(This is an alternate to the Shadow Captain series.
It begins at the story "Danse Macabre").
Go to Part Five
“Sir,” Lieutenant Ryan began peremptorily as she took a seat opposite Spock in his office. “Because you were part of the incident I am investigating, I would prefer that you do not ask me any questions about the status of the investigation until after I have taken your statement.”
“Understood,” the Vulcan acknowledged. After his anguishing visit to Sickbay, the cold formality of the Security Officer’s inquiry was something of a relief. Humans made a great show of not understanding emotional control. However when it was advantageous to exercise such discipline in the performance of their chosen profession, many of them could manage quite adequately. For example, Lieutenant Ryan was a colleague and friend of all of the individuals she was investigating. She had experienced a number of emotions when she realized something questionable had happened and that she was obligated to point out her suspicions. However at this moment, she was having no trouble at all separating her feelings for Noel DelMonde, friend from her professional obligations towards Noel DelMonde, suspect.
However, as Spock knew from prior experience with other Humans, if he were to make even the most carefully crafted positive comment about the lieutenant’s laudable efforts as emotional control, it was highly probable that she would have an significant negative emotional reaction and might even have make efforts for days, weeks, or months to come to actively be more emotional just to make sure her job was not “making her less than Human.” Such was the perversity of Human nature…
Ryan laid her tricorder on the desk between them. “If you have no objections, we can begin now.”
Tara Ryan was a good officer doing her duty to the best of her considerable abilities. Part of Spock rebelled against the idea of knowingly hampering her investigation in the way he was planning to do at this moment. There was no help for it, though. Starfleet did not recognize the possibility of a “small, harmless mutiny.” Penalties for conspiring to remove a captain from command of his vessel were archaically harsh. Although there were mitigating circumstances, those were still secret – even from the mutineers. No Talosians were standing on the sidelines to speak up for Sulu, McCoy, or DelMonde. There would be no medical evidence that he’d been possessed by a ancient evil coming forward in their defense, as had happened at Valley and Majiir’s hearing. Spock firmly hushed his Vulcan half’s disapproval. He could not allow the careers of so many good officers to be destroyed because of a desperation his manipulations had pushed them to.
Spock folded his hands. “Please proceed.”
“Lieutenant Tara Ryan interviewing Captain Spock on the incident occurring on stardate ***,” she said for the device’s benefit. “Captain, please state in your own words what occurred as you were leaving the Bridge at around 03:00 hour.”
“At 03:12, Commander Sulu informed me that the Chief Medical Officer intended to enforce Starfleet Regulation 456 subsection B paragraph 2 which stipulates that no commanding officer can remain on duty for more than twenty-four consecutive hours without being certified by the CMO as being mentally and physically fit to continue to do so.”
“Had you been on duty for over that amount of time, sir?” Ryan interjected.
“Yes.” Spock conceded. “The regulation is based on Human rather than Vulcan levels of endurance.”
“Yes, sir,” the Security Officer acknowledged respectfully. “Please continue.”
“I boarded the turbolift.” The Vulcan paused. Although he had planned to give only a highly edited recount of the incident, he found to his surprise that his recollection of the attack in the turbo lift was strangely distorted… uncharacteristically colored by emotion.
“Was there someone already on board the lift?” Ryan prompted.
“Yes. Lieutenant Commander DelMonde was effecting repairs…” Spock frowned. His memory was not functioning properly. Instead of providing him with a detailed picture of the entire scene, he could recall only one anomalous image – DelMonde had smiled at him. It had only been a slight quirk of one side of the engineer’s mouth, but still unexpected given DelMonde’s distaste for him. Hardly the most important aspect of the scene to recollect, though. Had focusing on this unexpected reaction taken his attention from something else?
After a moment, Ryan asked, “Were you surprised to see him?”
“Surprise is an emotional response, Lieutenant,” he responded reflexively.
Yes sir,” the Security Officer replied patiently. “Allow me to rephrase. Did you expect to see him in the lift at that time?”
“Lieutenant Commander DelMonde is the third watch lead engineer. His assigned post is the Engineering station on the Bridge.”
“So it was…” Ryan paused to consider what would be an inoffensive phrasing. “…Unusual that he would be repairing a turbo lift car?”
“Mr. DelMonde has been recognized a number of times on this ship and in his previous assignment for his superior ability to quickly detect, diagnose, and repair equipment malfunction. He was chosen as lead engineer on third watch due to this skill set. Because the captain is not usually on duty during third watch, the engineering staff routinely uses this shift to perform maintenance and make low-priority repairs.”
Ryan nodded and made a note on her stat board. “Such as repairs to a malfunctioning security camera on a turbo lift.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“But he is the lead engineer for that shift,” Ryan pointed out. “Shouldn’t he have assigned someone else?”
“He has the prerogative to delegate or make repairs himself as he sees fit,” Spock replied.
Ryan made another note. “Did you find it unusual that he would just happen to be in the lift that was available when you exited the Bridge?
There was a maintenance pod directly behind the lift shaft that opened onto the Bridge. The mechanism was so positioned to insure that a car would always be available for Bridge personnel to exit without delay in case of emergency. It would have been simple for the engineer to contrive to wait in a car in the pod until he knew Spock was ready to leave. There would have to be a signal though… but for a telepath, that was no challenge.
“Random chance, Lieutenant,” he concluded blandly.
“Did he have a panel open in the lift when you entered?”
Spock had a sudden inkling of why he might only be remembering the engineer’s enigmatic smile. Like a magician, DelMonde seemed to have used a little psychically reinforced misdirection. The smile stuck in Spock’s memory. What the engineer’s hands were doing was lost.
“Yes,” the Vulcan replied nonetheless, relying only on an out of focus blur of an impression.
“Which panel?
“He was… on my left,” Spock said, stubbornly trying to squeeze any useful drops of information from his unnaturally dry memory. “The panel was at eye level…”
Ryan frowned. She was probably thinking - as Spock was - that this was the sort of vagueness she would never expect from a Vulcan eyewitness. “Could you see what he was doing?”
“He was…” DelMonde’s hands simply would not come into focus. “…holding a laser probe…”
Ryan watching him struggle for a few more moments before prompting, “His actions were consistent with what you would expect from someone making repairs to a security monitor?”
“They were not inconsistent,” Spock affirmed noncommittally.
“Did he open any other panels?”
The Vulcan was disturbed to discover that his distraction was not simply momentary. “I did not observe,” he admitted uncomfortably.
Ryan blinked at him. “You did not observe?”
A Human who had only limited experience of Vulcans would find nothing unusual in this lapse of observational ability. It would be natural for a Human after working long hours under the stress of having his wife at the mercy of Klingon captors to have limited ability of recall. Vulcans would blame Spock’s human half. No one would jump to the conclusion that a clever Human telempath had somehow managed to hyper-focus his attention on an insignificant detail…
The Vulcan frowned. Apparently DelMonde in planning his mutiny had employed some of the supernatural cunning that his thoughts had attributed so colorfully to Spock.
“I did not,” the Vulcan replied stiffly. “Approximately five decks below the Bridge, Dr. McCoy boarded the lift…”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. “Dr. McCoy?”
“Yes.”
“The doctor had just demanded that you report to sickbay and then he took the same lift car that you were on?”
“Yes.”
Ryan’s mouth quirked skeptically. “That’s a pretty remarkable coincidence, isn’t it?”
“A coincidence, yes,” Spock affirmed, careful that his tone did nothing to reveal how unlikely a happenstance he believed that to be.
Ryan tapped her stylus against her pad as if agitated by this evasiveness. “How many lift cars does this ship have, sir?”
“One hundred and thirty-seven.”
There was another long silence. After a moment, Spock realized the Security Officer was waiting for him to calculate the odds. He lifted an eyebrow and silently refused to do so.
Ryan countered by asking bluntly, “Did you observe Mr. DelMonde doing anything that might have signaled the doctor to board or directed the car to take a specific route that might have sent you to a deck where the doctor was waiting?”
“I did not observe him to do so,” Spock replied, once again knowing full well that a telempath did not have to use signaling devices that would be visible.
Ryan’s mouth quirked again as if she were as aware as he was of this possibility. “What happened then, sir?”
“There was an unexplained interruption of the car’s drive function,” the Vulcan reported again taking refuge in the most unadorned possible description of the facts. “It halted suddenly. DelMonde was thrown against me, knocking us both to the deck.”
“Did you observe him taking any sort of action that might have interrupted the drive function of the lift?”
Spock frowned. Again his attention had been so unusually focused on the doctor, that he had completely lost track of the actions of an engineer less than two feet away. “I did not.”
“Where was DelMonde standing just before the lift halted?”
“I am uncertain,” Spock admitted with some chagrin. “I was speaking with the doctor.”
“Was Dr. McCoy thrown to the deck as well?”
It was becoming unpleasant to yet again be forced to confess, “I did not observe.”
“And then?”
“And then…” Spock paused for a moment to appreciate the bitter irony of the choice he was making at that moment to fail to report a telepathic attack that would be of significant interest to his superiors after having been told by that same group of individuals that telepathic contact was inadmissible as evidence. “I lost consciousness.”
Ryan tilted her head to one side as if her investigative instincts were reaching their maximum capacity for not being told the full truth. “Do you know what caused you to lose consciousness?”
“I am uncertain,” he replied as honestly as he dared.
The Security Officer drew in a deep, dissatisfied breath and once more consulted her notes. “After recovering, you immediately ordered that Lieutenant Commander DelMonde be taken to the brig.”
“Yes.”
“If I may ask, sir, what was your reasoning?”
It took a moment to choose the least possibly incriminating way to phrase his damning reaction. “When Mr. Delmonde fell, he grabbed my wrists. Vulcans are touch telepaths…”
“Would he know that?” Ryan interrupted.
“I believe he received training in managing his telepathic abilities from a Vulcan instructor during the time he attended Starfleet Academy, so it is reasonable to he would be aware of the characteristics of Vulcan telepathy.”
The lieutenant consulted her notes again. “Did you say he grabbed your wrist… or did he grab both wrists?”
“Both wrists.”
“Earlier you said he was standing to your left…’
“Yes.”
“And he was working inside the panel…” Ryan punched the information into her tricorder which obediently created a reconstruction of the inside of a lift car and populated it with blank figures. “His back was to you at roughly a forty-five degree angle?”
“I believe so.”
“And when he fell, he not only spun around, but spun you around so that he ended up grabbing both your wrists as the two of you fell?”
The blank figures incrementally changed positions in response to the Security Officer’s input.
“To the best of my recollection.”
Ryan angled the screen so they could both watch as the computer reconstructed a scene where one blank figure seemed to quite deliberately pull the other figure violently to the deck while a third figure looked on.
The Security Officer looked at him and raised a dubious eyebrow. “That was some fall.”
“Indeed,” Spock replied with stubborn impassivity.
“And the psychic contact that resulted from this physical contact…” Ryan pressed. “Was it of a nature that you would characterize as aggressive?”
Spock steeled himself against all that urged him to truthfully testify 'Yes!' and allowed himself to parsimoniously concede only, “Mr. DelMonde has strong negative feelings towards me.”
“So, this outpouring of negative emotion… What sort of impact did it have on you?”
This time the minimum he could truthfully report was, “Overwhelming.”
“Enough to knock you unconscious?”
It should not have been. Although capable of surprising force, DelMonde was simply not that powerful. That was why McCoy was standing by with the hypo. Again Spock had to appreciate the elegance of the mutineer’s action against him. The showy psychic attack was again a distraction from their main line of offense. Impressively effective tactics to be deployed against an enemy. Chilling to find oneself on the receiving end.
“I am not certain,” Spock replied.
Ryan sighed as she deactivated her reconstruction and closed up her tricorder.
Without his corroboration, all she had was a suspicious set of circumstances centering on DelMonde who was at this point probably permanently out of action.
“Thank you for your cooperation, sir,” she said, with only the slightest hint of sarcasm.
“Of course, Lieutenant,” he replied as if he had not noticed.
She rose to leave, then turned back at the last moment. “Oh, and will you confirm that you did not discuss the plan to use converted magnetic probes to find out way through the verilium-obsitrate cloud.”
If Spock were fully human, he might have winced. This was a trail of investigation that would lead back to evidence of a much larger conspiracy. “No such plan was discussed at that meeting.”
“Yes, sir.” Since Ryan had been present at the meeting, he could hardly deny the facts. “And neither Mr. DelMonde nor Mr. Scott scheduled any meetings to present a plan to deploy converted probes, did they?”
“No.” Again, there was no point in denying what ship’s logs would confirm. “They did not.”
Ryan’s smile let him know that she knew that he was not being fully honest with him, even if she did not yet know why. “Thank you, sir,” she said, the very picture of respectful professionalism as she exited.
Spock released a long, slow breath. Good officer. Terrible situation.
"Bones, I'm fine," Ruth insisted stubbornly as the doctor ran yet another series of scans. "I feel perfectly normal."
"Brain activity still isn't fully recovered," McCoy returned, frowning at the readouts.
"All that needs is time..." the Antari began.
"And more rest." McCoy folded his arms. "Ruthie, that damned parasite ate nearly half of your parietal and more than ten percent of your frontal lobe, and did significant damage to the sensory and temporal portions. Now that affected sensation, pain receptors, concentration, behavior, perception, body awareness, memory, language and a host of other things. And these readings say your own assessment of your condition is likely inaccurate..."
He stopped speaking as the scanner over Ruth's bed emitted a piercing whine, and the readings began fluctuating wildly.
"Now you just stop that, missy!" he demanded sternly.
Ruth glared at him, though her lips were stretched into a wide grin. "If I can do that, I'm well enough to..."
"AND..." McCoy continued, his voice as stern as he could make it, "you've been through one hell of an emotional shock - " He paused. "...or fifty. I can't sanction letting you out of here..."
"I don't want to get out of here, Bones," Ruth said from between gritted teeth. "I want to go into that isolation room and heal Del!"
"In the state you're in, I don't dare let you try," he stated flatly, then added in a mutter, "and the captain will have my head if I do."
"The captain doesn't give a damn what happens to me or Del," Ruth retorted, and though she was still glaring, there was an ineffable sadness in her voice.
McCoy stared at her, his heart breaking. He knew too well the pain she was in, the guilt and grief doing almost as much damage to her psyche as the sauvrn had done to her mind. And there was a time, not too long ago, when he had enlisted Jade Han's help in relieving the suffering of another couple. He pursed his lips, then abruptly made up his mind.
"I'll make a deal with you, Ruthie," he said. "If Dr. Han certifies you fit..."
Ruth 's head came up, her huge eyes shining with sudden hope. "You'll let me see Del?"
"I'm not promising anything," the doctor replied. "Let's just see what Han says."
Jade Han was expecting the worst as she left her office to evaluate Ruth Valley. She'd done as much research on the sauvrn as she could, and none of it was good. The Antari had little history on the parasite, nothing about its origin, little on the effects of an infestation except that it was usually fatal, and of those that survived the creature, almost all suffered permanent brain damage of one sort or another. It was stated that only a much older and powerful keheil who was herself ready to die would even attempt a healing of an infected person, as such a curative was usually fatal to the healer. Ruth was young, only half Antari and her mental state had been compromised for months.
So it was that the doctor was more than surprised to see Ruth sitting up in bed, looking anxious, pale, but otherwise her usual self. A frown creased Jade's brow as she approached the bedside.
"Ruth, you're looking - well," she began by way of a greeting. "I was expecting..."
"A vegetable?" Ruth returned faux brightly. "Yeah, me too. But I'm fine, so please tell Bones I can try and heal Del."
Jade checked the readout over the bed. "No, I don't think that will be possible," she stated.
"And why not?" Ruth bristled.
"Yes, it appears as though you are recovering," Jade replied, "but you don't have nearly the strength to attempt..."
"You wanna cut your arm and see if I can heal it?" the Antari challenged.
Jade favored her with a small, wry smile. "I have no doubts you could accomplish something simple, Ruth," she said, "something primarily superficial. But Mr. DelMonde's condition..."
"I know his condition, doctor," Ruth broke in. "I was suffering from it myself. But the sarvrn..." She shuddered at the word. "... is gone, All he needs is repair of..."
"An exploded-from-the-inside brain," Jade finished. "And yours is still under repair itself. If the damaged portions of his correspond with the weakened parts of yours, you may erase what healing you've done, incur more damage than you'll be able to fix in yourself, and not do him any good anyway." She folded her arms. "And besides all that, Spock has forbidden you to try..."
"Like he can forbid me anything anymore!" Ruth interrupted with fierce anger. "He's not my husband except by a signature on a damned Fleet contract!"
"But he's still your captain," Jade reminded gently. "And as such, he's placed guards at the isolation ward and ordered that no one except medical personnel be allowed..."
"I'm not only rated for but required to provide medical services," Ruth insisted.
"I know," Jade said. "But you're still under medical supervision."
"You can change that."
"It won't make any difference to the captain," Jade replied, then added quietly, "and you know it."
Ruth opened her mouth for an angry retort, then seemed to crumble in on herself. "Jade," she pleaded helplessly, "what can I do? There has to be something..." She swallowed a sob. "Del is dying."
Jade closed her eyes against her own weary resignation. "I know," she said. "All I can do is certify you well enough to resume your duties. Maybe... if you talk to Spock... make a logical case for..."
Ruth's laugh was short and bitter. "Yeah," she said. "Sure. Thanks for nothing, shrink."
"I'm sorry, Ruth," Jade murmured. "I truly am."
She watched the tears of frustration and grief form in the Antari's eyes, and had to hold back her own. She knew, too well, what it was like to lose someone you loved.
Spock cursed himself for not anticipating that Ruth would be in his quarters. His quarters, after all, were her quarters. When he had ordered that she be transferred to her quarters… The Vulcan in him harshly stifled his Human urge to sigh. Instead he said to the beautiful woman who stood glaring at him, “You should be in bed.”
She crossed her arms and replied accusingly, “They released me from sickbay.”
“So I can see.” He placed the stack of data tapes he intended to review on his desk. Her glare was painful to bear even when he did not meet her eyes. “You should be resting.”
Ruth frowned. “I should be in sickbay healing Del.”
“You are not sufficiently recovered for such an attempt,” he said firmly. She looked pale and fragile. Her long golden hair hung listlessly against her shoulders. “You should eat if you feel well enough.”
“I feel well enough to heal Del,” she declared stubbornly.
Spock took refuge in searching his desktop for a stylus. “Given the nature of the trauma you withstood, your own estimation of your condition may not be accurate.”
“Try me.”
When he turned back down to her, she had taken a dagger from his display of Vulcan ritual items. She nodded towards his arm defiantly.
Part of Spock longed to comply – to put the blade to his arm, release the stern green blood flowing through his veins, then be healed once more.
“Mr. DelMonde has suffered a massive brain injury,” he said. “Are you proposing to recreate that using a ceremonial dagger?”
Her mouth quirked, “I’m tempted.”
He took the blade from her and returned it to its stand. “You should rest.”
“Del is dying,” she plead, her desperation making her voice ragged.
“At last report, Lieutenant Commander DelMonde’s condition was listed as critical but stable,” Spock replied with an impassivity he did not fully feel.
Ruth released a strangled shriek of frustration. “And don’t call him Lieutenant Commander DelMonde like he's just Commander Who Cares or Ensign Nobody.”
“I am aware that Mr. DelMonde prefers a shortened version of his surname,” the Vulcan replied stiffly as he tried to move past his wife. “However he and I are not friendly acquaintances…”
“No shit.” Ruth stepped directly into his path. “He’s the man who is sleeping with your wife.”
His brain could supply no answer for to this statement of painful fact. When he tried to sidestep, she moved in front of him again.
“Your wife who you once loved.”
Her words cut into him a thousand daggers. He took in a deep breath. “You are unwell and in an overly emotional state….”
Her large eyes searched his face. “Do you still love me?”
He longed to assure her how much he did. If only he could tell her… Instead he again stated, “You should rest.”
Her hand on his arm stopped him. “Because I don’t think you do anymore.”
Her dry-eyed statement was even more cutting than tears would have been. “You are…” He carefully moved her fingers from his arm, longing to stroke her silken gold skin instead. “… overwrought and in need of rest.”
She let her hand hang in the air accusingly for a moment before letting it slowly fall to her side. Instead of dissolving into sadness, her chin came up. “I also don’t think you’re so jealous of Del that you want him dead.”
Did he? Spock tried to tell himself that such feelings were alien to his nature. However… there was an undeniable tactical advantage to the engineer’s permanent removal from the picture at this moment. Perhaps it was only cold calculation at work. Jealousy? Unthinkable. Regret that he was not with Ruth – yes. That was only natural. He wished her to be happy.
DelMonde was well-suited for her. Young – as she was. Handsome. Talented. Passionate. Capable of brilliance. What the engineer lacked in discretion and maturity was doubtlessly made up for in what Terrans would deem “bad boy” charm…
Spock swallowed the despairing anger that he would not name as jealousy and forced himself to reply. “I do not wish the unnecessary death of any member of this crew.”
Ruth put a gentle hand to his chest. “Then let me heal him.”
He removed this too and reached for the call button on the intercom. “It has been explained to you why you can not.”
Ruth put her hands on her hips. “What are you doing?”
“Calling Dr. McCoy.”
“So he can tranquilize me?” Outraged, she pushed his hand away from the button. “Is that the civilized way that modern Vulcans have come up with to deal with unfaithful wives? Don’t execute them. Just tranquilize them.” She grabbed his chin and forced him to meet her eyes. “Do you really hate me that much?”
At that range, it was impossible to lie. “I do not hate you,” he said, telling the only truth he felt he could.
Instead of being reassured, she frowned. “You didn’t hate T’Pring either, did you? You just gave her to Stonn.”
He pulled away at the unexpected sting of that bitter memory.
“Now that’s it,” Ruth concluded with bitter humor. “That’s the Modern Vulcan method. You just gave me to Del. Didn’t you? He’s supposed to be my Stonn, isn’t he?” She laughed acidly. “Here, take her. I don’t want her. Face is saved all around. Very generous. Very civilized. Very … what’s the word? … logical.”
Spock felt as though he’d been struck. Had he done this? The comparison had not occurred to him. Surely, the circumstances were so different. Stonn and T’Pring had wanted each other… as Ruth and DelMonde once had. It had been their choice… as he had left Ruth free to go to DelMonde. He could not have…
While he stood contemplating the unexpected depths of his own heartlessness, his wife was activating the computer terminal next to him. A copy of a petition to end their three year contract had already been pulled up was waiting for signatures to put it into effect. “What are you doing?”
“I am ending this farce.” She turned to him, her face as unyielding and proud as that of the Zehara. “I am not yours to give away.”
He was too stunned to speak for a moment. “I do not think you are in fit condition to take such …”
“Jade Han just certified me sane.” She grabbed the stylus from his numb fingers and scrawled her full name on the screen in the waiting blank. “You have to sign too.”
He blinked at the writing tool she proffered. “Your injuries were profound…”
“Keheil, remember?” She wiped away her tears fiercely. “Go on, Spock. It’s over. It’s been over for you for a long time. Let’s make it official.”
His sudden sorrow was almost too much even for his Vulcan half to bear. “Is this what you wish?”
Ruth stabbed a sharp finger at the viewscreen. “Is that my signature?”
He could not bear to say yes.
She forced the stylus into his hand.
Feeling his universe crumbling around him, Spock signed below his now former wife’s name.
The room was heavy with angry, silent grief.
“I have duties to attend to,” Spock excused himself when he could bear no more.
“I’m sure you do,” the love of his life hissed after him as he fled her presence.
Jilla had been disconsolate - so much so that Sulu had gone to his office to prepare his report on what he had referred to as "the circumstances surrounding the captain's collapse." She had questioned him about it, tentative, hesitant questions that elicited only enough information to convince her that the "circumstances" were not what he had described. His guilty tia seared into her senses. That he had done something even he considered improper was obvious - just as obvious as the fact he didn't want to tell her what it was. There was concern within him too; an apprehension that to involve her, even to confide in her, would only make matters worse.
The chime to their cabin sounded, and she steadied herself and walked to the door to open it.
Ruth stood there, her cheeks wet with tears, more unshed in her red-rimmed eyes.
"I - " she began, then swallowed and bowed her head. "I need to know... how did you accept Sulu after...."
Jilla inhaled sharply. Ruth's tia screamed remorse and sorrow and grief with which Jilla was all too familiar. The sense of damnation that had surrounded her since she had accepted Noel DelMonde into her bed was altered, still palpable but replaced with regret and acknowledgement - and that, too, was too familiar. Despite the anguish that seared into her heart, Jilla whispered, "What have you done?"
"I voided the contract," the Antari said, though her voice was a rasp of pain. "Spock and I are no longer married."
Yet still mnorin... began in Jilla's thoughts, then was instantly corrected. No, telmnori. As you are.
"So..." Ruth was going on, "can we be friends again?"
Tears that had been frozen in Jilla's heart for months burst their icy chains and flowed from her eyes like water. She pulled Ruth into a fierce embrace, sobbing.
"I did not want this for you," she cried, her voice almost too soft to be heard. "Ruth, I am so sorry this was forced on you, but..."
Ruth was hugging her back. "I know, it's been a long time coming," she agreed. "You were right all along, I should have done this when I first..."
"You could not, you needed time... "
"And now I understand why you waited so long to..."
"Noel is to you as..."
"Sulu is to you," Ruth finished, then gave a soft, sad smile. "At least I'll have company," she managed.
The words Jilla had spoken in the shuttle washed over them both, and they held onto one another, weeping, apologizing and sharing suffering and acceptance and love.