How do you speak about Tarsus? It was worse, in every way, except for the noise. Worse than everything I could tell. Only one thing helped me survive, one single thought: I shouldn't have been there. It was my mother's fault, my brother's, my stepfather's. Even my father's. If he hadn't died, if he hadn't decided to be a hero, I would have a normal childhood on Earth. I would not have been left to starve on a planet far from everything. I hated them all and I decided I wouldn't die just to piss them off.

Today, I know it's not that simple. Maybe in another universe, I would have gone to Tarsus, earlier or later. Maybe I did. It's a question I'll never ask, even if someone out there could answer me. What's the point? I was there.

I shouldn't have been there, but I was, and with me 8,234 other people. I know the numbers by heart. They turn in my head at night. There were 8,235 people on Tarsus when it began. When help finally came, there were 3,977 survivors. 3,958 of them were supposed to live, by Kodos's design. 19 were supposed to be already dead. By his orders, too. At the last commemoration, I heard someone say that we should be happy so many survived.

But the numbers are wrong. There are not 3,977 survivors, only 2,421. 125 died in the three weeks after Starfleet arrived. Malnutrition, you know? What a bitch. 36 more have been placed somewhere with people to take proper care of them. A nice way to say they're locked up in an institution. Their minds decided it was easier to stop caring about pretty much everything except breathing. Sometimes, I envy them. What about all these other dead that no one mentions? Suicides, mostly.

I say there are 2,421 survivors. I may be wrong. How long have we been here, ten days? Easy to lose track of time. It stretches so much down here, in the trenches. Let's say ten days. Numbers have probably changed. Another suicide, another stupid accident, another heroic sacrifice. So many ways to voluntarily end your life without appearing to.

No, I am not one of those. I know, I know. Hard to believe, right? With how I act, you have my permission to believe that, but I'm not. I am a bit of a daredevil, that's all. I'm not trying to get killed in action, but I need the action itself. Unhealthy? Maybe. When adrenaline overwhelms you, it's easier to forget everything else, all the pain, all the memories you have to drag behind you. You are free. You are alive. When there is nothing to wake me up, I'm not even sure I'm alive. I'm just a survivor struggling for the next breath of air.

I knew more or less 231 people on Tarsus. Told you, I know the numbers. I can't forget them. There'll be there in my head till the moment I die. The people I knew? Good people and complete assholes, basically. Teachers, farmers, merchants, classmates, men, women, children, humans, and non-humans. They were just people, and in the end, they were just names to be put on one list or the other. I don't even know all their names. Some I knew only by sight, like that guy who passed every day at 7. a.m. in front of my window. His humming woke me half the time. That kind of person. Strangers, but real people. After, I looked at the lists and the holos. I needed to learn every name, every face. Of these 231 people, 127 died. I was close to 28 of them. I respected some of them. I was friends with a few. Had a grudge against some others. 7 survived. The others were "a threat to the well-being of our society", and "not valid members of the colony". Kodos' words.

These are the numbers, those you can find in reports and those we repeat to ourselves each day and night. They're important. They're also dangerous. Numbers change people into statistics. Take me for example. I'm a percentage. A tiny line on a big chart. One of the 8,235 people living on Tarsus when we began to starve. One of the 3,977 survivors, one of the 2,421 current survivors, and one of the 4,000 sentenced to death.

Don't look at me like that, Uhura. What difference does it make if I was on one list or another? Whether I am on the left or right column these killers wrote?

But yes, I was condemned to death. One day, I did the math. I saw Spock doing it in his head. You can stop, Spock. Let me tell you. 0.012. There you go. That's how lucky I was to escape.

Numbers rationalize what cannot be described. They don't tell a story. They don't help you understand. You can just nod and say useless things. "How awful." "Never again." I imagine that's what they said after the Verdun trenches or the Treblinka showers.

Truth is, there are no words to explain Tarsus, so we must use numbers. It was not genocide. Kodos designated us for reasons other than race or skin color. It was not an ethnocide either. Slaughter? Yes, but the word doesn't tell you the organization behind it. Barbarity? The word lost its relevance long ago. Humanity invented so many words to explain what it is capable of. The 20th century provided us with many words. Holocaust. Final solution. Shoah. Porajmos. We can't use them for Tarsus. Not because it was worse! I'm not saying that and you can't compare two horrors. Perhaps we should use the words of executioners and judges. "Systematic extermination of half the population". That's the Federation's expression. Kodos called it "execution".

But neither these words nor numbers can tell what Tarsus was.

It was Tarsus. That's the only thing I've been able to say since then. Only silence can talk about the horror, the screams, the tears. You cannot talk about it. You can only live it. But here and now, perhaps I can try.

Tarsus was different from this trench. At least we had water. We could move. We could fight to survive, run, scream, steal, hide. I did it. We all did. Tarsus was as much a prison as this muddy trench, just a bigger one. But Tarsus was still worse, because it was even slower and because we always had some hope that there would be food in the next house, an animal to kill a little farther in the woods. And the water kept us alive a little longer.

Alright. I will try to find the words to talk about it. Give me a second.

Tarsus was a paradise. That's the impression I had when I arrived. Before, I had only left Iowa for brief travels to San Francisco, and only to see the cemetery and the Starfleet campus. You know how it is? That feeling you get when you set foot for the first time on a planet? No matter how many times you do it, it's still unreal. You're in another place, mentally and physically. You're on the other side of the rainbow.

In reality, Tarsus was no different from other colonies. There were cereal fields and small farms, forests, mountains, and swamps. After Iowa's huge wheat fields, these small farmhouses and tiny fields made quite a bucolic picture. And the trees. They were amazing, twisted things. Sometimes twice as high as Earth's ones, with incredible shapes and colors. Brown and grey leaves, like the cursed forests of children's tales. Most children stayed away from them.

It was spring when I arrived but it was August on Earth. I was supposed to stay there for a month. Three weeks later, I asked my mother to extend my stay. In fact, she didn't even respond to me, just sent her authorization to the school, but I was happy nonetheless. Tarsus fields were growing rapidly. Three months after my arrival, we would have a harvest. You should have seen it. Fruits on every tree, cereals taller than man... We gifted kids - but I'm moving too fast. I was in a school for gifted children who couldn't blend in because we were brilliant but lazy or cheeky, or angry like me. There were several farm-schools in the colony. Teachers moved from one place to another. We were around fifteen children and six adults. We did equations in the morning and worked in the fields in the afternoon. I learned to fish, repair a net or an engine, sow grain, assemble a communicator. Teachers treated us like children when we needed to be and like adults when we showed them we could be. The respect and love we got from them, it was...

So. We waited for the harvest. Kids that were there the year before described the fruits' size. And the feast! I was so eager to see it for myself. We were so focused on the fruit trees that we didn't notice the problem until it was too late. No one did. But someday, someone finally noticed some dead plants in a field. We took care of the problem and treated the others, but a few days later it happened again. We had that teacher, an agronomy specialist. She examined some samples under her microscope. I will always remember how she froze. I remember thinking something was wrong.

She left that evening to speak to the leaders of the colony, with her samples. She never came back.

I can see your faces. You wonder what happened to her. I still do. But the next day, three men came. They told us there was a problem with the crops and that woman, Eva Nowak, was planning to stay in town to solve it. They came to take some things she needed to continue her work. They asked questions to us, the children and teenagers, to find out if she talked about her discoveries to us. I didn't like their insistence.

I believe she was still alive at the time. They must have hoped she would solve the problem. They just didn't want panic to spread in the colony and that's why they took her work. But did you know? There were two calls for help sent from the capitol. One was anonymous, the second was official. Perhaps Doctor Nowak paid with her life for that anonymous call, the one that was ignored because it looked like a bad joke.

Her body was found, after, in an administration building's basement. They built a wall to hide her body. According to the autopsy, she was shot in the head. She wasn't even buried. Were these people in the right when they decided to hide things to avoid panic? I don't know. But it was our doom. The next week, wheat was harvested everywhere. On our farm, too. There didn't seem to be any other contaminated plants so we didn't worry. And we trusted Dr. Nowak.

So we harvested the wheat and sent it to the city. The colony operated on a fair share of food. Everything was stored there. All three hundred farms sent their harvest to four storage locations. The investigation showed about fifteen farms were affected by the mold. Unfortunately, each of the storage sites received crops from these farms.

It wasn't too late then, I think. They could have... I don't know. When the agronomists discovered the infestation, they should have alerted the farmers and told them not to send the next harvest in town, to preserve what they could. They didn't.

This you know. It's in every report and history book. And us? We were playing and learning. I began to suspect something was wrong when I saw adults talking in low voices. They looked worried.

After harvesting the wheat, it was time to harvest the fruits and vegetables. Trucks came to the farm to take them and it was not the normal procedure. The trucks took everything, despite adults' protests.

I told you there were six of them. A couple of farmers, to take care of the farm and our well-being. Some of us wished they were their parents. Not me. I didn't want parents, thank you very much. I had enough trouble with my family. But I still like them very much. The other four were a psychologist, three teachers, and scientists who moved from one school to the other. Brilliant people, all of them. They left with the trucks. They had orders to go, to solve a scientific problem. They left willingly. I think they were getting an idea of what was going on and wanted to protest before the government.

They never did. The day after, we learned that the collegiate government of Tarsus had been disbanded for its incompetence and a governor had been appointed. Named by whom? It's still a mystery. His portrait was not released.

It was Kodos.

No one knew who he was. He was not a government member, nor a scientist. Even today we don't know who the man was. We only have his name registered in the colony manifesto. A man without a past, who destroyed the future of more than 8,000 people.

In the evening there was another transmission from the capitol. Kodos proclaimed martial law and requisitioned all the food on the planet. But you also know this.

I still remember every word. And that voice... It was low and deep, the voice of an actor and politician, each word meant to kick you in the stomach and force you to listen and approve. I will never forget that voice. He meant to charm us and succeeded. No one rebelled. Twice a day, at noon and in the evening, Kodos promised the Federation had been called, that help was on the way and we only had to be brave for the time being. And we agreed.

The teachers had left, and there were no more classes. It was summer and I should have seen what was going on. Do not look at me like that. Yes, I was only thirteen. Sometimes, I wake up wanting to scream. I was only thirteen and I was supposed to make decisions to save my life, to save... But even at thirteen, I should have seen it. I will never think otherwise.

The lack of food didn't happen overnight. First, we couldn't have dessert, then fruits and vegetables were of lower quality. Each day, the Kheloufian, the farmers, came back from the market with increasingly empty baskets. We still had enough to eat. Hard to believe it today, but people took care of each other and everyone agreed children had priority.

We weren't afraid. The Federation was coming, and Kodos was taking care of us.

Funny. The numbers can't leave my head, but the dates are fuzzy. I cannot say if it had been two weeks or one month since Dr. Nowak left, but one day, the trucks returned to take everyone into town. Governor Kodos wanted to make sure everyone had their share in these difficult times. He said we needed a medical examination to see who should have priority. I got into the first truck with seven other children. The Kheloufians and the youngest went into the second truck.

We got to town and I knew something bad, really wrong was in progress. I had no interest in history. I preferred mechanics, mathematics, and literature. If I had known 20th-century Earth better, maybe I would have recognized the signs. But no one had an interest in it, then. Everyone knew it was the best example of humanity's failures, but no one could have explained the mechanisms of terror.

People in black, the Kodos militia, who had been keeping order since the man took control of the colony asked us our names. They gave us a plaque with a number and a place to go. Everything was confusing. No one understood the logic. Of course, it was by design. I saw two siblings staying together while the third was sent across town. People tried to protest, but the militiamen were good at calming them. They told us everything would be explained at our destination, so we went.

Of the eight of us, only one girl stayed with me. We were sent to a school where we got separated. Other people were waiting. A few people were writing our first and last names. The woman I told my name looked sick when I did. She recognized it, of course. She mumbled that there must have been a mistake. That's when I understood that whatever was going on, I was on the wrong side. The woman recovered quickly and continued with her questions. They all revolved around my studies and allergies. Finally, she pressed an ink pad on my hand with the number two and a new address for me to go to.

Her hand was shaking.

This woman survived. She apologized to everyone who survived despite that fateful number two, and to the families of those who didn't. She committed suicide two years later. I think she threw herself under a train.

My friend and I were separated. Behind me, there was this tiny kid, snot on his nose, all alone. He got the number two and had to go to the same place as me, so I took him by the hand. I was no longer thinking clearly at this point. No one did. I have no idea how we got to the rallying point, but we did.

Ironically, Kodos used the four storage centers, emptied of infested food, for his plans. They were the only places large enough to accommodate five hundred people at once. They also used swimming pools and sports complexes. The kid and I were sent to a storage center. There was this huge room, and militiamen were rushing us inside. Just in front of us, someone tried to refuse. The militiamen rushed to subdue him and I saw my chance there. I pushed the child, Kevin, that Kevin, to the side. He was seven years old. I took him by the hand and forced him to follow. No one saw us leave, or no one talked. The adults now knew.

We hid. There was an open room, with a broom cupboard inside. I closed the door behind us and breathed. We were safe.

Just when I thought we would make it, the door opened again. I've never been more scared in my life. There was that man, wearing militia black. He said nothing and ushered five more children into the closet, then left. Later, I found out that after saving those kids, he walked into the sorting room and didn't come out. Not alive.

Later, an eternity later, we heard the voice, loud enough to be heard outside the sorting room. Kodos' speech was recorded beforehand and broadcast simultaneously in all killing places. I can still hear his words. He talked about revolution, about survival. He condemned us to death without the possibility to defend ourselves and signed this speech with his name. It's the worst, I think. He was not afraid to claim responsibility for his crime. He had just sentenced 4,000 people to death, the children and the elderly, his political rivals who could have identified him, the sick, the asthmatics, the allergics. He kept alive the strong and the workers, the builders, and the farmers and killed the artists and the teachers.

I heard screams. The children with me cried. Me too, probably.

We stayed hidden for a long time. We finally fall asleep, long after the screams stopped.

Hunger woke me up. I came out of my hiding place. I was terrified, but I was too hungry. The others followed me. I was the oldest, so they wanted to believe I knew what I was doing. I opened every door, hoping for food. One door would not open, so I had to force it. On the other side were lifeless bodies and that smell, that smell of piss and blood and sweat...

I heard footsteps and motioned for the children to lie among the dead. I recognized a few. Doctor Sato, who came to give us lessons. A merchant I used to buy sweets from. And that woman...

No. Enough of that. I remember, but you don't have to.

It was him. Kodos. He came to admire his work with his men. I can't tell if he looked satisfied or repentant and I don't remember what he said. I saw his face and recognized him. He was the man who asked us about Dr. Nowak's work, weeks before.

After they left, it took me a long time before I was brave enough to get up. The little ones followed me. I didn't know where I was going, just that we had to leave, that we couldn't be found.

Do you know how many people under the age of fifteen survived? Seventeen.

17 of the 932 children were sentenced to death. Of the 19 survivors of the 4,000 condemned to death, 17 were children. For these children, some adults found enough courage to act. There were hiding places and sacrifices. But not enough. Not enough.

We hid in the woods. I dared not ask anyone for help. Would we have been denounced? Who was responsible? Kodos or the community? I distrusted all adults at that time. I was right. In the end, we learned that Kodos had ordained to hunt the survivors. About 300 of the 4,000 survived, because they fled, hid, or were away from home. Kodos paid the snitches in food. It worked. The 300 were 19 the day the Federation came.

From now on, everyone was wary of their neighbors, particularly with the food rationing.

Hunger came. Everyone here knows what it is, but it is worse for a child. We entered empty houses, knowing the inhabitants were dead as we should have been, desperately searching for a scrap of bread to share. At first, I gave my share to the smaller ones. They needed to eat more than me. And yes, I did the same here. I can live with hunger. I already did. Maybe I'll die first because of it, but I won't have regrets. It may balance what I did then.

I told you, Tarsus was worse. There was nothing to eat, but who knows? The next house might contain a hidden treasure. Hope tore our stomachs as much as hunger. Tarsus stole everything from us, friendship, devotion, humanity. At one point, shortly before the end, I was so hungry I couldn't even think of the others, even these kids. I ate what I found, roots, herbs... Once, I killed a rabbit and ate it raw. I was sick for two days. After that, I couldn't even eat grass. I was too ashamed to have eaten without thinking of these six kids who were desperately waiting for me. Hernando died while I was sick. I covered his body with leaves. It didn't take much, he was so skinny. He starved to death while I vomited the food I kept for myself. I did that. It's a miracle no one else...

Kids. We were kids. Laouna was eleven, Darshan ten and a half, Georgia and Sylvia nine, Jean almost nine, and Kevin seven. The youngest survivor. Nothing but kids and I failed to keep them all alive.

And today, I'm falling again. Is it selfish to want to die first so I don't have to watch you die? I think it is.

When we lied down in the mud or on an empty house's sofa, we never fall asleep. We fainted instead. I couldn't sleep, afraid someone would surprise us. So to keep myself awake, I recited Kodos' words to myself. I still hear him sometimes when I wake up or when the room is too quiet. I hated him.

Hate. It kept me alive until the end, that and the thought the kids would be dead if I gave up.

What else could I say? I could tell you about the rain, the darkness, the fear, the desperate flight. I could tell you about the time we hoped and laughed despite everything, and the time when we couldn't move for hours because we were so hungry. I could tell the story about the time adults saw us and searched for us. They were ready to sell us to Kodos. "Seven children," one said. "Must be worth a loaf of bread or a few apples." We were afraid the gurgles in our bellies would betray us. They finally gave up and we stayed there, hidden in a thicket of thorns that tore at our clothes and skins for hours, too afraid they would return.

But it wouldn't change anything if I told you those stories. I wasn't brave, but I don't think I was a coward like some. I cried, I screamed, I ran. I did what it took to survive Tarsus. I'm still doing it right now. Sometimes I feel like I'm still running like I never left. It seems that I can finally stop.

I think I'll stop talking now, Spock. We're the only ones still awake. Uhura just fell asleep. She is so skinny. Me too, I know. We have no strength left. Sook it will be your turn. I'm sorry you'll have to watch our agony, Spock, so sorry. If Tarsus taught me anything, it is that watching others die is so much crueler than dying ourselves.

I still hope you'll hold out until help arrives. I need that last hope, Spock, because a world without you seems meaningless to me. Your friendship... I can't tell you how precious it has been to me. It still is, so try to hold on. Try for me, for us. I know, it is cruel to ask that of you, but I can't help it.

Thank you. Thank you, Spock, for listening and not asking questions. Believe me, I disgust myself enough. Don't judge me too badly for what I had to do there and for not having the guts to put an end to our misery here. Because after everything, I still hope someone will come, for you if not for us.

I'm going to stop talking now, Spock, if I find enough courage to shut up, because I'm scared now, really scared, for the first time since Tarsus. Please don't let go of my hand. Not before I fall asleep.

It won't be long, I swear. It won't be long.