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Cptn d'Ka

After the Storm

After the Storm
Je’rit D’Ka & Chirakis Kirel

Je’rit d’Ka lifted his arm carefully away from his bondmate and slid easily from between the sheets, being careful not to wake her.  He was glad that she slept well in the few hours of rest that they were given. He knew her need, but it had little to do with their bond. It didn't take a telepath to see the exhaustion of the entire crew. The rogue Vulcan, V’Mal, had managed to psychically dissect more than one brain in his effort to force Aegis into compliance.  Given the amount of psychic venom the Vulcan spat out, everyone had to have been affected.   Thankfully, no one was permanently damaged, but he doubted that they would ever forget. 

As Kirel’s bondmate, d’Ka  had the luxury of helping her move past the pain and regain control of her thoughts.  Knowing full well that he was going beyond normal bounds as they joined in the few hours allowed, he also knew that she was thankful.  Of course she would have known even if they were parsecs away.  Such was her power to him.  Such was his power to all sentient beings.

Sindar telepathy has no bounds.  Their scientists call it preservation of the species.  Their Elders call it a blessing and a curse.  They believe that the Creator endowed the species with a connection that could not be broken, a code that bound them to both the Creator and to one another. Whether it was a blessing or a curse mattered little, except when one was caught between the two. Such was the situation ten years ago, on a small, barren planet deep within the Zengani System.

********

Starfleet Lieutenant Jer’it d’Ka was trapped in a wasteland of indecision as he stared into the darkness of a cave, his image silhouetted against a full moon.  His uniform was worn thin.  His silver hair, normally cropped to regulation, draped to his shoulders and covered delicately pointed ears that heard everything.  Sometimes they heard too much.

Inside the cave, almost a hundred meters below, a young Bajoran intelligence officer hunched over a hydration unit and awaited his arrival. He could not see her, but he could feel her, hear her every breath, sense her every mood. Did she know of his telepathy? He hoped not, but chances were that she did, given a starship crew’s ability to spread word of everything from the critical to the mundane.

A swift, surgical strike against their small Starfleet reconnaissance force had separated her craft and his from the fleet and caused them to crash.  They counted themselves fortunate to have lived, because many others did not.  So far, he and this young Bajoran had survived two months, three days, seven hours, and….  It seemed an eternity.

Emergency supplies salvaged from her disabled fighter and his runabout had kept them alive.  Insects, reptiles, and a few other creatures that survived the planet’s savage nature hid during the day, but became fair game for any predator after sunset.  Tonight, he was the predator.  Several species of insect and arachnids squirmed in his satchel. They were high in protein and needed for survival.  She would be glad to have them.

Except for the insignia, the Bajoran’s distinctive black uniform of Starfleet Intelligence Division 5  blended perfectly with the cave’s darkness.  He felt her.  He also felt the darkness closing in, drawing her closer than propriety allowed.  

She was forthright and dynamic, a true warrior like the warrior women of Sindar.  Her every movement was purposeful, and her eyes flashed in anger if he showed any sign of weakness.  Yet, she could be quiet and contemplative, though not often. She shared little, but the little she shared was revealing enough.  If she felt him, she did not reveal it.  There was no reason that she should, and within her small world of SI-5, if there was no reason to share, one did not. Not sharing gave her an advantage over the enemy.
 
“There is a bond forming between us,” d’Ka had warned after their first month of isolation. She did not understand, neither did she care.  “If Starfleet does not find us soon, our extended proximity and this situation could become more than you or I intend.”

She still did not understand, treating it more as an idle threat than reality.

“If your telepathy is as powerful as you say it is,” she countered, “then why don’t you just call for help?”

“Something, or someone, is blocking it,” he explained.  “I suspect it is the species that attacked us, and I also suspect that they are hunting us.  Therefore, I must guard my thoughts.”

She remained indifferent.  As the days passed, he explained everything in more detail: how they might become one entity, closer than what Terrans called husband and wife, that they might be bound to each other for life. But he did not explain the exact depth of their bond, reasoning that if she did not understand the simple, she would not understand the complex.  Later on he would count his assumption a grave mistake.

“You fear we might become close?” She had scoffed, eyes narrowed. “Fear is for the weak. Determination and purpose is for the strong.”

At the mouth of the cave, his sharp rap—stone against stone—echoed from the cave’s entrance to their camp, far below.  Soon, it elicited the prearranged response, and he proceeded down the pebbled cave floor, stepping carefully, easing himself along narrow paths that framed sudden drops of several thousand meters. Though dangerous, the paths served as protection from intruders, and they used them as such by pitching their camp beyond.

“More creatures,” he said as he approached, “edible… spiders I believe you call them, a snake that appears venomous—proceed with caution—and,” he held up a bottle, “a bottle of wine I found buried in the debris of the runabout.  Strange that it survived, but it did, and that is all that matters.”

Several large red and black streaked arachnids clacked their mandibles and scampered up his arm when he drew them from the satchel, but a quick swipe tossed them into a killing jar before he sealed the lid.  Their merciful death would come soon.  That it was merciful was important to him.  She was indifferent.  Having been a slave for the first 12 years of her life, she was only concerned with their protein content. Beyond that, their death mattered little.

“The hydration unit works well within the cave,” he continued, settling onto a rock next to her.

“Humidity is higher,” Kirel replied listlessly, lifting the container, now full.  “It’s even higher farther down. I haven’t found the source of the water yet. You might have to dig for it.”  She nodded toward a white, lobster-like creature that thrashed against a container next to her.  “They live down there. You won’t be able to eat it.”

She coughed, then cleared her throat as she handed him a small cup of water. 

D’Ka’s hand shot to her wrist, overturning the cup.  His eyes flashed red as he examined an area of torn flesh the size of the creature’s claw.  It was swollen, purple, and oozed a heavy green, putrid pus that dripped down her arm.  A bandage she had apparently applied could no longer contain the injury, and had begun to constrict the blood flow.

“You have been poisoned.”

“Yes,” she said, turning into the artificial light. “And the antivenin does not work.”

“When did this happen?”

“I’m not sure.  About... ten minutes ago?  Maybe longer?”  Her words came slowly, forced with great effort as she struggled to breathe.  Her hand lay limp in his.

His free hand took hold of her jaw, turning her face to examine her eyes.  The characteristic fire was gone, her pupils dilated.  He tugged at her uniform collar to pull it away from her neck, then released the snap to check her chest and back.  “Your eyes are bloodshot. There is a rash on your neck and back.  Your tongue is swelling.  Soon your throat will close.”

She said nothing. Her chest heaved, and she sank against the cave wall.

He fought against a growing panic.  There was nothing in their medical supplies that would counter the poison, but he searched  anyway.   He knew that no lancing, no application, no medication could possibly help. There was only one solution, and he grasped it, willingly, reasoning that they could live on this planet for several more months before rescue, if they were rescued at all.

“Bond with me,” he said, taking her head in his hands.

“What?” she struggled to focus, then stared at him as though he were insane.

“My blood produces its own antivenin.  If I give you my blood, it will neutralize the poison, but... it will also bond us.”

She stared at him a moment, then forced a maniacal laugh. “Bond? When I am dying?”

“Allow me to do this.  Please.”

After a long moment, she nodded, and he began the process.  Slowly, several pints flowed from his body to hers, and from her body to his.  It strengthened hers and weakening his, which he expected. However, the onslaught of telepathy, of being so intimately connected with one another was intense, and sometimes excruciatingly painful for her, as her inability to cope was to him.  He knew it would wane, but the time between then and now seemed to move much too slowly.

********

In the quiet of her quarters, d’Ka remembered his torment.  Caught between the Sindar code of noninterference and the Starfleet code of rendering assistance, he had chosen the latter, and had wondered since then if he had made the right decision.  She often called it an adventure—a strange word choice, in his estimation, but it made him smile, and she smiled when she used it.  As with all bondmates, there had been misunderstandings, but the bonding had been essentially beneficial for both.

She was an orphan who had shunned close attachments since the death of her parents that was  closely followed by the death of her adoptive Klingon father.  The bonding had given her purpose beyond revenge, and in that she had benefited.  

He had lost his wife and children when Sindar was attacked during their first and last war, the war that convinced the Elders that Sindar could no longer remain neutral, and that there were those outside their small system who would take advantage. There were those who did not understand peace and prosperity could coexist.  Though he never forgot his family, his second bonding had brought him renewal and recovery from the pain.  And of course they enjoyed their conjugal rights, especially now, when it was most needed.

Kirel stirred in the bed, then rolled to face him.

“Approaching 1700. You have one hour left,” he said offering her what looked like a small glass of Enl’licdh, an extremely potent Sindarin brandy.

Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the glass then looked up.  “You want me to meet Captain Ramson after drinking that?” she snapped.

D’Ka smiled, then burst into laughter as he placed the drink on the bedside table.  “No… no, no, no Thytrin.  This is Enl’licdh ‘a.  A derivative. It’s used to clear your thoughts, not....”  He tried not to smile, but it was difficult to contain.

“Really.” She didn’t seem to have the trust she had an hour ago.

“Yes.”  He continued, chuckling as he moved toward the shower.  “Really.”
 

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