Prelude: Back in the Saddle Again
"Ow! Ow! Stop! Stop it! Oh, wait, you did, you already did. Thanks, that's better." Anon's gloved hands have flown to Simbollah's head, her left hand rubbing the red shirt's head just above the ear; the right hand massages the base of her friend's head. "I give up. I just don't know why it works when we do music and never any other time."
"I'm sorry, Simbollah, so, so sorry," Anon murmurs. I wish, I wish I could be in your head for giggles and conversation, but it's no good. And I won't keep putting you through this."
Simbollah sighs, and rolls her head from side-to-side, pushing into Anon's calloused fingertips. "It's so cool when we make music and you're in my head, and so awful the rest of the times. Like having tinnitus with a migraine on steroids. I'm with you. We've tried and tried. Enough."
Anon continues pressing her powerful fingers into and around the sensitive areas of Simbollah's head until her friend's shoulders finally unknot themselves, at which point the blue shirt rotates away to settle herself in front of her keyboard. "Better? So, let's make music, shall we? Can we play 'Lark in the Clear Air?' I'll tickle the ivories, and send you the other instruments, and it will be lovely." She smiles at Simbollah – no hard feelings. As usual.
"I'd like that," Simbollah smiles back. "It's my favorite – just about got it memorized. And yeah, get in my head. You want to give the tempo, or should I?"
"You should. You're the lark, after all."
Simbollah closes her eyes, focuses her mind, rocks her body in rhythm, raises her flute to her lips, and tootles the opening notes. Anon watches, listens, sways in unison, and joins in the music-making. For Simbollah, the transition from pain to bliss passes as seamlessly as the notes themselves.
You're back. I knew you would be. Familiar territory, am I right? Soli Anon wanting so very much to get into a friend's head, trying to make it work, upsetting her friend's equilibrium, devastated at her failure, going on to the next thing. No problem, no bother, move on. Always move on. It's okay. It's always okay.
How can that be? Soli Anon's story is compelling and perplexing. That's why you're here, yes? I'm merely the not-at-all humble narrator, and the best storyteller you ever heard, amirite?
I shall tell this story, the next measure of Soli Anon's life, but I fear I must have less of a presence than in the first story. You see, I will make an appearance in this story, so it is only fair to the rest of the characters that I not overwhelm them all with my omnipotent, amazing self. I will be restrained and show myself at the proper time but allow the rest of the story to run on its own narrative.
This is a perfect example of why I am the best beloved storyteller in the Continuum. Hold your applause until the end.
Oh, you say you missed the first measure of Soli Anon's life and want to know what how we got here? Tough luck. Look it up. The rest of us are moving on.
Well, not all of us. Some of us have just landed here. But that's "H-is-for-Horrible" for you: a typical Continuum high-flying lowlife telling the rest of us to ... um, well, something not nice. But the rest of us new arrivals can reasonably request some background, specifically about Soli Anon, and here it is.
Thirty-six Terran years old, but not Terran. Educated on Bolarus 9, but not Bolian. Born on Rrannimm but with the only memories of her birth planet provided by her Ktak abductor. Not an obvious candidate for the Federation's flagship, except for the reason she was stolen in the first place.
The Ktak who was called Keeper was the sole responsible party for her peripatetic existence. She well knew of Soli's special skill because it was the Ktak civilization that had provided that skill half a million years earlier. It was a Ktak biological trait, one they attempted through DNA manipulation to pass on to many promising species in the galaxy, but which only took in the Rrannimmese people.
The trait, that skill can be described in one word: neural communication.
No, wait. One word: telepathy.
No, stop. Two words: neural communication.
Neural communication, though overly long, is a better descriptor. Telepathy, for us lowly Terrans, makes us think of words, fully-formed thoughts, flashing back and forth between two people. Neural communication is much richer than language, although it includes language. Sight, sound, taste, smell, touch, and yes, language can all be communicated via natural transmitters and receivers in the brain.
Keeper, the last of the Ktak to venture off-planet, kidnapped Soli when the child was three; Keeper artificially enhanced Soli's neural communication ability six years later, and sent her off into the near and far reaches of the galaxy seven years after that.
Starry Night is the second in the series about the life story of Solitaire Uniqueum Anon. The Scream was the first, in which Soli – rhymes with holy, not jolly, unless you wrongly think jolly and holy rhyme with each other – survives abduction and abuse to wind up on the Enterprise.
Dr. McCoy falls in love with the strange alien Soli Anon; addicted to her sensuousness, enthralled with her many cultural obsessions, awed by her attempts to cope with her life trauma as best she can - as any human would try to do. Their relationship is fraught, not least because McCoy's mother is opposed to Starfleet, the Federation, and any and all associations with alien species.
Separate from Anon's personal and social complications, Mr. Spock pursues the location of her home planet, having realized that her neural communication ability puts her at risk in a competitive and hostile galaxy, and puts her primitive and helpless fellow Rrannimmese in even greater danger once their gifts are revealed.
Glossary of Made-up Terms in Starry Night (there may be others I overlooked)
AC Auto-Clave (laundry cleaning device)
CT2 Contraceptive
Khan Genetic compound for quick but temporary healing
PT Physical Training
Author's note: It would be better if you read The Scream first. I tried in this story to make it unnecessary, but still, I can't be sure I succeeded, so, just saying, it would be better.
I loved the concept and the cast for the Star Trek 2009 reboot, but felt the story lines belonged in a James Bond movie (super villain with doomsday weapon), not Star Trek. So the Scream, Starry Night, and Relativity (not yet written, Gosh!) are my personal contribution of what Star Trek has meant to me. Hope you enjoy it/them. And no, I have not psychic abilities: I had no idea when I began the trilogy that issues of stealing children from their parents and bigotry towards outsiders would be a real-life real-time horror show. But that is what Star Trek always did, so nobody should be surprised.