DARK TERRITORY:
A LIGHT IN DARKNESS
She slowly looked around, before smiling cautiously. Samson Glover thought the gesture was mostly genuine. He reached out and clasped her hand, giving it a firm, loving squeeze. “I’m proud of you,” he said.
She looked askance. “Why?” She scoffed.
“For coming here, among other things,” the man answered.
His wife sighed, a swirl of emotions contorting her attractive dark features. “You’ve been on me about this for a while, so I thought it was about time I finally went acceded.”
Samson nodded. He knew that acceding was not something Deitra Khumalo did well. “I just thought it would be good, to come to Santora Prime, to make peace with the past.” He felt himself explaining, defensiveness creeping in.
Even though his wife had decided to spend her shore leave here, on this planet of Romulan expatriates, Samson still had doubts that his suggestion had been the right one. In a larger sense, he thought it would be good for his wife to see Romulans not solely as the monsters she had encountered for much of her formative years, though at the same time, he feared undoing the great work Deitra had done to heal and the strides she had made to live again, and to love him, and their son Terrence.
Samson didn’t think he possessed that kind of strength, and he didn’t really want to find out. They walked through the middle of a town square, both in civilian garb, though their lack of pointed ears, made them stand out. The Romulans didn’t seem to mind though.
Children scampered about while merchants and customers haggled. The scenes of life playing out before them were no different than many such towns on Earth or on the many planets either Samson or his wife had journeyed to as Starfleet officers. And it was no different than many of the starbases Samson had served on.
Though he preferred the sterile, controlled environment of starbases than the unpredictable weather and smells planetside. He had put his discomfort to the side however, more concerned about how his wife was faring.
Deitra tried hard not to stride down the street. Despite their nondescript clothing, her gait screamed Starfleet. Samson noticed a few other Romulans that carried themselves similarly, which the admiral suspected exposed them being Imperial veterans. Some of them reminded him of their mutual friend, Ousanas Dar, one of the more infamous expatriates from the Star Empire, and something of a legend on Santora Prime. As Samson walked past those men and women, he hoped how they became Federation citizens was not as tragic as it was for Ousanas.
As if reading his thoughts, Deitra asked, “I thought Ousanas would be here by now.” A Starfleet Intelligence agent, Ousanas was supposed to meet them at Santora Prime to pick up Deitra and return with her to the Starship Adelphi. She was first officer on the Adelphi, and she had high hopes that once Captain Darson retired that the man would support her taking the reins. Deitra had a burning desire for the captain’s chair. More than Samson ever had, and he was both heartened and a bit saddened to see similar fires raging in their son.
Both Deitra and Terrence could be too driven at times, too focused on where they were going, to enjoy the journey. In fact, they hadn’t been together as a family, including his brother Sheldon for years now, since that contretemps with the Alshain, the nightmare of all family vacations.
Despite his interest more in the journey, and his academic pursuits, Samson’s star was steadily rising, and one reason he was happy to be sans uniform is he sensed that Deitra resented that he had already made it to admiral.
They had had their rows about it. Samson felt that his wife’s demanding perfectionism stifled her career, whereas Deitra was convinced that her being one of the few survivors of the Norkan genetic experimenters had put an immovable block on her progress.
Glover knew the matter wouldn’t be resolved, until Deitra sat in the captain’s chair. From what she had told him about Adelphi’s future first contact mission with the Ghorusdans, it could the kind of thing that earned her the praise and acceptance she had long sought.
But that was the future. Samson just wanted to concentrate on the now. Deitra strode over to one of the hawkers. She pointed at a bag of oblong green fruit. “How much?” She said, her tone imperious.
The seller’s ears twitched at that, and a toothy grin sprouted through his thick, patchy graying bread. Though many of Santora Prime denizens had lived decades in the Federation, many of the males still preferred to go clean shaven, and both genders preferred short or bowl cuts not that dissimilar to their Vulcan cousins. Though this merchant not only wore a beard, but thick, unruly hair, also graying, hung past his shoulders. “You know something of our ways, eh? You know how we wish to be addressed?”
“I know…a lot…about your kind,” Deitra said frostily. Samson shuddered at all the terrible things that pause contained. “How much?” She asked again.
The man looked at Deitra and then Samson. “For you, gentlelady, seven Federation credits.”
“Seven?” Deitra scoffed. “Four.”
The man looked aghast. “Six.”
“Four.” She repeated.
“Five and a half,” he offered.
“Four.” She said again.
“Wh-what are you attempting to do?” He decried. “I have a spouse, children!”
“Four,” Deitra replied, “And if you protest once more, I’ll make it three or take our business elsewhere.”
The man glanced at Samson, as if seeking the admiral’s understanding or compassion. He merely shrugged.
“It’s tough trying to make your way in the universe you know?” The hawker snorted. “Fine,” he said. He waggled his fingers, his palm open. Deitra pointed again to the bag. With feigned reluctance he took it off the shelf and gave it to her. She dropped four credits into his hand. “Pleasure doing…”
But Deitra had turned from him. She opened the bag and inhaled its scent. A play of emotions worked themselves across her face. There was nostalgic joy and terrible sadness.
She plucked one of the pieces of fruit and gave it Samson. He turned it around in his hand. “Never seen a lehe’jhme before?”
“No,” Samson admitted. Though he prided himself on his knowledge about Romulan history and culture, there was still so much he had yet to learn. The Romulans keeping to themselves after Tomed certainly hadn’t helped matters.
Deitra bit into one of the lehe’jhme and closed her eyes as she savored the taste. Samson did likewise, and instantly enjoyed the sweet, yet strong flavor. Once Deitra had swallowed, she explained, “Lehe’jhme are used for Romulan wine.”
“I’ve only had Romulan ale,” Samson said, after swallowing another bite of a second piece. “And it’s ingredients certainly weren’t this sweet.”
“Many among the elite drank the wine and ate lehe’jhme,” Deitra said, her voice softening, and her expression darkening. She held up the bag and looked at it, disgust etching her face. She threw the bag to the ground. Not finished, Samson did the same. Sometimes the best way to leave the past was to confront it, but also to throw it behind you.
Deitra’s smile was larger this time, and Samson felt its heat. “You’ve always been there for me, since the first time we met. I-I don’t always tell you, but I do love you.”
“You don’t have to tell me, you show me,” the admiral said, nodding, “Every day.”
“I’m tired of walking through these dusty streets,” his wife said. “There’s nothing else here that interests me. I would rather explore our room more, before Ousanas gets here.”
Samson smiled. “You’ll get no objection from me.”
She wrapped her hand around his and gave it a hard squeeze. “Lead the way, Admiral,” she growled softly, sending a familiar thrill through him.
“Admiral Glover,” a voice from on high cracked the sky like lightning. His wife was oblivious, intent on what awaited them in their hotel room. Samson wished he could do the same, and though he knew better, he still paused. “Admiral Glover,” the voice called again, the tone now insistent. “Admiral Glover to the bridge.”
He sighed. “What’s wrong?” Deitra asked, a scowl marring her features.
Samson sighed. “End program,” he said with reluctance while desperately focusing on his wife’s face, her eyes still lit with expectation, love, and desire as vibrant almost as he remembered them. And just like a flame, his wife and Santora Prime flickered away and he was in the austere, black room, crisscrossed by a yellow hologrid.
“Admiral Glover?”
The admiral sighed and sank to the floor. On his hands and knees, he told himself, “You can do this Samson, you got this.” Pushing back the dark waves slamming into him, he slowly got to his feet. Remembering the lesson his wife had taught him on Santora Prime far too long ago now, and ostensibly the reason he utilized this holoprogram, he had to put the past behind him.
Though he knew, as he took one long look into the cavernous room, its emptiness making him shudder, that he could never really let go, as much he would try.
He tapped the combadge on his chest. “Glover to the bridge. On my way.”
********************************************************************
A LIGHT IN DARKNESS
She slowly looked around, before smiling cautiously. Samson Glover thought the gesture was mostly genuine. He reached out and clasped her hand, giving it a firm, loving squeeze. “I’m proud of you,” he said.
She looked askance. “Why?” She scoffed.
“For coming here, among other things,” the man answered.
His wife sighed, a swirl of emotions contorting her attractive dark features. “You’ve been on me about this for a while, so I thought it was about time I finally went acceded.”
Samson nodded. He knew that acceding was not something Deitra Khumalo did well. “I just thought it would be good, to come to Santora Prime, to make peace with the past.” He felt himself explaining, defensiveness creeping in.
Even though his wife had decided to spend her shore leave here, on this planet of Romulan expatriates, Samson still had doubts that his suggestion had been the right one. In a larger sense, he thought it would be good for his wife to see Romulans not solely as the monsters she had encountered for much of her formative years, though at the same time, he feared undoing the great work Deitra had done to heal and the strides she had made to live again, and to love him, and their son Terrence.
Samson didn’t think he possessed that kind of strength, and he didn’t really want to find out. They walked through the middle of a town square, both in civilian garb, though their lack of pointed ears, made them stand out. The Romulans didn’t seem to mind though.
Children scampered about while merchants and customers haggled. The scenes of life playing out before them were no different than many such towns on Earth or on the many planets either Samson or his wife had journeyed to as Starfleet officers. And it was no different than many of the starbases Samson had served on.
Though he preferred the sterile, controlled environment of starbases than the unpredictable weather and smells planetside. He had put his discomfort to the side however, more concerned about how his wife was faring.
Deitra tried hard not to stride down the street. Despite their nondescript clothing, her gait screamed Starfleet. Samson noticed a few other Romulans that carried themselves similarly, which the admiral suspected exposed them being Imperial veterans. Some of them reminded him of their mutual friend, Ousanas Dar, one of the more infamous expatriates from the Star Empire, and something of a legend on Santora Prime. As Samson walked past those men and women, he hoped how they became Federation citizens was not as tragic as it was for Ousanas.
As if reading his thoughts, Deitra asked, “I thought Ousanas would be here by now.” A Starfleet Intelligence agent, Ousanas was supposed to meet them at Santora Prime to pick up Deitra and return with her to the Starship Adelphi. She was first officer on the Adelphi, and she had high hopes that once Captain Darson retired that the man would support her taking the reins. Deitra had a burning desire for the captain’s chair. More than Samson ever had, and he was both heartened and a bit saddened to see similar fires raging in their son.
Both Deitra and Terrence could be too driven at times, too focused on where they were going, to enjoy the journey. In fact, they hadn’t been together as a family, including his brother Sheldon for years now, since that contretemps with the Alshain, the nightmare of all family vacations.
Despite his interest more in the journey, and his academic pursuits, Samson’s star was steadily rising, and one reason he was happy to be sans uniform is he sensed that Deitra resented that he had already made it to admiral.
They had had their rows about it. Samson felt that his wife’s demanding perfectionism stifled her career, whereas Deitra was convinced that her being one of the few survivors of the Norkan genetic experimenters had put an immovable block on her progress.
Glover knew the matter wouldn’t be resolved, until Deitra sat in the captain’s chair. From what she had told him about Adelphi’s future first contact mission with the Ghorusdans, it could the kind of thing that earned her the praise and acceptance she had long sought.
But that was the future. Samson just wanted to concentrate on the now. Deitra strode over to one of the hawkers. She pointed at a bag of oblong green fruit. “How much?” She said, her tone imperious.
The seller’s ears twitched at that, and a toothy grin sprouted through his thick, patchy graying bread. Though many of Santora Prime denizens had lived decades in the Federation, many of the males still preferred to go clean shaven, and both genders preferred short or bowl cuts not that dissimilar to their Vulcan cousins. Though this merchant not only wore a beard, but thick, unruly hair, also graying, hung past his shoulders. “You know something of our ways, eh? You know how we wish to be addressed?”
“I know…a lot…about your kind,” Deitra said frostily. Samson shuddered at all the terrible things that pause contained. “How much?” She asked again.
The man looked at Deitra and then Samson. “For you, gentlelady, seven Federation credits.”
“Seven?” Deitra scoffed. “Four.”
The man looked aghast. “Six.”
“Four.” She repeated.
“Five and a half,” he offered.
“Four.” She said again.
“Wh-what are you attempting to do?” He decried. “I have a spouse, children!”
“Four,” Deitra replied, “And if you protest once more, I’ll make it three or take our business elsewhere.”
The man glanced at Samson, as if seeking the admiral’s understanding or compassion. He merely shrugged.
“It’s tough trying to make your way in the universe you know?” The hawker snorted. “Fine,” he said. He waggled his fingers, his palm open. Deitra pointed again to the bag. With feigned reluctance he took it off the shelf and gave it to her. She dropped four credits into his hand. “Pleasure doing…”
But Deitra had turned from him. She opened the bag and inhaled its scent. A play of emotions worked themselves across her face. There was nostalgic joy and terrible sadness.
She plucked one of the pieces of fruit and gave it Samson. He turned it around in his hand. “Never seen a lehe’jhme before?”
“No,” Samson admitted. Though he prided himself on his knowledge about Romulan history and culture, there was still so much he had yet to learn. The Romulans keeping to themselves after Tomed certainly hadn’t helped matters.
Deitra bit into one of the lehe’jhme and closed her eyes as she savored the taste. Samson did likewise, and instantly enjoyed the sweet, yet strong flavor. Once Deitra had swallowed, she explained, “Lehe’jhme are used for Romulan wine.”
“I’ve only had Romulan ale,” Samson said, after swallowing another bite of a second piece. “And it’s ingredients certainly weren’t this sweet.”
“Many among the elite drank the wine and ate lehe’jhme,” Deitra said, her voice softening, and her expression darkening. She held up the bag and looked at it, disgust etching her face. She threw the bag to the ground. Not finished, Samson did the same. Sometimes the best way to leave the past was to confront it, but also to throw it behind you.
Deitra’s smile was larger this time, and Samson felt its heat. “You’ve always been there for me, since the first time we met. I-I don’t always tell you, but I do love you.”
“You don’t have to tell me, you show me,” the admiral said, nodding, “Every day.”
“I’m tired of walking through these dusty streets,” his wife said. “There’s nothing else here that interests me. I would rather explore our room more, before Ousanas gets here.”
Samson smiled. “You’ll get no objection from me.”
She wrapped her hand around his and gave it a hard squeeze. “Lead the way, Admiral,” she growled softly, sending a familiar thrill through him.
“Admiral Glover,” a voice from on high cracked the sky like lightning. His wife was oblivious, intent on what awaited them in their hotel room. Samson wished he could do the same, and though he knew better, he still paused. “Admiral Glover,” the voice called again, the tone now insistent. “Admiral Glover to the bridge.”
He sighed. “What’s wrong?” Deitra asked, a scowl marring her features.
Samson sighed. “End program,” he said with reluctance while desperately focusing on his wife’s face, her eyes still lit with expectation, love, and desire as vibrant almost as he remembered them. And just like a flame, his wife and Santora Prime flickered away and he was in the austere, black room, crisscrossed by a yellow hologrid.
“Admiral Glover?”
The admiral sighed and sank to the floor. On his hands and knees, he told himself, “You can do this Samson, you got this.” Pushing back the dark waves slamming into him, he slowly got to his feet. Remembering the lesson his wife had taught him on Santora Prime far too long ago now, and ostensibly the reason he utilized this holoprogram, he had to put the past behind him.
Though he knew, as he took one long look into the cavernous room, its emptiness making him shudder, that he could never really let go, as much he would try.
He tapped the combadge on his chest. “Glover to the bridge. On my way.”
********************************************************************
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