Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh?" he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?"
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's hand. "I just wanted to be sure of you."
- A.A. Milne
Kindred
I.
Descending the temple steps, Kathryn Janeway squints into the orange light of Iridian afternoon, her pace a leisurely one, matching that of her guide and diplomatic liaison, Erekk Col.
"Our home reminds you of another place?" Councilman Col asks her. "Another planet- one close to your own world?"
The question is gentle and, too, laced with the faintest of apologies. Whatever the empath is picking up from her - traces of recognition, perhaps even wistful nostalgia - he demonstrates the subtle deference to her privacy generally characteristic of his people.
"Yes," Janeway replies easily. "The planet Vulcan."
"Ah, the homeworld of your Lieutenant Tuvok," Col dips his head in recognition.
"One and the same."
"Councilman Haram has spoken to your Lieutenant on the subject; he related to me a particularly intriguing dialogue on the similarities of Iridian and Vulcan culture."
This piques Janeway's interest. She stands patiently waiting for Col to continue speaking as he momentarily stops their descent, signalling a reverent greeting to an enrobed, aged woman who ascends to their right.
"The historical arc of the Iridian and Vulcan civilizations share the unfortunate characteristic of being brought to near extinction by violence and bloodthirst."
"A history regrettably shared by too many worlds," Janeway sighs, "including my own."
"I suppose that's true" Col acknowledges. "However, like those of Lieutenant Tuvok's planet, my people saved themselves with the tools of meditation."
"Communal meditation," Janeway amends, now reflecting on what she witnessed in the temple above.
"Not in the sense of a shared, mass experience," Col expounds. "Our teachings evolved around the permanent, meditative bonding of small cohorts of individuals; the social and psychological value of all people being part of a pool of experience beyond themselves, and those pools, taken together, forming the wellspring of our society."
"Akin to Vulcan bonding?"
Col hesitates, considering his answer before shaking his head slowly.
"If Haram understood your Lieutenant correctly, Vulcan bonding occurs only between mates?" He presses on when Janeway signals an affirmation. "Iridian bonding presupposes nothing about romantic love, and statistically speaking, most of a heterosexual individual's Kindreds will be of the same gender."
Kindreds.
Whether it's an exact translation or simply the closest thing the universal translator can come up with, it strikes Janeway as lovey. More mystical than logical - a brand of romanticism somehow befitting the landscape and its people.
"For a scientist," Col chuckles, "you're remarkably open to things that resist definition and quantification."
She cocks her head to the side, accepting the compliment (and, she's sure, Col does intend it as a compliment).
"My ancestors are from a place called Ireland. If you read any of our poetry, you would understand."
They've now reached the bottom of temple steps, arriving in a large, sparsely landscaped square dotted with groups of people. The uniforms of her crew stand out against the tan and brown hues favored by the local inhabitants. She spots three of her officers without having to look very hard.
Janeway waves to Tom Paris, attempting to gain her conn officer's attention while weighing further questions about Iridian bonding. Wonders, too, which questions, when asked by an outsider, would prove culturally indelicate.
"You may ask whatever strikes you," Col offers, his beige lips turning up slightly.
Janeway gives a small laugh of embarrassment at this as she successfully makes eye-contact with Paris. He's talking with a young boy, a teenager, and gestures to his youthful interlocutor to head in Janeway's direction, even as he continues what appears to be a very animated story.
"How many 'Kindreds' does a typical person have?" Janeway inquires, her eyes returning once more to the Councilman. "Are entire groups considered Kindred? Do people choose their Kindreds?"
Col turns his face to the side, taking momentary pleasure in a sudden, cooling breeze that graces the arid plain. It's a behavior that's decidedly un-Vulcan, and thus gives Janeway pause. However subtle Col's people, they're far from being stoic.
She wonders what her Vulcan tactical officer privately makes of the products of Iridian teachings.
"The choice of Kindreds is personal one, although historically this was not always the case," Col begins. "As for number, on rare occasion a person may have only one Kindred, or as many as five - more than that and the strength of each bond is viewed with strong suspicion. It is possible that a group may all be bonded together. For example - and forgive my familiarity here - it would be possible that you, and I, and Lieutenant Tuvok would all be Kindreds. But a more typical bonding pattern would be that you and I are Kindreds, myself and Tuvok are Kindreds, and so on, with each Kindred having their own unique set of bonds."
"Fascinating."
"Dad! DAD!"
If the screech of an excited teenager is verboten in public spaces, one wouldn't know it, looking at the reactions around the relatively quiet square. It's another observation that Janeway away with some interest, watching as the young man- apparently Col's own son - half drags Tom Paris up to where they stand.
"This is Tom, Dad. He's a pilot."
"Yes," Col laughs. "I've met Lieutenant Paris twice now. I'd like you to meet Kathryn Janeway, the Captain of the Lieutenant's ship." The boy looks at Kathryn with something between vague disinterest and compelled politeness, his father quickly adding, "Captain Janeway, this is my youngest child, Havon."
"Pleased to meet you, Havon," Janeway smiles, "I hope Tom here was good company?"
"He told me about landing your ship- on a planet. Straight onto the ground! Dad, can you believe that?"
"Very impressive," Col pronounces dutifully, as Tom looks at Havon with an affection that no doubt involves seeing a younger version of himself.
"Did you enjoy your tour of the temple?" Tom asks his CO.
"I did. Councilman Col has been a very gracious tour guide."
"Captain," Kim's voice chimes beside them, "Councilman, hello."
"Ensign Kim," Col greets, "I see you found good company in some of your warp theorists."
"I certainly did," Harry confirms. "And you, Captain? Tom?"
"Historical Institute of Space Travel," Paris beams. "Where I met your son, Councilman - he was busy showing up a group of older students on the flight simulators at the front of the Institute's annex."
Col smiles at the nostalgia radiating off of Tom, and Harry shoots his friend a knowing smirk before turning toward the Captain, a silent prompt as to the nature of her own wandering.
"I explored the temple," Janeway informs him, "and then the Councilman was kind enough to indulge my questions about Iridian bonding practices."
"Are you two Kindreds?" Havon interrupts, looking between Tom and Harry.
"I'm sorry?" Tom puzzles.
"You haven't even spoken to each other, but it feels like you have." Havon gestures, "I just assumed it's because you're bonded."
"Our culture doesn't employ bonding the way yours does," Janeway tries to explain. "We do have friendships, deeply rewarding relationships."
"Tom is my best friend," Harry adds, making Tom's blue eyes grow a little brighter. "I consider him family. Maybe that's what you feel?"
"Who's your 'best friend' ?" Havon demands, now turning his attention to Janeway.
The Captain pivots slightly, a movement that would be an uncomfortable fidget on anyone else, and Col puts a hand solidly on Havon's shoulder.
"It isn't polite to interrogate people about their personal lives," the Councilman warns. Then shares a long, meaningful stare with his son.
"I'm sorry," the boy begins, clearly abashed, "I didn't mean to make you feel bad about not having anyone you'd call a best friend."
Such an innocent statement should be easy enough for Janeway to handle as a diplomat. But coming from an empathic child, and spoken with such obvious pain for her, it makes a bit of the color drain from her cheeks.
"Everyone on our ship supports the Captain," Tom rushes to say, "she has the loyalty and respect of one hundred and forty-three people."
It's a kind enough thing to say, and Janeway knows that Tom means it sincerely. She just wishes it didn't sound so much like consolation and Havon didn't look so genuinely pitying of her.
"Havon, would you mind taking me to see those simulators?" Harry interjects diplomatically. "I'm not nearly as good as Tom at piloting, but maybe you can give me some pointers?"
Kim, Havon, and Paris peel off a few minutes later, the latter with a discrete if meaningful touch to Janeway's shoulder as he passes her.
"My... sincerest apologies," Col shakes his head, once the threesome is out of range.
"Honesty is hardly the worst trait for a child to possess," Janeway notes gracefully. "And it would be disingenuous for me say that my captaincy isn't sometimes isolating."
"Leaders must often make great sacrifices," Col observes neutrally.
It's a statement the Councilman no doubt believes. And yet, something in his voice makes Janeway question how much he sympathizes with her loneliness.
Can someone who has the constant company of others' thoughts truly understand what it is to feel alone?
It's a question Janeway tries not to ponder too deeply. Nor too loudly.
. . . . .
"Kathryn?"
Chakotay's voice breaks her attention, which was trained exclusively on Voyager's updated supply manifest. She looks up at him in surprise, even though she obviously called for his entry. Even has a vague memory of doing so, now that she's arching her spine against her chair back and blinking away the fatigue that crashes over her in waves.
"You wanted me to pop in on you when it hit 22:00," Chakotay reminds.
"So I did," she says, craning her neck, "thank you... I should beam down soon to Councilman Col's reception."
They've already concluded trade with the Iridians, having made out relatively well, thanks to compatible technologies and more than a little good faith.
Voyager will be leaving orbit in a few hours, but Janeway and her senior staff have been invited to a private family event being held in honor of Col's oldest son.
"Now is the son who's finished his studies the one you met the other day?"
"No," Kathryn replies, rising out of her chair. "That was Havon, his youngest."
"I heard he gave Tom a run for his money in some flight simulators, and Harry got a real shellacking."
Kathryn makes an amused sound in the back of her throat, remembering the way Tom had teased Harry as they both strode onto the bridge.
"Tom and the youngest Col seem to have a great deal in common, including their tendency toward candor."
"How's that?" Chakotay asks with a spreading smile, and Kathryn immediately regrets her joke.
She's tried not to contemplate it, these last few days, but it's difficult to put out of her mind Havon's comment. Difficult not to analyze the emotional confusion the young man must have picked up on in answer to his question, thus prompting his apology.
Once upon a time, she would have called Mark her best friend. And after that, less than a year ago, her thoughts would have centered around Chakotay.
But that was before the Borg. Before her forcible emancipation of Seven of Nine. Before this thin veil of whatever is - disappointment, resentment, disapproval? - came to be insinuated between herself and the man in front of her.
It's easy enough to ignore, especially as it hasn't stemmed their more superficial conversations. But ignore it they do, both of them pretending that the string of cancelled dinners, postponed holodeck commitments are entirely owing to workload.
"Kathryn?" Chakotay prompts again, having not received an answer.
"Havon was a little confused by the way we structure our personal relationship," she dodges with a nonchalant gesture. "He wanted to know if Tom and Harry were what the Iridians call 'Kindreds'."
"It would seem they are," Chakotay smirks, tugging his ear. "To the great misfortune of Ensign Kim."
Janeway rolls her eyes, knowing he doesn't mean it. Well, probably doesn't mean it. With Tom and Chakotay, it's so often hard to tell.
"Are you sure you won't beam down? Col's home apparently has a breathtaking view of the area's most celebrated mountain range."
"Too many duty rosters to wade through," Chakotay apologizes. "But Kim, Neelix, and Paris have already beamed down. Tuvok, too, I think."
"Now you see," Janeway begins with a smile. Slips on her uniform jacket and picks up a brown parcel up from her desk. "This is the thing you have to love about Tuvok. . . He's really so full of surprises!"
"Tuvok would caution you that love is an illogical human predilection."
"Probably," Janeway sighs, exiting her Ready Room with Chakotay right behind her. "And lo! A reminder of why there exist no anthologies titled 'The Great Vulcan Love Poems.'"
The bridge crew, mostly junior officers at this hour, all chuckle loudly. Their Captain signals a greeting to them with a simple nod before sliding onto the turbolift.
. . . . .
"Have you ever landed Voyager on water? Oh! Or what about ice?"
Tom laughs, sprawled on the floor beside Havon. There are a few of Havon's friends around them, but they all lost interest in the conversation about thirty minutes and five stories back.
"My stories can't possibly be this interesting. Not with someone who's already reached your level of advancement in handling ships."
"Those are only simulators," Havon protests. "Not a real ship! And nothing compared to how big Voyager is."
"In our Fleet back home," Tom confides with a wink, "there are ships that make Voyager look a shuttle. Some of the biggest ones, Galaxy Class ships, can carry more than twelve-hundred people."
"Councilman?" Janeway's brow furrows, two rooms away.
Col had just been mid-sentence in a story about his son Elin when he suddenly stopped, his eyes filling with amusement.
"My apologies," Col explains, "Lieutenant Paris is apparently regaling Havon with tales of space. My young son's joy is quite. . . spectacular."
"I'm glad we could entertain," Kathryn quips, reminding her of the small parcel she has under her arm. "Speaking of entertainment. . . I brought something for you. A small token, for the warmth and openness you've shown my crew."
"Thank you," he murmurs, turning it over. "This is most thoughtful. Is there a specific way to approach opening it?"
"No," she explains with a chuckle. "The wrapping paper is just a tradition - feel free to tear it away from the object beneath."
The simple paper pulls away easily, revealing a book, bound in leather, but embossed with Iridian script.
"The Book of Irish Verse," Col reads, "an Anthology of Irish Poetry From the Sixth Century On." He turns it over twice before opening it, runs his fingers along the spine and then the thick, off-white paper. "What a perfectly delightful gift."
"I did say something about Irish poetry and my appreciation of the undefinable. It would have been unfair to leave you without some further explanation."
Col nods in acceptance, though, in truth, he needed no such thing. Not when he's already been overwhelmed with the feeling of a body (a young girl's?), limp and heavy in his arm; an overwhelming surge of fear and hope as he stepped forward beneath that weight. Memories not his own, and yet ones so powerful- powerful and confusing - that Janeway was unable to shield them from his mind, days earlier on the temple steps.
"You have my thanks," Col says simply. Gently pushes away the tendrils of Janeway's emotions, like vines fallen across his path.
"Your Captain's here," Havon informs Tom.
"You can sense that?"
"Not her so much as Dad," the boy sighs, slumping a little against the cushion he's reclined on. "He's talking to her."
"Everything okay?" Tom inquires, curious as to Havon's abrupt change in countenance.
"I still feel . . . bad about the other day."
"I'm sure Captain Janeway's forgotten all about it," Tom assures, and Havon favors him with a knowing look that would impress even Tuvok.
Right, Tom thinks to himself dryly. Empath. Check.
He begins again, this time more honestly, "there was a time in my life when I felt very much alone, mostly because of my own bad choices. . . I'm not sure how Captain Janeway feels, or whether her rank isolates her in ways she regrets. But I do think the fact that she's working toward something, trying to get us home, makes all the difference in the way she'll look back on her life later on."
"Before," Havon begins slowly, "back at the temple. . . You were thinking of a man."
"My father," Tom replies, after a long hesitation. "He was a Captain, and then an Admiral by the time I was your age."
"He was unhappy?"
"Not always. But when I was older, yeah. He was. Very unhappy."
As he says it, he tries to keep muffled from Havon's young mind dark thoughts of a Cardassian POW camp, images of the unspeakable torture he knows his father endured there.
"When you think about Captain Janeway. . .you think of your Dad?"
"She worked for him," Tom explains. "But they're very. . . different people. And I don't think that the Captain is alone in the way that my dad ended up being."
Havon doesn't say anything, and Tom kicks himself for letting their conversation get this glum in the first place.
"Hey," Tom says brightly. "Since I taught you all those tricks on the simulators, it's your turn to teach me something. Ya know, before we leave."
"Teach you what?" Havon giggles. "You've traveled through two quadrants."
"That's just ship stuff," Tom shrugs. "Which is cool, of course. But show me what you do when you're not making fools out of people on flight sims."
. . . . .
"Your hospitality is appreciated more than you will understand, Councilman."
It's late, and the reception is breaking up. Everyone but she and Paris have both transported back, and it occurs to Kathryn that if they're going to avoid outstaying their welcome, she's going to have to personally escort Tom away from his junior adoration society.
"If you're looking to collect your pilot, he disappeared into the study with Havon sometime ago."
"Have model ships in there?" Janeway quips.
"No," Col laughs softly. "I think they've moved beyond that. Havon seems . . . very focused."
Col stays in the main room with his other departing guests, and Janeway follows his direction to a secluded room on the opposite end of the home.
"Tom?" Janeway calls, standing in the corridor.
The door's been left open, but she shies away from walking directly in. When there's no response, she sees no other option.
"Focus on my thoughts," Havon encourages, "and only then on the receptacle."
They're both sitting sitting crossed-legged on the floor, about a meter apart. Between them is an opaque crystalline disk, levitating - however shakily - off the floor.
With Havon's last directive, the disk stops trembling. Then, slowly, moves farther off the ground.
"Captain," Tom exclaims, and the disk crashes to the floor.
Janeway comes closer, expecting to see the crystal split in half, cracked at the very least. It seems, however, unscathed, and so she turns her attention back to Tom and Havon.
"What- what was that?"
"The Torba," Tom informs her. "A nifty meditative exercise even us non-empaths can to do. . . Well, with a little empathic help."
"Would you like to try it?" Havon offers.
"I. . ."
"Oh, come on Captain," Tom cajoles, "here, take my seat."
"No, take mine!" Havon grins. "Then you can try together."
"Don't we need, um, well, one empath in the mix?"
"I think I can help you without interfering with the exercise," Havon answers Tom, then motions for Janeway to take his seat. "It's the way our teachers instruct us when we're younger. Come on! Try it."
Janeway does as Havon suggests, if with obvious apprehension. Being around empaths is one thing; having them act as a telepathic bridge to her junior officers is quite another.
"I'm promise not to tease you if you're bad it," Tom says innocently.
"Just be thankful this isn't a competitive exercise, Lieutenant," Janeway promptly shoots back.
"Focus," Havon tsks, already concentrating, and Janeway and Paris exchange chastised looks.
It takes a moment for her to feel it, but one second Janeway is concentrating on the piece of crystal, and the next she feels Tom's concentration, too. There's another presence, she assumes Havon, but her awareness of him isn't the same as that of Tom. Havon's mind somehow merely hovering, akin someone standing over her shoulder.
It takes them a few tries to lift the disk off the ground even half a centimeter, and Havon finds it more difficult than he thought to sort through their churning tumult of thoughts. They're both thinking about the exercise, but they're also apprehensive about what the other might see. The boy strains to filter out their overwhelming self-consciousness, the stream of random, personal thoughts they undoubtedly wish to shield.
"Please, focus on the exercise," Havon almost begs, making Janeway take a deep breath. She remembers Havon's advice to Tom just before she interrupted them, and tries to focus on the sensation of Tom's own concentration.
When she does, she's rewarded by a veritable blooming of his presence. She can see herself in his own thoughts, see the disk from where he sits.
"Good," Havon encourages, a sheen of sweat having formed on his brow. He's already fatigued, and now starting to get distracted.
The two Starfleet officers manage to get the disk about a third of a meter off the ground when their link to each other abruptly ends, and the disk comes plummeting down.
"Did we do something wrong?" Tom asks, more than a little disappointed.
"No" Havons says. "You were great."
He's too embarrassed to tell them that he got bogged down in their thoughts, unable facilitate the exercise any longer. Luckily for him, they're both novices and don't recognize his error.
"Well, thank you, Havon," Janeway smiles, "for giving us such a unique experience."
"And thanks for keeping a boring old pilot company these last few hours," Tom adds, unfolding his long limbs as he stands.
"You have the best stories," the boy beams back.
Getting up herself, Janeway feels better than when she first beamed down to planet. More relaxed than energized, but still a far cry from feeling completely sacked.
"Tell the truth, Lieutenant," she nudges Tom, when they've said their final good-byes and are outside, waiting for beam-out. "You would have preferred taking that young man back to the ship with us."
"Nah," Tom dismisses, and the Captain's mouth quirks up in just one corner. "That one's destined to fly among his own stars one day."
"Destined, eh?" Janeway repeats. "Now there's an unscientific word."
"I find it hard to believe it really offends your Starfleet sensibilities ," Tom defends. Braces himself for the transport cycle when he hears their commbadges chirp.
"And why would that be?"
"Because," Tom shrugs, before the familiar shimmer engulfs them. "Your family's Irish."
. . . . .