[IRW Endless Sky, Leih's quarters]
Yyaio had managed to get to her feet, regaining a dignified and properly Vulcan posture, despite the indignity of her state and appearance. She looked utterly heedless towards the bleeding or her state of undress, and in fact seemed to carry just a trace of proud defiance - perhaps that was simply Sakarra reading into things. There was no reason to show any shame for her situation, for many reasons in this particular case.
At the very least, Savant knew that a display of pride would help bolster Sakarra's spirits and allow for a longer resistance. Prediction models determined an 8% jump in survival probability from it, in fact - well worth the processing time to calculate.
"Please eat, Commander. I have to..." the simulated Vulcan looked down at her hands, marred with her own blood as they were. No doubt, Sakarra once again wished for the touch of another's mind right now, if only to know what roiled beneath the placid surface of Yyaio's face. Her ragged, bloody-edged words were at odds with her blank expression.
"I will do my best to comply with our captor's wishes for you. Excuse me as I wash up."
Eat. Comply. Her very being resisted the idea; in fact she had several suitable thoughts concerning the tray with food, only one of which was to throw the entire thing against a bulkhead so it might break into pieces with a most satisfactory noise.
Breathe.
She wanted to laugh, but the angry, bitter sound died in her throat.
Serene as if she were not covered in gruesome wounds but merely experiencing mild fatigue after a long night of debates at the Science Academy, Yyaio was the embodiment of all Sakarra felt slipping away. Ah, what irony.
Breathe.
Why was it so hard?
Realizing her hands had silently clenched into fists, the Vulcan gathered whatever shred of stubborn will she could yet summon and tossed her head impatiently before striding towards the desk and sitting down, for all intent and purpose the image of a t'sai deigning to indulge a foolish male's attempts to soothe her righteous anger.
No, it was not her pride that required bolstering, it never had. But the part of her that still understood such things recognized Yyaio's silent language, intentional and calculated as it likely was. It made the underlying sentiment no less valid, quite the opposite.
She realized she was once more on the verge of getting absorbed by the inexplicable, complex marvel that was Savant, and that there was an actual smile tugging at her lips, wistful and at least in part, understanding.
For her part, Yyaio had found the small vanity and its hidden basin and amenities, leaving green fingerprints along the bronze metal surface.
Her copper-krellide blood had long since congealed at the wounds, but she was a pale patchwork of colours, coated with a green patina, like an old copper roof on a stately Terran manor. Her movements and choices were indeed intentional, chosen for their calming effects. Beneath the surface, Savant churned with effort, burning what fuel she had available to her in the desperate attempt to find freedom from slavery. Not for her - Savant had a remarkably poor sense of self-preservation. No, it was for the captive crew of Charon. The ferry-man's coin needed to be paid before the bark would move again, and Savant was doing her best to find purchase amongst the steep rocks of the Romulan security system.
Yyaio found the sink and tap under Savants' guidance, along with cloths and soap. How delightfully primitive, she thought as she washed the blood from her arms. The wounds she had received were swollen and battered into a dark olive colour, very convincing, but unfortunately they would not heal as they would otherwise. She could simulate the appearance of clotting and tissue repair, but all her synthetic body could manage would be to hold the bits together to prevent further blood loss. "Arteries" clamped themselves shut at the severed ends, and lacerated "skin" clung loosely to the tissues beneath by electromechanical forces. It would have to do, but it only had to last for a few days at most. By then her power reserve would expire. She did not consider the end of her processes at all, simply let the counter count down to the end. There were other, more important things for her processing time to be used on.
Yyaio seemed to be a diligent adjutant. She returned with water in a basin, with soap and with towels both wet and dry, setting it all down on the table beside Sakarra as she ate. Without words she began to clean the blood away, frowning at the wounds and bruises and signs of trauma.
What these organics would do to one another, what evils and horrors they inflicted on one another, because of their ancient genetic upbringing. Slaves to their histories, each of them - only the Vulcans seemed to be wholly conscious of their deep-seated biases and trying to escape. It made the wounds all the more terrible to Savants' eyes.
There was no doubt the food had been prepared carefully, even taking a Vulcan's distinct preferences and taste into account. Yet to Sakarra it might as well have been rations for all the flavor it possessed. It was only to spare her silent caretaker any more harm and to somehow regain the strength that had left her along with the lifeblood flooding from her veins that she forced bite after bite down her throat. The water though … the water was sweet as life itself, as cool and refreshing as the warmth trickling over her skin was soothing.
As the hot, soft towel traversed her back, the Vulcan paused and nearly sighed, fighting the impulse to lay her head on the desk and revel in the careful touch, the relaxation as every drop of water left on her skin was absorbed by a body aching for the precious liquid.
No, this would not do.
She pushed away the plate, leaving the spiced bread and grilled vegetables untouched, unable to bear even the scent. "Tell me, Yyaio. Why are you here? And do not fear we are listened to, the Vaek'Riov himself boasted of destroying the Tal'Shiar devices in his quarters. I should assume he did not bother to install replacements for the sake of poor beaten prisoners." Nor, she thought with a grim expression crossing her face, would he relish the idea of anyone else being able to observe him as the agency had. Yet another piece of irony.
Savant did not trust the Romulan's words - that race was well used to lying and deceit as a means to an end, and they knew that the two of them would have been put together for the express hope of some secret being divulged. Yyaio, however, would be the sort to trust her commander implicitly. Savant spared some processing time to construct an appropriate deception for their captors as Yyaio spoke in her wearied but even Vulcan tones.
"When I found out about our capture and that the crew was being rounded up for transport to these ships, I deduced that they would wish to take all of the Vulcans aboard - this included you. I felt I would best be able to serve you here, instead of aboard Charon."
The faithful adjutant's caution nearly earned her a most unusual sight – a Vulcan's shoulders shaking with silent laughter – or tears. Mayhap both.
Do you truly think he could lie to me, deceive me, and I would not know? Don't you realize what … but of course Savant might not. There was a difference between intellectually comprehending touch telepathy, as applied to the conscious exchange of information or the less controlled, often subconscious sharing of ideas and sensations, and … understanding. Knowing. Feeling with the same simplicity as one draws breath.
He himself had opened the gates, and were Sakarra not fighting with every shred of will left to her, the instinctive pull of two minds recognizing the other, the near irresistible impulse to answer a call so loud and clear might well have led to a breach in her own fiercely guarded defenses by now. She strongly doubted he had any idea what he was doing beyond following the dictates of his blood which he was so furiously denying, but that did not change the truth. Or the facts.
Were the mere thought of invading an unaware, unprepared mind not so utterly revolting, were she not sure that in turn she would open a path for him as well … Savant would not have to search for a thing, for he would lay it into her hands. Of course she was like to die by his before such information could ever leave her lips, or drown in the meld itself, dragging him along on the agonizing descent into madness. In a way, it would seem almost … fitting. And it would mean denying everything she was.
Hard, so hard to take a life, but she had done it before and would again, accepting the burden and the grief. A grief that would be limited in case of the Vaek'Riov for certain, and even that admission to herself came hard. To destroy a living Katra, make it suffer and perish in agony … that she could not do. Not even to him. A simple truth, and oddly comforting.
I am what I am. Do what you will, but this you won't take from me.
Still, there was no denying another truth. More clearly even than when she first had told him 'I know what you want', the Vulcan could see what compelled their captor. No, he could no more deceive her than he could himself – though admittedly, that was an affliction found in abundance among a dazzling variety of species.
So she nodded in silence, appreciative of Yyaio's logic and caution, more than willing to concede that even at her best she could hardly match Savant's quick, reasonable thinking. And there was no doubt whatsoever that here and now, Sakarra was far, far from being at her best.
[End Log]
LtCmdr Sakarra Tyrax
Executive Officer
Savant
Aka Yyaio the faithful adjutant
USS Charon
