Pride and Principle

[Cmdr JFarrington 0]

Pride and Principle

Cmdr Jami Farrington

USS Manticore, NCC 5852

 

'Tis all a chequer-board of nights and days

Where destiny with men for pieces plays:

Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,

And one by one back in the closet lays.

~ Omar Khayyam

 

Jami stood, arms crossed, staring out Surgeon General Gren Dejariov's window.  The Federation complex spread for miles, a city in itself, gleaming like a crystal palace in the last light of day.  Evening clouds rolled in, momentarily obscuring the setting sun and casting checkerboard patterns of gold and black across the landscape.  After what seemed an eternity, Jami heard Admiral Dejariov's voice, but not much registered except that they knew the charges against her were false, that they would do their best to reinstate her as a medical officer, and that for now she needed to let it go and move forward.

 

She couldn't move.  Most of all Jami couldn't turn and look at him for fear she would either explode in rage or in emotional collapse.  The Admiral, now the Surgeon General of Federation Forces, had known Jami since she first entered the Academy.  He had been instrumental in her assignment to Manticore.  So it was no surprise to Jami that she suddenly felt his hands on her arms, and his voice behind her.  

 

"Jami, let it go."

 

He must have felt her tense because his hands dropped immediately.  After another long silence, he said, "Walk with me."

 

Somewhat reluctantly, she turned and followed him through a patio door, into a garden that served as a refuge for the Federation's top officials.  Since glass walls looked out from every office surrounding the area, Jami made an effort to look composed, quickening her step to walk beside the man who had been her mentor for so many years.  She glanced up, and for the first time since her arrival she noticed that he had aged considerably since she last saw him.  His hair was thinning, and his face was more lined, as though political turmoil had strained him beyond his capacity to bear it.  With this realization, Jami began to forget her own distress and focus more on what he was saying.  He began carefully.  Almost too carefully . . . as though he were hinting to her to read between the lines.

 

"Sometimes," he said, then paused for a moment.  He began again.  "Sometimes things are not as they seem.  Sometimes we have to . . . accept what happens and move on . . . for the greater good."  His eyes darted around the foliage as he and Jami walked a few steps further, then he stopped and turned towards her.  Jami stopped beside him, waiting.  He had her full attention.

 

Gren Dejariov continued, almost in a whisper.  "Kyle Mele is not a random assignment to Manticore.  Neither is Suberance Faldorn, nor Neveah Crito."  

 

He took a deep breath, as though he were weighing his words, judging whether or not he should go on.  "It is not by chance that you have been moved to the science department.  We need a good officer at the head of that department.  Someone we can trust.  Now, more than ever."

 

That was the end of their conversation.

 

Hours later Jami could still hear his words.  Once again she was being called to swallow her pride, and, possibly, put aside her principles.  For the greater good.  Was she a pawn in a game of chance?  She certainly felt like one.  And who could she trust, if not Gren Dejariov?  She could -- and would -- swallow her pride one more time.  But would she put aside her principles?  That remained to be seen.  Whatever it was, whatever she would be called to do, or called to oversee, would be revealed slowly, like a veil of darkness lifting before the dawn.

 

Strange, is it not, that of the myriads who

Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through

Not one returns to tell us of the road,

Which, to discover, we must travel, too.

 

When you and I behind the veil are passed,

Oh but the long, long while the world shall last,

Which of our coming and departure heeds

As much as ocean of a pebble-cast.

 

And that inverted bowl we call The Sky,

Whereunder crawling we live and die,

Lift not thy hands to it for help.

For it as impotently moves, as you or I.

                                                                                     ~ Omar Khayyam