This House of Cards

[Tachyon 0]

“This House of Cards, Part I”

Lt. Anastasia Poldara

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The emotion that Anastasia felt was a dense, crystalline composite of anger and bitterness, supported by a subtle lattice of confusion entwined with desperation. It did not dissipate during her journey home—if anything, it festered and blossomed into an entire new species of emotion. In time, it would probably evolve to sentience; luckily the transport arrived at Earth before that could happen, and Anastasia soon returned to her terrestrial home.

 

The kitchen had recovered since the fire—not spontaneously, of course, as that would be weird, not to mention disturbing. A skilled repair crew had surveyed, then assaulted, the remains of the room before surrendering to the interior decorator and his team of makeover mercenaries. The end result, at least from Anastasia's perspective, was a refreshing redesign that still fit into the decor of the house. It had fast become her favourite place to sit while at home.

 

She was spending a lot of time sitting lately, consuming cups of tea at a prodigious rate. The new kettle was bearing this workload without complaint, much less combustion, which Anastasia took as a good sign. The mechanical motion of bringing the cup to her lips, taking a sip, and setting it back down on the table was soothing. And as long as she drank tea, Anastasia managed to avoid the vodka. She pondered the vicissitudes through which she had arrived at this kitchen.

 

I can't believe they shut it down. It wasn't right. Even after resigning as project leader, she had obtained clearance to receive regular updates. The news had been almost universally good; the project was well ahead of schedule. Then one night, completely out of the blue, Anastasia received a terse communication informing her that the project had been terminated, effective immediately. Those updates from Melbourne were among her last tenuous links to that former life, now so distant in both time and space. It was a blow to her ego, and also the final blow to the perilous house of cards she had constructed since coming aboard Challenger.

 

The house of cards had started as a quaint bungalow, low to the ground and stable enough. Day by day, week by week, Anastasia had felt the house growing larger. Unauthorized construction. Even as she attempted to get used to life aboard a starship, the house grew up, up, storeys upon storeys extending higher than the eye could see, countless decks of cards expended in a pointless, hopeless exercise. She knew eventually the house would fall, but she wanted to postpone that confrontation for as long as possible.

 

She stood alone now, a field of cards scattered around her. Infinity pickup. The face cards stared up at her with caricatured grimaces, mocking her naivety. The backs of the cards were the purest, coldest black, devoid of substance, devoid of meaning, devoid of mercy. Anastasia could only seek respite by closing her eyes and refusing to gaze upon this desolate scene, but she couldn't go through life with her eyes closed. She would bump into things.

 

None of her former colleagues knew why the project was being shut down either. Zia Wyndam, former deputy lead and the new lead after Anastasia's departure, begged Anastasia to come back. “Maybe you can talk some sense into the board of directors. I've been stonewalled at every turn, even went to the top brass. No one is returning my calls anymore. I don't know what's going on—we just came one day to find the lab locked, no explanation, nothing. Maybe they'll listen to you.”

 

Anastasia had been doubtful then and remained doubtful now, but she had acquiesced to Wyndam's request. Truth be told, she had been looking for a reason to leave Challenger for some time now. Her brief sense of ecstatic connection, of being involved in something momentous, had twisted over time into a sorry excuse for devotion to duty and day-to-day events. She lost sight of any long-term goals she had once had, aspirations to paint the stars with discoveries attached to her name. It all became routine, ordinary, and humdrum. Depressing. Oppressing. And in this suffocating atmosphere, a sense that she did not belong—she was not one of them. They were explorers and adventurers. She? She was a lab technician. Brilliant, perhaps, and certainly diligent in her job. But she was not “starship material,” no matter what the tests and interviews declared.

 

It was a “leave of absence,” not a transfer. A compromise in many ways, but also just another opportunity for Anastasia to vacillate and avoid making another life-altering decision. The last one hadn't worked out so well for her, why would this one be any different? So ironically, even though joining Challenger had led her to this impasse, she could not bring herself to leave it, not just yet. Thus, even as the transport skipped across the surface of subspace, carrying her back home, it took her away from home.

Edited May 8, 2009 by Tachyon

[Tachyon 0]

“This House of Cards, Part II”

Lt. Anastasia Poldara

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“The project was terminated a month ago, Lt. Poldara. Its resources have already been reallocated. It will not be restarted.” Commander Zend maintained an official, detached tone, but his eyes smiled at denying her request.

 

Anastasia scowled. She recognized a dismissal when she heard one, but she was not ready to let the matter drop. They had been discussing the termination of her former project for almost an hour now, “But you still haven't told me why. You didn't even tell Lt. Wyndam why. Why aren't you saying why?”

 

“That's classified.”

 

“Oh it is, is it?” Anastasia retorted, eyebrows raised. She placed her hands on her hips and added, “And who decided that?”

 

Zend said, “Watch your tone, Lieutenant. You left this institute and your project some time ago. We are not obligated to explain ourselves to you.”

 

“Respectfully, Commander, I don't see how Starfleet Cybernetics can just shut down an entire project and reassign its staff without so much as a final project report. I tried to check the work entry database—it's been purged, all records sealed.”

 

“As I said, they are classified now.” Zend sighed and leaned forward. “Look, Poldara. I don't like this any more than you do. My orders came down from much higher up than I'd like to think pays attention to individual projects here. You think I like having wasted all that time on something that won't even enter into the journals as a failure? But that's the price we pay for using Starfleet resources and equipment—we're subject to a chain of command and at the mercy of military paranoia. You know that what we were developing had weapons applications.”

 

That induced a snort from Anastasia. “'Weapons applications'?! We weren't even at the prototype stage yet. We hadn't even figured out how to stabilize the positron flow, let alone form a coherent matrix. Practical applications were decades off, not years.”

 

Zend shrugged. “Not my call. Not your call. Let it go, Poldara. You dropped this toy for a shinier one; you can't expect a quick tantrum will get it back for you. Now, you can go ahead and rant in the hallway until security takes you away, or you can go find something productive to do. But until I see a transfer request, as far as I'm concerned, you don't work here. Good day.”

 

Fuming, Anastasia managed a “Yes, sir” before whirling around and leaving Zend's office, the black cloud struggling to keep up. “Officious obstructionist vague imbecilic bureaucrat!” she vilified her former supervisor all the way down the corridor, ignoring the stares of passers-by. But it was no use. She hated to admit it, but Zend was right. Wyndam had tried this approach: no one would say a word. Anastasia knew she wouldn't produce any different results, but she had tried anyway.

 

It didn't make sense. Nothing from the project could have been a threat. According to the last update she had seen, they had been attempting a new method of aligning the induction grid to offset the quantum instabilities of the neural network. The simulations were favourable. Then nothing. What happened in two weeks to cause Starfleet to shut down the entire project? Without some sort of explanation or access to the records themselves, Anastasia would probably never know.

 

So Anastasia flew down the corridor, past the offices of former colleagues: Chaz Reimer, micro-electric engineering; Tebrek, cortical imaging specialist; Brett Malo, data networking specialist and record-keeping—record-keeping!

 

She stopped in front of Malo's office door, the light indicating he was in. She had known Malo for years—since he was fresh out of the Academy, in fact. If there was anyone who could and would get her access to those records, it would be him. Anastasia took a deep breath and pressed the door chime.

 

“Come in,” said Malo. The door hissed open and Anastasia stepped into what she had always thought of as a “lair.” Every available surface, including the walls, ceiling, and most of the floor, was covered in schematics, diagrams, and equipment. There was space to get from the door to his desk and an overturned container that functioned as a guest chair. Malo was a minimalist, both in milieu and method.

 

The high-pitched set of dissonant notes pumping through the room's speakers was new, though. It didn't sound like any music Anastasia had ever sampled. Malo's hobby was recital and composition, however; he enviably possessed absolute pitch. Anastasia covered her ears and advanced cautiously. “Uh ... Brett?”

 

“Yeah, wha—” Malo whirled around in his chair to face her, his expression changing as he realized the identity of his visitor. “Ana! Wow. I didn't—oh, sorry.” He touched a control on his desk, and the noise stopped. “Forgot about that.”

 

“You forgot about a deafening noise in your office?”

 

Malo smiled and gestured at the guest . . . crate. “You'd be surprised.”

 

“What was that?”

 

“Subharmonic field distortions in an isolinear medium. I'm working on isolinear circuitry now, but we're experiencing degradations in the way we embed the optical matrix. I've developed a program that translates the field distortions into audible sound frequencies. Now I'm listening for the anomalies to see if there's a pattern in the degradation progression.”

 

Anastasia laughed. It was the first time she had laughed in a while, and it felt good. “You were not.”

 

“It's not that hard when you can hear the distortions. At first I had the computer analyzing it, but I found that I could intuitively tell what sounded wrong. The computer had trouble distinguishing between fragmented data storage and corrupted memory.”

 

“We had the same problem with our project,” Anastasia said. “And I remember you coming into the lab one day with the solution. That's when I learned about your advantage.”

 

“Hey, if you've got it, use it. But what brings you back to Earth—you heard about our project, I guess.”

 

“That's why I'm here.” Anastasia wasn't sure how best to proceed, so she just said, “I need access to the final data, Brett.”

 

Malo frowned. “It's classified. Zend doesn't even have access.”

 

“I know. But Zend doesn't have the skills to get me access.” She raised an eyebrow.

 

“Ana . . .” Malo sighed. “I really can't. I mean, yes, I could, but I won't.”

 

“Not even for an old friend? Your old mentor?” Anastasia said, drawing her lips into a pout. She carefully reached out and placed her hand on his, ever so gently squeezing it. “Not even for me?” Her index finger stroked back and forth.

 

“Uhh. . .” Malo pursed his lips, debating. Then he sighed again, but this time it was one of resignation, not regret. “Ana, why do you always ask me to do things that break security protocol?”

 

“Because I'm fun,” she replied. “And those other times were accidents. I honestly didn't know Keller's lab was quarantined!”

 

Intently focused on his computer now, Malo responded with a distant, unconvinced, “Right. And the Deltan ambassador's quarters?”

 

“I maintain that the directions to that conference were vague at best. How was I supposed to know that the we were in the wrong wing of the consulate?”

 

A beep issued from the console, and Malo said, “There! I'm in. Oh wow.”

 

Anastasia came around the desk and read over his shoulder. “Oh wow,” she repeated. “There's tons of data here—what were you guys doing with the engrammatic encoder?”

 

“Nothing, that's what's so odd. It's like . . .”

 

“. . . someone falsified these data to make it look like there were problems.” Anastasia shivered. “Why?”

 

“Someone wanted the project killed?”

 

“Not just killed. Killed gruesomely and buried forever.”

 

“Gruesomely but silently. No wonder we don't have access to these—any of us would have spotted the inconsistencies immediately—”

 

“Like we did.”

 

“—and raised the issue with the board of directors. I've got to let Zia know. Can you download this to a PADD?”

 

Malo looked up at her and frowned. “I don't know, Ana—breaking into classified files is one thing, but copying them. . . .?”

 

“Breaking into them alone is a court-martial offence. PADD. Now. What difference will it make?”

 

Even as Malo took a blank PADD and copied the data, he muttered. “Oh, about fifteen years in prison.” He handed the PADD to Anastasia and said, “Good luck.”

 

Anastasia clasped Malo's shoulders and planted a kiss on his bright red hair. “Thanks, Brett. I owe you one.”

 

“One? Try twenty-seven.”

 

“Fine, make it twenty-eight,” Anastasia said. As she turned to leave, she added, “Put it on my tab!”

[Tachyon 0]

“This House of Cards, Part III”

Lt. Anastasia Poldara

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The room was large and tastefully decorated in that style so favoured by Starfleet Headquarters—that is, spartan with an extra helping of bland. The occupants of the room, sitting around a remarkably oval table, laboured with great effort to reproduce that effect with their own persons—wardrobe, coiffure, and posture combined to create auras utterly devoid of character. Their success in this venture was marked by the rank they had managed to achieve, for this room was the setting for a meeting of the Board of Directors of Starfleet's Cybernetics Research division.

 

With this scene now firmly established, it is no stretch of imagination to propose that when the doors of the room swished open and Anastasia Poldara strode into the room, this eminent body of un-people did their best to remain composed. Nary an eyebrow rose as Anastasia said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the board, I have an announcement to make!”

 

In fact, while this event was altogether unusual, it was still not important enough to merit the direct attention of the Chairman of the Board. As such, it was the Vice-Vice-Vice-Chairman who addressed Anastasia: “Yes, Lieutenant? And who are you?”

 

Anastasia's hand clutched a PADD, which she now rose into the air like a trophy. She ignored the Vice-Vice-Vice-Chairman's inquiry and said, “About a month ago, you terminated a project at the Melbourne labs, based on a faulty recommendation. I have, in my hand, evidence that the data you received were falsified to make the project look like a complete failure.”

 

At this point, the security personnel whose pursuit Anastasia had eluded caught up with their quarry. As two of the officers restrained Anastasia, a third said, “My apologies, sirs. She managed to get past the security desk with fake credentials.”

 

“Please!” Anastasia cried, determined to put up a struggle. “Let me speak! You have to hear me out! You're making a huge mistake!”

 

“You wouldn't happen to be Lt. Poldara, would you? The former head of the project in question?” asked the Vice-Vice-Vice-Chairman.

 

“Yes! And I'm telling you, someone unfamiliar with the project might have been duped, but I'm not. There's something going on here—some sort of conspiracy—”

 

The Vice-Vice-Vice-Chairman leaned forward, fingers interlaced, an expression of bemusement written across his face. “In my twenty-seven years of experience, Lieutenant, when someone crashes a board meeting and mentions a 'conspiracy', they aren't someone from whom I should take advice.” Waving a hand in dismissal, he added, “Take her away.”

 

The security officers nodded and proceeded to drag the kicking Anastasia out of the room, ignoring her undignified attempts to break free. Meanwhile, the Board of Directors resumed their meeting. The Vice-Vice-Vice-Chairman turned to his colleagues and said, “Now, I believe we were in the middle of planning the semi-annual intra-departmental zero-gravity golf tournament. . . .”

 

***

 

The security holding cell was also decorated in a spartan theme, although for considerably different reasons. Anastasia could have elected to pace the length of the cell with impatience, or throw herself against the force field in a fit of self-destructive rage. Instead, she sat on the bench, absolutely still, awaiting her fate.

 

Perhaps storming a Board of Directors meeting had been the wrong thing to do. But Anastasia was tired. She and Lt. Wyndham had spent weeks contacting superior officers, forwarding their evidence—corroborated by third parties even!—but their cries of foul play fell on deaf ears. Reluctantly, Anastasia had abandoned the tiny, remote hope that this was all a mistake. She had let go of the notion that this was the result of a grudge against her or her project, that it was a minor machination on the part of another Starfleet officer. No, she had stumbled upon to a full-blown conspiracy, and she had become determined to expose it.

 

Now, imprisoned behind a coherent field of gravitons, Anastasia had to admit that victory was rapidly becoming more distant.

 

“You should be in space, Lt. Poldara.” The voice was familiar. Anastasia's head snapped up in surprise. Cdr. Asquith stood in front of her cell.

 

“Something came up,” Anastasia replied.

 

“I can see that. Really, Lieutenant: barging into a meeting of the Board of Directors, denouncing a conspiracy? Is that the best you could do?”

 

Her eyes narrowing, Anastasia smirked. “Certainly not. The best is yet to come.”

 

“I can't decide if you actually believe you're going to succeed or if you're just so deranged you don't realize how much trouble you're in. You broke into classified files, copied them, shared them with third parties—trespassing is mundane compared to those charges. You'll be lucky if your lawyer can get you off with just a court martial. I'm disappointed, Lieutenant. I expected better from you.”

 

“Same here, Commander. Tell me,” said Anastasia, standing face to face with Asquith, “was my project targeted specifically—is this a vendetta against me? Or do your superiors have a larger plan in mind? How many strings did you have to pull to get me assigned to Challenger anyway?” She nodded as Asquith's haughty expression faltered. “It took me a while to figure it out, but now it all makes sense. Why would I ever be offered a post as chief science officer on a new Excalibur-class starship? There must be hundreds of people more qualified for the post, more deserving of that honour. Yet somehow, I was the lucky one. Because you needed me out of the way before you could kill my project.”

 

Through gritted teeth, Asquith said, “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

 

“I think you do, sir. Only you obviously didn't anticipate that I'd cross half a quadrant to find out why my project was killed. You didn't anticipate me breaking Starfleet security protocols, risking my career, or enlisting the help of my former colleagues. And you didn't anticipate my accomplice.”

 

“Your accomplice?”

 

“Yes, Lt. Zia Wyndham, my accomplice. You didn't anticipate her coming up behind you during this conversation and stunning you.”

 

Then a phaser beam hit Cdr. Asquith square in the back. The woman gasped in surprise before crumpling against the force field, falling forward to the floor after the field subsequently disengaged. Anastasia stepped over Asquith's unconscious body and looked at Wyndham, who was standing at the control console, phaser in hand. “Good work. Did you get the location?”

 

Wyndham nodded. “Wasn't easy, but I traced the source of the transmission. How do you feel like a vacation in St. Petersburg?”

 

“Hmm . . . chilly this time of year. We'll need jackets.”

[Tachyon 0]

“This House of Cards, Interlude”

Lt. Anastasia Poldara

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“This is starting to get out of hand,” Irina Poldara said.

 

Cdr. Asquith nodded. “We had no way of knowing she would come all the way back to Earth when she learned about the project.”

 

“Yes we did. She's my daughter. Of course she's going to cross a hundred light-years just to pick a bone with Starfleet Cybernetics. It's what I would have done.”

 

“Well what do you propose we do to solve this problem?” asked Asquith. “She's assaulted a Starfleet officer, not to mention escaping custody. We should catch her and court martial her.”

 

“No. At least, not yet. We need to get the situation back under control. Right now Anastasia's an unknown variable operating in a real situation. We need to channel her efforts until she's acting a part in a narrative of our own design.”

 

“So you want us to set her up for victory.”

 

“Please,” Irina said. “I didn't arrange to have her become science officer in deep space just so she could become involved in my other life.” She terminated the transmission, leaving Asquith alone to ponder how to rectify matters.

 

Damn Poldaras! The mother's as bad as the daughter. Asquith sighed and keyed in a code for an unlisted terminal. A blinking light indicated the channel was open—there was no video.

 

“I told you not to call here.” A man's voice, obviously perturbed, distorted by a minor security subroutine.

 

“The situation has become critical. I recommend we terminate both Poldara women immediately.”

 

“Has it become that serious?”

 

“It has. Irina's judgement is compromised by her daughter's involvement. She isn't making rational calls; she's jeopardizing the mission and our cover. She's become too much of a security risk. Mobilize your team and remove both of them before this escalates from debacle to fiasco.”

 

“Understood. We'll eliminate the threats: you eliminate the evidence. Out.”

 

Asquith stared at the blank console for a moment, collecting herself. She had been at this for nearly thirty years now, and it still rattled her every time she marked someone for death. Oh, it wasn't the killing part that disturbed her. It was the calm way in which she simply gave a name, and the person disappeared. It deliberately flouted the due process enshrined in Federation law, simply because that was the only way to protect the Federation and ensure its continued existence.

 

The fact of the matter was, most citizens got due process because, once every so often, someone disappeared off the street. Poof. Just like that.

 

It was a shame she would lose Irina. Normally a sublimely competent operative, Irina's emotional attachment to her daughter was . . . an unfortunate liability. But it had proved necessary to shut down the positronic brain project in order to protect several other interests. Anastasia Poldara, and by extension, her mother, were just collateral damage. . . .

[Tachyon 0]

“This House of Cards, Part IV”

Lt. Anastasia Poldara

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“Breaking and entering: 2 counts. Theft of classified data: 1 count. Distribution of classified data: 1 count.”

 

Dressed in stylish matching jackets and civilian garb, two rogue Starfleet scientists march down the streets of St. Petersburg on a mission.

 

“Trespassing: 2 counts. Resisting arrest: 2 counts. Escaping custody: 1 count.”

 

They approach a Starfleet research centre. It's early morning, and the sun is only now braving the horizon. The entrance to the building is unlocked, but the reception desk isn't yet occupied. Wyndham takes a seat at the console and brings up a floor plan.

 

“Assaulting a superior officer: 2 counts. Assaulting security personnel: 3 counts. Manslaughter: 1 count.”

 

The lift opens on the fifth floor. So far, so good. No one has stopped them yet—the building is practically deserted, its only other occupants some technicians who seem more interested in their own work than two unidentified civilians. Anastasia and Wyndham make their way across the floor to the secured area.

 

“Do you understand the charges as they have been read to you?”

 

Two guards. Simultaneously they look up, one opening his mouth to ask a question. No chance. Two bodies, stunned but alive, hidden behind their desks. Again, the rogue scientists access a console, this time to disable the automated security system. Cameras off. Internal sensors off, but not before confirming the presence of another person inside the room.

 

“Ms. Poldara?”

 

The door is locked, of course, but they are not mere thieves. Trained Starfleet officers know how to pick a lock. Anastasia quickly bypasses the security protocol and triggers an override. The door swishes open, and they're inside—just like that. In many ways, it feels too easy. But this is the hardest thing she has ever done in her life.

 

“Ms. Poldara, do you understand the charges?”

 

In the middle of the room, sitting at a circular console similar to the one in Anastasia's science lab, an unfamiliar Commander looks up, alarmed. They raise their phasers but do not shoot. Questions ensue, a heated exchange. Anastasia demands the Commander hand over the evidence they finally require and make a full confession. The Commander refuses. Security will arrive at any minute, so time is short.

 

“Yes, I understand the charges.”

 

But security doesn't arrive. Security can't arrive, because the lifts are offline. This was not Anastasia's idea, however, but that of the man with the phaser rifle now pointed at her head.

 

“And what is your plea?”

 

The power goes out.

 

“I plead guilty to all charges.”

 

Emergency lights sputter on. Anastasia seizes the moment to dropkick the trained killer, but he sees her coming and hits her with the butt of his rifle. They go down simultaneously, the rifle clattering out of his grasp. Wyndham, meanwhile, is occupied with two other operatives. Unlike Anastasia, her combat skills are limited. She's easily disabled.

 

He looks her squarely in the eye. Not sure whether to accept this or not. Then, resigned, he nods.

 

The Commander seizes the phaser rifle, trains it on both Anastasia and her opponent. Demands that everyone stop at once. No one listens. Anastasia manages to disarm another operative, points the phaser rifle at the remaining man, who has subdued Wyndham.

 

“Very well. Then it is my duty to inform you that, as of 14:00 hours today—” An aide enters, hands him a PADD. “I see. You're certain? Thank you.”

 

The Commander fires at one of the operatives, point blank. Death immediate. Two more shots, two more people dead. Security belatedly arrives.

 

“Today is your lucky day, Ms. Poldara.” Slides the PADD across the table. “All you have to do is sign this, and you're a free woman.”

 

Wyndham's dead eyes stare blankly at Anastasia. Even as Anastasia had squeezed the trigger, the operative was pulling Wyndham into place as a shield. She didn't stand a chance.

 

Anastasia looks up, confused. “This isn't a confession. This is a recantation.”

 

Another operative, killed by the Commander's second shot, stares at the ceiling.

 

“Correct. You verify that statement, you swear that none of this ever happened, and you go back to your life, your husband, your Starfleet career. Status quo.”

 

The operative whom Anastasia had failed to kill now trains his rifle on Anastasia, but the security personnel stun him. Anastasia flees. Security pursues, along with the confused rifle-toting Commander.

 

“It can't be status quo. It can never be status quo,” she says. “It wasn't supposed to happen like this. . . .”

 

In a parallel universe, Anastasia manages to escape, now a fugitive. In this universe, however, she collides with a passing technician, hitting the floor hard for the second time in five minutes. This gives security enough time to catch up and apprehend her.

 

Her thumb presses against the receptive surface of the PADD. The Sun once again orbits the Earth. All is right in the world.

 

It's over very quickly. Anastasia never does obtain the evidence she needs from the unnamed Commander, who gives a statement and resumes his work. Indeed, all of the evidence she had previously gathered has now gone missing. Names and dates don't match her testimony. Witnesses have disappeared. Her project, formerly mothballed, is now retroactively excised from the database. Anastasia's lawyer advises her to plead guilty. She does.

“Thank you, Ms. Poldara; that will be all. Have a nice day.”

[Tachyon 0]

“This House of Cards, Part V”

Lt. Anastasia Poldara

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The empty bottle of vodka on the kitchen table told Michael everything he needed to know. Anastasia never imbibed that stereotypical spirit unless she was depressed. He stood in the door way, unsure if he should interrupt.

 

“Come in,” she said. “Computer, turn the lights back on.” The illumination came up, and suddenly the dreary room once again became the architectural centrepiece of their home. The new kettle, resting comfortably in its place of honour, was cold.

 

Michael sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulder. “It's been two weeks, Ana. You need to leave this kitchen sometime. Or at least switch to a different poison.”

 

His attempts at humour were lost on her, unfortunately. She just stared at the wall ahead of her. “Time doesn't matter. The human brain perceives time linearly, but it's all arbitrary. The only problem is entropy.”

 

“Ana—”

 

She snapped at him, “I killed my best friend! But that's not the worst part. That's not why I'm trying to saturate my liver in vodka. The worst part is that I can't tell anyone it ever happened! You know how they put it down in the books? Hiking accident. The body was never recovered. She had kids, Michael!”

 

He was not sure how to console her. Trained, as a doctor, to handle such a scenario, he was out of practice—fortunately, his line of work universally involved saving lives.

 

“The way you told it to me, you and she went on a mission to expose the truth. She was willing to give her life for that, or she wouldn't have gone along. She wouldn't want you to—”

 

“Oh, don't give me that line. I don't care what Zia would have wanted. I want to wallow, thank you very much. I came back here to get some rest, to escape what I thought was a mistake. Investigating our project's closure was just . . . it was an excuse.” She turned to look at him. “I can't stay here.”

 

“I know,” he said. He didn't add, “But I want you to anyway.”

 

“If I stay here, I stay here, in this kitchen, with my vodka. I came here because I thought it was my home; I thought Challenger was the problem. But it wasn't the setting; it was the actress. I was the problem. Me and my ego. But now that I know the universe doesn't revolve around me, I'm ready to accept my place. And it can't be here.”

 

So that was it then. The ultimatum, although Anastasia certainly didn't see it that way. Michael said, “Then let's go. Let's leave this place behind and go back to Challenger. Together.”

 

It was a relief to see the first genuine smile on her face in weeks. “I wish. You don't know how different it is out there, how much I missed you.” She held up a hand to forestall his commiseration. “I know you missed me. But you have an entire planet of people to distract you. I had a couple hundred. And none of them, much to my dismay, were you.”

 

“Ana, I'm serious. I want to go with you. One moment.” He got up and left the room only to return a few moments later. In his hand was the uniform of a Starfleet enlisted medical technician.

 

Anastasia's jaw dropped. “You didn't. . . .”

 

“Before you even came back home. I wanted to surprise you. I just didn't anticipate . . . you know.”

 

Objections and practicalities flooded her mind. “But your practice—you can't just leave. You have patients, and responsibilities. . . .”

 

“You're my responsibility, as corny as that sounds. My partners will take over my share—they would probably love the additional patients. So what do you say: will you be able to bear being married to a lowly crewman?”

 

Anastasia stood up and embraced him, pressing herself close to his chest. “Oh, I think I'll manage somehow.”

 

“When does your—our—transport leave?”

 

“A week from tomorrow,” she replied, not really listening, her mind having already moved on to other matters.

 

“Well then, I suppose we should make the best of our time here on Earth until then.” He smirked. She pursed her lips. Part of her wanted to wallow more. The other part, the part with her inhibitions, wondered if there was any vodka left.

 

The latter part won. They were about to forsake the kitchen for the bedroom when the comm unit beeped. Anastasia and Michael exchanged glances, briefly considering if they should ignore the interruption. Both were hesitant, however, concerned it could be important. Reluctantly, Michael answered the call.

 

A bureaucrat, dressed in the uniform of Earth security, addressed him, “Mr. Sanders?”

 

“Yes, that's me.”

 

“Would your wife happen to be available?”

 

Anastasia approached the console. “What's this all about?”

 

“Ms. Poldara, I'm afraid I have bad news.” Then the bureaucrat added a last trite line: “You may want to sit down.” It was that bad.

 

Anastasia sat down.

 

“Ms. Poldara, I have the unfortunate duty of informing you that your mother, Irina Poldara, has been reported missing.”

 

Anastasia's mind, now surrendered to the vodka, refused to process this new development. “Missing,” was all she said.

 

“She went on leave two weeks ago, but has not returned. Initial investigation has revealed she never arrived at her destination. I'm sorry, Ms. Poldara, but your mother seems to have disappeared off the face of the Earth.”

 

This is the conclusion to this log series. Hope you enjoyed reading.

Edited May 24, 2009 by Tachyon