CSciO Lt Anaxar Shran | The Worrying Point

Posted on Tue Mar 13th, 2018 @ 12:19pm by Commander Evan Merlin

Mission: Lacuna
Location: Cold Station Theta, Promenade
Timeline: SD 241803.13

Anaxar hadn't spend much time on Cold Station Theta. It wasn't quite true that he'd first set foot on it when he came to the arboretum for the masked ball last night, but the total number of visits could be easily numbered using only the fingers on one hand. There had been several reasons for that: the station was too big, too chaotic, too crowded, he was still recovering, there was still too much to do, work which had piled up during his absence, data gathered while the Vindicator was in the nebula (both during past and present time) which had to be analysed, examined, added to… Mostly, it came down to 'he didn't feel like it', which was good enough in itself.

However, with the ball over, it was clear that the Vindicator would depart here soon. And when he discovered there was a Klingon restaurant on the station, a memory of an earlier conversation came back with a rush which left him hot and cold at once. So he had invited her to the restaurant, earlier today, and she had accepted.

He was here now, immersed in the sea of sounds on the crowded promenade. Klingon music blasting through the speakers – a volume designed to be background noise, but still loud to his ears. The murmur of conversations around him. People laughing and shouting in the distance. The scraping of cutlery over plates, glassware tinkling. From direction of the kitchen a deep voice bellowing something in Klingon. The sound of footsteps, both nearby and far away. Through the soles of his feet the gentle steady hum of machinery, the eternal sounds and vibrations of a functioning station or ship in mid-space, generating power, air, light. What it lacked were the sounds of Si'a. No familiar footsteps, heartbeat, voice.

Anaxar took a sip of his firewine in an effort to still his worry. It didn't work. Maybe his worry liked the drink too well to be suppressed by it. Si'a was late. Si'a was never late. Yet today she was late.

"Standing you up, is she?" A Klingon voice speaking heavily accented Standard asked from above. Anaxar looked up, an automated gesture which was only out of a kind of politeness, since he hadn't activated the implants. The Klingon made a deep growling sound at the back of his throat at the sight. They reacted differently to his scars, Anaxar had found before. Not with shock and revulsion, but with a kind of intrigued curiousity. Well, he was't in the mood to regale stories of battle with the man. "No," he replied, coldly.

Another of those deep growls. "Very well," the Klingon said. "Let me know if you want another drink. It's on tha house."

Anaxar raised a hand in a kind of half-wave, indicating both a dismissal and a thanks. He unfolded his long body from the chair and stood, wrapped his fingers around of the last capsules in his pocket, squeezed. The sharp needle penetrated the skin of his palm, a rush of warm washing away most of the headache which had been building up during the last hours. Most of it, not all, but it would have to do. He braced himself against the influx of stimuli and activated his implants.

Bright light, meaningless shapes, a riot of colours overloading the underused visual cortex, a sudden stab of pain barely blunted by the painkillers, though quickly muted (thank the Infinite). Shapes and colours coalesced into more comprehensive patterns, and he began to make out familiar shapes, people moving and milling about on the promenade, and closer by, people sitting at tables, eating, drinking, talking. He scanned around, stretching to his full and impressive length, took a few steps away from his table in order to scan the crowd on the Promenade.

And still no sign of Si'a.

Anaxar took a deep breath. When was the point where someone could be late because of a minor incident or mishap, a chance encounter with someone stretching for a bit longer than expected, a turbo lift being troublesome or slow (he'd heard horror stories about the lifts here on the station through the grapevine), and active worry time? For him, that point was now.
He went back to his table and sat down again, deactivated the implants with a sigh of relief. Pressed both hands against his face. The scars felt hot against his palms. He sighed again, deeply, and lowered his hands. Then he tapped his comm badge. "Anaxar to Si'a Dai'Xun."
The comm badge preeped, but nothing happened.

He tapped again, repeated the request. Again the acknowledgement that the comm badge had heard him, again no reply. Anaxar's heart began to beat faster.

"Computer, please locate Lieutenant Si'a Dai'Xun."

The friendly, cool computer voice replied. "Lieutenant Si'a Dai'Xun is not on board this station."
Connecting with the Vindicator computer was only one extra step. Anaxar repeated his request. But somehow he already knew what the computer would reply, and he was right. "Lieutenant Si'a Dai'Xun is not on board this vessel."

Anaxar stood up with a jerk. All the sounds around him had receded, now, he seemed to exist in a bubble isolated from all the noise around him. One last tap to his comm badge as he strode out, moving with automatic grace around obstacles nearby. "Get me Security. Now."

Lieutenant Anaxar Shran
Chief Science Officer
USS VINDICATOR, NX-78213-F