Ensign Accompaniment

The USS Mesa hummed steadily through the quiet of space, its engines purring like a contented beast. Deep in its engineering deck, the atmosphere was warm and alive with the steady rhythm of machines. Yet, today, there was a peculiar stillness among the ensigns.

Ta’Pari walked silently alongside Chris as he led her through the intricacies of the Mesa's engine systems. Her face was calm, composed, and void of any hint of expression. She had spent the last several hours in meditation, purging what she assumed were lingering disturbances within her. It was illogical to carry any excess emotional weight into her duties. She found herself feeling nothing—no optimism, no frustration—only a stillness that brought clarity.

Chris, her human bunkmate, held a PADD in his hand, his eyes darting between it and the open console panel they stood before. Normally, Chris was a chatterbox, but now, his mind was entirely focused on the task at hand.

"These plasma conduits have been fluctuating more than usual," Chris noted, his tone level and measured. "I think it might be a variance in the phase inducers. If we reroute the energy flow through the secondary grid, we could stabilize it."

Ta’Pari nodded. “A logical deduction,” she agreed, her voice a calm monotone.

Chris blinked, turning to look at her. It was like a layer of fog had been cleared from his thoughts, and he could see the problem clearly and concisely.

He began his work, his hands moving methodically over the control panel. The only sound was the soft beep of the console and the faint hum of the ship’s systems.

“You know,” Chris began, his voice steady, “when I joined Starfleet, I was a woman.”

Ta’Pari watched him, her gaze unyielding but without judgment.

Chris continued, "I found a place with these folk, and was finally able to express myself for who I truly was."

His words came out evenly, like he was reading a technical manual rather than sharing a personal history.

Ta’Pari nodded, her expression unwavering. “It is logical to seek environments conducive to one’s authentic self,” she said. Her tone was not cold, but precise.

“Not just that, but I wasn’t able to spread my wings until I got here.” He glanced at Ta’Pari, “A metaphor, sorry. I’m trying to say that it’s ok to find yourself in space.”

Ta’Pari meets his gaze, “You’re suggesting that I abandon my Vulkan teachings.”

Chris sighed, his hands back to working on the problem with swift efficiency, “I’m telling you not to be hard on yourself over being emotional. This is a safe space.”

After moments of silence, the Vulkan watched him finish the task as he explained the details of the system. It struck him how strange it was for them to talk about this without any emotional weight—no apprehension, no tension, just a statement of fact. “You’ve got a real... chill vibe, you know? Makes it easier to talk about how things work here, whether that is the ship or the crew.”

Ta’Pari merely nodded again. It seemed like a neutral response was the most appropriate. She understood that Chris was being helpful to get her acquainted, but she also noted that his candor was devoid of the usual emotional undertones that conversations with a human would normally carry.

"Maybe," he mused, "it’s like you Vulcans. You keep things straightforward. No drama."

The conversation ended there. The task was wrapped up and Ta’Pari’s pad notified her that she was to join the other two bunkmates for their cleaning duties.

The corridor was dimly lit, as they were deep in the bowels of the ship, scrubbing plasma scarring from the walls caused by a recent ion storm. Qora's bubbly demeanor died down as Ta’Pari approached. Quasar’s antennae drooped slightly, their eyes refocused on the task at hand.

Quasar broke the silence first, their voice steady but with a cold edge. “Do you ever think about why we’re here? I mean, really think about it?”

Ta’Pari responded, “I am here to serve Starfleet.”

Quasar nodded, seeming to ride the same wave of heavy contemplation. “I joined Starfleet to escape,” they said quietly. “Back on Andoria, I wasn’t welcome. I was considered a failure. A disgrace.”

Ta’Pari listened intently, hands moving methodically over the walls with the cleaning cloth. She felt nothing herself, but she could sense the gravity in Quasar’s words.

“They planned my birth,” Quasar continued, “paired my four parents together, all calculated to improve the odds. And yet I was born... intersex. And sterile.” There was no hint of self-pity in their tone—only the raw recounting of facts.

Qora’s eyes widened. “I… I had no idea,” she murmured.

“Most people don’t,” Quasar replied, “On Andoria, it’s seen as an offense to the family, to the society. I can’t contribute to growing the population and take up resources. It’s already so difficult to conceive enough to replenish the population. Starfleet seemed like the only way to get away from that judgment.”

There was a heavy pause. Qora was usually the one to offer comfort, to say something light to lift the mood, but now, those responses seemed inadequate. Instead, she was drawn into her own thoughts—a swirling contemplation of existence, identity, and the meaning of belonging. For the first time, she realized that she didn't know what to say because she couldn't feel anything herself; she felt hollow, almost numb. And that terrified her.

Quasar continued, their voice a steady march of clarity. “Out here, no one knows, no one cares. Andorian gender is hard to understand for most non-Andorians anyway. Even if they knew all four, they wouldn’t know what to look for, what makes me different.”

Qora nodded slowly. "I... wish I could have known that sooner," she said softly. "At least just to comfort you if you needed it.”

There was a silence between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable but was heavy with the weight of everything unspoken. Quasar simply shrugged. "It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. We move forward, or we don’t.”