K’retok bellowed with laughter and punched Aloran hard in the chest. The Vulcan shook with the impact, rocking back on his chair and frowning at his Klingon friend. No-one in the Pit and Pendulum took any notice, everyone engrossed in their own conversations or focused on their thoughts and their drinks. They were sat in the corner of the gothic bar, slightly in shadow, conspiratorially if it were not for the frequent loud outbursts from the Klingon and the occasionally surprising reciprocity from the Vulcan.

“You are too composed to have been lost and afraid! I do not believe you!”, K’retok looked at Aloran with challenge and humour.

“Not all fear is physical, K’retok. Nor all bravery”.

The Klingon scoffed and leaned back in his chair, taking another swig of his drink and motioning for Aloran to continue.

“YMany years ago I was adrift, untethered from society and barely holding onto my sanity. Loss, without the glory of battle, the meaning of sacrifice, and lives cut short, can be as significant a stranding as being the sole survivor of a shipwreck”, Aloran sipped his drink, wetting his lip as he leant forward on the table to begin the story.

2369, in the wilderness of the colony planet Jurush.

Aloran had not expected to feel so profoundly alone. He was a Vulcan, he was proud of his mental discipline, he had meditated since a child and he was now well into his seventh decade. Aloran had spent weeks in isolation on many occasions in his diplomatic career and had felt no more discomfort than when in a plaza crowded with people. Loneliness was something he did not feel and his feelings were always disciplined and controlled. But this was different. He was lost in a wilderness of the mind.

If someone had been observing him, Aloran would appear unchanged from his normal composure. The Vulcan’s face was at peace, showing some signs of age but no signs of agitation. His muscles were relaxed, his body at rest, his hands cupped together and held at his chest.

Inside of his mind, he was screaming. The normal thoughts and consciousness was there – he was present and aware – but nestled in the background was a piercing shout. Aloran did not think it was an auditory hallucination because it was not a sound he was hearing, it was an experience at the back of his consciousness and it was profoundly disturbing. He imagined his conscious self being a small boat in the wider ocean of his mind: for all of his life the ocean was effortlessly calm, a reassuring presence upon which he could sail according to his thoughts, adventuring with logic games, frontier exploration as he considered the strategies for his next negotiation, or meditating in placid coves.

The ocean upon which his little boat resided was now in the midst of the fiercest storm imaginable. Giant waves rose up and threatened to engulf him, treacherous outcroppings of rock reared up and threatened to dash him to bloody pieces, sea monsters lurked beneath and tossed his little boat high into the air before it came crashing back down into the swirling currents.

“As you can see, ambassador, the ruins of the temple are quite complete. If you follow the ridge-line over here you can s—”

Aloran interrupted the lively and energetic Bajoran historian, “I was never an ambassador, Dorrell, and I have not been a diplomat for several years. As you know.”

“Yes, but if you just follow the ridge-line you can see several unexpected spires! They are almost as they would have appeared over a millenia ago. How remarkable is that?”

“Remarkable”, Aloran looked at the spires that Dorrell was pointing at. They were fine examples of architecture, with what at this distance looked to be resting on large stone carvings of grotesquely enlarged heads. He imagined what his father would have made of them, no doubt an astute observation of why the manner in which they had been built meant that they would survive for thousands of years. His own knowledge on the topic was secondhand and not of much use.

“Thank you, Dorrell, I can continue my observations alone”, Aloran placed his left hand on the shoulder of the man, a friendly gesture, “I will see you back at the villa and we can discuss all of this well into the night. But for now, I require solitude”. Aloran had no intention of discussing his observations with Dorrell but knew the man would not leave without such an assurance.

Dorrell looked at Aloran with disappointment and concern, but he nodded, “I’ll see you later, Aloran, and take care as you go poking around”.

Aloran watched Dorrell pick up the rucksack he had discarded on a nearby rock, look once more at the Vulcan, then turn and start walking away down the path they had come. He observed the back of the man closely, mentally noting the cracked leather, the fine quality boots with worn heels, the utility belt around his waist with a variety of sensor equipment. Aloran did so as an exercise – the exercise he had done a thousand times or more – to see if the roaring scream in the background of his mind impaired his cognition. So far, it had not. The observation was not particularly reassuring, he assumed that something would break in his mind eventually and that when it did, he would simply trick himself into believing that all was as it should be.

The logical course of action would have been to seek help, medical, perhaps, or a mind-meld with one of the many spiritual leaders on Vulcan that still insisted on sending him subspace messages. He had read them all, diligently, and never replied to any. Aloran’s isolation did nothing to lessen his incurable desire for as much information as possible. Similarly, he was pragmatic enough to realise that, unless he chose to end his life, he should continue to communicate adequately with the people he met, and the people he needed, in order to continue travelling.

The best way to stay independent, Aloran had determined, was to attract as little attention as possible. He could not clearly recall why it was an imperative to remain independent, detached from society, but the strength of his conviction was so powerful that to interrogate the origin seemed pointless. But the loneliness was as hard to tolerate as the raging, unrelenting screaming at the edge of his thoughts. Why was travelling just as important?

His intellect, long his friend and the most dependable asset he had ever had, was not as clear-sighted as it had been. Aloran was self-aware enough to feel the difference but was at a loss as to what to do about it. With the exception that he must be the one to do something about it and that no-one else could be, should be, relied upon. The loneliness was necessary and the loneliness was agonising.

Aloran walked on within the ruins. He had sought them out, like he had sought out many others across the Alpha and Beta Quadrants, because they were understood to be the primary religious compound of an earlier civilisation. He had searched more temples, shrines, churches, memorials, and relics than he could recall and none of them had been right.

He encountered many people because talking with many people is often necessary to travel and secure authorisation to visit sites of historical and spiritual significance. Aloran tried not to lie to them, but certainly told them as little as possible. Himself being so adept at negotiation made it easy to avoid subjects, to counter with a curious aside, or to simply look at them silently until the moment to answer their question had passed.

A rock caught under his foot and he stumbled forward, gaining momentum, a haphazard run forward in an effort to find his balance. Failing to do so, Aloran crashed down into the undergrowth, he pushed his hands out to steady him but the ground fell away as he did so. He grasped frantically for a stable hold but the earth seemed to fall away faster and faster.

The freefall was unexpected and nauseating.

The collision with ice-cold water took what breath remained.

Coming to a stop on the hard stone surface beneath the water was a painful, sickeningly final thud.

Aloran could taste blood before he could see the green liquid swirling and mixing within the luminescent water he was lying in. The pool was not deep but he had swallowed a fair amount nonetheless, he could taste the sweetness of it alongside the sharp flavour of his blood. He carefully sat up, noting how his body was shaking but seemed to be responding well. Nothing broken. He looked around, taking the measure of where he was.

Aloran could see that he was in a room built of finely-carved stone – the same local stone that built the temples he had explored earlier – with a pool of water, no more than a foot deep, in the centre of the room. Tiers of what he assumed were seating lined three of the walls and on the fourth was an intricately-carved mural. He blinked some more of the water out of his eyes. The mural followed the same religious principles he had seen elsewhere, appearing to depict groups making a journey from one realm of existence to the other.

“Father, you will never leave here”.

Aloran turned sharply toward the soft young voice. Too sharply because the pain from the fall blurred his vision.

“Father, you will never leave here”.

Aloran blinked, and blinked again. He tried to stand but all he achieved was to splash around in the small pool of brightly-coloured water.

“You are alone”.

Aloran closed his eyes and attempted to centre his thoughts and find an anchor, some clarity about his situation, “I am alone. Who are you?”

“You will never leave here if you are alone”.

Opening his eyes he tried to focus on the person speaking but the shapes were tantalisingly out of focus. He looked at the stone walls behind the figure but they too were blurred lines. He scanned the room even though doing so made the nausea significantly worse. There was no apparent entrance or exit and he could not see any opening above him. But he was certain that he had fallen into this place.

“You will never leave here if you are alone”.

He steadied his breath, counting as he inhaled and exhaled, “There does not appear to be an exit”, he said to the figure, “And yet I fell”.

“You fell out of the world many years before you came here, father”.

“Why do you call me father?”, Aloran’s mind was reestablishing some awareness, it felt like he was fighting to concentrate, “E’Shal?”

“You cast yourself adrift, father. Sorrow. Pain. You hide. You will never leave here if you hide. You will never leave here if you are alone”.

Aloran grimaced, turning his face away as he tried to look directly at the figure addressing him, using his daughter’s voice, “E’Shal is dead. You are not E’Shal”.

“When did you last speak my name? When did you last speak my name to another person? You are trapped”.

“I am not trapped”, Aloran tried again to concentrate on his surroundings but so many feelings were fighting for his attention. He tried to observe a detail, to gather some focus, but all he could feel was abject terror. Cold, cold, horror, “I am trapped”.

Aloran began to panic. He could feel his heart rate increasing, he could hear his pulse pounding, he tried again to stand but he had no balance. He blinked again, but it was tears now obscuring his vision. He wept openly. The taste of the strange water, his blood and now his tears was a confusing medley of sensations. He looked around, searching for some way out of this stone room and its intensity, but could see no way to leave.

“You have imagined a prison and have lived in that place for many years. You have been in so many places, searching, but you have always remained in the same place. You will not leave here if you are alone”.

“I choose to be alone!” shouted Aloran, spit, tears, blood and water catching on his chin, “That is the logical course!”

“It is not. If you make that choice you will never leave this place”.

“Why should I leave!”, he was crying openly but the strength of resistance was beginning to ebb and flow away from him, “Why should I leave?” he said more mildly.

“You may stay. You will die. Some will remember you, some have already forgotten. If you stay, you will never remember”

“I do not wish to remember”, as Aloran spoke the words he felt the rising panic return, “I do wish to remember!”, he panicked at the thought of never again looking at the memories of his family, “I do not want to be alone”.

Aloran blinked again and looked around. The sickness was passing and he could more clearly make out the surroundings. He firmly planted one hand on the stone beneath the water and pushed himself to a crouching position. He looked around again, seeing light from one corner of the ceiling. The roof had long ago caved inward and it became clear to him that he had fallen in through that opening, knocking loose the earth and rock that had obscured the hole.

“I do not want to be alone”, he whispered softly, looking for the figure that had spoken to him but she was nowhere in the room. The room was empty and quiet, with a slight dampness in the air and an old, moist taste.

2402, in the Pit and Pendulum, Starbase Bravo.

K’retok was staring at Aloran with a serious expression, his hand around his mug but he made no motion to drink, “You glimpsed Sto-vo-kor”.

“I hallucinated in a pool used for religious rites”, Aloran smiled gently at K’retok, “But I saw what was necessary to honour the fallen and to find some peace in this long life. I could have remained lost forever in that place. But the cost was too great”.