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Mind Over Matter

Chapter Seven

At his signal, the guard took out the buckets and bag, leaving them alone. Kol turned away, ostensibly inspecting the puddles on the floor, for a long while.

"Where is Captain Lorca?" he finally asked without looking at her.

"I don't know," she answered for what felt like the thousandth time.

"There must have been standing orders in the case of his commanding officer's capture. What are they?"

She must not have been able to rinse off all the soap, because the skin on her arms had begun to itch under the jacket sleeves. Katrina folded them to prevent herself from scratching.

He turned back toward her. "Answer me!"

"No," she replied, and waited for the inevitable blow to come.

To her surprise, it didn't. With an inarticulate growl, he slammed his hand into the wall instead. It dented and cracked under the onslaught. "Why isn't Starfleet negotiating for your release?"

"Starfleet doesn't negotiate with terrorists."

"Terrorists?" He rounded on her. "Is that how you see us? As an illegitimate Empire?"

In retrospect, that word probably hadn't been the best choice. But she wasn't about to give him any ground. "How legitimate is any Empire that rules by fear and deception?"

"Deception? You stand there as a representative of the Federation, the ultimate deceivers, and offer such a criticism?" He scoffed. "You do not even comprehend your own lack of honor."

There didn't seem to be a good reply to that.

"No matter," he said after a moment. "You will still be useful to us in the end, one way or another. The only question is how. I had thought to offer you some choice in the matter, but you aren't even properly grateful for the opportunity to bathe. You certainly have not provided us with any useful intelligence."

"What would you think of one of your warriors, if he revealed information to the enemy?"

He scoffed again. "None of my warriors would have allowed themselves to be captured. As I said, you do not even comprehend your own lack of honor. Our discussions are at an end, as I have acquired some new equipment." He paused. "Tell me, Admiral, have you heard of our mind-sifter?"

"No."

"You will learn about it soon enough. As soon as I have a competent operator available, we will use it to extract the secrets you have been so unwilling to give up. I would delight in seeing your spirit broken at this realization, except that there is an unfortunate side effect." His smile was unpleasant. "You won't know. The subjects of interrogation with the mind-sifter often lose the capacity for rational thought."

"I'll take my chances."

"The mind-sifter has defeated minds far stronger than those of a human."

She took a long breath, swallowing her fear, understanding that he was attempting to manipulate her into changing her behavior. Refusing to give in, she mentally repeated the mantra that had come to sustain her during this experience: mind over matter.

Unless his words were an idle threat, though – something she doubted – it seemed the metaphor might become quite literal.

If their tale had been about a relationship, they might not have been willing to let their careers get in the way. But despite their foibles, they were both capable and ambitious officers. The carnival ring of accomplishment shone too brightly for either of them to ignore.

Katrina threw herself headlong into the new position, discovering that in some ways, working in the admiralty was more exhausting than being on the front lines. There was so much information to be processed and so many things she needed to learn. She quickly found herself days that stretched from eight hours into ten, and then ten into twelve, before she lost counting.

Human productivity waned after a certain point; she was well aware of that, of course. But that knowledge, too, was something she could use: she simply worked on more complex tasks first thing in the morning, when she was better rested. Besides, despite officially ignoring them, she was unofficially well aware of the rumors about her. She had been noticed, and potentially could be fast-tracked into her next promotion.

That, she decided, made pushing herself worth it, and before she realized it a year and a half had slipped past.

"I am surprised," Terral commented after an update, "that you have not requested any personal recreation time."

"There's too much to do."

He steepled his fingertips. "Did you not tell me that you are an expert on human performance factors, Admiral Cornwell?"

"Yes."

"Then, will you tell me, based on that expertise, whether or not humans are capable of functioning at peak levels for long periods of time, without taking a chance to rest?"

It was an obvious trap, and she damned herself for falling into it so easily. Of course, the idea of a Vulcan asking questions about the human psyche was unexpected enough to be considered a surprise.

"Cornwell?"

"Sorry, sir. Yes, humans do need periodic rest breaks. But I've been taking them –"

"Only the occasional day here and there, and only when explicitly scheduled. You have not requested any extended leave." He consulted a padd. "I have received a complaint about your performance."

She kept her face impassive. Doing so was easier than it used to be.

"I shall not read all of it to you, lest doing so inadvertently reveal who made the complaint. However, I believe you will find this portion quite edifying. 'Admiral Cornwell's dedication is laudable but can be overwhelming to the point of unreasonable. She constantly works well past normal hours and expects the same from her staff. This has created a climate of overwork and stress, with the associated performance declines and poor morale. Some officers are actually afraid to request personal time, even when clearly needed.'" He looked up. "Your reaction to this?"

Absurdly, Katrina's first thought was that whoever what written that needed a promotion. While the observation was negative, it was couched in a tone of professional concern and no little respect. She needed that person to stay on her staff, if for no other reason than to call her out when necessary. Hopefully, they hadn't already been driven away by the environment.

"Admiral?"

She took a breath. "It seems I need to adjust my expectations as regards my staff."

"As well as yourself. Your lapses during this conversation, in fact, support this complaint." He leaned forward. "You need a vacation, Cornwell. Must I order you to take one?"

"Sir –"

"Evidently, I do."

"No!" she barked, realizing as it came out that it had been too quick, too sharp, and far too insubordinate. "I'm sorry. You're correct, sir. I'll request some personal time, starting as soon as we finish reviewing the last of the alternative drive proposals. There are only one or two left."

"You will leave," he informed her, "in no more than a week. You will not return for at least two. Have you any relatives of friends here in the Earth system?" They were currently at the newly-built Utopia Planitia shipyards on Mars; it would take little time to get back to her home planet to visit the friends and family she had there.

Except that she couldn't name a single person she might visit.

"Not anymore," she finally admitted with an internal wince. When had Starfleet become a means of escape as opposed to a way to focus and improve herself?

"Then perhaps you might consider a trip somewhere you have never visited. Leisure travel can be a most educational and agreeable experience. Two weeks is a minimum, Admiral. You have nearly six accrued. Feel free to use all of them, if you so desire. Dismissed."

In the corridor, she leaned against a wall as she started to chuckle. She'd just been ordered to take a vacation. By a Vulcan. The chuckling got harder, becoming true laughter, although she wasn't sure it wasn't bordering on hysteria. That, of course, was just another indicator that pointed to the conclusion she'd been the last one to see: she needed the break.

But, if not Earth, then where would she go? Realizing that she needed to actually research that sobered her. No wonder she'd lost perspective. She'd allowed her work to become everything she had. Maybe she had an acquaintance she could look up. Surely, at least, there would still be at least a couple of those.

Well, at least one, anyway.

"Ensign Owosekun," she said to her aide as she came into the reception area. "How's your workload this morning?"

"Same as always, Admiral." The younger woman, who was only a year out of the Academy, looked up. "Busy. You have appointments beginning an hour prior to lunch and lasting until late afternoon."

"Well, carve out ten minutes somewhere before I finish my last meeting." She paused. "Use them to get me the latest update on the Buran."

For the dozenth time, Katrina told herself this was ridiculous. She was an emotionally mature adult, nearing the pinnacle of a successful and decorated military career. Shouldn't she be past the point of adolescent crushes, giddiness and the silliness that was so often associated with human courtship rituals?

Not that this was a courtship, of course.

Still, being out of uniform felt different in more ways than she'd expected. There was a small, secure case in her travel bag that contained an insignia, ID badge and replicator codes for uniforms if she needed them. But it had fallen to the bottom of the bag already as she'd packed and unpacked various other items; just like, it seemed, some of her other inhibitions.

At least she'd addressed any lingering worries that her career might be all of her that was left. Becoming a different person, at least temporarily, had been a surprisingly refreshing and liberating influence. Terral had been right: she'd needed to get away from Starfleet.

Which didn't explain, she tried to tell herself, why she was waiting in the Starfleet lounge at Starbase Eighty-Eight. This didn't exactly qualify as getting away from the fleet.

The chatter in the area abruptly rose in volume, bringing her out of her musings, and Katrina stood to get a better view out of the transparent aluminum windows. Yes, that was the Buran out there; she'd just completed docking. Right now, they'd be shutting her down, connecting her systems with the base's, and finishing the other tasks that had to be done to put the ship at station keeping.

He, of course, would probably be one of the last ones off. She still had time to leave if she did it now.

Sitting down, she stayed and waited.

She spent the time people-watching, making guesses about the various relationships based on behavioral observations. It was a different way of anchoring herself, of remembering that the person she'd left behind wasn't entirely gone and wasn't entirely negative, and it steadied her buzzing nerves.

Gabriel finally appeared, although he stopped just inside the lounge door, speaking into the comm panel while wiping his face. While his expression was likely unreadable to most, she could clearly see both physical and mental exhaustion.

She rose slowly, staying in the partially-shadowed corner from where she'd been watching. If he were still busy, as implied by his comm call, this really wouldn't be a good idea. But when he went still, his spine stiffening, she knew she'd run out of time and excuses to slip away.

Dropping his hand from the console, he stared at her for a long moment. "Admiral." The word carried an entire world of meaning.

Allowing herself a single breath, she walked up to face him. "Captain."

His eyes flickered over her. "You're out of uniform."

"Starfleet discourages officers on leave from wearing their uniforms."

He snorted softly. "Tell that to the folks in every bar on this station right now."

"Short excursions are excepted, of course, provided the officers in question remember that their conduct must never dishonor the uniform."

"I see." He looked her over again, taking his time on this second perusal. "I take it this isn't an official visit or inspection, then."

Her voice was quiet. "No."

"Then why are you here?"

"I don't know." Honesty was the only answer she had to offer.

He tilted his head, and a smile began playing around his mouth. "Maybe the reason you're not wearing your uniform is because you're planning to dishonor it. Is that it?"

Katrina drew herself up. Vacation or not, some lines weren't meant to be crossed.

"Relax, Kat. I know you wouldn't." The smile broadened, moving up to his eyes. "But why didn't you tell me you were coming out to meet us?"

"I was…" she trailed off, not sure how to explain. She couldn't claim coincidence, not after having had Owosekun chase down the Buran's exact itinerary. "I wasn't sure how you'd take it."

"How I would take it? It's always good to see a friend, especially after so long." Was there a wistful tone in the way he said the word 'friend'? She must be imagining it. "How long are you out here?"

"I have three weeks of leave left."

"We'll only be in port for five days."

"I know. When you ship back out, I'm going on to Tumboldt V." The resort planet was renowned throughout the sector, and she had reservations at a spa that was supposed to be the absolute best. "This really was just on the way."

"So our paths crossed accidentally."

She couldn't quite manage to hold his gaze. "No. I could've gotten a direct transport."

"Or," he countered, "you could have commed ahead to tell me you'd be here, so I would have had the chance to request some of my own personal time." The smile took on a faint sarcastic edge. "But that would've given up too much control, wouldn't it?"

Now she was the one who stiffened.

"Relax, Kat," he repeated, giving the word more emphasis. "That was a joke. I get it, and damn, but it's good to see you." He paused, looking her over one more time, and raised a hand as if to touch her, although he didn't complete the gesture. "I'm going off duty as soon as I drop this last report by the 'Fleet offices. Won't be more than an hour. Would you…" he trailed off, his expression now almost shy. "There's this little place I found here, a while back. Vulcan-Andorian fusion, if you can believe it. And it works. Care to give it a try?"

"Yes," she answered, realizing his smile had found its way onto her face. "I think I would."

On those rare occasions when she'd given more than a passing thought to her history with Gabriel Lorca, she'd remembered it fondly enough, but never without sharp edges around the borders. Tonight, though, it was easy to forget that and let herself get caught up in the nostalgia. She had to consciously remind herself not to lose perspective to the point of crossing into rose-colored misconceptions.

He wasn't making it particularly easy to stick to that resolve. The hole-in-the-wall style place on one of the floating base's lower decks, well outside the official Starfleet sections, did indeed have some of the best food she'd ever tasted, and Gabriel himself was at his charming best, asking her about her work and offering several amusing anecdotes of his own.

She'd seen in a report, while on her way out, that there'd been a recent decline in transfers on and off the Buran, suggesting that its crew complement had settled into a psychological equilibrium. Performance tended to improve once that happened, meaning that his ship was likely about to launch into a new, exciting phase of its operation.

"What?" he asked, and she realized he hadn't spoken for nearly a minute.

Katrina blinked several times to bring herself back to the moment. "It's good to see you happy."

"Psychoanalyzing again, Doc?"

"No," she replied. "Just observing. As a friend. Or are you trying to tell me you're not happy?"

"I'd be a lot happier if we didn't have to go into battle so much, but you're right. I'm not exactly unhappy. More like satisfied, I guess, 'cause we're doing good. And that's a word I never thought would come out of my mouth."

Before she remembered to check the impulse, she'd reached across the table toward his hand. Her fingers tingled when he took it, and she switched from Standard to English. "Is it really so bad that it has?"

"What about you?" he asked, maintaining the language switch. "You said you're just observing. Well, so am I, and here are my observations. You've lost so much weight your cheekbones are standing out, and those look like fading circles under your eyes."

She dropped her gaze, but not her hand. "That's why I'm vacation."

"But are you happy?"

"I'm not unhappy," she echoed. She'd actually had to think about that answer, which irritated her.

Now the silence that fell between them was awkward, and she wracked her brain for a neutral topic that could be used to re-establish their rapport. When his hand squeezed slightly, she realized he was doing the same thing. He called for the bill and paid it with a handful of unfamiliar coins.

"Orion zimlyns," he said, giving her one to look over. "Sometimes it helps to keep a little hard currency on hand. Come on. Let's go back to the ship, and I'll show you some of the new things we've been working on."

She'd been on the Buran before, of course, as well as several of the other Cardenas-class ships, but he had a way of explaining things that made them seem fresh and interesting. His ship was obviously important to him, in all the best ways, and it showed.

They finished in one of the science labs, a smaller one that, on most ships, was primarily used for prep work. Gabriel, it seemed, had turned this one into a place where he could indulge in his private tinkering habit. He opened a cabinet and took out two glasses. "Nightcap?"

"Only if it's single malt."

His answer was a chuckle and a bottle of Macallan. "This work?"

"Sure does." She accepted two fingers, taking a moment to enjoy the aroma before sipping. "And it's perfect. Thank you."

"I'm glad." He clinked his glass against hers before taking the first drink, watching her over the rim. There was an intensity in that look, a mixture of concern and curiosity and a dozen other things that were too much to think about right now.

Instead, Katrina found herself turning away, pacing out to the edges of the lab so she could look over the various ersatz experiments. "Hand weapons? I thought you wanted a better way to fly."

There was the barest brush of a hand at the small of her back as he brought the bottle over and refilled her drink. "Technology in general. No point in being the fastest out there if anyone else can come along and just take everything from you."

"That's…" she trailed. "A bit of a change."

"Not really." He waved a monitor on. "More of an integration. Propulsion and defense have different energy sources. There has to be a way to combine them, so that both are stronger. My engineers tell me I'm crazy, that it'll blow up one or the other, but I'm not ready to admit that yet."

She bit her lip, remembering the schematics her team had been reviewing back on Utopia Planitia. But there was no way to drop a hint about how right he really was, without giving away classified information.

He was watching her again, with serious eyes, and when she met them, he seemed to come to a decision. Waving the monitor back off, he put his empty glass down and traced his fingers along her jaw. "Katrina."

It was the tone that undid her, that old half-broken, half-awed tremble. Letting her own empty glass tumble onto the table, she met him halfway. The kiss was slow and sweet, with both of them taking their time. His hands mapped the contours on her face, and she nestled closer.

Something moved across his face when they finished, although she couldn't quite decide what it was. He surveyed the room and then closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against hers. "I can't do this here. Not surrounded by all this. Not when it's you."

"Okay," she said, giving in to the eerily normal mood this night had brought. "Then we won't."