A Chen by Any Other Name

[Tachyon 0]

“A Chen by Any Other Name”

Stardate 0602.27

Lieutenant Tandaris Admiran

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Admiran had seen death before, far more times than he cared to remember. Death was the only constant, the only bottom line, the only true point of no return. So many species have obsessed over cheating death, preventing death, reversing death, that they developed elaborate measures to avoid it. Even the Trill, through the use of the symbionts, found a way to preserve the essence of a person even after death.

 

Admiran had never attended the funerals of his past symbionts. For one thing, they usually occurred before he had fully acclimated to his next host. For another, it was frowned upon by Trill culture. To associate oneself with past relationships. . . .

 

He liked to think that he felt each death, though. That, even if kilometres separated them, he felt when their life ended. How could one be bonded with another one, so intimately, and not feel when their existence gets abruptly terminated?

 

Death doesn't feel like anything. Some describe it as a cold, lonely sensation. Others claim it's warm and welcoming. But when it happens, it isn't anything remarkable. It's an ending, not a revelation. It's a transition, not a scene of the play itself.

 

Tandaris had only known Lieutenant Commander Chen for what, in his terms, would be considered quite a brief span of time. Yet Chen had been likable. He considered Chen a good colleague, maybe even a friend, although they hadn't had much of a chance to really talk. And overall, Chen had gotten the job done. Even when he was only on a coffee break.

 

He knew the stages of grief, no matter the names assigned to them by human or Andorian or Trill pyschologists. He knew that he was feeling strong emotions, such as anger, over the injustice of Chen's death. He missed Chen. He wondered how it was possible for the universe to allow such a thing to happen.

 

“Oboe Quartet in D Major – Op. 34” played softly in the background. Tandaris, returning to his quarters after the funeral, lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. Time, death's partner in the dance, that most linear of entities that limited corporeal species' perceptions, would now take over in death's stead. Time doesn't heal all wounds, but it at least obscures them. Newer, fresher wounds take their place. And the band is still playing.

 

It had been Chen's favourite song. That much Tandaris knew. It only made him regret how little he knew about Chen in general. It made the tear running down the side of his face feel a little less alien, though. They say that you cry because you're sad, or you're grieving, or you're mourning the loss of a loved one. But that isn't it at all. You don't cry for those reasons—you don't cry for any reason. You just cry.

 

When you do, when you reach that cathartic climax, you feel better. The music crescendos; the audience applauds; the music stops . . . and the musician takes his final bow.