She was surprised by the ache that arose in her chest when she thought of him. There had been other men in her life, some of whom had meant almost as much to her. None of them, however, brought forth the same intense sense of something lacking within her. She had tried to tell herself, many times, that it was ridiculous and juvenile, but it rarely seemed to help. Her feelings had their own ideas.
She opened her eyes. The star-speckled darkness was still there before her. There was thing, she decided, that meant more to her. She had never imagined that she and Scott would have settled down on some planet somewhere. In what few fantasies she had allowed herself, he had explored the stars by her side. He would have, she was certain, wanted it no other way.
Part of her just wanted to lie down and try to sleep. Devereux knew that was her fatigue and [depression] talking. That part was apparently not on speaking terms with her stomach, which grumbled in protest. She could not remember actually having stopped for lunch. She remembered thinking about it, but had no memory of actually going down to the galley and getting something.
She breathed a quiet sigh and glanced around her quarters. There was no secret stash of chocolate or anything else edible tucked away that she could recall, having purposely moved it all to one of the auxiliary cargo holds for precisely this reason. She knew that if she did not eat something, she would wake up in the middle of the night ravenous. It was something she had struggled with since her adolescence. One of the side effects of her athletic background, she supposed.
Resigned to the need for a meal, she began unfastening her uniform pants. They slid free, requiring a little more effort than she expected. While still holding them in her hand, she stared critically down at her legs. She could still see the definition of the muscles there, but their curves were a bit smoother than she remembered. She gave another, more audible sigh.
Looks like more time in the gym.
Since they had headed back out into space, she had not been quite as conscientious about her exercise regimen as she had been during her previous tours of duty. Hope had not yet mentioned it as part of her ongoing medical evaluations, but Devereux could see it in the mirror. She had made excuses to herself for weeks now. There were always reports to be filed, repairs to be made—something that needed more urgently to be done than hauling herself down two decks to the ship’s exercise area. That, Devereux realized, needed to come to an end.
Tomorrow, she promised herself, with a little more conviction than usual.
She pulled on a pair of loose-fitting pants, more for comfort than because she was concerned that they also might prove to be a bit more of a tight fit than she wanted. For a moment, she considered just remaining in her tank shirt, but decided instead on a casual teal-hued tunic. It was not so much a matter of modesty, for she felt that the commanding officer of a ship should demonstrate some degree of propriety.
Although she had never experienced it herself, she could imagine having difficulty fully respecting a superior officer for which she had seen too much skin surface. She was particularly conservative in that regard, simply realistic. How seriously could you take the authority of some officers, she mused as she pulled on the shirt, when you have seen the size of their genitalia?
#
The galley was nearly deserted when she reached it. Two crew members, ensigns both, were engaged in close discussion at a corner table. They stopped in mid-conversation when Devereux, but she gave them a reassuring smile and they both relaxed. Devereux looked away, forcing herself not to smile even more.
I’d bet Rusty real money that one of those bunks will be empty tonight.
She tried not to think about the fact that she would be alone in her own—and of the person would not be sharing it with her. Instead, she studied the menu on the galley display. Although she could technically choose anything that was stocked in one of the supply holds, there were always Recommended Selections for each meal everyday.
Several years ago, some long-forgotten Fleet consultant had once reported that the stress levels among ship’s crews could be reduced if they did not have to make as many decisions each day, however minor. Recommended policy since then had been to provide the crews with simple choices on routine matters, such as meal selection, as a preventative measure. Devereux found no harm in it, but nor did she particularly endorse the notion. She might, she decided, even occasionally flaunt the recommendation by deliberately choosing something not on the menu. There were times though, she admitted, when she had been too tired to care, and just picked whatever was easiest. That was not overt support of the idea, simply pragmatism.
That evening, though, as she quickly surveyed the highlighted menu, she had to admit that a quiche actually seemed an appealing choice. It would be not too heavy of meal, with all of the right kind of proteins and other nutrients. (Except for the desserts, she knew, it was actually fairly difficult not to select a healthy option.) She went ahead and selected it and also requested a green tea flavored with honey. Telling herself that she was demonstrating great self-restraint, she decided to wait for a dessert selection to see if she was still truly hungry for it when she was done with her main meal. She could always come back to the galley later for it, she knew, but the effort of getting adequately dressed, and then making the trip from her quarters, was usually sufficient to deter her from such indulgences.
She surveyed the available seats, definitely not wanting to disturb the delicate mating ritual of the couple in the corner. The galley’s other occupant had finished his meal while Devereux was gathering her tray and had left the chamber. She chose a table at the opposite end of the room, almost as far away as she could reasonably get from the pair within the limited space, and sat down.
Poking at the contents of her plate with a spork, she was mildly relieved to find that it still looked appetizing once she had selected it. She tasted it tentatively with the tip of her tongue. It was the perfect temperature (hardly surprising) and actually quite good. She had once lived for nearly a week on survival rations and had promised herself that she would never again criticize the quality of preprocessed shipboard meals. With the quality of this particular dish, though, it did not require much effort for her to commend it.
Before she quite realized it, her plate was empty. She considered the dessert again, or possibly even another helping of the quiche, but compromised with herself to finish her tea first. It had cooled considerably, but she sipped at it slowly anyway. She was now alone in the galley. The two ensigns had left at some point while she was devouring the last of the quiche, probably too intent on each other to acknowledge their Captain as they left.
Or had they? Devereux wondered. Or had she been too wrapped up in her own thoughts to notice?
She drained the last of the tea from her cup and then held the empty mug between her hands, allowing her thoughts free rein for a moment. She thought had come to terms with the end of her brief relationship with Scott, and had managed it well, until Rusty’s unexpected recognition event in Engineering.
Damn it, Rusty.
Devereux knew that she was more upset with herself than with her Chief Engineer. Although it had still been an odd thing for him to do.
One hundred and twenty-six years, she thought. Even if things had turned out differently, he would still be dead.
She found that the rationalization did not help. That he would have died from old age only a few decades ago, instead in an unexplained disappearance more than a century past, did little to soften the dull ache that had remained with her since that morning.
Devereux placed the empty mug on the table and stared at it for a moment. She considered refilling it; her appetite for dessert or a second serving of quiche had faded. Her thoughts moved to what awaited her that evening in her quarters.
She was essentially caught up with her administrative reporting. There was always more of it to do, she knew, but nothing that she could recall as being particularly urgent. She had started a book several weeks ago that she had not had time to return to, usually either falling asleep before getting to it, or too intent on other work.
This might be a good night for that, she thought, trying to remember what the book had been about, and whether she had even been enjoying it. That she could not even recall its basic contents was not a promising sign.
She considered walking the ship, as that often relaxed her and allowed her mind to sort through her thoughts from the day. The risk there was that she might find something of interest—and work-related—and she really needed to stop doing that. Breaks from the ongoing demands of being in command were essential if she was going to maintain her sanity, especially under the constant threat of combat.
That left her . . . where?
Devereux rose and placed her plate, utensils, and mug into one of the empty storage alcoves and flipped down the small hatch. They would be sterilized and ready for use again in a few minutes.
She left the galley, heading back for her quarters, to what she expected would be a restless evening until she finally succumbed to sleep.
#
Scott Raynes padded down the hallway toward the kitchen. His eyes felt raw with fatigue, but he had been so far unable to sleep.
Probably because it’s still too early, he chided himself silently. The clock back in his bedroom had shown 8:38pm, but he had been awake since 3:33am. He remembered the time exactly, for it been the precise time when he had been unable to go back to sleep. Now, it was catching up with him with a vengeance.
There was a small number of remaining prescription pills he could take. There was also Scotch or brandy, but he had promised himself that he would try something a little less drastic before resorting to either of those alternatives.
He removed a mug from the cabinet, and was prepared to curse with anticipated frustration, when he was pleasantly to discover that his brother had not, in fact, left only a millimeter of milk in the container. Scott had little doubt that Thad had probably drunk directly from the gallon jug, but any germs that might have remained behind were unlikely to be any more dangerous than those he had left there countless times before.
Scott filled the mug halfway and then returned the container to the refrigerator. He placed it until the microwave oven, closed the door, and punched in the heating time. While it whirred to itself, he stared at the display, not really focusing on it, wishing that he could conjure up a genuine yawn. That, at least, might indicate that he was getting close to sleep, but no such reflex was forthcoming.
0 comments:
Post a Comment