I wrote this on Father's Day, and noted the very heavy parental guidance themes afterwards. I haven't had much of a chance to edit it, so take it as is.
FATHERSby Caltern
"My mind...
...to your mind.
My thoughts...
...to your thoughts."
"Jem Hadar."
"Shields ....up. Red alert."
"Where did/could they come from..."
"Cadet Rivers. ...in charge of engineering."
"Shields... 5%, Captain."
"All hands, abandon ship!"
The words were whispered, sharply in this intimate space, formed on his lips as well as those of his daughter. He quaked where he sat, his eyes closed, allowing the vision to buffet his body as if he, too, were on the doomed USS Hjaltland.
"Escape...pods."
Within their shared mind's eye, they saw the New Orleans-class, a misery of fire and twisted duranium. They saw as well the remains of a Karas-class Klingon vessel in its final death throes, embracing the violet-engined Jem Hadar vessel, moments before the escape pod's window swung away from the scene, showing instead the planet they were rapidly descending down towards.
Blackness. A void. Silence. Then a quiet crackling. Warmth. A voice. Singing, proud yet quiet. Deep and rich.
"Bagh Da tuH mogh...
ChojaH Duh rHo
yIjah, Qey' 'oH
yIjah, Qey' 'oH
yIjah, Qey' 'oH-ohhhh..."
With each word of the song, the world became clearer. More real. Shattered fragments of memory yielded to a vibrant recollection. The vulcan inclined his head slightly, as did his daughter. This was Manal.
The sound of scraping metal preceded the vision of the old Klingon warrior tending to his bat'leth, sitting on a rock, illuminated by the campfire. She caressed red hair out of her eyes, groaned, and that was when he decided to look at her. "Ah, so the little human awakens." He grinned and set aside his weapon, powerful strides taking him next to her alarmingly fast. Just as she flinched however, she caught the sight of his hand open, extended down to her. It was clad in worn, black leather in the Klingon make: thick as if they had left a significant amount of meat upon the skin of the animal during the tanning process. Barbaric, but curious, nevertheless. The Vulcan had never discovered a satisfactory reason for this curing process.
She continued to gaze at the hand, marveling at the size of it. He could palm her head with that hand, even lift her off the ground with that hand.
"Come." The Klingon shook his hand once, gently for a Klingon, violently to her young eyes. "Get on your feet."
Fear boiled in her chest. This was not..where she was. Where was she before? Her body felt as if every muscle had been ripped apart. Stings and pains came to her.
He lowered his hand to his side, then transfixed her with his dark gaze. This time, harshly now, voice low with the promise of menace to come, he enunciated each word. "Get. On. Your. Feet."
The fear boiled away, hardened into a surge of defiance. There was a roar. Was she yelling? Was it Manal? No, the roaring was within, and the red-headed girl found herself shooting to her feet, glaring back at the much taller Klingon.
Within the room, the Vulcan and his daughter were standing as well, staring upward.
"Good." The word came almost like a grunt, and the giant began pacing around the girl. "Federation Cadet of the USS Hjaltland, you and I are all that is left of our ships. Our enemies lie dead, our friends rush to Sto-vo-kor." This was new. In prior melds, the Vulcan could not detect the faint note of wistfulness in the Klingon's voice. He had wanted to die out there. The fleeting observation vanished, just as Manal's voice hardened. "YOU will die a shameful death." He took a sharp step. "You will starve." Another step. "You will die with pitiful, begging words on your parched lips, and no songs will be sung about you." One more step around her. "Your bones will lie forgotten on this forsaken rock." He paused, then leaned in, glaring at her, challenging her. "Am I wrong?"
She glared back at him for a moment, then turned her gaze aside. Resentfully, she stated, "S-someone will come for me."
"You will die before they arrive!" She flinched from the words. Then paused, trying to sort her head. Who would come for her? Why would they come for her? Frustrated from her confusion, she blurted, "T-then I'll find some way to live until they do!"
The Klingon grinned. "Some way?" he asked, mockingly. "Do you think those Federation rations will keep you alive? Will you hide in a cave with them like a little Ferengi hoarding his latinum?" Rations? Ferengi? Her head hurt so much. His roaring tone did nothing to help - in fact, it only irritated her further.
"I'll find another way!" The words were out of her mouth before she realized it. Where was she? Why was she here? Why did she have to wake up to a roaring brute and a body screaming in pain? Frustrated, she added, "What SHOULD I do? You seem to think you have all the answers!"
He reached out and grabbed her chin, pulled her head up so that she could see his eyes once more. "I DO have all the answers. If you want to live, you will do EXACTLY what I tell you, or you will die." There was no threat to her in those words. Those last four words were plain fact.
The mind meld continued.
Manal swung his bat'leth. Rachele swung her sharpened tree branch. They dug together in the desert, unearthing roots which she scraped at until she had a wad of soft material in her hand. He taught her to squeeze those shavings, with her thumb pointed to her open mouth. And thus she drank. They tracked down the world's indigenous beasts together, and at night they feasted on the rich, oily carcass of their prey.
Then one night, phaser fire lit the sky. The orange lightning streaked across the heavens, nearly blinding her as it chased after a ship whose engines glowed violet. "Cadet!" the Klingon roared. She nodded at once, darting to the relative safety of the cave. Heart thudding in her chest, eyes wide and alert, the girl whom Manal had begun to mold was intent on what was going on outside. "Been too long. That was NOT from your ship." He hauled his bat'leth to the ready, then nodded for the girl to do the same. "Be ready!" He had sensed something.
Soon enough, gray skinned warriors appeared out of nowhere. Manal and his trainee fought together hard, but the Vulcan's daughter was no match for these creatures bred for battle. Within the meld, she and her father cried out, arms outstretched as the fierce Klingon fell, putting himself between the girl and their assailants.
Heart beating hard in her chest, the woman opened her eyes. She took deep, steadying breaths, just as her father had taught her to do when he had found her. Her blue eyed gaze met his, and saw serenity. The rock she could cling to.
"One day," he began simply, "you will find your memories returned to you. We will ascertain why you were on the Hjaltland, and what it was doing rendezvousing with the Klingon vessel. However, my daughter. You should always endeavor to remember that these answers do not define you. The presence of your memories, or lack thereof, does not make you any more or less a woman."
Rachele nodded once, respectfully to the Vulcan who had adopted her after her rescue.
"Of course, Father. Thank you."
THE END
