Probably not quite what people would expact from "taking a stand"....
* * *
The girl sat lonely on the ground, her back against the wall of her quarters, her arms folded around her knees, her gaze determined onto the stars that lay dead still outside. The only light in the room came through the view port, and beams of faint light were projected onto the ground before her legs. But they didn't reach her, and the light didn't shone in her eyes which had adjusted to the darkness. For the past five minutes she had been contemplating on whether or not to order to the computer to turn on the lights, if only to divert her focus from the thoughts which assaulted her mind.
She didn't know why she bothered, yet she continued to annoy herself by thinking how stupid people were. But not just stupid; ignorant, blissfully so, and they didn't even care. Others would argue that they couldn't know how ignorant they were, but she thought that was a lame argument: people were just too damn pretentious to educate themselves, and the less they knew the more they thought they knew. These were Starfleet officers! Supposed to be the top-notch, the best and the brightest, and she had found them to be nothing but a bunch of idiots. She supposed she shouldn't care so much, and reminded herself not too. Why did she care so much about people's shortcomings.
She couldn't help but ponder on the uselessness of it all. There wasn't anyone who could understand anyway. The thought saddened her, and only greatened her reluctance to stand up. She had to get up sometime; she hadn't eaten for the entire time that she had just sat there. It felt as if she were having a conversation with herself. And nearly always, the pessimist won--or "cynic" actually: just because one doesn't have faith doesn't mean there can't be fun to it. Faith, in what? People? No, she most certainly didn't believe in other people. She knew herself, and she knew that she was selfish and self-centered and she could think of no reason why others wouldn't be worse. Faith in God? She laughed to herself at the mere thought. Faith in the Federation? Wasn't that just the same as having faith in righteousness? She had no reason to believe in good, and for all she cared the world was filled with only evil instead. Well, that wasn't quite true, of course, but it accounted to most people anyway.
She remembered a philosophy class from a few years back when she was in the Academy. Her professor had taught her, and the rest of the class but she doubted whether any of her fellow cadets had ever bothered to pay any attention at all, that aspiring to righteousness, aspiring to do good, was, according to some grand old man whose name she couldn't remember, the ultimate purpose in life. She had thus decided that doing herself good would be her purpose in life, and had figured that as long as someone is benefitting from your actions, you're doing good. Even if that "someone" is yourself. Still with some slight faith in people at that age, she had raised the suggestion in front of her class and had been met with a bombardment of utilitarian remonstrance from her professor's side and nothing but approving roaring from the rest of the class.
Now she asked herself why one would care to do good for others, as her professor had argued, if one doesn't care for others. What was the point in trying to help those people who were too proud to allow themselves to be helped, and ungrateful of any help offered regardless. Blessed be the ignorant; no point in educating those who didn't want it. Besides, she only needed look at herself to see what cleverness does to a person to be discouraged of any effort to enlighten to simple-minded. Not that she'd rather be stupefied, but at the very least she felt safe to conclude that intelligence and happiness were hardly equivalent--perhaps even to the contrary.
Without getting up, she ordered the replicator to produce a steaming cup of raktajino. Although she had no intention to eat, she had positioned herself near the unit anyway, and now imagined how she'd argue to Dr. Hall that while technically the Klingon coffee wasn't food, it sure did amount to something. She reached out and held the hot cup with her both hands folded between her body and her knees. Good old Dr. Hall. She remembered the first time she'd really come to know him, which had been about a year after she'd come aboard. Even then, there'd been something in his manners which reminded her of her father. Or perhaps it was more the tone of her voice, which inspired confidence and always seemed to say that, no matter what, things would be all right.
She missed that voice. He'd been the only other person on board this damned ship who wasn't so stupid as the rest of them. Not because he knew more, but because he knew that he was just as ignorant as the rest of them. He knew and took if for granted. Why couldn't she? Why couldn't she just accept life as if were? But when Hall had still been around, at least not everyone was so shallow. Now it was just her, surrounded with pitiful excuses for Starfleet officers.
As she took a sip of her steaming coffee, the memory of Hall brought her back a year ago, back to the accident. She could see her own face before her as she'd sat contemplating her features in the mirroring broken glass of Robin's helmet. She could still feel the comforting touch of Hall's arms around her thin shoulders, the warmth of his chest as she's grieved Robin's death. She hadn't cried; there was nothing like that panicking, uncontrollable despair that usually came with the death of a friend. And it wasn't because she'd barely known Robin that she hadn't cried; it had been this sudden realization of uselessness that had struck her and that had saddened her beyond tears. She'd known Robin was like her the first time she'd seen her, smiling widely in her spacesuit, anxious for the first time to get out into space, alone amongst the stars. There'd been this twinkle in her eyes which had betrayed that she wasn't one of them: she hadn't been like the others, she was different.
But she had gone, and now that Hall had left her too, there was no-one else. There was no point in staying here, but she knew she couldn't get anywhere else. Besides, there was nowhere else for her to go. She'd welcomed her commission to this ship originally, looking forward to meeting new people, hoping that some of them could become friends. She couldn't remember what had changed her; perhaps it had been Robin's death that had triggered it, and maybe she'd always known. She waved the thought away: she knew she wouldn't be able to remember and it didn't matter anyway.
She emptied her cup of raktajino and placed it back in the replicator where it quickly dissolved. Then she calmly retrieved the phaser from her wrist and held it in her hands for a short while, staring at the device and thinking how she'd never noticed how innocent it looked. She adjusted the setting, held it to her head, and fixed her gaze upon the flickering stars outside the view port. She'd miss the sight of the stars. The blast would trigger the alarm, and they'd come for her soon.
She pressed the button.
* * *
The girl sat lonely on the ground, her back against the wall of her quarters, her arms folded around her knees, her gaze determined onto the stars that lay dead still outside. The only light in the room came through the view port, and beams of faint light were projected onto the ground before her legs. But they didn't reach her, and the light didn't shone in her eyes which had adjusted to the darkness. For the past five minutes she had been contemplating on whether or not to order to the computer to turn on the lights, if only to divert her focus from the thoughts which assaulted her mind.
She didn't know why she bothered, yet she continued to annoy herself by thinking how stupid people were. But not just stupid; ignorant, blissfully so, and they didn't even care. Others would argue that they couldn't know how ignorant they were, but she thought that was a lame argument: people were just too damn pretentious to educate themselves, and the less they knew the more they thought they knew. These were Starfleet officers! Supposed to be the top-notch, the best and the brightest, and she had found them to be nothing but a bunch of idiots. She supposed she shouldn't care so much, and reminded herself not too. Why did she care so much about people's shortcomings.
She couldn't help but ponder on the uselessness of it all. There wasn't anyone who could understand anyway. The thought saddened her, and only greatened her reluctance to stand up. She had to get up sometime; she hadn't eaten for the entire time that she had just sat there. It felt as if she were having a conversation with herself. And nearly always, the pessimist won--or "cynic" actually: just because one doesn't have faith doesn't mean there can't be fun to it. Faith, in what? People? No, she most certainly didn't believe in other people. She knew herself, and she knew that she was selfish and self-centered and she could think of no reason why others wouldn't be worse. Faith in God? She laughed to herself at the mere thought. Faith in the Federation? Wasn't that just the same as having faith in righteousness? She had no reason to believe in good, and for all she cared the world was filled with only evil instead. Well, that wasn't quite true, of course, but it accounted to most people anyway.
She remembered a philosophy class from a few years back when she was in the Academy. Her professor had taught her, and the rest of the class but she doubted whether any of her fellow cadets had ever bothered to pay any attention at all, that aspiring to righteousness, aspiring to do good, was, according to some grand old man whose name she couldn't remember, the ultimate purpose in life. She had thus decided that doing herself good would be her purpose in life, and had figured that as long as someone is benefitting from your actions, you're doing good. Even if that "someone" is yourself. Still with some slight faith in people at that age, she had raised the suggestion in front of her class and had been met with a bombardment of utilitarian remonstrance from her professor's side and nothing but approving roaring from the rest of the class.
Now she asked herself why one would care to do good for others, as her professor had argued, if one doesn't care for others. What was the point in trying to help those people who were too proud to allow themselves to be helped, and ungrateful of any help offered regardless. Blessed be the ignorant; no point in educating those who didn't want it. Besides, she only needed look at herself to see what cleverness does to a person to be discouraged of any effort to enlighten to simple-minded. Not that she'd rather be stupefied, but at the very least she felt safe to conclude that intelligence and happiness were hardly equivalent--perhaps even to the contrary.
Without getting up, she ordered the replicator to produce a steaming cup of raktajino. Although she had no intention to eat, she had positioned herself near the unit anyway, and now imagined how she'd argue to Dr. Hall that while technically the Klingon coffee wasn't food, it sure did amount to something. She reached out and held the hot cup with her both hands folded between her body and her knees. Good old Dr. Hall. She remembered the first time she'd really come to know him, which had been about a year after she'd come aboard. Even then, there'd been something in his manners which reminded her of her father. Or perhaps it was more the tone of her voice, which inspired confidence and always seemed to say that, no matter what, things would be all right.
She missed that voice. He'd been the only other person on board this damned ship who wasn't so stupid as the rest of them. Not because he knew more, but because he knew that he was just as ignorant as the rest of them. He knew and took if for granted. Why couldn't she? Why couldn't she just accept life as if were? But when Hall had still been around, at least not everyone was so shallow. Now it was just her, surrounded with pitiful excuses for Starfleet officers.
As she took a sip of her steaming coffee, the memory of Hall brought her back a year ago, back to the accident. She could see her own face before her as she'd sat contemplating her features in the mirroring broken glass of Robin's helmet. She could still feel the comforting touch of Hall's arms around her thin shoulders, the warmth of his chest as she's grieved Robin's death. She hadn't cried; there was nothing like that panicking, uncontrollable despair that usually came with the death of a friend. And it wasn't because she'd barely known Robin that she hadn't cried; it had been this sudden realization of uselessness that had struck her and that had saddened her beyond tears. She'd known Robin was like her the first time she'd seen her, smiling widely in her spacesuit, anxious for the first time to get out into space, alone amongst the stars. There'd been this twinkle in her eyes which had betrayed that she wasn't one of them: she hadn't been like the others, she was different.
But she had gone, and now that Hall had left her too, there was no-one else. There was no point in staying here, but she knew she couldn't get anywhere else. Besides, there was nowhere else for her to go. She'd welcomed her commission to this ship originally, looking forward to meeting new people, hoping that some of them could become friends. She couldn't remember what had changed her; perhaps it had been Robin's death that had triggered it, and maybe she'd always known. She waved the thought away: she knew she wouldn't be able to remember and it didn't matter anyway.
She emptied her cup of raktajino and placed it back in the replicator where it quickly dissolved. Then she calmly retrieved the phaser from her wrist and held it in her hands for a short while, staring at the device and thinking how she'd never noticed how innocent it looked. She adjusted the setting, held it to her head, and fixed her gaze upon the flickering stars outside the view port. She'd miss the sight of the stars. The blast would trigger the alarm, and they'd come for her soon.
She pressed the button.
