Star Trek

USS Ochoa

Next

The Science is What Matters

Posted on Saturday November 9th, 2019 @ 8:55am by Remy Stokes & Moshe Samble
Edited on on Saturday November 30th, 2019 @ 12:48pm

Mission: Mission 0.1: Coming Together
Location: Bon Proxima Colony, Alpha Centauri Colonies; home of Remy and Cyrille Stokes, New Jodhpur
Timeline: Mission Day 580515 at 0030

Remy Stokes heard the door open and close: she felt the solitude's energy change with the presence of another. She didn't need to turn her head to know who brooded in the darkness. That wasn't Cyrille's way. Soon enough, Remy's quiet evening would fill with words. Until then, she turned her attention back to what had drawn her out here in the first place.

Bon Proxima's rain, it's petrichor, was different than her fading memory of Morant Bay. It didn't quite trigger those old familiarities of her birthplace and home. Jamaica and Bon Proxima had little in common. Even today, Morant Bay was a bare bones existence populated by the Carib Luddites. One could still see the full spectrum of stars in a black-black night. Kingston was a modern enclave. New Jodhpur, here, was more like Kingston in that regard. Remy was staring out over Ramayana Bay, the skies gray like a color of blue steel. She breathed in the rain scent again- this was Cyrille's home, and it had been her's off and on- but not like Morant.

She sensed stirring behind her, casting her dark eyes back into the dark bungalow. She spotted his thinning snowy hair and traced down to his bushy, nickel gray mustache. Thunder rumbled. It purred on Bon Proxima. "You're home late..." Remy mused, turning her wrist to lean on it the other way.

"You're checking up on me now, Rev?" Moshe had a intellectual gravel to his voice, the kind of voice that projected across a lecture hall as easily as a Bridge.

Remy nodded, "Only always." She tilted an impish, yet motherly smile, "You're a little old to be out cruising. It's 1am."

"You're not my mother," Moshe chuckled at first. It was one part dirty, two parts bitter. "I feel old," he admitted, putting emphasis on feel. He waved it off, "I've been bored with helm twinks for a very long time now, thank you very much." Something metallic clattered: Moshe had pulled it out of his pocket and underhand tossed it on the kitchen table. The man slid his hands back into his pockets with a sigh. "But I did it." He eyed the counters, "So we should have a drink."

Remy raised her eyebrow. She turned around, folding arms to rest just under her bosom. She drummed fingers on the nook of her elbow, "You did what."

"You know what," Moshe retorted. That elicited another eyebrow raise from Remy Stokes' thin, wispy eyebrow. She watched him move and come to a halt near stoppered rum.

"What'd it cost you, Moshe?" Remy asked, caution in her voice. She pushed off the railing and sauntered inside, "Lights, forty-percent, warm." The home's computer gave a gentler, rounder sound than a Federation starship: a warm white glow bathed the room from a ledge of ambient light cast against a copper colored ceiling. Moshe blinked his wizened eyes, both squinting and opening at the sudden luminescence. The sound of wetness sloshed below, into a glass. He stoppered the rum again.

Remy eyed what Moshe had dropped on the table- it was his commbadge, complete with four small pips in gold. It was tilted on it's side, still swaying as it found its natural center to come to rest. "I gave them what they wanted, if they gave me what I wanted."

"Moshe," She stressed. Remy's eyebrows knitted with concern, her arms tightening in the pretzel across her chest, "We have other channels to go through. You're being hasty. We-"

"- We don't have the time, and you know it. The science must continue, while it's still out there." Moshe flexed his fist for emphasis, which he cast out as a hand toward the sky, "Every second we're not there, the data's changing."

Remy shook her head, "Moshe, the data was never pristine. We never got a chroniton fix. Dating subspace is-"

"- Is what we do, Commander, in subspace dynamics." He pinched his fingers together, "It's the hunt. We were on to something. Until that... that idiot decided to start a war." He picked up his drink and took a substantial swig, then eyed it swaying in the glass. "We're goddamn explorers, not some goddamn militia..."

Remy stiffened and shook her head. Her words turned crisp, and professionally clipped, "I'm leaving the galacto-political fallout to the politicians. It happened, and it was a long time coming."

Moshe spidered out his fingers and leaned on the island at the heart of the kitchen, "It was a waste, is what it was. Of lives, resources and time. Now we have to play catch up with what's left. And those silverbacked bags of methane," he flailed a finger again out the balcony, "Are-"

"Are doing the best they can, with the resources we have. We lost a third of Starfleet, Moshe. A third." Remy's sigh was harsh, pressed upon. "Corvan 2's barely back online. We have to be patient..."

Moshe scoffed and shook his head, "Bullshit." He scoffed again and swigged, his mouth twisting at the acrid sour heat, "No, I don't. I got it done and I'm satisfied with the results." Remy sighed at that, dropping her eyes with a disapproving shake of her head. The dialogue was always different, but the approach was always the same. Silence reigned while she went into the Kitchen herself and filled a glass of cold water through the food synthesizer system. Moshe watched her profile. "The silent treatment now, huh?" He chuckled darkly, "Fine, I'll cope with it."

Remy blinked, staring at the machine before her. She could vaguely make out the color shifts that were his blurry reflection in the surface next to her, "I've learned you're not actually listening when you're doing this. The best I can do is..." She shrugged, "Not engage. Goodnight Moshe." Remy took her cylindrical glass of water with her and made a move around the peninsula of kitchen cabinetry. She reached up to rub her neck, subconsciously twirling some of her dark ringlets around her ring finger.

"I submitted your name for the Captaincy." Moshe announced behind her. "I don't trust some goddamn, random gold-badge with an agenda of their own with this. Or worse, the Admiralty's."

Remy stopped and ahem'ed in her throat. She didn't turn, tugging on the ringlet around her finger, "What about my agenda, Moshe? I don't want the center chair. I've got a son I barely know at Academy and a husband who isn't sure who he is anymore. And hasn't been since Betazed."

"Taye'll be fine," Moshe rose his brows, emphatic, "And so will Cyrille. I know him. The science, Remy, the science is what matters."

Remy sighed, deciding to present as little opportunity for Moshe to keep a ledge with as she could, "We'll talk tomorrow Moshe." She turned profile, "Goodnight."

Moshe tapped his fist against the kitchen table, tensing his lips as the memory of the data ran behind his eyes. Deep subspace grooves and a dead world, and the ruins... the ruins most of all, on a moon with no earthly business having moisture in such a parched solar system. It was so unnatural. Gloriously unnatural.

 

Next

labels_subscribe