Title: The Sound of Silence

Author: Jazz

Category: General

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Characters owned by Paramount. I'll return them at the end. Promise.

Summary: The crew unearth a distress call and mysterious happenings abound. Really a series of character studies, various POV, held together by a shadow of a plot. Special cameo appearance by Porthos. This is my first fic so I am still finding my feet.

(Special Author's Note: Hope no one minds the tense too much. Writing in first person was like pulling teeth out, but the more I got into it the easier it became. Enjoy!)

The Sound of Silence

by Jazz

~~~

Part 1:

Take Photos, Leave Footprints

Am I all words, and never

the protector of men? The

Angel who cries with softest

voice, shall never know Peace.

She shall forever speak

In tongues.

It starts with a greeting.

Well, that's what I hope it starts with. All languages are different, but in my experience the first words that initiate first contact tend to be a greeting. In fact, at the earliest stage I am not even thinking about opening my mouth to offer up some sort of hello. What I do is study the body language; a truly expressive shell which protects the vocal harmonics underneath. Only then, when I am sure that the other party will be receptive to conversation, do I speak.

This process is my job. Establishing a connection between species. Melding the awkwardness, the incompatible together.

Jon used to think that I analysed myself too deeply, and that by doing so I would pick apart invisible holes. But knowing what I do, knowing the how and why in intricate detail, becomes a sort of meditation for me.

I need it to be there. The rest of the crew needs it to be there. I know that now.

There was a time when I didn't.

But I'm digressing. Let me take you back three months, to a conversation over breakfast and a trip into a cloud . . .

****

"Hoshi?"

I look up from my plate to find Travis hovering at the table with two very full cups of coffee. Quickly I secure the one in his nearest hand and take a tentative sip. I watch him take his seat and do the same.

"Well?"

He takes another sip. "It's like I said before. When you've grown up on a space vessel you become deaf to the sounds the engines make. Fast. It's the quiet places that freak me out. What you're talking about I can't hear. It registers the same place in my brain as do…I don't know…" Travis pauses, and then snaps his fingers. "Vowels and consonants in yours. Something you never think about."

This has been our conversation throughout breakfast. It had started out with my yawning over poached eggs. Travis became concerned over my apparent tiredness, mixed together, I now admit, with a degree of tetchiness, which led to my spiel into insomnia.

You see, it's the constant background noise, I explain. Or more to the point, the fluctuating levels of background noise. It is excruciatingly difficult at times to concentrate on my work.

So I sigh, and smile wanly into my coffee. "Thank you, Mr. Space Boomer. I guess it takes time. I've gone way past my previous posting in regard to days spent travelling in space. We're up to – what? A month?" I see him hide a smirk. "My mind is still unravelling."

"And these machines still can't do a decent cup of java." Travis drains his mug and shudders briefly at the aftertaste. "Eugh." Suddenly his eyes focus on something behind me. "Wow. Now that's what I call a pretty cloud."

I turn around in my seat and peer out through the window. Out of the black, wisps of red and orange and purple rest serenely in the blanket of space. They look the picture of calm, like smoke from one of T'Pol's meditation candles. I love nebulas. They remind me of the plants in the tropical fish tank I have in my university apartment back home. As I watch, the wisps of colour seem to tremble, like a jewel set in ebony, and even though I know they are far away, my fingers want to gather them up. Their precious state is immediately calming.

"It's big," I comment, more to myself.

"Think the captain will stop and let us take a closer look?"

Against my apparent resolve to be grumpy this morning, I manage a smile at Travis' enthusiasm. It immediately strikes me as being out of place; he who has grown up in space should not be so eager. "You must have seen countless nebulas," I say. "But as to your question – only if Captain Archer's feeling generous. It's not like we haven't heaps of jobs to complete, and all the time in the world to be exploring for enjoyment at every sector."

Travis nods at the colourful wisps, which are gathering in larger and larger clumps the further we pass. "I don't know that I've seen one that big, though."

Suddenly I feel my lousy mood dissolving. "Hey, maybe you can name it," I say, patting him on the shoulder, and together we pick up our breakfast trays and leave for the bridge.

****

As it turns out Travis gets his wish; Jon agrees to stop and take a shuttle pod into the nebula. But it won't be all sightseeing. We'll have a chance to get data on one of the biggest nebulas encountered by a Starfleet vessel.

I say Starfleet vessel, because we soon learn that the nebula is not unknown.

"Eight months ago a Vulcan ship explored this very area," T'Pol says, sitting neat as a pin at her station. "They did not find it necessary to dwell upon this particular nebula, as it offered no further knowledge about the phenomena which did not already exist in their databases."

Travis looks up from the helm. "Did they give it a name, Sub-Commander?"

"It was designated PUV Iona-7."

I can't see Travis' face from where I'm sitting, but I almost hear his eyes roll. "Very poetic."

"Vulcan scientists do not consider poetics when assigning identification."

Jon has been silent throughout this exchange, but at this he smiles. "Of course." I detect the sarcasm, good-natured though it is, in his voice. T'Pol simply nods, serene and detached, in that Vulcan way of her's which is so subtle most people miss it. But I see it, like I see and hear more than any one crewmember on this ship, except perhaps the Science Officer herself.

But Travis doesn't let go. "Captain, it would be nice to have a poke about," he offers hopefully. He hasn't lost his eagerness yet.

The captain nods, but doesn't offer Travis anything further. We draw as close to the nebula – sorry, PUV Iona-7 – as we can be, without actually entering it. "Bring us to a stop, Ensign." Jon sits up straighter in his chair. "T'Pol, how safe is it currently for a pod to go in for a closer look?"

"I am detecting minimal atmospheric activities within the nebula, Captain," offers T'Pol, sitting up from her view port. "There would be little danger in taking a shuttle pod in," she continues, levitating a single eyebrow in typical Vulcan fashion, "if that is what you intend to do."

Do I detect a hint of irritation, T'Pol? I glance at her but she has turned back to her monitors. Across from her Malcolm Reed speaks for the first time. "Sir, I can concur with the Sub-Commander." The side of his mouth lifts into a smile as he adds, "I see no security risks in having a 'poke about', as Mr. Mayweather so eloquently phrased it."

"Let's go in then." Jon rises from his seat. "Hoshi, Malcolm, you're with me. T'Pol, you have the bridge."

Walking out behind Malcolm, I offer a commiserating glance to Travis. Lone pilot, left behind.

****

"It's bigger than I anticipated, Sir," Malcolm says, peering out of the forward screen. We enter Iona-7 and slow to half-impulse in order to begin taking scans. Jon and Malcolm busy themselves with gathering the most important data, but for a long moment I do nothing but gaze at the nebula. That such a huge mass should be so still, calm like great beast asleep, is hard to imagine until you get up close. With my earpiece in, I crane my neck and follow the line of colour peeling off into the distance. All around the pod lies a sieve of colour: red and purple mainly, but also spots of yellow.

And then…all of a sudden I hear noise – the clouds are singing; a murmur deep underneath the purr of the air filterers inside the cabin, deep underneath the white noise of the monitors.

My expression must change, because both Jon and Malcolm stop what they are doing and look at me.

"Hoshi?" Jon asks, concerned.

I blink, and like a wave receding, the noise – the singing – fades from hearing. "I'm not sure, Captain. I heard …" How can I describe it? That I heard the clouds singing? That their notes churned together like an unresolved counterpoint, and left me speechless? Come on, Hoshi, that's sounding just a bit ridiculous.

I force myself to finish. "Would you believe I heard singing?"

Something ticks momentarily in Jon's eyes. "Singing?" he repeats.

He doesn't believe me, I think, and feel sudden heat in my cheeks. But Malcolm nods, and says mysteriously, "'The angels sigh songs in tumultuous waves'." Jon and I regard him, confused, as he explains, "Deveraux, early twenty-second century poet. He wrote of the night sky singing. Though I doubt Ensign Sato heard angels."

I smile at him, and feel the warm blush fade. "No, not angels," I say. "Thankyou for the suggestion, though, Lieutenant."

Jon takes a glance at my station monitor. "Angels or not," he says, "I'd still like to know what you heard. Can you try and pick it up again?"

I reinsert the earpiece, straining to pick up the sound. But all I hear is normal, sub-space noise. I close my eyes and deepen my concentration. Noise inside the pod ceases. The blackness of my thoughts is pinpointed into one sense – my hearing – and my breathing slows. But still nothing. I open my eyes and see the men gazing, waiting, expecting me to give them something.

"It's gone," I say to them. "I'm sorry." And Jon turns the pod around, back to Enterprise.

****

Later, after we have debriefed and are coming off duty, Malcolm stops me in the corridor.

"Don't apologise, Ensign. Don't apologise for doing your job."

He turns and leaves me, still in my movement. I pause, watching him go, and think again of the song I heard, that I alone heard, and wonder if I had imagined it.

I return to my quarters, and fall asleep looking at the clouds.