moment a crease was there. While it was true that the Ensign had engaged in highly questionable activity, there was no call for denying him medical care. Starfleet was supposedly above such actions. "Summon an orderly, and have him meet me in the Ensign's quarters." Baliss looked up sheepishly. "Sorry Ma'am: no orderlies. They were all sent to the Hard Six ... orders from the Bridge." T'Aral paused to promise herself never to leave the Medical services so vulnerable again. "Very well, Lieutenant; obtain a gurney and meet me in the Ensign's quarters." Stepping through the corridors quickly, she made short work of crossing the halls between Medical and the crew quarters. A quick glance at the posted security guard was all it took to have the door opened. The Ensign was on his bunk, apparently resting. T'Aral noted the active tricorder next to him and examined the readings. Adjusting it slightly, she scanned again. The signs were all there - it was early, but the stress on the Ensign was building steadily. T'Aral jolted over to a com pad. "Bridge - connect me with the Commanche Creek, Medical Department, Lieutenant Farrell." Lieutenant Baliss arrived with the gurney as a voice chimed over the speaker. "Doctor Farrell here." "This is T'Aral. We will be sending over a patient to be prepped for surgery. He is undergoing Distortion Syndrome. There is a slight cardio-respiratory interphase which requires intervention, after which the Erickson Beta-4 protocol is to be initiated. Be advised that he has been heavily medicated. All records will be transferred promptly - acknowledge." "Preparing for surgery, followed by E-Beta-4 ... acknowledged." If the voice on the other end was at all relieved at T'Aral's safe return, it gave no sign. Doctor Farrell knew enough that T'Aral did not require well-wishes or warm welcomes. She required efficiency in the face of challenges. Baliss prepared the gurney. "How serious is it, Ma'am?" T'Aral took the Ensign's shoulders as they transferred him. "He has a number of distortions - tendons merged with their attached bones, a variety of minor organ mergings. I detect no interphasing between his brain and the surrounding skull, therefore a lobotomy should not be required. He will be suffering considerably over the next week while the interphased tissues become necrotic and need for further surgery is possible, but long-term injury is unlikely." Baliss took to quickly driving the gurney about the halls as T'Aral cleared the path. "That's a relief." "Indeed." T'Aral opened the turbolift. "Have the Ensign transferred to the Comanche Creek, then return to Medical." As the lift doors closed she turned away and returned to attending the Lieutenant and Commander Wesley, pausing at her quarters only long enough to change back into uniform. The events of the last several days were over. For T'Aral, it was as if they had never happened.

... and all it requires is a machine which costs between $500,000 and $1,000,000. That is so much easier than going to a tech school or developing culinary skills as a talented amateur. I personally prefer my inexpensive crock-pot experiments.

"Remember: the key to to keep your balance. Shifts should be swift and brief, so that you will always be ready to move again." T'Aral drilled Tifa over and over regarding the calculated maneuvers of rolling, ducking, and shifting that is Navorkot. The moves were simple, and Tifa was inteligent. She would catch on quickly; with luck she would have extra time to drill Tifa in body language so that she could better read her assailants. While often not considered honorable, evasion was a legitimate tactic in any combat. The result was the desired one: to stay alive. Even with the focused effort to train Tifa, a part of T'Aral's mind could not avoid considering the future. The bloodsport was of no consequence: either they lived or they didn't. What pre-occupied her thoughts was the threat of mental conditioning. This was an unacceptable state of affairs for T'Aral: there was much that she could tolerate, but her mind could not be allowed to be violated. A Vulcan's mind was the only thing they truly trusted - the only ally who would not have an alterior motive or a hidden agenda. To be unable to control or trust one's own mind was completely unacceptable. She would have to avoid this 'conditioning': she could not sacrifice Tifa in any way, but all other options were open for consideration. To escape, to die in the attempt, suicide, or even voluntary capitulation were all acceptable outcomes. The only unacceptable option would be to look in a mirror knowing that she couldn't trust her own thoughts. That was the Vulcan way.

T’Aral sat in the slave cage, doing her best to care for Lieutenant Kvar. While she was still calm and reserved, even the most logical parts of her mind could not stop from reminding her that this was all her fault. She should have been more forceful about insisting that the Commander leave immediately. She should have chosen a more populated area to exit through, where capture would have been hindered by the presence of bystanders. It was her fault that they were in this predicament, and now Tifa’s well-being was entirely her responsibility. The inquiries to their Orion captors were most enlightening; she would need to share them with her fellow prisoner promptly, but she would need to do it carefully. The one enemy was despair, and if either of them fell to it then the odds of their survival deminish drastically. T’Aral sat and watched, waiting for a sign that Tifa was awake while seeking just the right words to say. It didn’t take long for a sign to arrive, as Tifa suddenly and violently began to cough. Her whole body heaved as it attempted to purge what remained of the gas. Once things calmed down, the young woman took a moment to open her eyes and get a first glimpse of where she ended up. “Ughhh......” moaned Tifa as she started to slowly sit up. Her head was killing her, and the coughing didn’t help that. As she held her head with a hand, she soon realized she wasn’t alone in what appeared to be a cell. Slowly turning, Tifa saw the doctor sitting by her. “Doctor?” the confused woman looked to the Vulcan. “W...where are we?” She looked around again to confirm it was just the two of them. “And where is Audraya?” T’Aral did her best to ease Tifa back down. She was clearly in pain - the chemical mix that was dropped on them was causing a bad reaction within the lieutenant. So far all she could provide was a cool, damp cloth. Their captors had promised medical supplies … hopefully they would arrive soon. “The Commander is not here. We have been captured by Orion slavers. Regrettably, I have no knowledge regarding the Commander’s whereabouts or condition.” While it was usually T’Aral’s nature to be more free with pertinent information, she was reluctant to share the full details of their situation. Tifa would find out soon enough; there was no sense in upsetting her prematurely when she was only now recovering. “I must ask that you follow my directions for the time being: our situation is perilous, and it is important that you allow me to see to your safety and well-being.” Tifa slowly nodded as she laid back down as best she could on the hardened cage floor. “Orion slavers...What do they want with us? Have you talked with them? Are they Black Kris?” So many questions seemed to pop up as she grew more and more worried. T’Aral would have preferred not to answer Tifa’s questions quite so directly, but there was no point in deceiving her or, at this point, trying to soften the blow. Their situation was dire and she needed to know that. “To answer your inquiries in reverse order: I believe that they are Black Kris or somehow associated, I have spoken with the individual who appears responsible for us, and they intend to sell us both as pleasure slaves - assuming we survive some manner of blood sport referred to as ‘The Maze’.” Now came the difficult part: inspiring confidence in such a situation. “I have considered our situation as well as how we came to this state. I believe I can mitigate our circumstances, but only if I have your full and complete co-operation. Each stage of our situation can be dealt with if it is approached logically. That logic, however, may take some unusual forms.” Tifa frowned at the thought of going through a maze. She had heard rumors of such a trial, but never considered once she would be a part of one. Looking to T’Aral, she nodded lightly. “Right, I will do what I can. For both of our sakes...” She only wished Audraya were here to rescue her.

"Bill's Salvage and Surplus ... yeah, we take aircraft - what have you got?"

*Sighs* ... Another 'Default' win. Approach, Ed Grubberman, so that you may learn the way of Tae Kwon Liep ... Boot To The Head! You may proceed, Mr. Marx.

It is interesting to note that not only was the blonde beaten by the red-head, blonde was in fact the *least* favorite selection. It would seem that the fan priority for 'FemShep' falls in this order: Hot & Firey Dark & Striking Serious & Formal Bright & Bubble-headed