I'd Rather Be Flying

Posted on Fri Sep 3rd, 2021 @ 12:41pm by
Edited on on Mon Jan 3rd, 2022 @ 11:38am

559 words; about a 3 minute read

Mission: Prologue: Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow
Location: Incoming Transport

Every ship had them. Places where you could sit and watch the stars that weren't quite as popular. Quiet places that lacked the comfortable seating and a replicator on-hand. Out of the way places. He always found them even on transport vessels that wouldn't let him pilot. Tonight, he sat cross-legged on the floor, because that was where he was most comfortable, and watched the stars. If the ship weren't at warp, he would have tried naming them but for now, it was enough to watch.

It had been said, once when things made sense to him, that there is no being in the known universe who can wait with greater patience than a trained Azhadi warrior. He remembered the words, softly spoken and carried to where they all knelt, side by side, in the tall grass. And while it hadn't exactly been true of a young boy at the beginning of his training, it had been true of every warrior who ever bore the caste mark. But that day, he was all of nine years old. Waiting was hard. Six candidates on their first hunt, forbidden to return without food to share. He remembered Zehyr's counsel. Breathe in the world, breathe out everything else.

Twenty-one years later, he sat on the deck plate, watching the stars rush by, and thought about how far he had come since that day so long ago. Back then, he could not have imagined the idea of making a choice. It was beyond his understanding nor could any member of his caste for that matter. His life belonged to the Edun and to the Imai. Such was the way of things. And now, he was ... Starfleet. And Starfleet believed in personal choice. There was duty but there were hundreds of things to decide. It had been overwhelming at first. Little things like 'what do you want to drink' or 'what do you want to eat' or even, 'when do you want to wake up.'

Your service is no longer required. Six words. Just six words. And with those words, the rhythm of his days was destroyed.

His decision to live, rather than follow so many of his brothers into honorable death, meant that he must learn this thing – making choices. Balancing between what had always been and a new reality that incorporated change in its design. In the Federation, what had been true once might not be true in a year, two years, ten. Permanence and tradition were sacrificed on the altar of scientific advancement, innovation, and politics.

Words that were hard to understand. Harder still to shape into a reality in which he could live.

There had been a night like this one. He had sat watching the stars and remembered something Zehyr had once told him. “They see us as living weapons. And on the day that they no longer need the weapon, they grow fearful. What they had wielded against their enemies could now be turned on them.” Zehyr had smiled then and leaned closer to whisper conspiratorially, “They do not know what we know. We are not weapons. We wish only to stand on the edge of what is known and turn our faces to the dark. To see.”

So much truth to that but with one caveat.

He’d rather be the one doing the flying.

Always.

 

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