Lt. Commander Yogan Yalu — Already in memory
jkpbem
(( Temporary USS Resolution Memorial, Deck 228, Deep Space 224 ))
The trip from Risa to Deep Space 224 aboard the USS Columbia had been uneventful. It was a pleasant contrast to Yogan’s last few days on the pleasure planet, which had seen him overeat, paint horga’hns, overeat, fly a holographic antique jet, and overeat. Columbia was a nice ship, well-appointed and with a crew that exuded professionalism, but Yogan didn’t shed any tears when it came time to disembark at DS224. Ever since Resolution was lost, he felt like he was just drifting from port to port; a guest everywhere but nowhere to call home. The home he knew was no longer. All that remained were some bits of debris, a few items carried off in the pockets and hands of the survivors, and this spontaneous place.
Stepping through the doors of the unoccupied storefront, Yogan was shocked at how many items filled the room. Bouquets of flowers lined one wall and spilled out several meters forward on the floor in an array of blooms of all colors. Stacks of cards and mementos were arranged as tidily as could be on several tables against the opposite wall, and a screen mounted into the bulkhead replayed on a loop the list of survivors and those who were lost. A notice was posted on the opposite bulkhead from the Commercial Sector Merchants’ Association, about a committee forming to erect a permanent Resolution memorial somewhere on the starbase. The notice specifically asked for interested persons, including survivors of the disaster, who wished to be part of the process to attend the public meetings and join the committee.
“Including survivors of the disaster.”
That was weird. Being a “disaster survivor” wasn’t anything; it was a status conferred not through one’s actions nor aptitude. Rather, Yogan and the 101 other survivors had simply gotten away in time, whereas 13 of his crewmates and the mysterious Liam Wyke didn’t. It’s not as though there were a clot of reporters waiting inside the docking gangaway to get an exclusive scoop as they arrived, huddled in blankets like refugees. Resolution wasn’t the flagship, she wasn’t famous. No one outside of the Borderlands probably even knew her name.
But Resolution was important to him. It was where he had learned many things about himself, made deep personal and professional connections, and discovered what he believed to be the direction in which his career was meant to go. He was pleased that the crew and residents of Deep Space 224 saw fit to pay tribute to her memory. Yogan wondered what kind of permanent memorial the Merchants’ Association had in mind, but he didn’t feel particularly inspired to have any say in the matter. For a “disaster survivor,” his story was pretty tame. He wasn’t even aboard the ship when the evacuation order went out. He was on Rinascita Station, trying not to suffocate or freeze to death in the failing life support before they could get away aboard a chunk of rust with thrusters. Being a “survivor” of the ship’s destruction didn’t entitle his opinion to any greater weight than anyone else’s. These things were usually best left to the professionals, anyway.
A permanent memorial would be a moving tribute, but nothing could convey raw emotion like the cards and mementos laid out before him. Gently, he opened a few of them in turn and read what schoolchildren, businesspeople, and seasoned career officers wrote in condolence: “Our thoughts are with you.” “Thank you for your sacrifice.” “We will miss you.”
Yogan wasn’t prone to wild displays of emotion–amongst Yalu’s eight hosts, that had typically been the province of Keroga and Benim–but the heartfelt expression of sympathy from so many strangers affected him, and he bit his lip to stem the rising tide of grief. So enveloped in the experience of touring the makeshift memorial was he, that he didn’t hear someone entering quietly behind him.
Piruzian: I was wondering if I might catch you here.
The voice was instantly recognizable. Sweet and low, but with a rasp that Yogan knew got more prominent the longer she spoke. Twenty-four years since he last hard it, but the sound was still etched in his memory. He turned around slowly to see a Human female standing in the doorway, wearing a Starfleet uniform in operations gold with captain’s pips, fingertips tented in a diamond shape across the front of her jacket. She’d barely changed. Her dark, shoulder-length hair was swept back from her face and tucked behind her ears. Her brown eyes looked curious and all-knowing at the same time. And her ever-present half-smile. Wow, her smile.
Yalu: Gai.
TBC
Lt. Commander Yogan Yalu
Helm Officer
USS Resolution NCC-78145
Justin D238804DS0