Fragments and Perceptions:

[T'Prise 0]

From her position at the secondary science station on the bridge, T'Prise was able to watch the Manticore's rapid progress through the subspace portal. She swiftly ran through a series of mental calculations. If they did not emerge soon, the ship would begin to break apart. It could only end in disaster, and this time, it would be her fault. By blindly allowing herself to believe that this time it would be different, and by remaining silent regarding her research, she had assumed culpability for whatever happened to the ship and its crew.

 

Unlike the artificial portals created as part of the Peregrination Project, this portal was naturally occurring, needing only the slightest manipulations by the crew to begin its formation process. The supposition that these two types of portals were theoretically dissimilar, encouraged her silence regarding familiarity with this type of phenomenon; she was unwilling to divulge classified information without specific orders to do so. The speed at which they moved was causing telltale pressures upon the structural integrity of the ship's infrastructure. All around her, systems were failing. She had seen these types of failures before; now they served as good indication that natural portals were similar to artificial ones. As they hurtled through the passage at an indeterminate speed, it would only be a matter of time before structural integrity totally failed. Starfleet did not construct their ships to withstand the types of stresses created by these portals; the accident aboard the Wanderlust had proved that.

 

Before she could give credence to the thoughts and calculations running through her head, they emerged from the portal, still traveling at an indeterminate speed, momentum flinging them forward. Sparks flew from her station as it overloaded from the shift back into normal space. Glancing over at Escher she could see that his station was damaged as well; none of the sensors are online. The ship shuddered and banked as Mizu attempted to steady the helm. Just off their bow stood a Sovereign Class Starship, part of the blockade sent to stop the supposed invasion. Atragon and Sovak both began to shout orders, attempting to take control of the situation.

 

A collision was unavoidable; it came with a sickening crunch of alloy against alloy, a high-pitched, deafening squeal. Its impact threw her across the science area; pain exploded in her head as she slammed into one of the stations. She fell to the floor, vision obscured by errant strands of hair falling over her eyes. She tried to move her head to shake them away, but the pain was too much. Something sticky ran across her forehead, tangling in her hair. Attempting to retain conscious, she sifted through her thoughts, trying to grasp onto something as reality became tenuous. Trivialities flitted through her head. She needed to report to sickbay for a physical, she had left her teacup in the science lab, Escher still confused her with the previous science officer, Ensign Nupursen. She could not fight the darkness it was too strong. As it overtook her, one last thought floated to the surface, just out of reach. This is my fault.

 

*****

 

The disorientation left her confused. From somewhere far away, she could hear an assortment of voices, mixed together, perhaps all speaking at once. Unable to understand them, she pushed them to the back of her mind, and slowly they slipped from her reality…

 

The heat was stifling, made only more so by the heaviness of her ceremonial robes. It was not the arid, desiccated heat of ShiKahr, where she had attended secondary school, or the balmy, soothing heat of her family home in Raal. Instead, it was a heavy heat, infused with moisture; so heavy, one could almost reach out and grasp it. A humid, subtropical heat, a climate not found on Vulcan.

 

Someone was speaking, in a low, reverent tone, speaking of someone she knew. More people stood around her, silently listening to the voice. Most dressed in black. Some held musical instruments, others squares of white cloth, which they used to wipe the moisture from their eyes. She saw faces of fallen colleagues, Kosinski, Tarez, and Laarin, among the crowd, something was not right, they did not belong here. Looking around, she noticed the grassy lawn beneath her feet and the marble pillars dotting the landscape, the one nearest was some type of monument. Turning her head, she gazed at it, reading the epitaph inscribed upon it.

 

Ici Reposent Henri Christophe Lamoreaux.

 

She knew this place, had been here before. The memorial service for Dr. Lamoreaux, or Chris, as he had insisted everyone call him, one of her colleagues in the Theoretical Propulsion Group. Chris had grown up in a city called New Orleans, an old city by Earth standards, full of history and culture. Duty dictated her attendance at this service, to honor her fallen friend. The rescue crews had found Chris alive among the wreckage; however, injuries sustained during decompression eventually proved fatal, making her the only survivor of the tragedy. She was the last of the Wanderlust crew, only she held the memories of what had happened aboard.

 

The holy man conducting the memorial service concluded his remarks and those holding instruments started to play. People began to sing, a soulful, melancholy song. She bowed her head paying her last respects and listened to the song, trying to understand its meaning. As the song ended another one began, this one discordant from the solemn demeanor previously displayed. The tune was jubilant, joyful. A type of music not usually associated with earth funeral customs. A procession began, moving away from Chris's monument and out of the burial ground; those playing instruments led the way, followed by the others, who were moving in time to the music. She looked for her colleagues in the crowd, but did not see them. They are gone, she reminded herself, like Chris they had not survived. Lingering for a moment, saying one last farewell to them all, she soon moved to follow the revelers, who only moments before had been mourners.

 

The procession flowed into the street and progressed along it; people stopped to watch. She stayed back, merely observing the proceedings, following along slowly. As the procession moved on, the music died away and she began to shiver as if cold. The sky was now dark and she was alone again, always alone. She hurried along, slipping into a narrow lane, trying to find her way back, back to something, but to what she was unsure.

 

The voices began again, still far away, following her … those ships look battle ready … Engineering, status! … Medical kit. Now! …

 

She walked faster now, her vision blurring as she tried to escape the voices. Turning onto another street, she moved toward the neon signs flashing brightly before her, advertising some type of social gathering place. The Redstar Nightclub. The voices faded, her vision sharpened.

 

Hesitating at the door, she looked in to find the club empty. A small table, unobtrusively obscured by shadows stood against the wall in the back. Making her way in, she sat down at the table, hoping the voices would not follow her. She did not fear the them, that would be both irrational and illogical, but something in her did not wish to confront them at this time.

 

Before her on the table sat a data PADD, identical to those she used at the Daystrom. Lifting it to peruse its contents, her eyebrow raised. It contained her third foremother's recipe for plomeek broth. This was something kept only within the family, as the dish was renowned throughout the Raal Province. She, herself, only prepared the broth on special occasions, when she felt the need to remember her home. The last time she prepared the broth was prior to the catastrophe aboard the Wanderlust.

 

As she scrolled through the recipe, the instructions changed, became her calculations for manipulating the space-time continuum on a quantum level. This equation was incorrect, something within its fundamental principles was faulty, it was not the equation she had painstakingly developed, someone had changed it. Use of this equation would no doubt result in the destruction of a ship. As she contemplated the changes, the symbols dissolved before her eyes, reverting back to the original calculations.

 

Scrolling down further she saw slight modifications to her formulas and theorems, modifications influenced by the data from the natural portal. The applications of it were intriguing; perhaps data gained from her experiences in the Andromeda Galaxy could fix the problems inherent in artificial portals. Pressing the screen, she attempted to scroll down, to see the data models, but there were none. Setting the PADD down on the table, she pushed it away, trying to think, trying to figure out the implications.

 

The voices returned, this time louder and more audible … chopped up for scrap? … I need comms, now!

 

She reached for the PADD, but it was blank, the information gone. The disorientation returned; something was changing. Turning toward the door, she could see that darkness had descended once again and it was coming for her, stealing into her reality. It was not time yet, she needed to find answers, this was her fault. She was at the door, and the blackness had returned, slipping around her once again.

Edited December 1, 2008 by T'Prise