"A row of hedges?" Doyle asked, voice askance, face the picture of righteous indignation with lips formed into a grimace and head jerking slightly to the side with each word. "The human ghetto is hidden from view by a row of hedges?"
Harper shrugged, not sure what to tell her. On one side of the tall hedge wall were green hedges and sterling white houses built with the clean, rounded lines of pre-fall architecture, decorated with neatly trimmed seas of green grass and perfect rainbow rows of fragrant flowers, pathways of cobbled stones, and even a three tiered fountain in front of one house. On the balcony of another, a child, maybe ten-years-old, tinkered with a remote control toy, the outline of his mother in the window. The woman watched their trio walk past suspiciously.
There was no way the child could not see into the ghetto from the balcony. Maybe even from one of the many windows in the house. The hedges on his side grew along a barbed wire fence meant to keep humans from trespassing into the more civilized sectors of society. Buildings there had once been beautiful. Had once been towering testaments to the economic power of the sector. Now, they lay in ruins with bare metallic bones exposed to the elements, stretching into the sky as if praying to the Divine for the return of better days.
Humans didn't live in the sky anymore. They lived packed into too small a space on the muddy, rutted ground, like rats, feet and legs always covered in muck and grime. He didn't dare tell Beka and Doyle what that grime contained in a place where only a quarter of the citizens had access to functional plumbing. If that many. There was a reason Andromeda had vaccinated them several 'dead' illnesses before their trip.
Dingey rags hung from windows to keep out the elements. Peddlers set up shop on crusted blankets. Parts over here. Wilted greens from a window garden there. Men, women and children trying to make a couple gilders in the hopes of eating another day. An ocean of greys and browns. Of ash and dust. From the buildings down to the people. A world in sepia tones that left the eye begging for a flash of color.
The assault on one's eyes was nothing compared to the stench. Mold. Excrement. Rotting garbage. The pervasive reek of death and decay.
But what was it to a Dragon boy in a well-to-do family? Just an animal pen. A fenced in farm of Kludges and Mules. Look at them. Uncivilized. Living and breeding in their own filth. This was where the uncooperative and undesirable humans lived. The worst of the animals. Those that still harbored some pride. Some sense of freedom. Some sense of autonomy. They deserved this had not learned their places. The ghetto would teach them.
"Keep it down, Doyle. The bozos in back might hear you," he muttered.
Harper spared a look at the Dragon soldiers marching a few meters behind. Their 'escorts'. Rifles hung at their sides and they walked with military precision. Backs straight. Bone blades displayed. They were here because Beka had seven warships—more than Harper had expected—defending her position as Matriarch. But, their weapons and expressions said one step out of line and none of that would matter. Beka followed his gaze then reached out to him, fingers brushing his arm. Comfort with a side of warning. Don't do anything stupid.
Up ahead, a gap in the hedge led to a checkpoint. The way into the ghetto. Their Nietzschean guards would leave them at the gate. No need to dirty Nietzschean boots outside of labor raids and the occasional public crucifixion. Human guards, collaborators loyal to the Dragons, patrolled inside. Traitors to their people, bought at the price of three hots and a cot.
Beka's skin paled as they reached the gate, day pass at the ready. Armed humans in new-ish armor manned the station. If they were curious, they didn't show it, keeping their faces passive and eyes down.
"Thanks," Harper sneered when a man with baked leather skin passed him back his pass. Most collaborators were just scared people trying to survive. Same as everyone else. Only a few actually enjoyed their work, taking pleasure in feeling superior to the rabble that scrounged for food in back alleys. But Harper felt no sympathy for these men. Hated them, even. Collaborators destroyed lives for the illusion of safety. They sold out other struggling souls for a pair of shiny new boots. It had been people like these guards who brought death to his doorstep, who turned a thirteen-year-old boy in for the audacity of being smart, and therefore dangerous.
"I think I'm going to be sick," Beka said, holding a handkerchief over her mouth and nose as they stepped into the ghetto proper. Even his olfactory senses, deadened years ago to the ghetto 'funk' as they called it when they were young and stupid, were affronted.
"Where to?" Doyle asked.
Harper consulted his flexi and pointed down a road thick with mud and uneven with broken pavement. "That way. Once we get to sector three, we might have to ask around, because addresses don't get any more specific than this."
Around the corner they ran into their first starving child, watching them as they moved past with wide brown eyes, gender ambiguous underneath matted hair and dirt-caked face. His eyes fell on a distended belly, easy to make out under a threadbare tank top, and he looked away. Without immediate medical care this kid, likely an orphan, wasn't going to make it. He felt the weight of his backpack, stuffed with food and medical supplies, an offering and show of goodwill for Jace's family, drag down his shoulders.
There will be dozens of kids just like this one. Can't help them all.
Hungry, sick people weren't willing to listen. They needed this food.
He averted his eyes, looking to his companions instead, and wished he hadn't. Doyle had stopped moving, her eyes riveted on the child, shining with moisture. She had seen her share of suffering on Seefra, a place where ninety-percent of citizens lived in abject poverty. But, this was beyond poverty. This was engineered suffering. A purposeful slow and torturous death sentence to remind good little worker bees the price of freedom.
Beka stopped a few steps ahead and looked back when she realized they were not following. Harper closed his eyes and shook his head, taking a deep breath, wishing the air were clean enough for breathing to do any good. He glanced at the child again, then back to Doyle. He put a hand on her arm and shook his head.
"There is nothing we can do."
It took her a few seconds to tear her eyes away and look at him. On another day, in another place, he would have been in awe of his own skill, at the depth of emotion Doyle displayed as she stared at him in disbelief. He really was a genius. But not here. Not in this place that reminded him of the cost of his intelligence.
"There has to be something."
How long did it take to harden a heart? He hated himself for what he was about to say.
"There are going to be kids like that on every corner. Adults too. We don't have enough food or resources to do a damned thing to help. It's best if you try not to see them."
Doyle looked at him as if he had become a stranger. "How can you say that?"
"Because I lived this, Doyle," he snapped. Doyle recoiled and he regret his outburst.
"I don't want to say it, but Harper is right," Beka said, coming up beside them. "We need to keep moving and do what we came here to do. I want to put a stop to this, but we have to take it one day at a time."
Doyle shook her head at both of them. "It will be too late for this one."
She turned away reluctantly. Harper's heart twisted at the look in her eyes and against his better judgement he found himself digging a protein bar and a water ration out of his backpack. As the two women trekked forward, he veered off. The child looked up at him, wary.
"Here kid. I know I don't have to tell you to eat it slow," he said, kneeling down with his offering outstretched. The child took it from him, holding the packages carefully. No words of thanks, but he could see the gratitude in those eyes. He felt no sense of accomplishment. No warm fuzzies. He knew what kind of life awaited a child alone on the streets. A tiny morsel was a small favor.
Doyle's eyes were on him when he rejoined the group. She gave him a grateful smile. He didn't say anything and made it a point to look only forward and down as he plodded after Beka, one foot in front of the other, trying not to remember the streets of Boston littered with children just like that. Trying to forget the distended bellies of his cousin's kids. He was eighteen and the Dragons had blocked relief supplies in response to a minor uprising. He tried to keep away the face of the man he had clubbed in a back alley. The man who had stolen a fist sized hunk of moldy cheese meant to feed those children. He never knew if he had killed him. Never wanted to know the true amount of blood on his hands. Doubtless, too much.
They made a left turn at the end of the road, followed for a few blocks, then made a right, descending deeper and deeper into hell. Fearful eyes followed them. Hands rested on weapons hidden beneath layers of dirty rags, ready to defend what little they had. He and Beka kept their eyes blinded. Did not engage. He reached out and grabbed Doyle's hand, her tiny grunts of disgust telling him how much this was affecting her. She had not heeded his advice, continuing with eyes open, absorbing it all.
Perhaps he should have programmed her with a colder heart, but he loved her compassion. It had grown with each passing year, evolving far beyond her original programming, partnering with an innate sense of justice to make one amazing woman. Problem was, both emotions were a liability in a place like New Burke, where holding on to even a drop of faith in humanity was a sign of madness.
"We're almost there," he said, giving her hand a squeeze. At least, they were almost to the sector Jace's family allegedly lived. No telling whether they were there or not, or what obstacles they would face getting to them.
"This is wrong," she replied.
"Tell me something I don't know." If his tone was a little sarcastic, he could not be blamed. If he never saw another human ghetto in his entire life, it would be too soon. Doyle squeezed his hand in return.
"If this is what your childhood was like, perhaps I am better off not having one. You told me, but I had no idea. It didn't really sink in."
He let out a huff and motioned to their surroundings with his free hand. "Yeah, this is something you can only understand if you experience it. Refugee camps. Ghettos. It doesn't matter. All are the same level of suck. But at least they were better than the labor camps. Better to die on your own two feet then in chains."
Doyle stopped walking and looked over to him. "That's horrible."
"That's the way it is here." He started moving again, pulling her along with him so Beka didn't get too far ahead. The other woman had not said a word since they left the child behind, the grim set of her face said that she was holding plenty back. Now was not the time to ponder the inherent unfairness of the Universe. As she explained on the Maru before they started, a successful mission would set a precedent in negotiating with other prides, prove to them she was serious.
And it made him love Beka more. Because she did not have to take on the plight of the slaves. She did not have to make her job harder. Yet she did it, because Beka always stuck up for the little guys. Stuck up for those that could not stick up for themselves. Screw authority and anyone who told her it wasn't possible.
"This is it," Beka said after a few more minutes, stopping in front of a pile of rubble. The building Rommie's intel had directed them to was nothing more than the burned out shell of a warehouse, the metallic walls that were still standing blackened with acrid soot. Beka and Doyle exchanged confused glances, but Harper visually scanned the area.
There, hidden behind some barrels, was an entrance, likely leading to the basement. He tapped Beka's arm and pointed, putting a finger up to his lip. They needed to proceed cautiously. If not manned with guns, there would be a booby trap or two to give the residents enough warning about intruders. Real estate was hard to come by, expensive, and heavily defended. Beka and Doyle put their hands on their guns without drawing, standing alert.
He pulled out his multi-tool and tapped a few commands, looking for the identity signatures they had on file for Jace's family. Nothing but static.
"I can't tell if they are here. They're jamming the signal," he whispered.
Good for them. One of the first things he'd had done after leaving Earth was have his identity chip, mandatory for food rations in refugee camps, surgically removed. Identity chips were often used by the Dragons to draw lots for stints in the labor camps, or to hunt down people they wanted to disappear. There were those in the ghettos who boasted of their ability to get rid of them, but without access to proper medical facilities, most people opted to mask their signal instead of creating unnecessary risks of infection.
"Let's move in and check it out. Doyle, cover us," Beka ordered. Doyle took cover in the shadows and drew her gun, eyes locked on the location of the basement entrance. Harper and Beka moved out slowly, taking small steps, and holding their hands in front of them to show they meant no harm.
He heard the unmistakable click of a gauss gun switching on right as he saw a figure dressed in the style he lovingly called 'post apocalyptic chic'—multiple stained layers with leather patches and reinforcements—step out from the shadows. Even under those layers he could tell she was too thin. Hadn't had a good meal in months. If ever.
"Keep those hands where I can see them. What's a group of well fed collaborators doing this deep in the ghetto?"
"If you tell my bots what to do, they can do the harvesting for you," Rommie said as she approached Trance, careful not to frighten her friend, who was bent over the bed of strawberry plants, fingers deftly moving through the leaves, pulling ripe berries and setting them in a basket, already half full beside her. The plants, already blooming when they arrived, had taken well to Trance's care and little by little she'd managed to collect a sizeable number of ripe berries to put in stasis for the surprise she had been planning for Harper. Rommie reminded Trance every so often that she did not need to do as much manual labor as she did, but Trance preferred to work with her hands.
"Rommie!" Trance exclaimed, looking up, a genuine friendly smile on her face.
Rommie extended a tray of tea, small sandwiches, and Trance's favorite pastries—added last minute to this morning's menu—forward before setting it down on the plant bed wall. "I brought tea and snacks. You haven't been to the Mess since breakfast, and that was hours ago."
Trance raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't we be heading to the gym on Deck 14? I am not looking forward to weights, but I was going to head up in a minute."
"I thought you could use a break, and we have not had a lot of time to just hang out lately," Rommie said with a smile, taking a seat beside the tray. She did have ulterior motives, but her words were not a complete lie. Trance had been her evening companion for a number of years. Those evenings had meant more to Rommie than she had known. She missed her friend.
Trance moved around and took a seat next to the food, eying it with interest. She must have been hungry. For three days now she'd returned all of her meals to the recycler half eaten, relying on the shakes she choked down with no enjoyment to meet her calorie goals. True, they were adequate nutrition and if necessary she could live off of them, but Rommie had observed that organics took pleasure in eating, and Trance had enjoyed consuming food even when she did not need to. If the standard menu was not working, perhaps adding Trance's favorites would.
It was nice to have cooks again.
It was nice to have a crew again.
Trance narrowed her eyes, uncharacteristic suspicion crossing her face so quick, Rommie might have missed it if she were not programmed to observe minute changes in body language.
"What is it?"
"I'm sorry. It's nothing." While the suspicion had melted from her features, it now found purchase in tense shoulders. She picked up a kiva fruit and cheese sandwich, but did not take a bite. "Thank you for the food."
"Something is bothering you. You can tell me."
Trance twisted her shoulders back and forth, then looked over. "Did Dylan send you to talk to me?"
She should have considered Trance might think of her as a messenger. She had been in the past. That was not why she was here, though. Dylan and Trance would work through this, as they had worked through their differences of opinions and betrayals of trust before. Of that, she was confident. There were other, more pressing concerns on Rommie's mind.
"No, Dylan did not send me. I came as a friend. Since you injured your wrist yesterday while working out, I did not think it was wise to irritate it further today. The jogging you logged earlier will be sufficient for today. You are exhausted, and in no condition to push yourself further."
Trance's injury had been sustained during a Beka Valentine style showdown with the punching bag on Deck 14. The punching bag won this time. Not the first time Trance had forgotten herself, but the first time no one else had been present. She must have thought to hide it—a lie by omission. But, it was difficult to hide anythings from an AI.
Surprise was quickly replaced with a defensive squaring of her shoulders, her eyes flicking unconsciously to her left wrist, giving her away. Trance had never been as good at hiding her body language from Rommie as she believed she was, though more a testament to how strong her emotions were than a lack of skill. The signs were subtle, even to Rommie's trained eye.
"It is just a minor sprain. I was able to treat it with the supplies I had in my room. The muscle knitting nanobots are helping repair the damage. It hardly hurts today."
Rommie gave a quick nod, acknowledging the attempted brush off. "Your pain threshold is getting higher and your body appears to heal quicker than a human's. Your metabolism seems to rival a heavy worlder's, but built more for speed and agility than strength. I think that is why you sleep and eat more than typical humans," she said. Then, before Trance could use it to justify continuing to push herself recklessly, she crossed her arms across her chest, face a serious mask and added, "However, pain is the body's way of telling you it needs to rest, even with a high pain threshold, and you have been getting little of that. In approximately two weeks, the muscle knitting bots will lose their effectiveness. You will need to rely on your own abilities to gain strength. It is better to learn to listen to your body now, before you have no choice."
Trance put the sandwich back on the plate without taking a bite. She studied Rommie's face appraisingly, then giggled softly, shaking her head. Not the response Rommie expected.
Her brow wrinkled. "What?"
"It is odd to be the one being doctored. You and Doyle have done a wonderful job. I was just comparing your styles. She sugar coats things a little more."
Rommie raised an eyebrow. A fair assessment. Doyle was more prone to human behaviors like hiding difficult messages in prettier words. Rommie believed the truth should be told regardless of discomfort. But, perhaps given Trance's current emotional state, Doyle's method was better? Over the years, she had learned a great deal about organics and their emotions, but there were gaps in her knowledge.
"Do you require sugar coating?" she asked to clarify.
Another laugh. "No, Rommie. It was just an observation. It is, perhaps, best that you don't. You are right, I need to slow down. I have been impatient." Trance prodded her wrist with a tender, practiced touch, then she smiled. "Even without the nanobots, it will be better in a couple of days. I suppose I can hold off on anything that will tax it until then."
She turned her attention to the tray again and instead of grabbing another sandwich she busied herself preparing a cup of herbal tea.
At least Trance attempted to stay positive, even if it hid her true feelings sometimes. A positive attitude was an essential part of recovery. Harper once told Rommie 'you have to fake it until you make it.' He was talking about picking up women, and at a success rate of exactly 2.08%—by her count—she did not believe that particular strategy to be working for him. But, it fit Trance's situation well. Still, there was ample evidence mounting that Trance needed much more than a positive attitude.
"Trance, I am concerned. You seem worried. Distracted." It was more than that, but Rommie wanted to ease in with the understanding it was going to be difficult and uncomfortable for Trance to confront these issues. Though she hid it well behind her smiles and deflections, her mental health appeared to be deteriorating. Harper had been the first to bring up his concerns, but they they aligned with her own observations.
Out of an abundance of caution, Trance was passively monitored for sudden changes in her life signs since several times a day she came into contact with, or consumed, items her body had never been exposed to before. So far, these scans had not revealed any allergies, but instead showed an escalating trend of acute stress responses—often at night, and usually when Trance was alone, though not always.
Two nights ago her heart and respiration rates had changed enough for Rommie to be alerted, but Harper had stepped in and his methods had calmed her. That event, paired with the data she had gathered, was indicative of a larger problem, one that needed to be addressed immediately.
"I guess I am," Trance said, not elaborating further. She stood and returned to her previous occupation of berry picking. She reached out and rubbed the petals of a blossom then turned her attention to some wilted leaves, picking them off with care.
After, she knelt still, hands on the bed wall, head bent as if in prayer, a deep frown forming on her face, worries moving to the surface. Rommie moved to her friend, putting a hand on her shoulder.
"What are you thinking? Talking might help," she said.
Trance blinked her eyes into focus and looked up at Rommie. Her lips twitched, wrinkles forming on her forehead, pupils darting back and forth as she watched Rommie's face.
"I promise whatever you tell me will remain between the two of us so long as it does not threaten the safety of the crew." Rommie said as she set down beside Trance.
Trance nodded, then pulled herself up beside Rommie, keeping her back straight. Rommie engaged privacy mode with a thought.
"I have seen all of you die hundreds of times." Trance's tone was hushed and as serious as her words were surprising. Had it been anyone else murmuring them, Rommie would have thought it hyperbole, but she did not doubt Trance spoke the truth.
"In what you call probability waves?" she asked.
"Yes, most of them. Hundreds of possible deaths for each of you, and one real one for everyone, but Beka." Trance folded her hands on her lap. She seemed unable to figure out where to look and settled on her hands.
"The alternate timeline you came back from?"
Trance nodded again. "I don't remember much about that future since Seefra, but I remember the beginning clearly. More than I wish to. That is where everything started to go so wrong."
"What happened?"
"In that future, Harper didn't make it into the Machine Shop on time. We arrived around the same time, like we did in this timeline, only it took Beka, Harper, and me longer. He was in more pain than I can even imagine when we arrived. It was too late, they were hatching."
Rommie felt goosebumps forming on her arms, a sensation she would never find comfortable was at a loss to explain how Harper had done it. Trance continued to keep her gaze down.
"Tyr was the one who took his life, in the end, and Beka held him as he died. Tyr said he made a promise to Harper, but I think he ultimately did it to save Dylan's soul."
Over the last year, Trance had been quick to tears, but none fell now. Trance's tearless, stoic stance told Rommie more than tears would have. Trance had internalized this story. It had become a part of her, ingrained in her memory banks—one of the components that made up her personality matrix.
Trance looked up now, meeting Rommie's eyes. "After, I had you take him to Med Deck where we made him whole again. But, he wasn't Harper anymore. That spark of life, that bit of Harper that is so unlike anyone I have ever met, was gone." She took a deep breath. A knot formed above her nose as her frown deepened. "I thought he should be somewhere beautiful while we decided what to do with his body, so we put him in Obs where he could rest among the stars while everyone said their goodbyes.
"Dylan came first. Then Tyr. You sent a message to Rev, though we knew it would not reach him for several days.
"Beka did not come for a long time. I sat by Harper's side. I could not leave him alone, even for a moment. I waited for her to come, because I knew she needed to see him one last time before we buried him. Late in the night, when I had almost given up hope, she showed. Her face was so broken. So raw with pain….
"I had not cried yet, but when I stepped into the hallway to give Beka some space, I finally lost it. Perhaps it was Beka. Perhaps it had finally settled in. I don't know how long I cried, but at some point Beka came out and sat beside me and held me until I was done."
For a moment, Rommie tried to imagine the Universe without Harper. Her sister AIs had known the ship without him, had been cared for by other engineers, but she had been created by his hands. He had been a constant presence in her life. Andromeda would accuse her of sentimentality, but Rommie knew his loss would leave an empty place in them all. They would be lying if they said it would not.
She reached out to Trance and placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezed gently, let her know that she was there. Trance had been carrying these memories alone for so many years. Unlike an AI, there was no locking them away or erasing them. How much more did Trance keep hidden away in the darkest parts of her mind?
"After Beka left, I prepared his body for burial. He is not religious, so I used the traditions of my people. I lit candles around him, because we believe that you should never be shrouded in darkness. I wrapped his body in white sheets, then went to hydroponics and gathered the most beautiful flowers from Earth I could find, because we also believe that you should be kept close to your system, and we were far from Earth. I sat with him all night. You sat beside me. Together we held a silent vigil. The next day, the Dragons wouldn't let us anywhere near Earth. So, in the end, we gave his body to the sun."
Trance reached out and grabbed a strawberry from the nearby basket, alternatively twisting it between her fingers and rubbing its bumpy surface. Fidgeting.
"Harper was loved more than he's ever understood. We all blamed ourselves. You for the program that brought us to the Worldship. Beka because she had taken him off Earth. Dylan for bringing him onto Andromeda. And Tyr… He blamed himself for being the hand that killed him, as if in those last few minutes there could have been any other result." Here Trance paused and Rommie was certain the tears were going to fall. They didn't. When she spoke again, her voice broke. "But it wasn't anyone's fault, but mine."
"You blamed yourself for something completely out of your control? You were able to see possible futures, but I never got the impression that you were omniscient and you certainly weren't omnipotent. It was not your fault."
Trance didn't say anything at first, just twirled the strawberry in her hands. Round and round. She looked up at Rommie, eyes unwavering, face smooth, but expression still gravely serious.
"It was, though. I wanted to save him, could have saved him if I had all of my powers, but the Nebula had bound them, leaving me with only my sight. Even then, I knew of other possibilities, other ways to make sure he survived, but each one of those paths took me further from my goals. From my people's goals. I begged them to let me explore other options, but they refused. Harper's role in the perfect possible future was always expendable. So, I followed their command, and I let him die.
"Rommie, it killed me inside. He was my best friend, the first person in my entire life who I could truly call a peer, and I let him die because of orders."
Here, she let out a dejected laugh, half her mouth pulling into a cheerless smile. "I lost my sparkle. Everyone noticed. They tried to cheer me up. Told me they knew how close Harper and I were. Even Beka. Poor, broken Beka tried to put a smile on my face. But it was like I had forgotten how. It didn't matter, in the end. Two months later, everyone but Beka was dead."
Rommie still could not see how Harper's death had been Trance's fault, though she understood why Trance blamed herself. The effects on soldiers who had to carry out difficult orders during wartime were well documented in a number of species. Most emotional sentients were subject to survivor's guilt, depression, and post-traumatic stress, even AIs.
When Trance continued, her tone had changed, taking on the deeper, harder notes that were common shortly after she returned from the future. "The longer I was with Beka in that other future, the more I dreamed. The more I patched her up and turned her into my puppet, the more disillusioned I grew with the Nebula. I fought against their will. Eventually, as I aged, my powers returned to me. I began to dream further, to seek out more and more improbable futures. I was going to save Harper, and then I was going to keep him safe. I was going to defeat the abyss and keep all of you safe. And I did, for a while."
Rommie stood again, pulled her arms behind her back and paced, processing Trance's words, calculating what to say, what to ask. She wanted to pull Trance back to the present. These intrusive thoughts and memories had a present day trigger, and a few theories surfaced.
"You are worried about the mission, about Harper? You cannot protect him, and you cannot rely on your visions to reassure you he is safe?" she asked. Trance put the strawberry back in the basket, then nodded slowly.
"I cannot protect anyone anymore."
"It is not your job to protect us. We are a crew. We work together to protect each other, and Harper knows how to take care of himself. He would not have survived on Earth if he did not."
"I know Rommie, but I feel like I should be able to. I am so afraid of losing everyone," she whispered.
Rommie decided it was time to address what she had come to address.
"Trance, I need to ask you something, and want you to know there is no judgement in my question, only a desire to help."
Trance gave a small nod as permission to continue, eyeing Rommie warily.
"Do you understand what is happening to you? Medically speaking?"
Trance stood suddenly. "We should walk. I feel like I need to move and I have some work to do in the Vedran section before we arrive on Tarn Vedra. I've been in contact with the horticulture specialists the Commonwealth has sent from Xinti and they are very interested in the specimens we have onboard. A few might even be useful to reintroduce during phase one of the restoration."
Rommie nodded her agreement, following Trance's lead as she began to move through the gardens. Trance hadn't needed to explain. Rommie knew the details of the work Trance was doing, but let Trance speak anyway.
As they passed the large tree at the center of hydroponics—a Vedran "luck" tree, so called by humans because its real name was too hard to pronounce, and because it had played a central role in ancient rituals on the plains of Tarn Vedra meant to bestow long life and prosperity—Trance reached up her hand to the leaves, allowing them to brush against her skin as they moved past. Rommie found herself entertaining the fanciful notion that some of the trees luck might rub off on her friend and make life a little easier.
"Trance?" she pressed after a few moments. Trance was a gifted healer and introspective enough that Rommie would be surprised if she did not know and was just uncomfortable admitting it.
"Yes, I understand what is happening," Trance answered, eyes downcast. "Nightmares, pervasive recurrent memories, and now panic attacks. They are classic symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."
"How long have you suspected?"
Trance stopped in front of a flower bed where a few bell shaped blossoms drooped. If she were a more sentimental android, which she was not, she might even say that they looked as if they were in mourning. A few of their dark green leaves were curled and lined with brown, indicating a problem with the environmental controls or a disease in the plant itself. Trance concentrated a concerned frown on the flowers in much the same way she did a sick patient, felt the soil, and tapped a few commands into a control panel, adjusting the water output and making a note to remind her to check on them in twenty-four hours. Rommie knew she was not being ignored so she waited.
"It crossed my mind after the first few nightmares that I should keep an eye on myself, but I was convinced I was managing all right. It is natural to feel a number of things after a long illness and a loss like mine."
Trance made it sound like the loss of a friend, not the loss of an essential part of herself, political and literal exile, a vastly shortened lifespan, and physical weakness. A loss that required a complete reshuffling of her identity and long term rehabilitation. Each of those changes, taken alone, came with well documented struggles and higher risks of depression and other mental illnesses, much less combined.
"Yes. It is natural, but some losses are greater than others and have a greater impact. That you are able to function at such a high level and have come so far in such short time is a testament to your resilience. There is no shame in needing help." Rommie said, and then added, "Or medical intervention."
They stopped in front of a large rack with rows of Vedran plants. Many had been relocated from different sections in the last week, preparing for their first trip back to Tarn Vedra since it rejoined the known worlds.
"I don't know how to help myself, and that frightens me," Trance admitted, then after a beat with fingers extending and retracting at her sides, added, "I was also afraid that if I mentioned the escalation of symptoms that it would delay my return to duty."
Rommie gave Trance a small smile she hoped was reassuring, looking her friend in the eyes. "I do not believe that would be wise. You do not need to fear that. As for where to start, sleep seems like the easiest symptom to address. I believe most medications that work on humans will work on you if the dosage is properly titrated. I have compiled a list of a few formulas for you to look through. You have not slept well since moving from Med Deck, and you know how important restorative sleep is."
Trance gave a quick surprised, and shell-shocked nod. Rommie continued, "The panic attacks are something else we can look at. I am already watching your lifesigns, I can help you recognize when your body is reacting to stressors so we can explore your thought process and identify triggers. I am reluctant to suggest long term medications at this time since I don't believe we have enough data to know what your brain chemistry is supposed to be, but I have also flagged a few medications that may stop a panic attack if it is caught before it happens."
"I don't know what to say," Trance said, then after a beat added, "Thank you. You are a wonderful friend, Rommie. It isn't easy to approach someone you are worried about, no matter how prepared you are."
Trance's shoulders tightened again, her mind following an invisible thread somewhere else. Rommie felt her lips curl into a thin smile, guessing the thread stretched across galaxies to the Kepler system, to someone else whose mental health also needed evaluation. Someone far more set in his ways and much less compliant than Trance. Something else that needed to be addressed.
"Trance, I have one more question for you. If you do not feel comfortable answering, it is all right, but I think it is relevant to our conversation. I promise the answer will remain between you and me. Not even Dylan will find out."
Trance narrowed her eyes, confused and concerned. "Should I sit down for this?"
"If it will make you more comfortable," Rommie replied.
Eying her nervously, Trance moved to the nearest bench.
"What's up?"
Rommie sat down beside her and decided direct was the best route. "What are your feelings for Harper?"
A number of expressions crossed Trance's face in quick succession. Her fingers began to move, tapping the bench. Her mouth fell open, then closed again. She met Rommie's eyes for a second and looked down at her lap. She finally fell still and Rommie was certain she was not going to answer. It had been a long shot question.
Trance shook her head and swallowed, pressing her lips tightly together. Even without an answer, Rommie had enough data to know that she was on the right track.
Looking up, Trance said with another shake of her head, "Confused. Like they have always been."
Rommie caught Trance's eyes, held her gaze, hoping her expression conveyed the care and support she wanted Trance to feel.
"It might be beneficial to try and clarify those feelings. It might help you understand the source and depth of some of your fears." Rommie said gently.
Trance's brow wrinkled. "So, you are saying that I should consider a romantic relationship with Harper?" Trance asked, in all seriousness. It occurred to Rommie that Trance must have already been thinking along these lines.
She raised an eyebrow and sat up a little straighter. "No. I did not say that. But it is interesting that you did."
