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A Cleric of Talos

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A Baldur’s Gate 3 Fanfic

Copyright notice: This is a work of independent fan fiction and is in no way affiliated with or used by the Wizards of the Coast.

“Most of these people are of no concern to ourselves but a Brasi is a powerful weapon to be used. The trick is that since he does not fear death and indeed looks for it, then the trick is to make yourself the only person in the world that he truly desires not to kill him. He has only that one fear, not of death, but that you may be the one to kill him. He is yours then.”

Mario Puzo, The Godfather

Character Creation

My father was a Cleric of Talos. His father before him was a Cleric of Talos, and his father before him, and his father before him.

It’s my grandfather, his father before him, that started this. I’m not talking about the tadpoles.[1] I mean the grisly fate of my own family; a long line of Clerics dedicated the chaotic powers of the storm.

Old Kozah,[2] as the neighbors called Grandpa, and I don’t know if this was a nickname or the real thing, was a professional when it came to calling attention to a massacre.

Grandpa used to call me Sparky because of the lightening in my fingers, or Frosty because of my white horns. My real name is Hypatia.

People in town had another name for Grandpa. They called him the Butcher of Baldur’s Gate, and he wasn’t just a murderer. He killed in the honor of the Storm Lord, and honored his god with regular offerings of sentient beings, as a Cleric of Talos is so compelled. Even his own family was terrified of his mood swings and scarred face. His eyes had long been burned white by decades of throwing blue lightning, and it was only by the grace of Talos that he could see at all.

We were powerful among the mobsters and thugs. Shameless goons you hire when you want the body eviscerated, burned, or blown up. It’s a crude way to send a message, and that’s the point.

Grandpa’s Domain[3] was Tempest, and he sneered at his son’s choice of the War domain.  He was more than pleased when my talents also emerged as Tempest.

“I thought you wanted me to be Death,” I said to him once, while we were gathered around the hearth after dinner. Grandpa dabbled in Necromancy when he wasn’t cursing his sons’ names and roaming the open hills with his dogs.

“Almost anything is better than War,” he gruffly declared, loud enough for Papa to hear. It was an evil thing to say, especially since everyone knew that Trickster was really the worst Cleric Domain, but no self-respecting follower of Talos would adopt such a discipline. Dad had some decent armor and weapon skills, and we always needed someone that could wear heavy armor, but no way was I going to contradict Grandpa.

I quietly admit, Druid has some deadly area-of-effect abilities. The old brute is dead now, and he can’t kill me for thinking about it. Ice Storm makes everything sharper and more smashable. If I study like a fiend, I can learn it at an advanced level as Tempest.

It took me years to figure out that Grandpa didn’t like any of his sons, but Papa in particular seemed to be his least favorite. Papa wasn’t a Tiefling, but that was the first in a series of many disappointments. My parents got a moment of redemption from Grandpa when I was born, a blue-skinned Tiefling with glowing eyes and curved horns.

Historically, our family had been a mix of humans and Tieflings[4], but Papa’s generation was entirely human, and my father had married a human. Perhaps the upheaval of the Hells and the sinking of Elturel also had something to do with it.[5]

He heard the whispers. In the dark alcoves of the Temple. The voice of his god or the ravings of his own personal madness. His children would purge the hell-spawn from their bloodline. That meant him, too, and the two of us were the last Tieflings left in the family. I nodded, but also wondered if decades of Necromantic magic were nibbling at his brain. I spent so much time with Grandpa in the Keep in the countryside that I didn’t see much of my parents or their home in Rivington.

Maybe that’s why I wasn’t exactly heartbroken when Grandpa killed every last one of them.    

 He set the charges days in advance and ignited them during an annual family gathering. My uncle, his wife, their grown kids and some smaller grandkids, my parents, and my human baby brother, and probably a few of the keep servants.

It was the ultimate offering to Talos. He wiped the whole family.

Well. Almost.

I knew about the charges. He didn’t tell me. I saw the trails of powder and followed them to the kegs, stacked in the pantries and closets like so much storage.

So even if Grandpa hadn’t given me a full rucksack, and told me to start walking that way I was planning on leaving anyway.

Leaving without telling anyone. Knowing they would all die, and doing nothing to stop it. Power comes to those who embrace the will of Talos.

I told my grandfather this as we stood there in the little back courtyard with Phobos and Deimos sniffing around our feet. Blurted it like a confession, but kept my voice low, and no crying, that’s for damn sure.

He was not angry. In fact, he was happy. Almost burst with pride knowing that I would accept his will. It was a bit scary. Maybe it’s because he was at peace, knowing he would also be blown into burning dust by the time I left.

He helped me put the rucksack on.

“Follow the dogs when you reach the end of the road. They know the way. They were born there. Turn your Tempest to the service of our god.”

“Talos will be pleased with such an offering.” I spoke proudly, understanding only the will of my ancestor and the will of the cruel and mysterious Storm Lord.

He put a finger to his lips, and I realized I might have spoken too loudly. He then returned to his usual authoritative self and gestured towards the door.

A sudden terror reached down my throat and stopped my heart. For a moment it seemed like my feet were stuck to the stone tiles. I was standing on the edge of the storm, waiting for the lightening to break the sky in half.

The movement of the dogs as they leaped to their master’s command broke the spell, and I ran after them as they charged through the archway that led from the courtyard and into the fading daylight.

The exit led to the back road, almost overgrown with vines and tall grass. Darkness was falling quickly and I wondered if should risk a Daylight spell, just for a while, until I knew where I was going.

I know what made me stop when I got to a vantage point on the hill. I should have kept going, but on the other hand, a part of me wanted to see it.

Domains aren’t exactly chosen; some Clerics have talents that others don’t, while others have certain natural talents or quirks of character that point to the more or less obvious.

I always had an aptitude for lighting and ice. No doubt about it. My baby blanket used to glitter with frost. If you held little me in your arms, your hairs would burn with static electricity and stand on end. But more than that, and I think what’s more important, is how much I like to blow stuff up.

Thunder is such a great power. Thunder is everything the Storm Lord loves the most and a few things more. It silences enemies and shatters eardrums, but it also turns bone and rock to dust. An offering of chaos and pain to honor the Destroyer.

Electrical damage is a close second. The buzzing fire burns foes to a crisp, while giving the target plenty of time to scream for mercy, writhing in agony, as it pleases the Raging One.

Fire is great, but the best fires are the ones that start with a streak of blue lightening or a yellow spark. A part of me wanted to stay behind and help Grandpa light that thing.

So, I looked back at just the right moment to see it happen.

I could hear it first, a long and uneven sputter, a fuse lit and burning fast. Then a split second of silence. I blinked, and the charges started to explode.

No matter what the Domain, any Cleric of Talos would choose the power of chaos when committing mass murder. Or, any kind of murder. It couldn’t be something covert, like poisoned soup or a cloud of poison gas. It had to be big, shocking, horrific, and most importantly – public.

The family’s keep was in a hill overlooking the River Chionthar, a few leagues east of Baldur’s Gate. The fire lit up the night, turned the river a liquid gold, and several repeated blasts made sure everyone was awake to see it. I think it was the third that knocked me down, and I remember feeling debris falling over and near me. Mostly from the wood and tile roof. Some of it was on fire, and most of it was smoking. 

My ears were ringing and I was having trouble breathing. The impact had knocked the wind out of me and all I could think about was catching my breath. So, when I heard voices, my first thought was to roll into the bushes next to the road and hide from whoever was there.

“Wow, good thing we weren’t in the Feast Hall for THAT! Seems to have missed the barn, though.”

“Shhh, someone will hear you.”

I managed to sit up, and the bushes caught in my horns. The ringing faded, leaves drifted into my lap, and all I saw were the two dogs.

“Oh, she seems to be alright!” Phobos said. “Good! We have to get her to the Master.”

They were talking.

Talking animals isn’t weird thing in Faerun. There are spells you can cast or potions to take that allow this effect. However, I had done neither of these things.

Phobos was the smart one, a black Labrador. I asked him about it.

“Why can I understand what you’re saying? Did Grandpa cast a spell on me?”

Some Clerics knew how to cast Speak With Animals. I had no idea if Talos had granted this power to the old man.

“Oh! Well, isn’t that neat! Deimos, she can talk to us without a potion or spell.”

“Might have been the blast, tweaked her ears and spellcasting,” Deimos was a chunky pit-bull and looked at me happily. “Hello, Child of the Pack! Feel better and follow us, okay?”

“Good boy, Deimos,” and my shaking hand was steadied by his warm tongue.

“The Chief of your pack has told us to bring you to Master.” Phobos started to walk slowly up the hill as he spoke. “There are other humans coming to the Keep. I can hear them. The City Guard, but also the looters, the rival dogs, those who would rob your Pack Leader in death and slay the lone survivor.”

“We know the way,” Deimos hopped ahead, almost joyfully, but trying to stay covert.

Everyone would know that the Butcher of Baldur’s Gate, and his whole family, had been killed in the blast. I could live safely for a while on the road, and if they ever discovered that I was still alive, I would be lost in the wilderness instead of a threat to them.

It was 1482 DR, I was 15 years old,[6] and the remains of the Keep crackled merrily behind us.

We stayed off the road and headed north across the Fields of the Dead, turning west to Roaringshore, then north along the coast to Lathtarl’s Lantern. We’d take a ferry from here to the western islands, but first we could rest and resupply at a friendly location.

For a Talos worshipper, friendship is not easy to find.

Just north of town was the Grotto of the Queen, a temple dedicated to Umberlee. Also known as the Bitch Queen, she was a consort of Talos in our mythology, and their worshippers were considered family, bound by faith if not by blood.

I was there for three days, long enough for them to give me a sordid nickname; the Butcher’s Child. But that’s a story for another campfire.

From the beginning, I never asked the dogs where we were going or why because I didn’t expect them to know. They were born and bred on the islands but they wouldn’t know the names or places as I did. I knew we were going to Oman’s Isle because that’s where the dogs were from, but they wouldn’t have called it that.

Grandpa used to say that he would send me there too one day, but he never told me what I should expect to find. I knew better than to question his will. My calling as a Cleric was to sow chaos for Talos and beg for his capricious mercy, not to ask the lord of my house stupid questions.

The ferry that took passengers west wasn’t just for people. Cattle, pets, and draft animals also crowded the deck, so there was nothing unusual about my two dogs. Grandpa had even included the fare in my meagre travel budget.

A giant turtle pulled the slow, but steady barge across the water, driven by a gruff old woman with a curved pipe and squinty eye. I saw a twitch in her weathered expression when she saw me. Her one good eye rolled towards the dogs. The smoke from the pipe floated along behind it.

“You going to Oman’s Isle?” She fixed her gaze ahead as she spoke.

There were four stops on this route, and I knew Oman’s Island was not one of them. It was an interior island, a craggy mountain peak sticking out of a deep, foreboding bay surrounded by icy mountains.

“We’ll be getting off at Kingsbay,” I said, answering a different question and putting a sharp edge to my voice. “Why did you you mention Oman’s Isle?”

“He always came for the black dogs,” she said, an electric twinkle in her eye. “The ones the giants would breed.”

She nodded towards Phobos and Deimos. A wisp of smoke came out of her mouth.

“There are a few small towns along the coast,” she wheezed, gently pulling the thick reins. “Codscove has a ferry to the Iron Keep, if you want to know.”

“I do,” I said. “May the Storm Lord have mercy on you.”

The Master had some kind of reputation, connected to the dogs, to my grandfather, all forever bound to Talos.

The driver grunted, nodded, and prodded the turtle through the current. I turned back to the dogs.

The three of us huddled together on the deck. The tales of our passage, and of the days we spent following the river north to Codscove, would make for a whole other story. It was only because of my powers to bless and protect that our hired boat made it across the mines and monsters to safely reach the shore.

It was the perfect location to hide from the incident in Lathtarl’s Lantern. The town lay in ruins during this time, the population long since driven out by the giants and their minions, but a smoking chimney at the northern end of town indicated at least someone was left. The cold wind whipped over the crusty snow, and I tightened my wool cloak around my shoulders and started to trudge towards the ruined city.

The dogs were excited, and wouldn’t shut up about all the familiar smells. Frozen goblin blood, dead fish, old rope rotting in the broken boats by the shore.

“We’re not going to the Keep?” Deimos asked, scampering up to me and rubbing against my thigh.

“The mountain path that wound up the dark side of the mountain would be cold already,” Phobos answered for me, “and maybe the front gate of the Keep isn’t open at night.”

Our little adventuring party neared the source of the smoke. A wisp of think smoke rose from a shabby, bent chimney that leaned on a precarious angle. The walls of the hut below it were of granite and mud, holding together well enough, framing a cracked wooden door. It looked like it had broken in half and been put together with some wooden slabs and metal pegs.

The little house was quiet, but light flickered between the gaps in the broken door. I could smell burning charcoal and baked potato.

“You two be good,” I said, and I drew out my begging bowl and prayer beads, “and I’ll get us a bed for the night.”

“And food?” Deimos said hopefully. The last day of travel we had all seen very little, other than the scraps Grandpa had packed in my bag.

“I’ll try buddy,” I gave him a quick rub on this head and stepped closer to the door. I slipped the prayer beads over my head and took off one of my fuzzy mittens so make playing the bowl easier. There was a heavy pendant at the end of the beads that I used for that. I ran it along the metal edge, and a single, sad note rose above the falling snow.  My chant was the usual humble monotone, designed to appeal to the listener as opposed to disturbing them.

Just a poor Cleric,

with dust on their feet,

looking for a bite to eat and a barn in which to sleep…

Show your faith,

to your faith be true,

and may the great lord of storms have mercy on you.

Something shuffled inside, and the door opened with a creak. A strip of warm yellow light poured out into the dark blue shadows of drifting snow. The resident seemed to be a scarred, grizzled old man, bent at the back, and missing an eye.

“Greetings, Cleric,” He smiled, all gums and beard. “May chaos follow in his footsteps. Come, warm yourself by the fire.”

He meant all of us, of course, and the dogs followed me quietly. Their obedience was rewarded almost immediately when the old man reached down to the hot rocks by the fire and picked up two massive stewing bones. They even have a bit of meat left on them. He whistled gently, and the two dogs sit obediently at his feet. I’m impressed with how well he handles them. He gestures towards the stool on the other side of the fire.

“Rest your cold feet,” he didn’t look at me as he spoke, but fed more heavy logs into the fire. “This should go all night, keep you all warm.”

It crossed my mind that he didn’t say, “keep us all warm.” But I was distracted by what he said next.

“Going to the throne, I suppose?” He handed me a steaming potato and a lump of crunchy bread. Then lowered his voice and said, “’ave an audience with the queen, do yer?”

If he eked out some kind of living here, perhaps fishing or mining, then he would have known about the throne and made some kind of peace with the current residents. The giants lived in the Iron Throne during this era, and their leader was the notorious Queen Connomae.[7] This was the one the dogs called Master. Her mind and body had been warped since birth by the Fomorian curse, and her mind was twisted by years of wielding deadly arcane power. I knew this much from my History lessons.

“I wasn’t sure what my grandfather had in mind when he sent me here,” I said, while trying to balance the hot potato between my fingers and face using the bread. “I hadn’t questioned it. Such is not my place.”

The old man stoked the fire. He turned to me and seemed to change. That one eye glowed a lightning blue, and wind filled the cabin.

The fire winked out like a candle. The dogs froze mid-bite, their black coats deep blue with ice. My throat closed, locked with a mouthful of frozen potato.

“You and your grandfather will be rewarded for your obedience. Old Kozen’s blood sacrifice is my nectar. The Queen will also be your master, and school you in the art of Talos and his worship. Focused on the art of death, by the bludgeon or the blast. Wrath of lightning, wrath of thunder.”

I’m a Cleric. I know what the face of my god looks like.

“Wrath of lightning, wrath of thunder, praise Talos,” I wasn’t speaking, but I heard my voice.

His face seemed to grow smaller and somehow younger. Someone I recognized but hadn’t yet encountered. “Do not forget the cold embrace of Umberlee. Swift, savage, and quiet. So quiet.”

Wait, what?

As if a spell had been broken, or perhaps I was dreaming, I blinked and found myself sitting by the fire with the dogs. Phobos and Deimos were merrily chewing, oblivious to the scene I had just witnessed.

“Where did he go?” This was more to alert the dogs to his absence. They were indulging in those big meat bones and hadn’t noticed.

“Holy cat shit,” Deimos jumped up and spun around, ears flat, hackles raised.

 The old man was gone.

[1] A reference to the main plotline of Baldur’s Gate 3 (BG3)

[2] This is also one of Talos’ nicknames.

[3] Each Cleric in D&D choses a Domain, or a subclass. There are 7 in BG3 and 14 in D&D. A Cleric can choose any Domain regardless of their deity, but Talos prefers Domains that focus on chaos and destruction. Tempest is his favorite.

[4] In Faerun, Tieflings can be randomly born to a human and vice-versa.

[5] Wizards RPG Team. Dungeons and Dragons Baldur’s Gate: Descent into Avernus (D&D Adventure). National Geographic Books, 2019.

[6] DR is Dale Reckoning, a calendar used in D&D.

[7] https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Connomae

Chapter 5 – Mossy, Targ of the Universe

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His mother had named him Mozinarah Orionoth Clefthoof of the Green Expanse, and his siblings, of which there were many, referred to him Mossy for short. His mother was a Great Matron of the Targ[1] Tribe, and had given birth to many generations of Targ in her lifetime.

They were not unhappy with the Klingons. Long had their tribe served as their pets and companions, but the garden of the Xyrillian ship[2] was too tempting to ignore. It had soil instead of gravel and living plants instead of straw, and after visiting nobody wanted to leave. Even after the flaps closed, plunging the plants and soil into darkness, it was still preferable to the freeze-dried kibble they had grown used to in space. His great uncle, a Targ of great wit and guile, had charmed the Xyrillian computer into allowing them access to the garden space. In return, they were to work with the bees and other plants and insects, to cultivate and consume their own share, in exchange for assisting their new hosts.

However, the migration of the Targs had aroused the Klingons to the presence of the hidden ship[3], and they had come in as far as the garden. Mossy was unsure of what he could do, if he should do anything, and decided to ask the one person he always turned to for advice.

Esmerelda Mozinorionoth Bristleback Clefthoof was an older Targ of great renown, and Mossy was one of her many, many, many children. She was carefully pulling out some pesky but delicious tangle root when she saw him approaching.

“May warm salutations find you in the cold of space, Great Mother of Many Generations!” Mossy began with the usual formalities common with Targs. “Did you know there’s a Vulcan on the lower ramp? I believe he is a warrior. I can smell the rosy[4] blood on his sword.”

“Greetings, exalted young Mossy, honored descendent and favored child. Your greeting warms me in the cold of space. Yes, I smell the Klingons, I smell them falling dead in battle. But there is also the scent of copper in the air. Green blood, Vulcan blood.”

Targs don’t see very well, and many are blind in old age. Their hearing and sense of smell are acute to a degree many described as clairvoyant, and can even detect genetic anomalies in living beings.

The garden was dark, but filled with scent and sound. Their ears and noses twitched with calm interest as the Klingons and a single Vulcan appeared, rising from the metal ramp that led into the center of the garden from downstairs.

*

The catwalk leading up from the spiral ramp shook and rattled. Two Klingons stumbled backward, one already bleeding from a deep cut in the leg, the other clutching his side, but still holding his sword in a guarded position and trying to give his friend cover to escape.

Vurkhen had served two tours with the Klingon warship, which was almost ten years. Today he watched this fearsome Vulcan, and his strange blue eye as he mowed his way through his crewmates. Like any of them, he was looking forward to a warrior’s death.

At the same time, he thought, if only he could live to tell this tale.

The port back to the Klingon ship was nearby, and it seemed like he would have the misfortune of survival.

*

Mossy and Esmerelda watched the scene with calm interest. Several other Targs had also taken notice, and raised their heads from their vegetable beds and flower rows.

“Great and honored Matron,” Mossy said, “are we returning to the Klingon ship?”

“We are not, my faithful and inquisitive son.”

“Will the Klingons keep the garden if they take the Xyrillian ship, Honored Matron?”

“I expect not, oh son, who speaks of the future.”

“Then we should aid the Vulcans and Xyrillians, and forsake our Klingon hosts.”

“Your conclusion is wise, my honored son, and I would counsel the same.”

Throughout the course of this calm and measured conversation, the Vulcan had driven the two Klingons along the narrow path in the center of the garden towards the door the Klingons had used as an access point. Smears of pink and dark green followed them down the steel pathway.

*

The room was still dark, but Selek knew he was in the garden from the smell. Dirt, grass, fresh water, and something else he couldn’t place. It was damp and rank, dug from the deep earth and left in the sun for a day. Pungent but not unpleasant.

The flaps were still closed, but the lights along the catwalk were at his feet, and shining that dull yellow didn’t reveal very much other than what was immediately in front of him. All that was in his field of vision now was two wounded Klingons in a reluctant, stumbling retreat. 

Whatever had driven Selek up through the access ramp, which contained several members of the Klingon crew, was ebbing from the various wounds on his body and leaving a trail of distinct footprints along the floor. Blood mixed with sweat started to drip from his temple and past his naked eye.

The lever that would open the flaps was at the end of the catwalk, where there was also a convenient access point. He could not see it yet, but the Klingons knew where it was and he followed them. A blue archway faded into view, activated by their movements, and he took a moment to pull the metal lever on his left side.

The two Klingons stumbled back through steel archway. Selek was still hungry for their blood, and stinging from the heat of fighting. He took a long stride to follow them.

The steel flaps that blocked out the light of a nearby sun began to rise. Heat and light crept into the garden. Insects stirred among the leaves and plants.

A familiar voice cracked over the speaker behind his ear.

“Too far, buddy,” he recognized Ah’zhen’s voice through the speaker. “Take two steps back.”

Selek could feel his head getting light, but he managed to take two careful steps backward, his sword carefully held in a guarded position.

One of the Klingons lay on the floor, holding his leg. The other sank to one knee as Selek backed away.

The airlock door closed, and the Vulcan disappeared. They heard a hiss as the ship uncoupled.

The Vulcan was gone, and the Xyrillian ship with him. All that was left was a muddy imprint of his foot on the metal catwalk.

*

Captain Ah’zhen was roused from sleep by the computer, as she expected, but she was surprised by the urgency of the computer’s voice.

“Status report!”

“I’ll debrief you later.” The computer’s voice chirped. “Right now, you need to get upstairs. He’ll bleed out unless the medics reach him in time.”

Ah’zhen knew what she meant immediately.

“Where is he?”

“The garden, by the access portal.” Ah’zhen was already moving and barely heard the computer’s voice continue, “Just follow the trail of green blood.”

*

Strips of white light began to move and rise along the steel catwalk. There was a beeping sound, and the emergency beacons along the floor slowly faded, their sensors triggered by the light of a yellow star outside. Mossy watched the door close, and carefully walked toward the Vulcan, who was hanging on to his sword with one hand and leaning heavily on the steel railing with the other.

Mossy slowly trotted towards the swordsman carefully, better safe than sorry after all. He was likely still dangerous.

The Targ breathed deeply.

It was difficult to get past the rank odor of copper. Mossy envisioned a sea of dark green at the edge of a moonless night, a moving ocean of sand and lava on a hot and dry desert planet. A Vulcan indeed, but there was something more, beneath the smell, and within the marrow of the blood. Mossy listened closely, and he could hear it before he caught the scent; a line of steel cutting across space from the arms of a young star, a burning mark that was dipped in water and became a mass of clouds and rain.

A planet of iron people, powered by water and steam.

He had heard of them, but could he be one? A Terran? He couldn’t wait to tell his mother!

 Mossy was startled out of his thoughts when the Vulcan, or Terran, fell to one knee. He was still holding his sword and seemed to be admiring the greenery and warmth that was now clearly visible all around him. Then his eyes fell, and he seemed to notice the Targ for the first time. Mossy was standing next to him, easily within arm’s length.

The Vulan-Terran reached out and gently put his hand on Mossy’s snout.

“You must be that smell,” the creature said, a strange smile on its face. “Are…there…vegetables?[5]”

The Targ did not sense fear or pain, but only a tranquil, quiet gratitude.

“Bags,” he mumbled, “Vegetables. Beautiful.”

The hand slipped away, and Vulcan-Terran slumped over on his side, unconscious on the catwalk. 

Mossy snorted, unsure of what do next.

Then he heard a strange sound by the steel archway. A light, metallic, tapping, and what sounded like a voice. He trotted over to investigate.

*

Ah’zhen told the computer to set Evade/Retreat Plan #4, taking them away from the Klingon ship at a zippy Warp 3. She sent a team that included her second in command to the bridge to see that it was carried out. The power was coming back, and they would need some evasive manoeuvres once the Klingons figured out what had happened. The scanners clearly showed Selek in the top level, in the garden most likely, but he had stopped moving. His vital signs were still on the tracker but getting weaker. Luckily, there was a service hatch underneath the access point, and that’s where they were heading now.          

The top of the shaft was dark, however, and the hatch was not opening.

She hit the computer’s intercom. “I need this hatch open.”

“I’m trying to bypass the systems that the Klingon’s cut to get in here,” the computer replied. “They gutted the hydraulics on each side. There’s a release but it’s on the upper floor.”

Ah’zhen gritted her teeth. Someone would have to go around and up the ramp. She checked Selek’s vitals. They were fading.

She opened a channel and yelled into the intercom speaker. 

“Do we have anyone in the garden?”

*

Rising out of a succulent plot of clover and dandelions was a round, metal plate. On the bottom of it, near Mossy’s right hoof, was a smaller metal circle. It was flashing with green light, a regular rhythm like a heartbeat, and Mossy could hear noises on the other side of it. He knew, just from the sound, that these were the ship’s residents and therefore, the growers of this garden.

Their news hosts, in their new home, and he was honoured to be the first Targ to welcome them. He stepped on the green circle.

It clicked, and the metal disc rose and opened. 

[1] A small to medium sized pig-like animal commonly kept as a pet in Klingon culture. They’re adept at caring for gardens and are historically used to clear farms and crops of invasive plants, insects, and pests.

[2] Xyrillians keep gardens on their ships for recycling air and fresh veggies, especially Dutara root.

[3] Xyrillian ships rely mainly on defensive powers, like cloaking devices and stealth technology, and carry few weapons.

[4] Klingon blood is pink. This is why Star Trek VI is rated PG13 instead of R.

[5] This is a reference to when Selek and T’Nedara first met.

Chapter 4 – The Kumari

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“Open a channel.”

Archer had expected a more dramatic message from the Andorians, who kept their contact at a minimum unless there was some kind of emergency, so he was surprised when he found out that their concerns were of a research and scientific nature.

He was so surprised that he opted to take the call in private, in his office. He sensed that there was something else that Shran wanted to tell him.

Jonthan Archer slumped angrily into his favorite office chair. Selek stood across from him, tempted to sit down but still fighting the need to stay aloof.

“Shran,” he said curtly into the monitor, “did you really stop me for this?”

“Wasn’t my idea, Pinkskin,” Shran was secretly grateful for the ability to speak freely. “But the Andorian Imperial Guard does have some pertinent ongoing scientific concerns, believe it or not. My opinion is that this mission is beneath the Kumari, but the high command says otherwise.”

The explanation given on the bridge, that the Andorians needed help taking some readings from the nearby star and a fledgling planet for its potential as an energy source, which is something that would benefit the Federation, was believable enough. But why did they need help from Enterprise?

“Is that why you need our help? Because the Kumari doesn’t have the facilities?”

“It’s not about the science,” Shran explained. “Our ships are built mainly for battle. They can maneuver well enough, but this young star is dangerous, unpredictable. We haven’t lost any scouting ships, but a few have been in distress in the midst of their research. The Kumari can’t get close enough, but we think the Enterprise can.”

Their location in space was nearing the HD 100546 star system[1], a galaxy that Terran astronomers had first discovered in the 20th century. Its young stars and forming planets were a source of fascination among scientists on a galactic level.

Selek recalled what information he knew about the star system, which Vulcans had already been studying for a long time. At a mere 10 million years old, it was the astronomical equivalent of a gurgling baby, a rare find in a universe of old red dwarves and hot yellow stars. New planets formed in the large belt of gas and dust that surrounded HD 100546. It burned so brightly humans could see it from the confines of planet Earth, a fuzzy smear in the constellation Musca, an ancient constellation deep in the southern sky.

In the early days when it was first mapped and named, the constellation was called The Fly, but it was renamed the Bee in 1603. Celestial globes of the period often depicted it as just out of reach of the nearby Chameleon, and even in the 24th century, it remained the only constellation in human history that depicted an insect.

The absence or collapse of insects on a planetary level means the death of whole ecosystems. Bees in particular are crucial to plant life, the basis of most life on any planet where photosynthesis and a food chain also exist.

A perfectly logical coincidence in a galaxy with a million billion stars.

Selek had to admit that despite Archer’s suspicions, this could be productive from a research standpoint and earn a gold star for a mission that remained controversial on earth.

“Planet B has surprised even our scientists, but the gravity of the star makes studying the planet at close range difficult. Our engineers have a plan, however, and all it would take is a small and temporary addition to your ship.”

Archer leaned in closer and let Shran continue before another terse interruption.

“…and of course you won’t object to the Chief Engineer’s close personal supervision?”

This time, it was Selek that leaned in. Shran exhaled, a reaction that Archer took for resignation.

“This is a delicate device, Captain,” Shran answered. “I expect your Engineers to treat it with respect.”

Archer didn’t have a good reason to say no. If he was to refuse out of caution or suspicion, the Andorians might take it as an insult, or even worse, judge him as a skittish coward. Besides, it wasn’t like Andorians hadn’t been on the ship before.

“I’ll put you through to Commander Tucker. He’ll direct your team.”

Shran had not exhaled in resignation, but relief. It seemed that Archer was going to allow the installation of their research device. Tucker could look all he wanted; he wouldn’t find anything strange about it.

Archer snorted and stormed out of his office. Selek followed him, anxious to get a look at the bridge.

“Reed, what’s the status on the Andorian research party?”

“Currently heading towards Engineering, sir,” the Lt answered curtly. “Everything seems to be in order.”

“Keep an extra eye on them,” He spoke to both T’Pol and Reed.

After a long and contemplative look at the bridge of the Enterprise, Selek followed.

[1] This is a real thing – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HD_100546.

Chapter 3 – Stowaway

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“Didn’t Hoshi say she was going to the bridge?” Selek asked as they walked into Sick Bay.

Dr. Phlox was standing next to a bushy potted plant crowned with a few spiky purple flowers, peering at a small wooden box mounted at eye level on the wall. A light bulb that was suspended a few feet above it was fading, so slowly that the change was barely perceptible.

Another person was bent over the wooden box, peering at it with some interest.

“How is she, Doctor?” They asked, leaning close to one of the few bits of natural wood anywhere on the ship.

“Sealed up for the night, as you predicted,” Phlox replied cheerfully. “The incandescent light and the 24-hour cycle seem to be helping. But this plant you thought of? It’s lovely! So fragrant. What’s it called again?”  

“Basil.” The bent figure carefully rose into a standing position and turned around. “Much easier to grow than orchids.”

Selek’s eyes widened. It was the Chief Engineer of the Enterprise, Charles Tucker III.

“Are you checking on Dilemma at bedtime too?”

The two of them chuckled at the nickname that Trip had given the insect, which was a reference to her Latin name, Euglossa Dilemma, a type of green orchid bee.

“It’s become a habit, but I give the same attention to this whole menagerie at night. You seem to have a special bond with her.”

“Well, I admit, I feel responsible,” Trip replied.

The bee had appeared in Tucker’s quarters, likely a stowaway in his luggage. The species was common in his central Florida home.

By the time she was discovered, they were already well out of space dock, and it was too late to send the bee home. After rescuing her from the perils of the neon lights, she was brought to sick bay and made as comfortable as possible.

The Doctor already had several unique animals in his care and the Green Orchid Bee was a natural addition to the ship’s menagerie. Between him and the Engineer, they were able to construct a suitable home and produce a suitable diet for their guest.

Her next stop, outer space.

The bulb was dark and cold now, and the small opening at the top of the box was sealed with something that looked like wax.

“The ironic thing is, they got to Florida the same way,” Trip said softly, as if to avoid disturbing the small resident within. “As stowaways in wooden pallets, almost 200 years ago.”

“Chef loves it,” Phlox turned his attention back to the plant nearby. “He’s been coming down for leaves almost daily.”

Selek recognized the same kind of plant that his mother had given as a donation to the temple when he had taken up his duties. The one T’Nedara had asked him about it when he met her in the kitchen that night. It was difficult to keep his mind from wandering back to that fateful evening.

“Speaking of Chef, I’m late for dinner,” Trip straightened up and headed for the door. “Take care, Doc.”

He nodded towards Sick Bay before walking through the sliding doors.

Selek watched him leave and resisted the urge to follow. He waited a moment until the doors shut, then turned his attention back to Ah’len and Phlox.

“I should bring him a cutting,” Phlox thought out loud, thinking of the Chef, as he squinted at the leaves. “The ship needs more plant life anyway.”

            A sharp whistle sounded over the comms.

All crew are ordered to return to their stations. This is a yellow alert.

            “So much for dinner,” said Phlox.

            “Why the alert?” Selek asked, as they stepped calmly back into the corridor.

“An incoming Andorian ship,” Ah’len replied. “It’s a battle cruiser, but so are most of them. It’s the Kumari, under the command of friendly enemy Commander Thy’lek Shran. He’s come before, but this time we’re ready and the plan was set.”

“Wait, how did you know they were coming? What plan?”

“A plan within a plan,” she smiled.

“I recognize the Frank Herbert quote, despite the slight variation.” Selek raised an eyebrow at her.

“I suspect you’ve already figured most of this out,” she said, partly to challenge him. He replied without a shred of doubt.

“I deduce that Shran has a legitimate plan to gather scientific information, but he secretly wants access to whatever Hoshi is working on. This is connected to what you, myself, and the Klingons want on Romulus.”

She nodded, smiling. The communications officer was likely translating the verbal component of the initial contact at this moment, and any information about the ship was essential to handling the situation.

“It’s uncloaked and approaching at low speed, so first glance seemed to indicate that their intentions weren’t hostile.”

The Andorians weren’t enemies with the humans, but the two races were on suspicious terms.

“Selek,” she turned to her guest. “I’m sending you to follow Captain Archer around for a while. I know you want to see the bridge anyway. Everything you see really happened. You can even ask your mom.”

Before he could respond, Selek blinked and found himself in the Captain’s private office. There was a hiss, and a visibly agitated Captain Archer strode in and flipped a switch on his desk. An Andorian flickered on the viewscreen.

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Euglossa_dilemma

Chapter 2: The Enterprise NX-01: Star Date 2152

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            Selek stared with some trepidation at his surroundings. His friend seemed to notice his discomfort.

            “You can speak and move freely,” she explained. “This is just a memory. Think of it as a dream, or what do they have on earth? Pretend it’s a show. You’re safe in hibernation mode for the moment while I…”

“Where? What happened to…”

“I’ll explain later. For now, I can tell you the crew is safe, in long term sleep just like you are. I’m Captain Ah’zhen, and I’m accessing the dream sequence in your brain with the help of some Xyrillian technology to recreate this reenactment. Sorry about the Kir’Shara, but there was nothing we could do. You can build another one.”

Selek barely had time to raise an eyebrow before she continued.

“Your mother is going to finish her briefing near the Mess Hall. Here we are. See that lady over there?”

            Selek blinked and recognized one of his mother’s crewmates, Communications Officer Hoshi Sato.

            “Go and find out what she’s doing. I’ll see you again soon enough.”

Hoshi was sitting with a fork in one hand and her tablet in the other, a colorful pasta salad remaining mostly untouched in favor of the monochrome screen.

Selek was shocked, to say the least, but understood he was safe for the moment, and was distracted with a view of the antique Enterprise.

He walked over to the table, paying close attention to the details he’s read so much about in school and heard about at home. He recognized other faces and understood generally where he was located on the ship.

Nobody else took any notice of him.

Travis Mayweather came to the same table, carrying a dinner tray. Selek stood next to them, listening carefully.

“You busy?” He asked, nodding at the tablet.

“Actually, no,” she squinted at the screen, which was scrolling through what looked like a large catalog of schematics and letters of non-Terran origin. “Just going through some of the information we found during the mission to P’Jem. How’s the bridge tonight?

Mayweather and Hoshi chatted idly for a while, enjoying dinner and ignoring the tablet, which seemed to be running on its own.

After a few minutes, it stopped and flashed from green to blue, prompting Hoshi to pick it up again.

“Oh, it’s done,” Hoshi smiled and leaned closer to the tablet. “Fascinating!”

            “It?” Mayweather raised his eyebrows as he spoke.

            “The ship’s cryptologists have been working on the pictograms. It looks like my team has deciphered most of it.”

             “Was that the Vulcan data that mentions the Sanctuary? The one the Andorians say is a front for a surveillance network?”

Selek tensed up and leaned forward. The destruction of P’Jem was the first incident to put his mother on the Vulcan High Command’s radar, and the attention was not positive. However, it seems that this was early in the history of the Enterprise, and P’Jem was still intact.

“It is. These fragments seem to pre-date Surak, and we’re not sure how that’s possible. Are you going back to the bridge?”

            “Heading back now. See you up there.”

            Selek was tempted to follow Mayweather. He was secretly hoping to see Jonathan Archer and get a good look at the helm, but resisted the temptation and continued to follow Hoshi. He was also looking for fragments that pre-dated Surak. The humans seemed to have found something similar and it led them to the Sanctuary.

            They walked towards the computing and data storage section of Engineering, a section of the ship that Selek didn’t know very well.

            Hoshi opened the narrow panel and squeezed into the enclosed space. Not all of the computers on the Enterprise were designed for optimal human interaction. The ones in the computer core, located in a section one deck below the bridge, were service consoles with a limited interface.

The cryptology team consisted of several members, and today each one was working at a computer console to translate and sort the files from P’Jem. She took a briefing from each.

            “Are these the files from the Sanctuary?” Selek asked, looking over Hoshi’s shoulder.

            “Yes,” Ah’zhen answered, “these files are related to what you’re looking for, but whatever is hidden on Romulus must be even older.”

The two of them went through the same panel to leave the room, but Ah’zhen motioned Selek in a different direction.

Vulcan Biometrics – Part Two

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Chapter 1 – The Xyrillians

Selek couldn’t see anything, but the sound of two voices nearby made him feel like a child hiding in a dark closet, eavesdropping on a private conversation.

Go ahead and look, you’re the one with a human ancestor. Careful, it’s your first Vulcan.

Another replied after a few moments.

Lots of great stuff here. Military and survival training, a real sword master. He’s the type who knows when to keep his mouth shut.

Don’t get too distracted. What else?

There was another pause before the voice continued.

Some fun details. He likes spicy noodles. His favorite band is The Smiths. Typical Vulcan, likes males as much as much females. Prefers melee to ranged fighting but he’s a decent archer. Interesting times at the Military Academy. The stars in the desert are something else. But…oh? Wait…

Selek didn’t feel it, but he heard something like a metallic thud, and had the distinct impression that someone had just walked into a wall mid-sentence.

The first voice replied with a laugh.

I warned you, Vulcans can do that. What did you see?

He fought the Kal If Fe recently. Some of the scars are permanent. I can see his mate, but…She’s wearing some kind of bag? Ow, it smacked me hard!

He’ll never let you in there. They teach them how to block almost everything in childhood. Vulcans are composed until it comes to mating, then they literally go insane. Come on, we don’t have much time.

The darkness shuddered and broke, dissolving like a thousand insects disturbed by a sudden light.

It’s not exactly a dream, the second voice said, it’s a memory. You can’t get hurt. Don’t be afraid.

Selek opened his eyes. He thought he was back on the ship for a moment.

He was standing in a corridor, behind a door with a large window, and had a clear view of the room inside. It was not filled with his Vulcan crew, but lined with humans, and they were wearing a vaguely familiar uniform.

A row of cadets was standing at attention to his left. His eyes ran down the line and stopped at the end. The last cadet in line was looking at the window, towards him.

Except that they didn’t seem to be a cadet. Selek didn’t expect every ensign on the Enterprise to be human, but this was a Xyrillian, and although this race was known to humans they weren’t serving on each other’s ships. Those kinds of partnerships were still at least decades away.

Plus, she seemed to be wearing a Xyrillian uniform, and with the symbols that denoted her as Captain of her own ship. He guessed from her size that her sex was female.

What was she doing here?

What was he doing here?

Where was here?

She smiled and waved.

Selek jumped a bit. It was not a mistake or coincidence. She was looking straight at him.

Then she discreetly pointed to the person who was speaking to the troops and walking towards the door he was standing behind.

There was a hiss, the door opened suddenly, and Selek caught his breath. A younger version of Sub-Commander T’Pol strode through the door and down the hallway. A line of cadets followed and the one that had spoken to him was the last to leave.

“Selek!” The Xyrillian smiled at him as they strode by. “Welcome to the Enterprise!”

            And she gestured for him to follow.

Death At The Bus Stop

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It’s there at the same time every morning, just like I am. Of course, totally unbothered by the cold.

Dante described a layer of hell as a frozen wasteland, where the cold was used to torture instead of fire. The damned were frozen up to their necks, traitors to trusted friends and allies, and I agreed it was a suitable place for such wretched sinners.

My own sins were unknown to me. But I suppose the damned always say that.

I can’t ever see its face, so I don’t know if there’s really a skull or what underneath that hood. He turns this blank, unmarked void in my direction as I trudge to my assigned place.

“You’re late,” the voice is monotone, tired, but hopeful. Even the deity itself doesn’t know exactly when those yellow lights will shine through this white darkness. It raises a bony hand clutching an hourglass up to my face.

An angry schoolmarm trapped in the body of a mythological menace.

“You’re early,” I reply with my best sneer, but my bravado is hiding a real sense of fear. I pretend I’m not using my side-eye to peek down the street.

Looking for the lights. I couldn’t have missed them. Maybe they’re late, just like me.

The hourglass disappears, and it turns away, droning on. The voice he has today is gruff and fuzzy, like an old man grinding through the channels on a ham radio.

“Same drill as always,” it sounds bored. “Five minutes late, I take two of your fingers. Ten minutes, four more, along with your ears and nose.”

It is bored. So am I. Years of this. But it has to tell me, just the same. Divine protocol or something.

“Twenty, and you never have to go to school again.”

The statement ends with an uneven hiss that might pass for laughter in Hell.

“Burning in hell doesn’t sound so bad at the moment,” I stamp my feet, a combination of a tantrum at the unfairness of it all and the will to keep from dying.

The yellow light is weak, but cuts into the void. Two lights brighten on the street, and two others, red with authority, join them in banishing the creatures of the cold.

There wasn’t so much as a whisper. Death was gone. At least for now.

Better luck tomorrow, I thought, and was not entirely dishonest. It would be better to die, cross the river Styx, and be frozen in a pile of stinking mud than go home and tell my mother I had missed the bus.

I ascend into the school bus, all ten fingers intact.

Chapter 8 – The True Fate of Trip Tucker

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It took a few weeks for the temple to be repaired. Until the new living spaces were prepared, including the Mother Superior’s renovated apartments, T’Nedara stayed with T’Pol in Shi’Kahr.  

Other than preparing for the site’s reconsecration, which included composing new rituals, restocking the temple supplies and reorganizing the altered floor plan, she spent most of her time learning English and trading stories of Selek with T’Pol.

“Your interest in Terran vernacular is timely,” the sub-Commander remarked. “Were you inspired by Selek?”

“I was,” She replied. “He showed me a mover…”

“I believe it’s called a movie.”

“Oh. Yes, and it was in English. With Vulcan subtitles for my benefit, naturally. It was interesting to me how the setting was a character of its own. New York City is an important place in Terran history, isn’t it?”

“It is immensely important. The greatest human city of the 20th century. What was the movie called?”

“This eludes me for the moment,” T’Nedara furrowed her brow as she spoke. “Something onomatopoeic and only tangentially related to the subject matter. I asked for a story about human mythology and was surprised it was set in a modern era.”

“Human are as creative as they are superstitious.” T’Pol even smiled a bit. “I always enjoyed horror movies.”

“I’m not sure about the whole idea of making a person scared on purpose,” T’Nedara tried not to sound too critical. “I was surprised to find out such a genre existed.”

“The human mind likes opposites, the same way that Vulcans do. They like their drama and horror as much as their romance and comedy. But this was not horror, obviously.”

“Oh, no, it was a romance. A sea creature fell in love with a human. It was also funny, though. I must admit, a few lines brought my laughter to the surface.”

“I think I know the one you mean. It’s a retelling of an old story, ‘The Little Mermaid’ but with a happier ending.”

“It’s still a bittersweet one. I must extend some empathy to the brother of the protagonist. He would have been incarcerated for the rest of his life.”

The conversation moved to the concept of literary adaptation, another persistent human obsession.

“I saw a book in Selek’s room,” T’Nedara said, “with a notorious history in this regard. I’ve seen excerpts in Vulcan, but I would very much like to read the original.”

“A Terran vision of a desert planet, created in the years before first contact, is indeed fascinating.” T’Pol replied. “There was a time when humans had reason to believe they were alone in the universe and did not yet understand warp technology.”

“The chant they use, the mantra against fear – it’s something Surak would have composed and taught. I can’t ignore such an obvious parallel.” T’Nedara couldn’t hide her interest in the book. “And the spice! Of course, our redspice doesn’t come from giant worms and isn’t a hallucinogen. But I can see the ancient Vulcan ways, in the way they preserved water and fought with ruthless, amoral energy.”

“Humans and Vulcans might not be so different when it comes to their tumultuous history.” T’Pol paused, and seemed to compose herself before continuing. “The discovery of the warp drive and First Contact brought them out of a difficult time. But they entered another one just as quickly.

“We protected them for as long as we could. They were adventurous and brave, but foolish. I watched the crew of the Enterprise learn the reality of life in space. I watched their optimism fade, sometimes even twist and change into bitterness.”

“Is that what happened to Trip?” T’Nedara asked.

T’Pol was surprised by the directness of the question. Other Vulcans were often reluctant to ask about her human crewmates, especially Trip.       

“The official records claim he died on the Enterprise,” T’Pol began, “but you, of all people, deserve to know the truth.”

That was how T’Nedara became the first person to hear the whole story of what really happened to Charles Tucker III, the Chief Engineer of the Enterprise.

“According to all of the official accounts, Charles Tucker the III died in an accident on the Enterprise in the year 2161. There were two other important events that happened in the same year; the formation of the United Federation of Planets and the formation of an organization called Section 31 in response to that.

“Section 31” gets its name from Article 14, Section 31 if the Starfleet Charter. It states that any extraordinary measures – even those that include murder, theft, and sabotage – could be undertaken if the Federation or United Earth was under an existential threat.

When Trip first left Earth to explore space, he was hopeful, optimistic, and dedicated to his friend Jonathan Archer and his dream. Perhaps he was too optimistic. Maybe we can credit him for giving everyone in the galaxy the impression that humans were friendly, enthusiastic, and painfully naive.

The Xindi attack changed him. His sister, Elizabeth, was one of millions that were killed.  The human capacity for joy has its mirror image in their rage. Tripp’s anger went beyond a simple longing for revenge, and his energy and knowledge turned away from flirting, exploring, and making friends.

The accident did happen, and the circumstances that were reported regarding the Andorian General Shran and Captain Archer are factual. However, Trip didn’t die as a result. His body disappeared from the hospital and the morgue. When they gave me his personal effects, I asked who had identified him, and I was told his parents had claimed his body based on biometric information sent from Earth.

I was charged with delivering his belongings to his family. When I met them, they said that they had been told his body had been damaged by radiation, and could not be safely returned. He had been safely disposed of in space after being identified by Jonathan Archer. I kept my silence about the discrepancies in each story, including the fact that Trip’s burns, although serious, were not due to radiation.

I returned to Vulcan. After a few months of silence, mysterious notes started to appear in my personal logs. Only a masterful engineer and very clever programmer could get through those Vulcan security protocols. I traded a few notes with an anonymous user who eventually revealed himself as Trip, not by using his name, but with references to deeply personal events shared by only the two of us.

I still didn’t believe it was him until he actually appeared in my house. Literally, using a transporter, technology that’s barely functional outside of the Vulcan High Command.

You may have guessed that I was pleased to see him, and wasn’t bothered with a lot of questions at first. He still retains the scars of the accident, and refused to tell me everything at the time, but confirmed that his death was a fabricated event to extract him from the Enterprise. His determination to seek out and destroy anything even remotely connected with the Xindi put him on the radar as a valuable ally for those who would pursue the path of the extremist.

It’s not clear when it started, or if he was one of the founding members or just a recruit, but he didn’t call it Section 31 at the time. Not everyone liked the idea of a galactic federation based on universal justice. It’s logical to include espionage as part of any government system, but it’s crucial to keep it clandestine, and Tripp was risking his secrets to come out of hiding to be with me.

The pregnancy was a surprise, as you may have guessed. Elizabeth, Selek’s older sister, was created through artificial means and it was thought that a Terran-Vulcan hybrid was an impossibility. We considered termination, not only for out fear of exposing Tripp but due to the possibility of physical damage to myself. However, my condition advanced normally, following the Vulcan gestation period, and Koss agreed to step in and fill the role of ‘father’ on all of the relevant government forms.

Trip Tucker remains a member of the secretive organization that is now known throughout the universe as Section 31, a rogue splinter group associated with terrorism, espionage, and extortion. Tripp hasn’t always approved of their methods, which have only become more extreme, and these days he is more a hostage than an equal member. They need his engineering knowledge, and they threaten him, and his loved ones, to get it.

I was never worried about dealing with them. You have seen me handle a plasma rifle. But I did have some maternal concern for my son, who would be in danger if his true ancestry were discovered, and by keeping this secret I have kept him safe from his father’s colleagues.”

“The secret may have been discovered by the cult,” T’Nedara said. “They have my biometrics.”

“But not the skill to read them, not the finer details. We will find and destroy any information they have. While you rebuild and study, I will conduct a thorough investigation.”

She paused, and seemed to focus on a place far in the distance.

“They will be found. And punished.”

“Please consider all of the resources of the Temple at your disposal,” T’Nedara had to breath deeply to hide her visceral emotional reaction. But she couldn’t hide the raised volume of her voice or the green flush in her cheeks.

They conversed no more that night, but there was an unspoken understanding between them regarding the fate of the cult.

T’Pol quietly utilized some questionable search methods only available to a sub-Commander, taking liberties with the rules that ensured the safety and privacy of Vulcan civilians.

T’Nedara, meanwhile, had successfully discovered the ancient texts of the Kolinahru, and studied the forbidden psionic powers in secret.

Denied love, they would indulge their rage instead. It was a bold but risky path, especially for Vulcans.

T'Nedara's rough sketches and notes

Chapter 7 – The Ritual Of Light That Opens The Darkened Way

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These are the words of Surak.

Nothing is born, nothing dies,

nothing is pure, nothing is stained,

nothing increases and nothing decreases.

The procession wound it’s way down into the warm darkness of subterranean Vulcan. The candles sputtered to life as the Mother Superior stepped past them, her steps were slow and deliberate.

These are the words of Surak.

There is no feeling, no thought, no will, no consciousness.

There are no eyes, no ears, no nose, no tongue, no body, no mind.

There is nothing seen, nor heard, nor smelled, nor tasted, nor touched, nor imagined.

T’Nedara could feel herself sinking into the earth and rock, but it was a gentle sensation, as if she was returning home, and home was a safe place.

These are the words of Surak.

There is no old age and death, and no end to old age and death.

There is no suffering, no cause of suffering, no end to suffering, no path to follow.

There is no attainment of wisdom, and no wisdom to attain.

The procession came to its final destination, the resting place of T’Ulla, the former Mother Superior.

These are the words of Surak.

This is truth that cannot be doubted.

Gone, gone, gone over, gone fully over.

And then awakened!

These are the words of Surak.[24]

T’Nedara reached forward and touched the stone that would hold the katra of the former Mother Superior for all eternity.

            Farewell, mentor and mother, she said in her mind, I am blessed by your guidance. Rest well, and know your memory lives on.

There was a reply.

Your gratitude is my reward. I thank you for a sublime and profound ritual. Before I depart and take my rest, I will say one thing more.

I speak his name, but his voice does not answer.

Take comfort. He is not among us.

Live long, and prosper.

T’Nedara reached out with her psionic powers and lit one extra candle, a lone one placed by the broken kitchen door.

[24] Taken from and inspired by the Heart Sutra.

Chapter 4 – The Cult Of Maripol

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T’Nedara had plenty to keep her busy so there was little time to fret over an absent mate even if she had been so inclined. She wasn’t the kind of person to brood, and she had serious and urgent responsibilities in the temple.

Most of the planned renovations were taking place on the lower levels. Naturally, the hospital and infirmary were the top priority, and the old living quarters were left alone for the time being, which included the space set aside for her and Selek.

Like the Mother Superior, T’Nedara recognized that the future of the temple might be uncertain, but as a hospital and maybe even a school dedicated to the science of Biometrics, they might stay here and have a future.

Or the old place would degenerate into a museum, filled with the same dust and silence of the catacombs deep below. It could be worse. T’Nedara shuddered to think of it bulldozed completely and replaced by rows of cubicles.[14]  

The Mother Superior shared her concerns, and the two of them spent the next two days making further renovation plans. The Infirmary was to be expanded into a hospital, with the Biometrics section being the prominent feature of a much larger facility. A whole floor was set aside for the library and other various records that were currently scattered throughout the temple.

“I may be the last to be interred in the Catacombs,” the Mother Superior sighed into a cup of tea one night. “You must be the one to seal them when the time comes.”

“Mother, I will be the last,” T’Nedara said. “There is no other home for me than here, with you, and the words of Surak.”

T’Nedara carefully pulled a few extra leaves from the basil. It was a thick, hearty plant, and could stand the stress of losing a few extra leaves. Something about the heavy, oily taste calmed her, answering a mysterious craving.

Perhaps not so mysterious, she thought, staring through the window into the falling light. If she did the test herself tonight, she would know everything by morning.

T’Krella was just leaving the Infirmary when T’Nedara arrived. The young novice was preparing to graduate to an officiate, and had moved into the regular Dormitories.

“Greetings, Reldai,” she used the formal address for a ranking cleric of the temple and bowed her head.

“T’hy’la[15],” T’Nedara touched her friend’s shoulder. “Please, the formality isn’t required. We are both off duty, and you’re getting older now. Enjoy your rest, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The novice picked up her basket and turned to go, but hesitated when she saw her friend open a cupboard and remove some vials and cups.

“Neddy,” she said quietly, “what are you doing?”

“I’m administering a pregnancy test,” she said, her voice flat. “I’ve been noticing some dietary anomalies.”

It had only been a few weeks since the now infamous Kal If Fee, but Vulcan females don’t have a menstrual cycle the same way as humans even if the gestation period is roughly the same.

T’Krella quietly stepped to her friend’s side as she took a sample of blood from her fingertip and placed it on a glass slide. They both watched the screen as the computer completed the scan. The green flashed a dark green, a positive result.

“Well, you’ll be an aunt, my little Rella,” said T’Nedara, and she could sense her friend smiling behind her.

The green light flashed, indicating the computer was compiling all of the finer details. T’Nedara saw it lengthen and bend, and felt the floor move underneath her tip and spin.

She blinked and found herself kneeling on the floor. A few leaves of basil had fallen out of her front pocket. T’Krella was crouched next to her, holding her arm.

“I’m glad I was here,” she said, as they slowly rose. “You might have hit the floor otherwise.”

There was a moment of silence between them. T’Krella saw the leaves and picked them up.

“The changes in diet you mentioned?”

T’Nedara nodded and leaned on the counter.

“This is a plant from Earth, isn’t it?”

“Yes, a gift from the former Sub-Commander.”

There was another profound silence between them, one of understanding.

“No wonder you suspected.” T’Krella let her stoic mask slip for a moment and whispered, ”He’ll be so happy…I mean, I’m sure your mate will be gratified when he returns.”

T’Nedara wanted to say something logical and crisp, something with a neutral tone or a harsh and biting fact. But it felt like there was no air in her throat, and nothing but a lonely emptiness waiting for her upstairs.

She could only exhale sadly, and lean for support on T’Krella.

“Come with me to the Dormitory,” T’Krella said, holding her gently. “The computer can do its work alone. We’ll check on the rest tomorrow.”

T’Nedara could have slept in the empty tower, but she was grateful to take a spare bed near her friend. T’Krella insisted, “A precaution, should you feel dizzy again.”

The dreams of T’Nedara were filled with strange and mysterious symbols. She saw Selek, laying in what looked like a garden, with a thin beam of white light emanating in a long, bent line from his shoulder to his thigh. His body floated through space, the stars were buzzing around his head. They were like clusters of white flowers in a dark green sky, humming like insects.

The vision cracked, and T’Nedara woke to a loud BOOM.

Someone was screaming. The wall next to her shuddered. The air filled with dust and gravel.

T’Krella’s bed was empty and rapidly filling up with debris falling from the ceiling. Others were running for the exits, and T’Krella ran towards the one that would lead her to the Mother Superior’s quarters.

Her first instinct was either an earthquake or volcanic eruption. The temple was built around an active lava bed, and had been known for frequent tremors, but nothing before like this. The temple already had an evacuation plan and the residents were following as best they could.

Some were trapped under rubble or buried under piles of jagged rocks and gravel. Monks and soldiers alike struggled to free their stricken friends. She stopped to help move the rocks, aware that she was speaking but barely aware of her own words.

Put pressure on it. Follow the evacuation protocol. Exit through the infirmary.

T’Nedara tried to ignore the streaks of lurid green across the floor as she stumbled towards the residences in the upper levels. Another shock made the floor beneath her vibrate, but she managed to reach the two high doors that led into the Mother Superior’s apartments.

They were broken, hanging askew in the archway like broken bones, T’Nedara could only peer inside while she struggled to pry the door open.

The foyer was filled with rubble and what looked like curtains, and she could hear someone speaking. It was the Mother Superior’s voice, harsh but muffled.

T’Nedara managed to open the door enough to squeeze through, and fell on her knees next to the rubble.

They were not curtains. They were clothing, soaked in warm blood, and it only took a moment for T’Nedara to recognize the mangled body.

The Mother Superior was in a troubled sleep when she was roused by a rough hand and a phaser thrust into her face. She heard a voice.

“She’s not upstairs. We have to find her before the charges…”

“Quiet. The old woman will know.”

“Where’s T’Nedara?”

She blinked, confused. But her eyes cleared, and she recognized the twisted symbols of the Cult of Maripol adorning their clothing. They had become notorious terrorists in recent years, fighting a system that no longer had any use for them or their wretched blood god. 

This did not explain why they were looking for T’Nedara.

“What do you want with T’Nedara?” She snapped back.

“Hurry up, you old fool, otherwise we’re all…”

The loud boom shook the walls, and the rock in the ceiling collapsed, covering the bed in rubble. Some of the dust cleared, and the cultists dug into the wreckage to drag the Mother Superior, now gravely injured, into a safer part of the room.

All the while they were yelling about the charges. A signal was badly timed, a fuse had blown, a mistake had been made. There was a second charge in the upper spire that was intended to cover their escape, and her disappearance.

A door swung open in the next room. Someone yelled, but their voice was drawn out by a second explosion, and the rubble that fell silenced them forever.   

“Where?”

The urgency of the voice behind the phaser was palpable. The Mother Superior knew that if she could stall them, even for only a few minutes, no threat could force her to speak ever again.

“Your dead god has no place…in our house,” She sputtered and tasted blood. “The words of Surak…”

A scream of horror broke the unearthly calm of the Mother Superior’s words. Another person had entered the foyer and what they saw elicited a reaction of horror and grief.

            The cultists forgot the stricken temple matron and rushed into the next room. It was filled with piles of jagged rock and broken furniture. A woman was bent next to a pile of ruined stone and dusty ash, digging through it with bare hands, yelling something.

NO PLEASE GODS NO

She was screaming and crying at the same time, her tears mixed with blood and dust.

            T’RELLA PLEASE PLEASE NO

            She dragged the remains from the twisted pile. Red cloth and white stone mixed with green viscera and black soot. Gore soaked her clothing, and she remained oblivious to the cultists, holding T’Krella’s dead body close as her robe was soaked in blood.

“Mirran[16],” one of them hissed, “what if we killed her?”

“Only one way to find out. Where’s the one you call T’Nedara?”

 The sound of her name roused her, but only enough to look at them with shock and horror.

The walls heaved and cracked. Voices started yelling outside and they were growing closer. The sounds prompted the cultists to work quickly.

“You’ll die here, either way. Hurry up, where is she?”

T’Nedara took a breath and felt her resolve come back. She fumed at how helpless she felt, until her eyes carefully settled on the staff leaning against a broken desk.

Only a few meters away, and in her hands it could become a deadly weapon.

The cultist with the phaser stepped forward and opened his mouth to speak again, but he was silenced forever when a precise volley of phaser fire blew his jaw apart.

His friends met a similar fate as they tried to run. Three precise shots was all it required, and not a single atom of precious energy had been wasted. Even in the midst of her emotional torment, T’Nedara concluded its user knew this weapon surgical precision.

A shadow of a phaser rifle appeared on the wall, a weapon that was not found within the monastery, followed by the shooter appearing through the shadows and dust. They were wearing a pair of goggles, which they removed upon seeing the stricken Vulcan crouched on the ground.

T’Nedara had not seen her before, and they had never met, but she knew who it was immediately.

“Sub Commander T’Pol,” she said, as formally as possible.

“T’Nedara,” T’Pol answered curtly, “the structural integrity of the building has been compromised. I will escort you to…”

A moan from the next room distracted both of them. T’Pol ran to its source, while T’Nedara gently placed her friend’s body on the ground and covered her face.

The Mother Superior was still alive, but had lost the power to speak. T’Pol tried to lift her, and she angrily resisted.

She clutched T’Pol’s hand and pointed to T’Nedara. The monk stepped forward and pressed her fingers to the Mother Superior’s temple. Their eyes locked for a moment.

Her last breath gurgled out of her throat and she slumped to the broken floor.

T’Nedara felt her own breath leave her body, and her chest was heavy with loss, too heavy to cry any more this time.

“Come, and quickly,” T’Pol hastened out of the shattered room with T’Nedara close by her side.

The entire compound had to be evacuated, and over the course of the next few hours a whole army of structural engineers and forensic scientists descended upon the temple. Temporary field hospitals and tents for forensics and dig teams dotted the normally peaceful mountainside.  

The remains were still being recovered as the mountains started to cut into the sunlight. Survivors were allocated to hospitals and alternative housing for the time being, although one important exception was made regarding the future Mother Superior. T’Nedara left her bloody robes with the forensics team and changed into a plain, unmarked one before she joined Sub Commander T’Pol on a shuttlecraft. She knew nothing more about her undisclosed location.

Perhaps it was because of this hive of emotion and chaos that the katra of the Mother Superior remained silent. T’Nedara felt the weight of her somber gaze, watching the aftermath of the attack from behind her own eyes.

The attack had taken place in the early hours, just before the dawn. After a whole day of recovering the dead, first aid, and emergency transportation, the stars were starting to wink in the sky when T’Pol quietly boarded her personal shuttlecraft with T’Nedara.

T’Pol had a personal home in a suburb of Shi’Khar. It covertly had a shuttlecraft landing pad and a transporter, along with the extra security afforded to all Vulcan officers. Her son’s mate would be safe here, while the temple was assessed to be either rebuilt or demolished.

As it is with Vulcans, the tour of the small house was painfully businesslike. The host didn’t change her neutral tone didn’t change until T’Pol showed her the spare bedroom.

“You’ll be sleeping here,” T’Pol said. “This used to be Selek’s room.”

A few books and trinkets lined the shelves. It was plain, with few colors or decorations, typical of a Vulcan male.

T’Nedara pressed her hands against her abdomen and nodded.

“I must take further steps to secure this domicile. Please take some rest. We will speak at length tomorrow.”

“My deepest gratitude, sub-Commander,” T’Nedara managed to whisper. Then she was left alone, surrounded by the memories of her absent mate.

  The closet still contained a few sleeping robes. They were too big, but that didn’t matter, and before lying down in bed she looked at the bookshelf.

Closer inspection revealed some of Selek’s closest secrets. Some were books in Vulcan, but she also saw a few titles in English, a Terran language of which she knew very little. The history of medicine and philosophy had compelled her to study Classical Chinese and Sanskrit instead.

There was one she could read. The spine had the letters in capitals – DUNE. She took hold of the spine and pulled it away.

Something glimmered in the depths of the shelf. She reached behind the books and found a small globe filled with water. It contained a scene made out of clay or plastic, depicting a seashore. A tree that looked like a long, curved pipe with foliage exploding from the very top leaned over the surf. When the globe moved, the sky inside filled with a flock of tiny seagulls that would swoop around a sailboat on the horizon.

There was a sign on the beach white with black letters that made them easier to read. It was in English, and although she could make out the letters, she wasn’t sure what they meant.

Clearwater, FL.

She sighed and placed both the globe and book on the bedside table. A numbness gripped her as she reclined. She could still hear the explosions and screams, but couldn’t react to them. Her body was squeezed out of breath under a weight of darkness and death.

T’Nedara had never carried a katra before. She had heard that sometimes they would invade their waking minds with disturbing visions, but for the whole day she hadn’t even heard a whisper from the Mother Superior.

She had been busy, distracted, and unfocused, cracked and torn inside like the interior of the temple. Now she remembered the tight grip on her hand and the light going out of her Mother’s eyes.

The memory faded into a peaceful orange light and took T’Nedara with it. She followed the fading lamp into a troubled sleep, and dreamed she was sitting cross-legged before a smoldering urn of incense.

Rich smoke rose from the cauldron and the room was filled with the sweet aroma.

 Another monk was sitting next to her. A young woman who looked vaguely familiar. She spoke without turning her head.

 “Be not troubled,” she said gently. Her voice rose over the disembodied chanting that seemed to radiate from the heavy smoke. “I have faith you will honor my memory, and continue our sacred traditions. I rest easy in your care.

My daughter. May you live long and prosper.”

“T’Ulla,” T’Nedara recognized the Mother Superior and called her by her name. “I will do all that I can. You will not be forgotten.”

The Mother Superior rose, and she was wearing a long robe with wide sleeves that seemed to be made of gold and fire. Rays of light were broken by the thick smoke, and T’Nedara’s eyes stang.

She blinked, and it was morning.

[14] The nickname Vulcans gave to the inexpensive living quarters that were produced in large numbers and often used to house the sick, indigent, or other disenfranchised groups like refugees.

[15] “Life friend”, a term used for close friends and siblings.

[16] A Vulcan curse similar to “damn” or “hell.”