At 0300 hours, the chronometer made a soft chiming sound. S’rrel opened his eyes, and the dim red light of his quarters on the Malinche outlined the familiar, angular shape of the room in shades of red-toned light and twilight. There was no one else there. The smell of the recycled air—a little metallic and sterile—filled his lungs. Although he had been used to this odour for years, it now seemed to him like a shroud. Shore leave was over.

He swung his legs off his bed, the action smooth and quiet, a clear sign of his Caitian background. During the past thirty days he had never woken to this artificial twilight; for those thirty days his world had been filled with the bright, ever-changing blues and greens of the oceans on Colludia II, the surface lit by a sun that warmed his short, two-tone fur and a moon that affected the tides of his soul. He reached for his uniform, the stiff Starfleet-made material seeming strange and rough after having worn only simple civilian trousers. When the collar was fastened, it felt like a soft yet firm assertion of an identity that he had deliberately left behind.

His first stop was the mess hall. When the night watch was on, the ship had a different kind of rhythm—an quieter, more reflective hum. He gave a nod to the few officers on the gamma shift, their faces showing the same slight weariness that always came with going back to duty. He made himself a cup of Caitian herbal tea, a mixture which normally had a soothing effect, but as he brought the hot mug to his mouth, the smell seemed empty. It did not have the sharp, briny note of the sea air to which he had become used, the odour of salt and life that had stuck to all things and all people on that planet.

He intentionally selected a corner table himself. While drinking his tea, his mind suddenly began to go over the last hours spent on Colludia. He recalled standing there with Victor on the white sand beach, their hands held together, watching the transport shuttle come down. The sky had been a wonderful display of orange and violet. “It was only a program, S’rrel,” Victor said, speaking in a soft tone and trying to lessen the blow of their return. “A beautiful and perfect program. But we have our lives here. Our duties.”

S’rrel had nodded, his purr coming out as a deep rumble in his chest. “I know, Victor. It’s just… I felt more like myself there than I have doing so in years.” That was the truth. On Colludia, he wasn’t merely Lieutenant S’rrel, Security Officer; he was S’rrel, the Caitian who could spend hours tracking the movements of the six-winged ocean gliders, whose instincts were not a professional advantage to be controlled but a living and breathing part of his surroundings. He had run through the jungle undergrowth, not as part of a training exercise, but simply because he enjoyed the burn in his muscles and the smell of damp earth. He had hunted not for a specific target but to get his meal, experiencing the basic satisfaction of looking after himself and Victor.

And Victor—there, he had changed. The analytical Science Officer had learnt to quiet the tricorder in his mind and merely to feel. He had learnt to observe the tides not through the sensors but by watching the gliders, and to navigate the jungle by noting the slight changes in the canopy. They had achieved a balance, a synthesis of logic and instinct which had seemed profound and unbreakable.

A familiar pain settled in his chest, the lingering suffering of a broken link. He grieved not only a place but also a part of himself. The man on Colludia was complete; the man in this uniform was broken, his primal self compelled to serve Starfleet’s strict discipline. Was that all there was to his life? A series of short escapes from a reality that rubbed violently against his essential nature? The idea caused a low growl to come to his throat. He looked into his tea and did not see the reflection of his own cat-like eyes but rather the endless, depthless blue of an ocean that now seemed to be millions of light years away.

“Restless, Brother?”

The voice was calm and even. S’rrel looked up to find his sister Sh’arr standing by his table, holding a tray with a similar cup of tea. Her tail moved slightly, sensing his agitation. “Shall I join you?”

Of course, S’rrel said, and sat up straighter.

Sh’arr sat there, her movements as economical as ever. She didn’t speak right away but instead had a sip of her drink, leaving him the option of speaking or staying quiet. That was a quality which he admired in her; she showed quiet confidence rather than displaying boldness.

She finally said, “A penny for your thoughts?”

S’rrel was a bit surprised by that comment. “I was…” he replied, “remembering Colludia.”

Sh’arr agreed that it was a beautiful planet. During my leave I went there once and climbed some of the cliff sides; in a way it reminded me of home. She looked at him with her perceptive blue eyes. However, it was a little too luxurious for my taste.

S’rrel frowned and didn’t understand what she meant.

“You feel you had left something better behind—that the person you were when you were there was more real than the officer sitting here now,” she remarked.

All he could do was nod once more as the force of her words hit him.

She tilted her head a little bit. “Listen, brother, the wildness you discovered on that planet isn’t a place—it’s a part of you. The instincts, the bond with the hunt, the joy of running… all of that is your heritage and it’s in your blood. Starfleet doesn’t ask you to give it up; it only asks you to master it.”

She turned and looked all around them, towards the silent, humming core of the starship. “This ship, this crew… this is your new source of pride. This is the new territory which you are to defend. The instincts that were useful to you on Colludia will be the same ones that will keep this crew alive should the hull be breached and the intruders break through that airlock.” Her eyes then grew intense. “The hunter on the beach and the security officer at his post are not two separate individuals; they are the same person responding to two different situations. Do not grieve for one on account of the other. That is the way leading to dissatisfaction.”

Her words had a settling effect on him and dispelled the coldness of his sadness. Previously, he had seen it as a choice, a sacrifice, but she presented it as an evolution—a synthesis, just as the one he and Victor had discovered.

“Victor,” Sh’arr added, as if reading his thoughts, “He is a brilliant scientist. But his most important discovery on Colludia wasn’t a new kind of plant; it was you. He recognised the hunter, the provider, the wild spirit that is you, and he loved it. He loves that aspect of you and doesn’t expect you to hide it away in a locker along with your civilian clothes. Instead, he expects you to show that strength and that passion in your duties to him.”

S’rrel began to feel the tension in his shoulders ease. He glanced round the mess hall, noting the officers who were eating their meals and looking towards the corridors beyond which ran to the weapon consoles and the shield generators. He was not trapped; instead he was looking after his own people. The hunt had not ended, merely changed its shape. His territory was not a jungle, but 850,000 metric tons of Starfleet’s best, transporting five hundred souls through the darkness.

The colour and the freedom associated with the leave had not been replaced by routine; instead, they had refreshed him, reminded him of the essential strength within himself, and given him a new way of looking at his life. The holiday was not ended; it had achieved its purpose.

“Thank you, sister,” S’rrel said, his voice remaining steady and the purr coming back to his chest this time not as a sign of sadness but as a result of renewed purpose.

Sh’arr nodded and finished her tea. “Carry on, Lieutenant.”

As she left, S’rrel finished his own tea. The metallic scent of the air no longer felt like a shroud, but a challenge. The uniform collar was no longer a claim, but an honour. He was home. And the hunt was beginning.