The Only Riches That Last

Posted on Mon 14th Sep, 2020 @ 2:31am by Renato Solis

3,215 words; about a 16 minute read

Mission: Resolution
Location: Community Center, Brown Sector
Timeline: MD-17, 1500 hours

The only riches that last are the ones you give away. --Marcus Aurelius

Damion Ildaran regarded the collection of vegetable plants growing in his in-quarters hydroponics garden and sighed. All the little buds on his yellow squash plant were producing fruit. So were the tomatoes and strawberries. So was the tulsi. Bowls of squash adorned his kitchen countertop. Strawberries resided in the refrigerator. He could give the strawberries to Elizabeth; she would either eat them herself, make pink lemonade out of them, or offer them to her patients. But the rest of it?

It's time to go talk to that man down in Brown Sector, Damion thought. If I get sent out on a field op soon, I'll come home to a mess of rotted produce. He nodded to himself and headed out of his Starfleet quarters to the Intelligence department to spend 15 minutes under the follicle stimulator. Once his hair was grown to the proper length, he rode the turbolift down to the deck where he rented the sleeping pod that he maintained for his Corin Durant identity. A change of clothing, gathering his hair into a ponytail, and several minutes spent in a mental shifting into Durant's personality, and he was on the tram again, headed toward Brown Sector.

* * *

The area of Brown Sector that went by the name 'Midnight' always made Corin itch to replace the lighting or to take apart and replace the power circuits. It was the one place onboard 109 where Damion couldn't maintain the strict mental separation that he strove for between himself and his covers. In Midnight, no matter how hard he concentrated, a lot of himself always bled over into Corin's thoughts.

Walking through Midnight was like walking through a bad part of the outer tunnels back home, where most of the lighting had been deliberately destroyed by the gangs decades before. If the gangs wanted it dark there, no one was going to restore the lighting, and walking through those areas was taking your life into your hands--particularly at the rare spots where there were lights. He slid a hand into one pocket, where he kept an electrician's utility knife. He didn't anticipate needing it; he'd walked this area with Elizabeth and knew it was relatively safe. He just felt--better with it in his hand.

Brown Sector wasn't as dangerous as Turkana City's outer tunnels, so why not repair the lighting, Damion wondered? He entered the little plaza with its trio of shopfronts and walked to the door marked with the green board that read Find Help Here. He thought perhaps the more elaborate lettering was meant to spell out 'Renato,' but all the embellishments to the letters and the dim lighting made it difficult for him to read without studying the word in more detail. What little printed material could be found in Turkana City was not fancy or at all artistic. Earth fonts were bewildering.

Corin hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should knock. Then he shook his head at himself. Building open to the public; just go on in, as if it were his own repair shop. He pulled the door open and stepped inside.

The place was larger than it had looked from the exterior and was much better lit, Corin saw to his relief. He pulled his hand out of his pocket. Something that smelled wonderful was cooking, rich and savory. He flitted his gaze around, noting the entrances and exits and the locations of people and furniture inside as he moved farther into the large room. He could hear children playing somewhere and the low murmur of conversation. Hearing children was good and allowed him to fully relax.

The door had a silent alarm, a simple light that flicked on with a simple plate circuit that disconnected when it was opened and a light turned on. It had been put up mostly so there was a way to track the children sneaking out. It also meant Kya or Renato were never surprised. The man who entered defied Renato's ability to describe accurately. Ullian telepathy worked on the portions of the brain where memories were stored. A personality was usually well defined, but this one had a shadow. Scoping the probable knife in one pocket, a cursory glance showed too many areas another weapon would be easily concealed. It caused concern, but this place was open to all, and coming down here sometimes warranted a little protection.

He stepped heavy out of his office door, swinging wide out of the doorway to make sure he couldn't be accused of sneaking. His senses were confused by this man, so he took in the sights. The clothes had only recently been put on, the ionization smell indicated he had had some kind of low level electrical activity burning him recently. For some reason Elizabeth Anderson came to mind as well. Fit, healthy, no haunted look in his eyes or looks over the shoulder either. He wasn't Starfleet, but he carried himself as though he had training.

Time was up for observations, and he introduced himself, "Hello and good afternoon. I am Renato. Welcome to our community center. How can we help you today?" His smile was rigid, awaiting potential mayhem.

So this is Renato. Corin looked the Ullian guy over. He was young for an Ullian, but something about his eyes looked old. Corin noted the wary smile combined with the polite greeting.

Children in here, Corin thought. Guy doesn't know me; probably wants to make sure they're safe.

"Glad to meet you." Corin extended a hand. "Name's Corin Durant. Elizabeth Anderson told me about your place. I do repair work for her sometimes. She said you all run a kitchen in here. Smells like somebody's a good cook."

Like a favorite old boot, the name was well worn and fit the man perfectly. A handshake was dangerous, most knew better. Corin was either unafraid of telepathy, or unaware. One spelled danger, the other marked a fool. In such coin flips it rarely went the way of the fool. It was the subvocal glottal drop in the way he said "Elizabeth Anderson" that revealed he wasn't used to saying the entire name. He was far more familiar with her than he let on, but that commended him all the more.

"Kya is a specialist, able to bring peace to anyone with a simple stew. Glad to meet you." A simple reach and Renato took hold of the offered hand, Corin must have been willing to accept that Renato would see his innermost thoughts. As a rule, Renato did not actively scan anyone unless he was helping them therapeutically. It was a two-way experience, Corin would be aware of Renato' presence. He had problems enough; adding others to his mindscape threatened relapse into his old way. As Corin presented himself, there should only have been an open book of mundane facts.

Instead he saw Elizabeth Anderson, crowned in illuminated worship. She wore a long black shawl, ebony black, and spoke to someone... though her words were muffled. She spoke to Ischemia Addams. Flashes of a place called home, Turkana IV, and with the insights of the man's past Corin became yet another alias. If he pressed on anything too hard, Corin would be aware of the digging. Passive collection was an ethical gray zone, but this was an odd situation. Who was this man?

"The cooking is why I came here," Corin said, gently breaking the physical contact. "I grew up working in a hydroponics garden. Now that I live here, I have a smaller version of that garden in my quarters. It's grown to the point where I have more vegetables than I'm able to spend time canning. Could your Kya use any of them?"

This man loved Elizabeth Anderson, and though he lived a double life, that was no crime either. Renato trusted his gut, "Yes, I'd say we both would enjoy any charity you can provide."

Something in the man screamed to be heard, this was usually the indicator of a dark secret. The swirl of sensation and images led to a conclusion of anonymous operator using an alias. Renato had known plenty of spies in his day, but did "Corin" bring trouble or help stop it?

"It's not charity; it's just sharing," Corin replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "I've got more than I need; I'm sure you folks could use what I can't. We'd be doing each other a favor."

Renato continued with a hasty tour, showing the central rec room with benchrows for dining. "Kya is at work, but she runs this place more than I do, so I'll agree to your offer with gratitude, but it's her that you'll deal with. We will feed as many as we can, try to do good with what you give us."

"If she'll tell me what sorts of vegetables she'd like to have I could grow more of those," Corin said. "Right now, I'm looking to be buried in yellow squash, tomatoes, and tulsi soon--possibly also strawberries, but I give Elizabeth first dibs on those." He gave Renato a sidelong glance. "How much did you see?"

Renato felt a cold chill in his veins. He was speaking loudly, replying to the surface conversation to make sure there were plenty of eyes who saw them, "We use potatoes and leafy greens in everything, but I've seen the crew here take radishes and turn them into plum pudding, magicians every one of them." Flattering the cooks was a time-honored tradition for the well fed.

Corin nodded. "Potatoes'll keep you alive better than grain. I can grow them and spinach."

With the actual conversation looming just underneath, he considered how to reply to Corin's questions. People who could detect another mind passively collecting thoughts were usually trouble of some sort. More than a few nights were spent in the infirmary from a moment of contact flooding him with images he wasn't supposed to see. Klingons had a sense about it, Cardassians lived perpetually on guard for it, Humans though had to be trained for it.

The brush with another person's mind had felt--humbling. Corin himself was in no way a telepath, so he had expected to feel nothing, only to meet Renato with bared-bones honesty. Instead, he had encountered--sadness, loss. Those weren't what gave him nightmares, but he certainly understood how they could weigh on a person.

"I didn't expect the contact to be mutual," he admitted. "I wouldn't have risked invading your privacy if I'd known."

"I only hope you weren't made to feel uncomfortable. My people have powerful sense and touch makes it much more intense. Your training kept me from seeing anything beyond dream-like imagery. Gorgeous black Irish lace, by the way."

Ullian telepathy worked through sections of the brain used for reference, memory, sensations of the moment all creating harmonizing points for their cortex to read. Exposure and knowledge of the subject increases this effect. Resistance in times past involved random thoughts inserted into stream of consciousness, discordance training, using cognitive dissonances as ways to fool the telepath. Corin had this training, and the passive collection of his thoughts hadn't revealed much, the imagery was an interpolation of data, scrambled with metaphor known by Corin intimately. Without his memory, the metaphor was lost, so any secrets within were still safe.

Corin/Damion chuckled. "I'm glad you like it, though that piece is taking forever to finish." He looked carefully at Renato. "Are you all right? I feel like I'm making you uncomfortable or nervous, and I apologize."

"I did get a sensation that you mean well for the people here. I'd like to convey my appreciation and reply further by telling you I plan much the same. Did Elizabeth tell you about us?"

Corin nodded. "Yes, Elizabeth told me about you. She said she met you down here the night of the Peldor Joi festival. I came to the festival with her earlier in the day, but in the evening I had to work."

Answering Corin's earlier question, he quietly replied, "When we shook hands I gained insights about a man who was once a stranger. I see you as others see you now, but I am familiar at this. You will come to know me as I know you over time, but from what I've experienced, the beginnings of such kinships are awkward. I am still a stranger to you."

Corin coughed. "Given the amount of produce and preserved vegetables I plan to bring down here, I doubt we'll be strangers for long."

A sad smile of unrequited affection over a lifetime lost to the ravages of time fell into its usual place. More vocally, he continued the public face of their conversation. The tour into the kitchen showed the spartan space, where herbs hung to dry, wooden spoons like so many wands prepped for the course decorated a wall next to knives and pans. A deep pantry, well protected and organized so not one thing could go missing showed the depth of their resources. The stores were always full these days, it was a subtle indicator of the health of their operation.

"The festival was a smashing success. We have foot traffic in our markets. Oh, the children have loved picking their pockets, and meeting the parents who return the wallets is creating a network, ah that moment when you finally understand the meaning of Peldor Joi."

Then again quietly, "I've been out of the world a while, but had my time inside. I'd like to help you any way I can; all of this is to foster life where it once festered." He loosely referred to the bustling flow of people in and out of the center, peacefully co-existing.

They had meandered far enough away from others that Damion at last felt he could take over from Corin for a bit. "The--brush of contact I had with you convinced me that you can be trusted--and that would be of immense help to me." A subtle change in his facial expression and the way he held himself occurred, and suddenly, he was no longer Corin Durant but someone younger looking, more alert, with a look of lively interest in his dark eyes, who carefully did not offer to shake hands. "I'm Lt. Damion Ildaran of Starfleet Intelligence. Elizabeth and I met when we both served on the USS Hermes a couple of years ago. When Elizabeth first came down here, she took pains to dress as the people of Brown Sector do. Given how people here dislike Fleet personnel, I decided to follow suit. I've become known somewhat as Corin down here, and it would be difficult to meet people in Brown Sector as myself now."

For his part, knowing Corin was an alias did little to prepare him for the change that occurred. Two people occupied one body, and even the telepathic moment had not shown him this. Lt. Damion Ildaran... Intelligence officer. This week has brought me so many people with double lives, how many ragged cloaks over how many well-intentioned Starfleet officers were down here?

"Well sir, we are well met." Ullians could give memory sensations as well. In keeping with the all too real surface pretense conversation Renato extended his hand to conclude, "Your contributions will go to a good use, we will feed many, thank you."

He held his hand out for Corin to take once more.

Damion shot Renato a surprised, questioning look. "Any help I can be to you," he said aloud before reaching out and accepting the handshake.

Renato couldn't provide a life story the way he perceived it in others, but specific memories could be shared. Time spent fighting the Dominion, working as a telepathic operative with intelligence forces, Section 31 using his unit, abandonment by Starfleet on Betazed, the failure of the Federation to care for the war-torn refugees. He withheld the loss of his children, his divorce and addictions, the years lost to rage and pointless emotional wallowing. What he wanted to relay was his service to the cause, and the abandonment once the cause was won.

Of the memories sent, one was the most vivid, a clarity to the moment providing near-perfect recall even after so much life after the fact. A Bajoran man, being strangled to death. A dark night, in the woods, far from anything safe. The cloaked Jem'Hadar had ambushed the unit, defying even the telepathic sense. No tools, no metals for the tricorder, an implant to make them invisible to telepaths, and this spelled their demise. Renato was not a threat, the only other man alive still was dying with bulging eyes. It took only a whisper, but the power of suggestion bypassed the simple brutish creature's mental defenses. Mindlessly, the Jem'Hadar pulled its own ketracel white tube and ran into the dark woods.

It was a decision that Damion could well understand both regretting and not regretting. Any unnecessary death was to be regretted, and ketracel white withdrawal was a horrible way to die. But telepathy was the one weapon Renato had possessed at the time, and the Jem'Hadar warrior, by murdering the Bajoran for no real reason, had earned no mercy.

"War makes monsters of us all," Damion said to Renato in a low voice. "We're just people, not gods. Sometimes, we're just children."

A memory flickered in Damion's mind, of stumbling down a long, dark, smelly tunnel with four other young boys as a sixth boy's voice screamed from behind them, "Don't leave me!" One of the four grabbed Damion's hand and shouted in his ear, "Run!" as beams from flashlights behind them shone in parabolic arcs off the tunnel walls ahead of them.

The two men shared a moment of silence as their demons tormented them from the grave. It was the peals of laughter from the common area that reminded Renato of how he escaped despair and made a life. The world was terrible and lonely, and always out to get you, but if you fought very, very hard, you could carve a piece of utopia out for yourself.

In a low tone, Renato supplied his insight, "We only invent God so we can kill or ignore him."

Back to the facade, he was upbeat in tone and posture saying, "I expect to share many a fine meal, our lights are always on, and with your generous contributions, dinner is on us. We can talk business soon, in a more suitable time and place. Early mornings around here are the best for business talk, everyone is asleep and quiet. Feel free to help yourself to anything out for service, I'll get you cutlery and plates if you're hungry?"

"If I wouldn't be taking food from anyone who needs it, I'd be honored," Damion said and then slipped back into his Corin persona.

 

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