Answers in the Dark...

[Victria 0]

Her quarters were completely dark. The only light came from the blurred field of stars outside that passed through the ultraviolet filters on the windows and bathed everything in a muted blue glow. The silence was almost oppressive but it did not bother her. It was not so absolute as some might think.

 

Victria sat cross-legged on the short table that faced the windows and the standard Starfleet issue sofa. Her wrists rested lightly on her knees, fingers just brushing the fabric of the loose pants she wore. Focus turned inward, she slowed her body’s metabolic rate to nearly nothing, silencing the blood that pulsed through her. She would not be able to sustain this state for long without proper preparation.

 

Pale gaze turned toward the stars but unfocused, she began to expand her senses in order to explore her environment. The subharmonic thrum of the ship’s power systems drowned out all other sounds until she filtered it out and continued to search. Just beyond the door of her quarters, two life-forces flared in her mind like two beacons in the night. Guards, her brain registered. They had appeared shortly after Victria had parted ways with Laarell and had stationed themselves on either side of her door.

 

Those two pulsing lives called to her, tugged at the hunger she suppressed. Even through the walls, the scent of their life-forces reached her. She could sense their emotions as well: anxious-curious-wary and bored-preoccupied-antagonistic. They were there because they had been ordered to do so and were not happy with their current assignment. Had it been at the request of the Orion? Were they ordered to keep her from leaving the ship, or were they there for her own protection. Even in her trance-like state, that last thought made her lips curve into a smirk.

 

She passed swiftly on before the tempting pulse of blood made her lose her focus. Continuing to stretch out with her senses, she marked each living crewman in turn but did not linger. There was a finite limit to her perception, but she found that over half of her own deck was open to her before the sounds and scents became too muddled to separate. She could sense those above and below as well, though the thick deck plating obscured most of what she could read.

 

She remained with her senses stretched to the limit for a few minutes, noting the movements of those on her deck. Each had their own unique signature. She could hear the beating of their hearts, feel the pressure it took to push blood through their bodies. As she filtered through those life-forms, she tested their scents as well, savoring each one and comparing them to those she had in her memory. None of them were familiar.

 

A trifle disappointed, Victria quickly withdrew her touch and centered on herself once more, her gaze actively focusing on the windows. Lungs filled with air as she forced herself to take a breath and willed her heart to beat. The silence blanketed her rooms, but she could still hear the two lives of the guards outside her door. She could probably befuddle their minds if she wished in order to escape their attention, but Corizon had explained himself very clearly when they had last spoken. If he thought she posed any sort of threat to his crew, he would deal with her accordingly. Had he no support, she would not have hesitated to test him on his threats, but with the backing of his crew, she was vastly outnumbered. For the moment, she was forced to remain in his good graces, else she would never be allowed any freedom.

 

Unfolding from her cross-legged position on the low table, Victria gracefully rose from her seat and turned for the door. The panels slid open as she neared, startling her new guards. She paused for a moment in the doorway and glanced from one to the other. Neither protested until she stepped out of her quarters. In concert, they turned to block the corridor and halt her passage. She gazed at them, mild annoyance hidden behind her neutral expression.

 

“Am I not allowed to leave my quarters? This is new.”

 

“Orders, ma’am,” said the left. He was short, stocky, and blonde.

 

“Whose orders?” He seemed extremely uncomfortable, fidgeting under her unblinking stare. Anxious-curious-wary.

 

“Orders from Command. That’s all we know. That’s all we need to know.” That grunted out from the right. He was typical tall, dark, and handsome. Bored-preoccupied-antagonistic.

 

“I’m confined to my quarters?”

 

“Well…” Stocky seemed to be the weak link. She turned to peer at him again.

 

“Well?”

 

“We were just told to keep you on the ship. Excalibur is leaving this system.”

 

“Ah, I see.”

 

“You should return to your quarters,” annoyance from Handsome. Annoyed because? He hadn’t wanted her to know she was free to move about the ship?

 

“Without computer access or any other forms of… entertainment,” flashing a toothy smile. “I find my quarters extremely dull. Thank you for your suggestion, but I decline.”

 

Handsome was turning a bit red in the face. Stocky had paled at the mention of entertainment. She threw him another smile, knowing full well the thoughts going through his head. He was partly repulsed by the stories he had heard and partly intrigued, curious as to what she could offer. The conflict of emotions was not new.

 

“Where are you going?” Handsome spoke up, repressing his anger. Victria was impressed at the level of control he displayed.

 

“To the morgue.”

 

“The morgue,” he blinked, then frowned. “To feed?”

 

“The dead hold no nourishment for me. I prefer… the living.” She leaned forward, her gaze traveling to his neck where she could see his pulse.

 

Handsome sputtered and took an involuntary step back, but Victria did not advance. Her expression turned grave. “I was not the only Al-Ucard on the damaged fighter, just the only one that survived. The rest of them are housed in the morgue.”

 

The two security officers shot a glance to each other before Handsome spoke again. “I suppose that is not off limits. We’ll escort you.”

 

“You are more than welcome to.” She gave each one a long, searching look, then turned away and headed for the ship’s internal conveyance.

 

During the ride in the turbolift and subsequent walk to sickbay’s morgue, neither security officer spoke to her. Victria did not mind. She could tell they were uncomfortable remaining in her presence, but would do their duty in spite of their personal feelings. She stared at them and they stared back, but neither party made threatening gestures. Once she reached the morgue with her escort, they remained behind, posted on either side of the sickbay entrance, waiting for her return.

 

The bodies of her fallen crewmates had been kept preserved in stasis. Victria examined the body of the first, but there was little she recognized from the charred remains. Petre, perhaps, or even Wanil. There was nothing she needed to do as his soul had already been released by fire. Seared flesh, brittle bone, and tiny shards of crystal were all that remained of the man’s left arm. With a small sigh, she moved to the next body.

 

When pulled from stasis, this one bled freely as if he had been injured only moments before. Rastin. A skilled Nightstalker. The Lucam will rejoice in your death. Lifting his left arm, she ran her fingers along the skin of the upper region, searching for the mass she knew would be there. Finding it a few inches above the inner curve of his elbow, she made a small incision with one of her long fingernails and withdrew a small crystal vial from the man’s flesh.

 

The vial was no longer than two finger joints, but was very precious to Victria and her people. Sealed inside was a sample of Rastin’s blood, preserved just before he and the rest of the team had disembarked for the fatal battle. Each Al-Ucardian warrior had a similar vial buried beneath their skin. The tradition stemmed from a time when they actively Hunted the changelings through the galaxy. If a warrior perished on an assignment, his or her fellow warriors would remove the vial and return it to Al-Ucard. There it would be delivered to the Archivists who would drink the sample in order to absorb the deceased’s blood-memories. The memories would then be recorded and stored to educate future generations.

 

Such a system was efficient, but not infallible. Records could be destroyed, lost, or recorded incorrectly. The Archivists, themselves, were also endangered by their profession. The presence of countless memories of many different individuals caused some of them to go mad and take their own lives. They were dedicated to their cause, however, and none ever chose the vocation without knowing the risks involved.

 

Victria visited every corpse, collecting intact vials when possible, and replacing each body back into stasis to be cremated by the medical staff. Once they were burned and their souls released, the ashes had no meaning. Blood was what mattered most.

 

When she was done, Victria had recovered only eight small vials. The bloodied crystal vials were now wrapped in a bit of cloth and tucked into her pocket. It was a sad figure considering that the fighter had carried at least three times that number. The unaccounted were either disintegrated during the blast that tore through the ship or had been spaced when the hull breached. Though she doubted that she would be allowed to return to Al-Ucard anytime within the near future, Victria would do whatever it took to see the vials safely back to her home planet. If that were not possible, she would carry them in her own body, buried under the skin of her upper thigh until they could be delivered.

 

Her two guardians joined her once more as she left sickbay. Neither of them spoke, but she could feel their eyes upon her. In the turbolift once again, she lifted her gaze to meet theirs, staring as she waited for them to speak. She could sense the curiosity as they speculated on what she had been doing in the morgue. Perhaps they thought her race too cold and unfeeling to care about the deaths of their own.

 

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Stocky finally spoke, breaking the lengthy silence.

 

“Are you really, or is that just something your kind say when they can’t think of a suitable response?” Victria crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the wall, peering at him.

 

“Wha… what?” Caught off-guard by such a direct question, he frowned. “Of course I mean it. Those were your people…”

 

“And why do you care? They were the enemy. I was the enemy.” I may still be your enemy. “They were trying to kill you.”

 

Stocky just shook his head, glancing to his friend for help. No luck from Handsome. He was busy glaring at Victria in a not-quite-openly-hostile manner. “They were the enemy, but now they are dead and should not be hated. Yes, they were trying to destroy us and our ship, but that is what happens in war. People fight. People die. We follow orders and wage battles, but that does not mean we created the conflict. Or that we have to like it.”

 

“Well said.” She nodded at the truth of his statement, amazed that a security officer could see things beyond the immediate target. “And I thank you for your condolences.”

 

Turning once the lift doors opened, Victria stepped out and strode through the corridor, heading back to her room. As she reached the door, she paused to glance back to the two officers. They waited a few feet away, ready to take their places outside her quarters once she disappeared inside.

 

“Did either of you wish to join me for a drink?”

 

Though she posed the question to both, her attention was fixed on Stocky. He was the likely candidate. She resisted the impulse to draw him to her with a smile, testing him to see if he would follow of his own accord. He blushed and seemed ready to step forward when Handsome placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. He was still glaring at Victria.

 

“No. We’re on duty. Have a good evening.”

 

Remaining a few moments longer, she finally gave them a nod. “Yes. And you as well,” as she moved through the open doorway alone.

 

Back in her seated position on the low table, Victria peered out at the stars again, this time tracking them as they flashed by her window. In her lap lay a bloodied cloth, eight small vials of blood resting side by side. Her finger trailed over them lightly, making them chime as they rolled into one another. How many more will I have to collect before the war is over? Who will save my own?

 

There were no answers for her in the dark...