JP LtCmdr Yogan Yalu & Ens Hiro Jones - Life is Like a Picnic Basket (JP pt 4)
notyourfrog
(( Yogan Yalu’s Mind ))
Holding one of the yellow and red-striped tent flaps aside and bowing low to his guest, Hiro looked every inch the master of this circus. The entrance to the tent was now a pitch black triangle. When Yogan was just at the threshold, he felt a hand in the center of his back a split second before it shoved - gentle but irresistible.
No sooner had Yogan passed into the darkness than all light, sound and sensation of up and down vanished. All that remained was the smell of sawdust, mixed with the faint whiff of animal, and a voice in the black.
Jones: Do you know where we are, Yalu?
Yalu: I think so.
The smell changed. It was jarring. Most of the times - even during transport - changes in smell weren’t this absolute or abrupt. The smell was now of soil, grass, and wood smoke in the distance.
Jones: How about now, Yalu?
The silence hung in the inky air. The disembodied voice spoke out again.
Jones: Maybe this will help?
Rajim: ::distant, crying:: Mom! Rakela bit me!
Rakela: I did not! You fell on my head!
The blackness remained absolute, but other, subtle sounds filled out the audioscape. Songs of birds filled the cracks, the bickering of two small children rendered their services as a hint.
Jones: Where are we, Yalu?
Yalu: They were eleven and nine when I died.
(( Meeros Family Farm, Near Devritane, Trill — 2207 ))
The world around Yogan and Hiro burst into life. Yogan’s shoes—no, they were boots now—squished in the boggy earth. He stepped precariously, as the mud and the abrupt change in space-time played tricks on his equilibrium. He recognized the place from memories of his second host, who lived and died two centuries ago, and Yogan’s own memories, which reflected the passage of time. In 2400, Meeros was no longer a family farm. The site had been swallowed up as the city of Devritate grew.
It felt good to be back in the crisp, chilly air of the Trill homeworld. Yogan rubbed his hands together to warm them and to expend some of the building excitement he felt.
Yalu: I mean, when Edanne died.
A row of vibrant patterned textiles hung on a line in the distance, whipping around in the ever-present breeze. Yogan knew every square centimeter of each one. Edanne had woven them herself. While the rest of the galaxy fought wars over minerals and conquered each other’s homelands, Edanne Yalu was content to write color charts, till earth, and tuck her children into bed every night.
Of all the Yalus, Edanne was the only one who subscribed to the adage that one ought to bloom where one is planted. The others, Yogan included, sought happiness and fulfillment in a lifetime of chasing opportunities.
Yalu: This place doesn’t exist anymore. ::points to the paddock where a pair of spotted, vaguely equine creatures grazed lazily:: If I remember correctly, that is a replimat. ::points to the sprawling farmhouse:: And over there, a primary school sits where my house used to be.
Jones: They seem happy.
Edanne’s two children, Rajim and Rekela, chased after each other, shedding their jackets so they could maneuver more easily between a maze of hay bales. There was a saying amongst one of the old ethnoreligious groups on Earth—Yogan couldn’t remember which—that went something like, “There is a separate God for children.” Yogan lacked the experience of a religious upbringing, but in his present dream state, relishing the sight of Edanne’s children so carefree and ignorant of the loss they would soon suffer, Yogan came close to understanding the proverb.
Yalu: She seldom left the village, you know. Zedro never stopped looking through his telescopes and listening to background noise in space. Omed and Benim worked off-world for most of their lives. Auz and I joined Starfleet. Edanne never felt the need to go anywhere. ::chuckles:: The farthest she ever traveled from home was to the capital, to the Symbiosis Institute, when she was chosen for Joining.
Jones: What kind of life is that - to have the ability to reach the stars, but settling for ::gesturing to the surrounding farm:: just this?
Yalu: A small life. Valuable, but small. ::inhales deeply:: And for all the others’ achievements—senators, celebrities, journalists, war heroes—Edanne’s memories are some of the most vivid. I feel at home here.
The face of Hiro Jones shifted into a benevolent smile. It didn’t smile; it merely melted from one expression to the next, as though a lazy animator couldn’t be bothered with the transitional frames.
Jones: As with our state. Perception is reality. A life that feels happy and fulfilled is so. Her life was big enough, so she felt complete in her sphere of existence.
Yalu: For all the good it did her. ::nods across the property to an old, ramshackle barn:: She fell from there. Not quite a year from now. No one was around to notice or call for help. She was only forty-one years old.
The look now shifted from benevolence to an arrogance that accompanies omniscience.
Jones: And you felt cheated.
Yogan knew that whatever this was, it wasn’t reality. He half-expected Hiro Jones to start teaching him the true meaning of Christmas. He wished he had access to his own memories, so he could know who Hiro Jones really was. But the coma-induced memory goulash prevented him from grasping onto anything certain. Instead, he allowed himself to accept this version of Hiro as the authentic one… for now. But as soon as he woke back up, he’d have some questions for the good doctor.
Yalu: I remember how difficult it was, once I was Joined to Omed, to resist the urge to check in on Edanne’s children. I had my own—sorry, Omed had her own, five of her own—but she always carried the loss of never seeing Edanne’s little ones grow up.
The scene changed again. Fading to murky gray, the shapes lost their continuity, swirling like disturbed silt in a pond. What light there was gathered to shine on the two figures. The spotlight illuminated a sharp circular space around them. Two three-legged stools sat on a wooden platform in the middle of the stage. The Jones figure turned to face Yalu. When the light caught his face, the Trill saw only the static face of a Greek mask.
Jones: Mortal fate is hard, you’d best get used to it.
Yalu: ::laughs:: Oh, trust me, I am well used to it by now. Dying seven times has made me something of an expert in the subject.
The mask melted away, revealing a face that folded malevolent generosity with compassionate withholding in a perfectly-balanced duality.
Jones: I could show you what was, what wasn’t, what is, and what could be, and what could never be, but consider this, long-lived Yalu: can a vessel which has been shaped to hold an absolute volume, once filled, hold infinity itself?
Yogan’s flickering thought of Hiro becoming a 25th century Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come seemed to manifest right in front of him. The life of a Joined Trill was one of perpetual hindsight. Present and future were always informed and influenced by one’s long, storied past. The thought of Hiro showing him something he didn’t know unsettled him. He tried to shrug off the suggestion.
Yalu: ::deadpan:: I don’t understand the question, and I won’t respond to it.
Jones: Then let’s change the container.
The spotlight expanded, showing the stage boards to be a portion of a large deck on the back of a house overlooking a grassy valley just downhill of the house. Hiro pulled from behind his back a full-length mirror taller than he was. Looking in this mirror, Yalu saw a face that was simultaneously familiar and altogether foreign to him. The memories suddenly present in his mind were a flood of joy and heartache, triumphs and failures, pride and regret.
Jones: Tell me about yourself, Rajim Yalu.
This wasn’t right. Rajim was just a boy when Edanne died, but in the mirror, he appeared as a man of about forty. His features were strikingly similar to Yogan’s.
Yalu: I— I didn’t want to believe it. I used to pretend that she was just away.
Jones: In a sense, she did. She gave you a great many things first though.
Yalu: She taught me to weave. I kept doing it my whole life. Even after I left home. Went to university. Married. Had children. It’s a skill I still practice.
Jones: And there’s more - so much more that you’ve shared with the rest.
The mirror crack’d. Yogan flinched. His reflection, though distorted in the broken glass, returned to something far more Yogany. Like a melting clock, the mirror dripped into a puddle of liquid mercury at his feet. Glimpses of himself—all nine of himselves—appeared as the silvery liquid undulated between his boots.
Yogan felt himself being pulled backward, away from Hiro. The darkened space between them grew even darker.
Yalu: Something’s happening.
Jones: Something’s always happening, Yogi. The important thing to learn which somethings are worth paying attention to. I think this now has been now enough, but when now is then, what will it mean to the new now?
Even in a coma dream where the rules of physics didn’t apply, it seemed nothing could last forever. Yogan’s awareness shifted. He felt something uncomfortably comfortable supporting his back and found it harder to move. The light that shone in his eyes had a strangely glossy, distorted appearance.
TBC
Lieutenant Commander Yogan Yalu
Second Officer & Strategic Operations Officer
USS Artemis NCC-81287
D238804DS0
USS Artemis-A, Medical
E239510KD0