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Mind Over Matter

Chapter Eight

Something had changed.

Katrina shook her head, castigating herself. Of course something had changed: Kol had tired of her. As far as she could tell, it had been three days since he'd taunted her by describing the mind-sifter. She wondered if he realized that the taunt's effects were lessened by the amount of time that he was allowing to pass.

Unfortunately, passage of the same amount of time meant that the effects of her starvation were getting worse. She hadn't been fed since the day of her bath, and at this point, could no longer deny what was happening to her body. The restlessness and irritability were almost gone, replaced by a consuming, bone-deep apathy that should have scared her. She'd become as sensitive to light as Gabriel was, and waking up from her ever-more-frequent sleep periods was pure agony. Exercise wasn't possible anymore; just moving took an effort.

Still, she forced herself to keep changing positions and reviewing the mental catalogue of information she would take into her post-rescue debriefing. Mind over matter. She would not give up unless and until she was forced to do so.

Though she was definitely going to have plenty to say about the amount of time it was taking Starfleet to rescue her. She would be rescued, of course; she refused to consider any other possibility. It just was taking longer than it ordinarily might have.

But things had definitely changed, which could point to the possibility of the rescue coming before too much longer. She dragged her train of thought back to the list of things that had changed. There had been some abrupt changes in the engine noise over the past several hours; they might have even started a full day ago, but her time sense was becoming distorted again. She'd heard pounding feet in the corridors outside the bay where she was held, and had even been able to catch an occasional recognizable word.

One of those words she'd overheard was Tu'sov, which she had figured out was the Klingon version of the Discovery's name.

It was, she decided, about damn time.

Yet the ship still hadn't gone into actual combat; the position shifts were frequent, but smooth. And while she'd heard the sounds of crew members in a hurry, she hadn't heard the panicked cries or explosions that might be expected with combat. Whatever was going on, it wasn't yet an actual encounter with Starfleet.

Perhaps the Discovery had been sighted again. Sooner or later, she'd figured, Gabriel would stay just a hair too long following one of the ship's hit-and-fade responses, and thus the ship would be identified. Given the curses she'd heard alongside the ship's name, whatever was happening wasn't going in the Klingons' favor. But try as she might, she hadn't been able to figure out any further details.

Regardless, it gave her hope of not being in here much longer.

She laughed soundlessly at that thought.

She wouldn't be here much longer anyway. The only question was how she would leave. It would be best, she decided, if she did so under her own power and with the protection of a Starfleet weapon. Preferably, the weapon would be in her hand, but she could accept it being in another officer's hand.

That, though, was the only acceptable compromise.

They were both on leave, and in civilian clothes neither were likely to be recognized by anyone outside Starfleet. Still, discretion was important; despite them not being in the same chain of command, her flag rank meant that the difference was a problem. So, after an initial interlude in his quarters, he packed a bag and they moved to a hotel room in the civilian area of the space station for the remainder of their time.

It only added to the sense of unreality that had settled over this visit, particularly given that they stuck to civilian activities as well as clothing. Katrina found herself wondering, more than once, if this was how things might have gone if they hadn't been in Starfleet.

Of course, if they hadn't been in Starfleet, they likely never would have met in the first place.

There were occasional reminders of their real identities and history, like the time he teased her by "accidentally" knocking sensors offline while she flew a rented runabout back from a trip to the local planet's surface, or the time she tensed after overhearing an unusually realistic rendition of weapons fire on a nearby entertainment screen. But, for the most part, they managed to ignore them.

On their final morning together, though, she couldn't keep pretending, and he woke up while she was skimming mission reports, reviewing summaries so she wouldn't be too far behind once she returned to duty. There was tension around his eyes when he got up. "Anything I'm gonna hear about?"

"I hope not," she answered, closing the reports with a sigh. Intelligence was reporting signs of a new, potentially potent, religious movement among the Klingons. There was no actual trouble yet, but the situation warranted monitoring.

Taking the padd out of her hands, he laid it on the desk and turned her chair around so that he was standing in front of her. "Would you tell me if there were?"

"Gabriel," she said, mildly exasperated. He knew better than that.

In response, he leaned down for a kiss, and they both moved on as if the exchange hadn't happened. They had breakfast delivered to their room that morning, lingering over the meal and simply spending time with each other.

When she looked at herself in the mirror after showering, the pallor in her skin was almost gone and she had gained at least a kilo. He, too, was more relaxed; when she ran her hands across his shoulders and back, the muscles were no longer coiled as tight as springs.

He held her close for a long time before leaving to go back to the Buran.

After she returned to duty, it was a chore to remember not to push her staff, or herself, quite as hard as she had before. The growing instability among the Klingons meant Command wanted the new propulsion technologies sooner than they had before, and she eventually found herself spending almost all her time negotiating between scientists and soldiers. It was exhausting work, often keeping her from getting back to her apartment until so late that there was no time to do anything other than shuck her uniform and fall straight into bed.

But the time she carved out to exchange written messages with Gabriel was sacrosanct, as far as she was concerned. Despite being similarly busy, he made the same effort, and their correspondence became something of a lifeline in a galaxy that had slowly started going mad.

Katrina only found out about her promotion to Vice Admiral when the replicator delivered a new insignia one morning. Bemused, she put it on and reported to Terral's office. "Is there something I should know about?"

The steepled fingers were a familiar gesture by now, but the quirked eyebrow was new. "I assume you have not yet reviewed this morning's news feeds."

"No."

"There has been an attack."

Her breath caught. "The Klingons?"

"Yes. The details are still incomplete, but the battle happened in a binary star system near Gamma Hydra." His demeanor became grave. "There have been heavy losses, Admiral. At least six Starfleet ships are known to have been destroyed so far, and I suspect that list will get longer."

She reached back, groping for a chair, and sat down heavily. "What happened?"

"As I said, the information is still not complete. Some of what we have received is even contradictory. However, it appears there may have been a mutiny within our fleet. Starfleet," he continued, and now his tone of voice echoed his expression, "powered its weapons first."

"But we don't…" she trailed off, her voice failing her. "A mutiny? In Starfleet?"

"The officer in question has been arrested and will face a general court-martial. The damage, though, has been done. Independent media is corroborating the general public opinion that Starfleet, and not the Klingons, has become too aggressive. We are now facing a significant public relations problem in addition to needing enhanced defensive capabilities.

That was when she noticed that he, too, had a new rank insignia. Her hand drifted up to touch her own, and a horrible realization began to dawn in her mind.

"Yes," he told her. "You are correct. Our task force is being relocated to Starbase Forty-Six, where we will be responsible for deploying new propulsion technologies. Starfleet has declared that this project is now a top priority."

This was all happening so fast. "None of the science teams have even started work on prototypes yet."

"Then initiating the construction of one will be your first task. Based on your analyses, I believe the work being done by Straal and Stamets is your most promising option. Begin your focus there." Terral paused. "You also need to consider your staff. We are due to relocate within the week, Admiral Cornwell."

It was a dismissal, and she numbly headed toward her team's offices. Owosekun met her as soon as she arrived. "The Buran wasn't there, ma'am. She was on patrol near Ophiuchus III and didn't get to Gamma Hydra until after the battle."

She allowed herself a single breath of relief. "Thank you, Joann. Pull together the staff in the conference room right away. There are more new developments. We're officially going to war."

Katrina didn't lose her composure when Owosekun hesitated just inside her new office, visibly shaking with the latest news that she had downloaded onto a padd. She didn't lose her composure when she scanned that information, or when she accessed the official reports detailing the Buran's destruction. She didn't lose her composure when she took her emergency leave request to Admiral Terral, or on the transport, or even when she checked in at HQ, despite the surprise of being back in the Earth system less than a month after relocating.

But when she stepped into the patients' day room at Starfleet Medical and saw him, utterly still and staring into space, Katrina had to step back out again and steady herself against a wall. It didn't matter that she'd already known about the dark glasses, the cane, the livid scars. The actual sight was too much of a shock, and she had to pull herself back together.

Her voice was an unsteady whisper when she stepped into the doorway a second time. "Gabriel."

He stood up and felt his way over, stopping about a meter in front of her. "Your sensor signature isn't familiar."

"It's me," she said, voice still shaking. "Katrina."

"Oh. Well, no wonder. Computer, store and label profile in the ocular enhancers: Admiral Katrina Cornwell. What are you doing here? I thought things were still busy out on the frontier." His tone was matter-of-fact, expression bland to the point of blankness. "Or is the war over already?"

"It's still there," she answered. "So I can't stay. But I had to – I got here as soon as I could."

"That's right. You sent me a message, didn't you? I'm sorry. I guess I forgot."

This wasn't him. This couldn't possibly be Gabriel Lorca. "How are you?" she managed.

"Getting better, I suppose." The tone was still flat, and his expression hadn't changed. "I asked to be discharged yesterday, but nobody agreed."

"Without getting your eyes fixed?"

"That would take too long."

"Too long for what?"

He started feeling his way back toward the chair he'd been sitting in before. "Doesn't matter."

"Hey." For some reason, the alarm bells ringing in her head steadied her. "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Don't even think about trying that with me."

This time, his only answer was a shrug, and her hand hit a tabletop before she consciously realized it was moving. "Damn it, Gabriel, what the hell is all this? You won't let them replace your eyes, you're refusing to cooperate with counseling, and now you're asking to be let out? No one's going to sign off on that!"

A long moment passed before he finally turned toward her. His voice was still perfectly even. "How do you know so much about my treatments?"

"I read your medical reports."

"Who gave you access to those?"

"Professional privilege. Actually, when I sent the request, Dr. Boyce asked for my opinion, since I've known you longer than he has."

"What right did he have to do that?" The words could have been angry, but his tone was still perfectly even, and his expression was still absolutely blank. Completely flat affect, she realized suddenly. She'd seen that before, but never on him.

"Boyce," she replied out loud, "is out of ideas what to do with you. Hell, nobody seems to be able to figure out what you want. It obviously doesn't appear to be getting better."

For an instant, her baiting seemed to work: his hands twitched, and one of them briefly clenched into a fist. But then the muscles relaxed into the same nothingness they'd displayed when she had arrived. "Nobody understands what I want. So it doesn't really matter."

"I wouldn't be here if that were true."

"Oh. So you're here as another try at counseling me."

"You know better than that," she shot back, not hiding her anger or irritation. "We went on record with the personal relationship back at Canopus."

"Canopus? Oh, the M-1 Project." From anyone else, the tone would have been conversational. "But that was years ago. Why are you here now? Surely you didn't come all the way back to Earth just to see me."

"Would it be so terrible if I had?"

"It wouldn't be appropriate."

"Appropriate? Don't you remember anything?"

"Of course I do," he answered, and finally, finally, she could hear an undertone of heat in his speech. Despite her turmoil, Katrina cheered inwardly. If she could get him to argue with her, it might be the break everyone needed. "But it just doesn't seem like you now."

"And it doesn't seem like you not to go down with your ship!" As soon as the words were out, she damned herself. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair."

"But you're right." The flat affect was returning, and he turned away again. "It's all over."

"It doesn't have to be."

"Don't lie to me, Katrina. They're not going to give me another command. The only thing left is flying a desk for the rest of my career, or maybe retirement. I have my time in, so it wouldn't look like a washout."

She bit her lip so hard it bled. "That's not necessarily true."

"I said, don't lie to me."

"I'm not. There could be another command if you wanted it badly enough. I…" she trailed off. "You were settled and satisfied on the Buran, so I never brought it up. But –"

"But what?" He turned back toward her, and the flat affect disappeared. "What are you saying?"

What was she saying? No one in their right mind would ever agree to put him under her command, any more than they would let her supervise the psychological aspect of his treatment.

But she would be lying, if she claimed she'd never thought he wouldn't be a good match for the position. He would be, and the team-based command approach meant that supervisory command decisions weren't completely up to her. He'd still have to work for the post, to earn and keep it on his own without her influence, and that fact right there was an argument for impartiality.

"It's experimental," she began, "and we've only been given funding to build two ships. They've been named Glenn and Discovery."

It wasn't hard to justify her decision to tell him about the opportunity. Gabriel was exactly what they needed for the Crossfield project: the kind who understood that the end sometimes needed to justify the means, but who could also keep from losing track of the demands of dual charter; the kind who could inspire fierce loyalty from many different types of officers; and, ultimately, the kind who could be relied upon to find creative solutions when under pressure.

His continuing refusal to get his eyes repaired was bothersome, though, and hinted at a new instability that could prove disastrous. Indeed, Katrina had been about to commit that concern to writing, knowing that it could cost him the chance to be part of the project despite his obvious willingness to work for it. That was when a transfer application landed on her desk: Joann Owosekun was interested in the operations position on one of the two new ships.

The request was a Godsend, and she wasted no time recommending the newly-promoted lieutenant for the Discovery's crew. Between having her on Gabriel's bridge, and bringing on Alekia Kurigawa as captain of the Glenn, she felt confident she could handle any personnel problems that might arise.

That is, she thought that until the general orders were issued, giving the captains far more discretion than either she or Terral had been comfortable with. Unfortunately, they were the only two who objected to that discretion, and thus their concerns went unaddressed.

Katrina had hoped and prayed that it would never be necessary to ask Owosekun for a private report; and she never even hinted that she might. In the end, doing so proved unnecessary: Gabriel's flat refusal to recall Sarek's rescue mission went so far over the line that Terral hadn't even requested her opinion before ordering a courier ship prepped. In fact, she'd had to ask him to let her go out to the Discovery in his place.

That decision, of course, had led to her capture and transport to where she was now, locked into private psychological warfare with a megalomaniac Klingon general.

Except that, of course, Kol wasn't visiting her anymore.

Nor were the guards that fed her.

Nor was anyone else.

She spent her time turning everything over in her head, trying to figure out which of her judgment errors had sent her down this path. What hadn't she seen, and why not? Did she still have blind spots when it came to Gabriel Lorca? If so, what was she going to do about them?

Would she even have the chance to do anything at all?

Mind over matter, she chanted to herself under her breath. Don't think that way. A chance would come. This would end. She'd figure everything out and see Gabriel remanded for treatment, forcibly if necessary. They'd end the war, preferably sooner as opposed to later, and definitely with a Starfleet victory. She refused to consider any other outcomes. They weren't possible.

This was all going to be worth it in the end, and as long as she believed that, she could not, would not, be broken.

He didn't necessarily have to be, either. He obviously still had the ability to lead. If he cooperated with treatment – if he could be shown that nothing else was going to work – he might very well end up back on track. She would be delighted if that happened. She'd never wanted any less than the best for either of them.

Katrina had her head down, resting it on the table-like piece of furniture in the middle of the chamber. The cold bath was now a distant memory, although she figured she would be even worse off had it not happened. Still, it was one of the few recent recollections she could hang onto with any clarity, so she did.

Then the door opened, and another Klingon came in.

She'd seen this one in the corridors, but only in quick glances and for the briefest of moments. Still, that had been enough to recognize that this particular Klingon was different. In addition to being female, she was lighter-skinned, and carried herself with a quieter demeanor than her fellows. She also didn't wear the painted facial emblems that adorned nearly all of the others.

There hadn't been any chance of figuring out this Klingon's function, though, so Katrina had simply catalogued and memorized the differences, to be included when she was debriefed.

But now, the question of function was no longer academic. The female Klingon had brought a rack into the chamber. Various implements dangled from it, and while their counterparts from Earth history were different, the designs were similar enough to render their purpose perfectly clear.

Was this their threatened mind-sifter? Somehow, she'd gotten the impression that Kol had been talking about technology instead of technique.

It took tremendous effort to climb to her feet. But whatever was about to happen, Katrina was determined to meet it standing up.

The Klingon removed one of the hanging torture instruments and held it up between them to allow for a thorough inspection. It was old, and rusty from apparent non-use. So, it likely wasn't the mind-sifter after all. Kol had simply decided to let this particular individual have some fun with her first.

Kol, she decided, would be disappointed. This represented nothing more than another exercise in convincing herself she was stronger than the circumstances around her. Another opportunity to prove that her mind was the most powerful weapon she possessed, more powerful than anything made of flesh or matter.

The Klingon peered at her, assessing her stance and expression, and silence stretched out between them. There was intelligence in her gaze, and even perhaps curiosity, but it didn't change Katrina's realization that things were about to become far, far worse than they had been before.

When the new Klingon finally spoke, it was a single word.

"Scream."

Author's Note: Some of the material in this chapter comes from S01E08 "Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum," which was written by Kirsten Beyer.