Fic: Wanderers and Deities (6/7) - Uranus
Title: Wanderers and Deities
Chapter: Uranus, the Magician
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Note: See the master post for author's notes.
N.B.: This chapter characterizes Orions with respect to Enterprise canon.
Uranus has been compared to The Sorcerer's Apprentice, as both generate a very similar sound. This is another piece that plays predominantly in 6/4 time.
VI. Uranus, the Magician
Time flows differently on a starship. There is no morning and evening, no dawn and twilight in a place where Sol does not exist. Life's tempo is dictated not by the ethereal changes in the light, but rather with the emotionless monikers of ancient letters in a long-dead language: alpha, beta, gamma. It leaves something to be desired in the young woman's mind, and not only for the romanticism lost in the militaristic translation.
It is still an hour before her shift starts, the one called alpha. She has been awake for some time already, and is engrossed in her morning retinue. As she prepares for the day, she does as she has always done, from the time she was a young girl: she sings. The song will change according to her mood; today it is light and airy, a love song she has adored for many years.
She is lost in the middle of a verse when there is a chime at the door to her quarters, and a muffled voice formally addresses her through the door.
She recognizes the unmistakable accent, and her expression softens. As she crosses the room toward the door a mischievous light flickers in her eyes, and she has to fight to erase the sly smile from her lips.
The door slides open to reveal the young Russian navigator. He is standing somewhat to the side of the threshold, smartly at attention. There is a look on his face that she can read quite easily in his bright and expressive eyes.
Did you hear me singing?
She tries not to laugh as she sees the way the ensign's face contorts into something almost painful to watch.
Yes sir, I mean, no sir, ay-a! I mean, ma'am. No, ma'am.
She does not need to look hard to discern that the young Russian is attempting, albeit unsuccessfully, to hide the color springing to every inch of his face.
She attempts to quell his unease with a gentle shake of her head.
It's alright; I don't mind.
He stammers and manages a nod, and she realizes that, even after all this time, he is still standing at attention.
What is it?
The commander has sent for you because there is a subspace anomaly that the junior officers can not identify lieutenant. He manages this all in one breath, without punctuation, and his words nearly tumble over one another in the effort to leave his mouth.
I'll be right there, she replies. In response to the frantic expression on the ensign's face, she adds: you don't need to wait for me.
He nods to her and is about to speak something in reply when the door slides shut to stop him.
It is unnaturally quiet when she arrives on the bridge. Most of the officers from alpha shift have yet to arrive, save three: the captain nods to her as she enters, the navigator is making a point to stare furiously at his console, and the first officer is looming over the shoulder of a stricken-looking junior officer at the communications station.
The Vulcan's statuesque expression barely seems to change as she crosses into his line of vision, and she smiles amicably at him as she relieves the junior officer of his duties. Turning to the console, she rests her fingertips against her earpiece and her entire body freezes in complete stasis as she begins to listen.
Too often lost in the chaos of life on the bridge was the simple beauty of listening. Of not hearing and reciting and translating as matter of life and death, but simply absorbing the sound-or the absence of it. She has a pensive look on her features as she lets the noise of empty space communication wash over her, searching for the elusive anomaly.
Uhura sighs, listens to the sound of the aether, the resonance of the dark matter, the whispers of the planets. The entire universe speaks among itself. It is a language beyond comprehension, but not without preternatural beauty. All one has to do is listen. And listen she does, a slight smile parting her lips as she takes a breath to wonder what it is that an entire universe thinks about, talks about, dreams about.
She is proficient in eighty-three percent of all the Federation languages. None are as beautiful as this. The nonsense of sounds, seemingly meaningless, random, somehow all interconnected. Words she can not identify that are not really words at all.
There are words, now. Words for the simple distinction that the inflection suggests they were made by a humanoid tongue. She knows on instinct that this is the anomaly she is seeking, a gentle ripple of sound barely discernible against the backdrop of space. She leans forward in her seat, drags her fingers across a screen, toying with the ultra-sensitive sensors of the ship to focus on and amplify what she is hearing.
She can recognize the words, now. They emerge slowly, as if from deep water.
A part of her reacts viscerally. She immediately knows the tone of the voice, and can clearly decipher the words without hesitation for the simple reason that a certain female companion of hers spoke the language every day-usually to explain, bemusedly, why she had brought yet another man back to the room.
She rolls her eyes and sighs at the mixture of memories.
It is Orions, sir.
She counters the grin that flicks at the corners of the captain's lips with an icy expression of her own, but the effort is in vain.
Tactical suddenly announces that their sensors have detected an approaching ship. The captain turns to face her, and she knows what he is going to say before he has even thought it.
Open hailing frequencies, lieutenant.
She does so before his command is complete, and silence reigns as the bridge waits as one unit for a response to come their way. The object of their attention appears as a minute vessel in the distance on the viewscreen and begins to draw closer at an almost leisurely pace.
After a moment she receives a response in a heavily accented Federation English, and the sculpted form of an Orion male appears on the viewscreen. He is an interesting shade closer to teal than to the customary green, and Uhura is quick to note the comical expression that floats across the captain's face. She could almost call it . . . disappointed.
The customary formalities are exchanged, and the Orion male begins to ask the captain if he would be interested in the Orion female slave trade. Uhura resists the urge to bury her face in her hands, because it seems such a natural reaction, both to the question and to what she suspects will be the captain's eminent response.
Her attention to the subsequent events is suddenly distracted, however, as she can hear a delicate voice, much higher in pitch, that weaves around the male Orion's voice like a musical instrument. She turns to her console and makes a few adjustments, until the voice suddenly rings clear in her ears.
The one in the gold looks fantastic.
One eyebrow tilts in suspicion, and she stills her breath as she listens. It is a distinctly female voice, speaking in the languid tones of Orion prime, though the speaker is not present on the viewscreen. She is speaking softly, as if attempting to remain unnoticed.
Yes, says another voice, but I would like the little one, the one with the curls.
There is a sensual bout of laughter that makes Uhura's skin crawl. She glances around the bridge. Either the other crew members can not hear the voices or are unable to translate them.
It is unfortunate that the Vulcan is immune, or I would take him too.
Uhura rolls her eyes, slams her fist against her leg, and swirls in her chair. Her eyes are locked on the first officer. She knows that the Vulcan's mode of logic will not work with these people, and she also knows that if she waits any longer the captain will soon be drooling and incapacitated on the floor, despite the fact that pheromones can not travel across space.
She removes her earpiece and stands, drawing the Orion's attention to her with a few simple words in Orion Prime as she takes several strides toward the captain. The latter's eyes flick to her in surprise as she is suddenly at his side, her hand wrapped around his upper arm.
I'm sorry sir, but we need to keep up appearances, she whispers in his ear.
She tightens her grip and shoves the captain back to his chair, only able to overpower him for the element of surprise. He is barking a fierce retort when she steps in front of him, blocking him from view of the Orion. She regards the green-hued male with an air of disgust.
The Orion male's eyes snap toward her, and his face twists in an expression that suggests he was previously unaware of her presence. Incredulity flickers across his features, and he begins gesturing violently at the females offscreen. As if suddenly shocked into silence, the disembodied voices have fallen completely silent.
Uhura continues to speak, undaunted. She points vigorously throughout the bridge, barely pausing for breath, gesturing pointedly at the captain and the navigator and the first officer as the expression on the Orion's face grows extensively grave.
As her monologue draws to a close the Orion is strangely motionless. One of the female voices snaps at him from off screen, and he abruptly cuts the connection to the Enterprise. The ship makes a quick about-face and jettisons away from them before jumping to warp. It is a movement so quick and unexpected that the bridge falls silent in surprise.
Uhura glances over her shoulder at the captain, and the latter regards her with his face almost a caricature of itself. She returns to her station with the same measured steps in which she left it, replaces her earpiece, and responds to the captain's prodding gaze with a level expression.
Lieutenant, what just happened?
Surely sir, you are familiar with the Orion slave trade, and the truth about Orion females?
In response to his nod of affirmation she continues.
There were Orion females . . . perusing members of the bridge, sir. I could hear them discussing amongst themselves. I felt it prudent to stop them before the situation got out of hand.
She gives the captain a moment to digest this information, and his expression is less than amused.
You honestly thought I would get roped in by a bunch of Orions?
It was merely a precaution, sir, she says, and it takes everything she has to keep her voice level.
How the hell did you get them to leave, then?
I informed them that you possessed a particular sexual affliction that they would find undesirable, sir.
The exaggerated grin that was on the captain's face evaporates and his head tilts to the side in a barely perceptible movement.
You . . .uh . . . what?
She hesitates before she opens her mouth to respond to him because it is taking every ounce of her control not to break into a crooked and hilarious smile.
I only did what was necessary, captain.
This seems to placate the man for the simple fact that the he is attempting, with little success, to maintain a detached expression.
What about him? The captain gestures in the way of the young navigator.
The expression on said young man's face manages to be both morbidly curious and mortified in kind, and there is a red tint to the tips of his ears.
She swallows her laughter with some difficulty.
I would rather not say, Captain.
The captain can not offer any words, and it looks as if his entire face has suddenly gone numb. He merely shrugs his hand in the direction of his Vulcan first officer.
She tilts her head at a curious angle and her lips part in a feline smile.
I told them that he was already owned, she responds.
The expression that splashes across the captain's face almost makes the entire exchange worth it, she decides. She glances over his shoulder at the first officer. She can not say for certain, but can almost swear that the Vulcan is smiling at her.
To Be Continued.
Chapter: Uranus, the Magician
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Note: See the master post for author's notes.
N.B.: This chapter characterizes Orions with respect to Enterprise canon.
Uranus has been compared to The Sorcerer's Apprentice, as both generate a very similar sound. This is another piece that plays predominantly in 6/4 time.
VI. Uranus, the Magician
Time flows differently on a starship. There is no morning and evening, no dawn and twilight in a place where Sol does not exist. Life's tempo is dictated not by the ethereal changes in the light, but rather with the emotionless monikers of ancient letters in a long-dead language: alpha, beta, gamma. It leaves something to be desired in the young woman's mind, and not only for the romanticism lost in the militaristic translation.
It is still an hour before her shift starts, the one called alpha. She has been awake for some time already, and is engrossed in her morning retinue. As she prepares for the day, she does as she has always done, from the time she was a young girl: she sings. The song will change according to her mood; today it is light and airy, a love song she has adored for many years.
She is lost in the middle of a verse when there is a chime at the door to her quarters, and a muffled voice formally addresses her through the door.
She recognizes the unmistakable accent, and her expression softens. As she crosses the room toward the door a mischievous light flickers in her eyes, and she has to fight to erase the sly smile from her lips.
The door slides open to reveal the young Russian navigator. He is standing somewhat to the side of the threshold, smartly at attention. There is a look on his face that she can read quite easily in his bright and expressive eyes.
Did you hear me singing?
She tries not to laugh as she sees the way the ensign's face contorts into something almost painful to watch.
Yes sir, I mean, no sir, ay-a! I mean, ma'am. No, ma'am.
She does not need to look hard to discern that the young Russian is attempting, albeit unsuccessfully, to hide the color springing to every inch of his face.
She attempts to quell his unease with a gentle shake of her head.
It's alright; I don't mind.
He stammers and manages a nod, and she realizes that, even after all this time, he is still standing at attention.
What is it?
The commander has sent for you because there is a subspace anomaly that the junior officers can not identify lieutenant. He manages this all in one breath, without punctuation, and his words nearly tumble over one another in the effort to leave his mouth.
I'll be right there, she replies. In response to the frantic expression on the ensign's face, she adds: you don't need to wait for me.
He nods to her and is about to speak something in reply when the door slides shut to stop him.
It is unnaturally quiet when she arrives on the bridge. Most of the officers from alpha shift have yet to arrive, save three: the captain nods to her as she enters, the navigator is making a point to stare furiously at his console, and the first officer is looming over the shoulder of a stricken-looking junior officer at the communications station.
The Vulcan's statuesque expression barely seems to change as she crosses into his line of vision, and she smiles amicably at him as she relieves the junior officer of his duties. Turning to the console, she rests her fingertips against her earpiece and her entire body freezes in complete stasis as she begins to listen.
Too often lost in the chaos of life on the bridge was the simple beauty of listening. Of not hearing and reciting and translating as matter of life and death, but simply absorbing the sound-or the absence of it. She has a pensive look on her features as she lets the noise of empty space communication wash over her, searching for the elusive anomaly.
Uhura sighs, listens to the sound of the aether, the resonance of the dark matter, the whispers of the planets. The entire universe speaks among itself. It is a language beyond comprehension, but not without preternatural beauty. All one has to do is listen. And listen she does, a slight smile parting her lips as she takes a breath to wonder what it is that an entire universe thinks about, talks about, dreams about.
She is proficient in eighty-three percent of all the Federation languages. None are as beautiful as this. The nonsense of sounds, seemingly meaningless, random, somehow all interconnected. Words she can not identify that are not really words at all.
There are words, now. Words for the simple distinction that the inflection suggests they were made by a humanoid tongue. She knows on instinct that this is the anomaly she is seeking, a gentle ripple of sound barely discernible against the backdrop of space. She leans forward in her seat, drags her fingers across a screen, toying with the ultra-sensitive sensors of the ship to focus on and amplify what she is hearing.
She can recognize the words, now. They emerge slowly, as if from deep water.
A part of her reacts viscerally. She immediately knows the tone of the voice, and can clearly decipher the words without hesitation for the simple reason that a certain female companion of hers spoke the language every day-usually to explain, bemusedly, why she had brought yet another man back to the room.
She rolls her eyes and sighs at the mixture of memories.
It is Orions, sir.
She counters the grin that flicks at the corners of the captain's lips with an icy expression of her own, but the effort is in vain.
Tactical suddenly announces that their sensors have detected an approaching ship. The captain turns to face her, and she knows what he is going to say before he has even thought it.
Open hailing frequencies, lieutenant.
She does so before his command is complete, and silence reigns as the bridge waits as one unit for a response to come their way. The object of their attention appears as a minute vessel in the distance on the viewscreen and begins to draw closer at an almost leisurely pace.
After a moment she receives a response in a heavily accented Federation English, and the sculpted form of an Orion male appears on the viewscreen. He is an interesting shade closer to teal than to the customary green, and Uhura is quick to note the comical expression that floats across the captain's face. She could almost call it . . . disappointed.
The customary formalities are exchanged, and the Orion male begins to ask the captain if he would be interested in the Orion female slave trade. Uhura resists the urge to bury her face in her hands, because it seems such a natural reaction, both to the question and to what she suspects will be the captain's eminent response.
Her attention to the subsequent events is suddenly distracted, however, as she can hear a delicate voice, much higher in pitch, that weaves around the male Orion's voice like a musical instrument. She turns to her console and makes a few adjustments, until the voice suddenly rings clear in her ears.
The one in the gold looks fantastic.
One eyebrow tilts in suspicion, and she stills her breath as she listens. It is a distinctly female voice, speaking in the languid tones of Orion prime, though the speaker is not present on the viewscreen. She is speaking softly, as if attempting to remain unnoticed.
Yes, says another voice, but I would like the little one, the one with the curls.
There is a sensual bout of laughter that makes Uhura's skin crawl. She glances around the bridge. Either the other crew members can not hear the voices or are unable to translate them.
It is unfortunate that the Vulcan is immune, or I would take him too.
Uhura rolls her eyes, slams her fist against her leg, and swirls in her chair. Her eyes are locked on the first officer. She knows that the Vulcan's mode of logic will not work with these people, and she also knows that if she waits any longer the captain will soon be drooling and incapacitated on the floor, despite the fact that pheromones can not travel across space.
She removes her earpiece and stands, drawing the Orion's attention to her with a few simple words in Orion Prime as she takes several strides toward the captain. The latter's eyes flick to her in surprise as she is suddenly at his side, her hand wrapped around his upper arm.
I'm sorry sir, but we need to keep up appearances, she whispers in his ear.
She tightens her grip and shoves the captain back to his chair, only able to overpower him for the element of surprise. He is barking a fierce retort when she steps in front of him, blocking him from view of the Orion. She regards the green-hued male with an air of disgust.
The Orion male's eyes snap toward her, and his face twists in an expression that suggests he was previously unaware of her presence. Incredulity flickers across his features, and he begins gesturing violently at the females offscreen. As if suddenly shocked into silence, the disembodied voices have fallen completely silent.
Uhura continues to speak, undaunted. She points vigorously throughout the bridge, barely pausing for breath, gesturing pointedly at the captain and the navigator and the first officer as the expression on the Orion's face grows extensively grave.
As her monologue draws to a close the Orion is strangely motionless. One of the female voices snaps at him from off screen, and he abruptly cuts the connection to the Enterprise. The ship makes a quick about-face and jettisons away from them before jumping to warp. It is a movement so quick and unexpected that the bridge falls silent in surprise.
Uhura glances over her shoulder at the captain, and the latter regards her with his face almost a caricature of itself. She returns to her station with the same measured steps in which she left it, replaces her earpiece, and responds to the captain's prodding gaze with a level expression.
Lieutenant, what just happened?
Surely sir, you are familiar with the Orion slave trade, and the truth about Orion females?
In response to his nod of affirmation she continues.
There were Orion females . . . perusing members of the bridge, sir. I could hear them discussing amongst themselves. I felt it prudent to stop them before the situation got out of hand.
She gives the captain a moment to digest this information, and his expression is less than amused.
You honestly thought I would get roped in by a bunch of Orions?
It was merely a precaution, sir, she says, and it takes everything she has to keep her voice level.
How the hell did you get them to leave, then?
I informed them that you possessed a particular sexual affliction that they would find undesirable, sir.
The exaggerated grin that was on the captain's face evaporates and his head tilts to the side in a barely perceptible movement.
You . . .uh . . . what?
She hesitates before she opens her mouth to respond to him because it is taking every ounce of her control not to break into a crooked and hilarious smile.
I only did what was necessary, captain.
This seems to placate the man for the simple fact that the he is attempting, with little success, to maintain a detached expression.
What about him? The captain gestures in the way of the young navigator.
The expression on said young man's face manages to be both morbidly curious and mortified in kind, and there is a red tint to the tips of his ears.
She swallows her laughter with some difficulty.
I would rather not say, Captain.
The captain can not offer any words, and it looks as if his entire face has suddenly gone numb. He merely shrugs his hand in the direction of his Vulcan first officer.
She tilts her head at a curious angle and her lips part in a feline smile.
I told them that he was already owned, she responds.
The expression that splashes across the captain's face almost makes the entire exchange worth it, she decides. She glances over his shoulder at the first officer. She can not say for certain, but can almost swear that the Vulcan is smiling at her.
To Be Continued.