Katsu – Formative Memories

Katsu Lieutenant Oka Katsu sips her tea on the couch in Pioneer’s forward mess hall, the fragrant brew filling her nostrils as she pours through the latest sensor data ahead of their adventure into the Talvath Cluster. From her position in the corner of the room, she can see the lives of her colleagues continue in blissful ignorance of the dangers they had so recently avoided.

At a nearby table, a pair of ensigns play an unfamiliar board game, strange forms of tiny metal that they manoeuvre back and forth across a round board as they fill the mess hall with laughter and friendly goading. Beyond them a pair of older officers, aged with experience and skill debate the finer points of K’Sing’s latest opera, the use of thirty live targs seemingly the current bone of artistic contention. At the far end, two officers in off-duty clothes intertwine their bodies as they offer each other gentle butterfly kisses, their inextricable form a juxtaposition to Katsu’s solo presence.

Katsu attempts to return to the PADD in hand but struggles to concentrate, its promise of untold mystery seemingly ineffective at holding her attention.

“I heard the last mission was crazy.”

A calm voice interrupts her observations as the form of Commander Charlie Fox steps into her eyeline, his short blonde hair a blonde halo in the Mess Hall’s reduced lighting.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Katsu acknowledges the man with a nod.

“Can I sit?” he asks.

Assuming his answer before her lips have even parted, Charlie lands on the nearby couch with a soft thud, the ice cubes in his glass clinking in the small tsunami within its metallic confines.

Kastu groans inwardly but says nothing.

“It’s amazing you got out of there.”

A sudden flash of their directive from the Department of Temporal Investigations leaps across Katsu’s memory. Classified. Highly Classified. Charlie is a relatively high-positioned officer, it’s not unexpected that he would know the vague details of the operation. Scuttlebutt would also help but Katsu is put on edge by questions he should know better than to ask.

Still, ignoring him would be rude.

“We were creative,” she mutters.

“I heard Shaw shot a load of Klingons.” Charlie tilts the glass in his hand back and forth, causing small waves to form in the surface of the orange liquid.

Katsu’s eyes narrow suspiciously.

“Sir, that’s classified.”

“It’s me Katsu, it’s Charlie. After all we went through I thought you might be a little more trusting.” The man’s demeanour is strange and pushy.

Katsu offers only silence, her attention returning to the PADD.

“I think about Zercan 2 a lot you know.” Charlie lends back into the soft embrace of the couch. “You remember the bridge?”

“I did my job, it’s not personal.” Katsu’s tone has become sharp as she brittles with frustration at his constant probing.

There’s a lot of people on this ship who think you don’t like other people you know.”

“I’m isolated by my own choice, I do so for my own protection. My experiences on the Atlee have changed my perspective on things.” Katsu pauses as her focus turns towards Charlie, her eyes boring a hole in his own. “I don’t care if people don’t like it or me.”

“There are people who say the Altai broke you, that you lost all the pieces of being a person.”

“What does it matter what they know.” Katsu shrugs.

“It’s all about what people know Katsu. The lovers, the drunks, the friends. Do they deserve to know there is a bomb beneath their feet?”

Katsu continues to stare at Charlie as he tests her unflinching calm.

“Should they know there is a bomb?” he repeats as he pushes another PADD across the table. On its screen are the familiar schematics of the mess hall, with several unfamiliar square devices situated beneath the tables and bar.

“You know how to draw a picture,” Katsu spits, her suspicions growing. This isn’t the Charlie she knows and whilst she cannot form a hypothesis yet, something is amiss.

“There is a rot at the heart of things Katsu.”

Deciding to adopt a different tactic, Katsu turns to the man.

“Naturally there is. It defines us. God, now I’m sounding like a counsellor.” She rolls her eyes conspiratorially. “I’m not here to make choices Charlie.”

The man leans forward and pressed a key on the PADD, causing several boxes under the tables to open, green thick gas leaking from them. The business of the mess half continues on amid the thick unnatural gas, the friends laugh, the men argue, the women worries and the lovers kiss. No one seems the slightest bit phased by the encroaching gas.

At the other tables, the skin of her crew mates turns pale and grey as small mechanical devices erupt, spider forms of dermal implants erupting from beneath their epidermis. Katsu’s breath catches momentarily as she recognises the shape of Borg implants clawing themselves across their faces.

“I don’t know who you are, you’re not the Commander. Whatever this trick is, it’s not working.” Katsu turns back to the face of the being who would puppet Charlie Fox.

“There’s no tricks Katsu,” he pleads quietly, the man’s brow furrowing in frustration.

“I’d like you to use my full name,” Katsu’s tone turns cold, she does not respond well to threats.

“There is a rot at the heart of things Lieutenant Oka Katsu. A rot that affects everything.”

Daes Ral – A Host of Ministers

The armoury has long been a space of safety for Lieutenant Daes Ral. The order of weapons in their lockers, the logic of inspections and the security of knowing everything is in order have always given the Trill woman a sense of serenity. Today that quiet sanctuary has been interrupted by the incessant humming of a young Trill Ensign from the corner of the room, her staccato melody interrupting Daes’ preferred state of being.

“How are you finding things here?” the young woman asks over he shoulder.

Daes offers a shrug and little else, hopeful the young officer will take the hint and take her intrusive musicality elsewhere.

“Things are always interesting here, give it time,” she giggles as she returns to her task.

Daes questions herself, as a newcomer aboard the ship she feels that politeness should give way to preference, at least initially.

“It’d certainly be more interesting than waiting for something to happen on the Cardassian Border…”

As Daes turns to look at her colleague, satisfied this weapons locker is in order, she notices the woman now stands at the large shelving unit. In front of her, laid out on the shelf is a large tan rifle, a slender weapon covered in geometric patterning, a round cobra like tip at its head.

It is a form especially familiar to the Lieutenant, a pristine Cardassian rifle.

“That shouldn’t be here.” Daes’ mind races through the armoury inventory, there were no records of captured weapons remaining aboard the ship following their recent rendezvous with Starbase 17.

“It looks dangerous,” the young woman’s eyes are wide with anticipation as Daes approaches.

“It is.”

“We should fire it!” the Ensign claps gleefully.

“If you want to arrange some range time-” Daes begins but the woman’s excited hands are already reaching towards the rifle.

“-We should fire it now!”

Daes pushes past the woman, placing herself between the strange young trill and the out-of-palace weapon. Now closer to the shelf she notices a dark pool of thick liquid has begun pooling beneath the weapon

“Ensign, you should go continue with your work. I will secure this in the locker for investigation.”

The young woman shrugs, causing her hair to fall aside to reveal a series of familiar patterned spots that spill down her neck beneath her uniform. Their formation stirs something in Daes though she cannot say what.

The ensign shrugs once more and skips off into the armoury, disappearing out of sight as her song restarts.

Daes lifts the rifle from the shelf, turning it over in her hands as she inspects it for any signs of damage. Her experience with these types of weapons is extensive and the black liquid is curious, these devices contain no liquid components.

“You’re making a mess Daes.” Another voice dances over her shoulder.

She turns to see a tall man in civilian clothing leaning against the edge of the shelves, another familiar pattern of spots climbing down his aged face beneath a tight formal jacket.

“Are you at least doing some good?” he raises a curious eyebrow as he adjusts the hem of his jacket.

Taking the weapon in hand, Daes turns back towards the armory lockers.

“We always attempt to do good in Starfleet.” A pressure pushes against he skull as the rumble of her symbiote’s concern at the illogical sequence of events presses against her consciousness.

“Starfleet is all well and good Daes, but are you actually doing some good?”

“I don’t know what you mean sir. I’ve been here in the armoury all day.”

“Still making messes Daes,” the man chides with a nod to the deck where thick black footprints cover the carpet, tracking the Lieutenant’s movements through the workshop.

Daes places the Cardassian weapon in a nearby locker. As its security forcefield blossoms into existence with a faint buzz she turns her attention back to the man only to find him absent, a pair of black footprints disappearing behind the shelving unit. Her symbiote presses again against her thoughts with a sharp worry, something is amiss, many things are amiss.

She slowly begins tracking the footsteps around the room, their dark shapes marking the pale carpet in a large loop until they return to the spot where she started, the faint buzz of the locker still hissing in the air.

A pair of dark black boots step into view, carrying the slender form of an aged Trill woman, her familiar spots trailing down into a gold-trimmed collar that sparkles lightly in the armouries overhead lights. On her chest, a set of four admiral’s pips underscored with a bar dance glisten with authority.

“Are you worried Daes?” the woman enquires, her tone motherly and comforting.

“Why would I be worried ma’am?”

The woman offers a weary smile as she motions to Daes’ hands that have fallen behind her back in the habit of respectful attention.

“All the blood Daes, it’s all over your hands.” She takes one of the young woman’s hands and holds it in her own. They are slick with a thick black substance, dripping like crude oil from the palms of her slender fingers. “Or it will be.”

The pressure in Daes’ head begins to become overwhelming and she doubles over in pain, falling to the floor as the three faces of the three trill lean over her.

The young ensign, a delicate melody still escaping her lips.

The middle-aged man, the sharp corners of his suit cutting through the air.

The aged maternal admiral, her bottomless eyes filled with concern..

Her past selves, or at least the Ral symbiotes past selves.

“There is a rot at the heart of things Daes,” the admiral whispers.

“We can only protect you for so long. You have to find the rot at the heart of things.”