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The DMA, the Dark Matter Anomaly, was about data. A limitless source of unknowns, and Michael had no idea where to look next. Of course it teased her curiosity to find out what or who this anomaly was, and it was scientifically exciting – she totally could understand Tilly and Stamets, their enthusiasm, their joy for the undiscovered. But on the other hand, it was pure craziness and it demanded nerves of steel to go on and keep the set direction.
To be a Captain was never something about personal feelings. It was the duty to the mission and in consequence the respect of the rules. It had given her so much strength in the past, and yet, she felt as alone as never before.
She sighed, leaning back on the left seat of her couch, listening to the sound of silence. Well, in space there was never anything like silence, not onboard a ship. Starting at engineering, the soft hum of the warp core poured into the thousands kilometers of corridors stretching exponentially from one layer of the ship to the next from under the hull up to the very last broom cabinet, if there was one to be found. Through and through the inner and outer shell of the structure vibrated of its own conscience, the propulsion system anchored in the balusters supplying the system with its own harmony. She knew from her time as cadet that even Jeffrey’s tubes were subject to that low buzzing. These narrow, crawling passages were often filled with pipes and allowed the crew to reach systems that were otherwise inaccessible, especially when normal transportation routes such as turbolifts were not functional.
The ship was constantly energized. At times, Michael had started to believe she was having tinnitus, because the noise wouldn’t stop. She had needed some time to truthfully accept the being of the Discovery, which posed in that matter no difference to another. They could actually consider themselves lucky to travel onboard such a silent vessel. On freighters of the D-class the risk of getting deaf was a tenfold higher. Wearing noise-cancelling headphones was not only strongly recommended but even mandatory on some ships. Communication happened over static loaded short radio wave channels. No, really, they were lucky to be onboard the Discovery. They could enjoy all the pleasure luxury had to offer. Not to speak about the delicious food coming out of the synthetic replicators.
Speaking of which, she looked at her chronowatch and almost chastised herself for not having eaten yet. It was late, no excuse, but not so late as to skip the last meal of the day. She felt as if she could have something light. She stood up and went to the replicator. Opening one button of her red jacket, she spoke into the device. “One Terran Menu 2, Federation mix. One fizzling water, half a liter. One mug of coffee, black, three lumps of sugar.” She knew it wasn’t her best move to have a caffeinated beverage so late at night, but the day had been long and she still wanted to ponder on many open questions that needed attention.
The replicator tinged softly, providing the food she had ordered, standing in that little window before her. She looked at it without seeing it, and walked back to the couch, leaving the tray on the low table. She took the smoking mug in her hand and blew upon the steam, eyes trailing in the distance. Something bothered her. She knew she had to let it go, and yet, her natural instincts at preserving life and needing to save everyone at the end of the day, like President Rillak had put it, let her thoughts get back to Book, who didn’t want to be saved. Though, she had to admit, he had done a good job on that day.
“SHUH!”
Michael cursed under her breath. How could she forget the appointment with Rillak? Frantically she looked at her chronowatch again, reading the numbers now. 2123. Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaack! She was screwed, and so, so dead…! Rillak was going to fry her, for sure. She could think of nothing but the bad image this forgetfulness would leave on her.
Nervously, Michael searched for her P.A.D.D. and entered the secure code into the Federation President's personal channel. It took a few long seconds, during which Starfleet logo flashed several times, and she was short to closing the communications window to the other side as the screen went black and President Rillak's face appeared.
“Captain Burnham?”
The tall blonde took a few steps back. Michael could see she had downed her austere jacket, and was now only wearing her white blouse. It was a long sleeved, very elegant fabric, very supple and sturdy at the same time. Michael couldn’t suppress a smile. Rigellian silk, she thought by herself. She wondered how it felt at the touch.
“Captain Burnham? Are you okay?”
Michael came back to the present. “Yes, Madam President. I was just – trailing off. It’s been a rough and tough day.”
The other woman nodded and smiled lightly. “Tell me about it.” It wasn’t any polite question, nor was it a friendly invitation. It was more of a subtle command, in that way superior beings, so comfortable with their power, claim a due that needs no bidding.
Michael swallowed and took a sip of her much too hot coffee and coughed. Quickly, she snatched the bottle and took a gulp of water. Right after, her left hand went to her throat and opened the zip all down to the bottom, uncovering her underlying black t-shirt.
Hearing the President of the Federation clear her throat, Michael felt all self-conscious at once and started pulling up the jacket she was undressing.
“For the stars, Captain, feel at ease. It is late, and I cannot but wonder if you had a proper meal tonight, or today, for what that matters.” Laira Rillak fanned the air with her right hand, covering half her face. She was mirroring Michael, sitting on a couch, her dark blue pants crossed and the cleavage of her blouse exaggerated by her leaning forward, every time she picked something on the table in front of her. Michael had not exactly determined the nature of her food only that it seemed to consist of many little pieces. Were that olives? Or nuts? Or snacks? She was the last to complain.
Leaving her jacket on the rear back of the canapé, she placed her elbows on her knees and leaned forward. It didn’t come to her mind that this simple, innocent gesture, was all President Rillak had needed to choke on one of her almonds.
“Madam President? Are you okay? Do you need assistance? Should I send someone to your room?”
Rillak coughed and huffed and chuckled at the same time. “Oh, really? And how would you do that?”
Michael glanced at the tall figure challenging her in the little screen. “I have my methods, Madam President.” Michael stopped mid-sentence. It hadn’t occurred to her that Rillak’s title gave her goose bumps every time it rolled past her lips. It sounded… kinky.
Rillak took a sip of her glass (it looked like white wine), leaving a lipstick mark along the rim. Michael observed the gesture and had to stop her trail of thoughts. Somehow, that woman had the unnerving talent to unhinge the captain at the most inappropriate of moments. Without noticing, Michael started worrying her lower lip.
A sigh had reason of her silence. “I’m sorry, Madam President… I gave you my word that I would surprise you and somehow I seem to fail the tiniest of my promises…” She ran a hand over her face.
“I don’t see where you failed, this time. Actually, you managed to catch me off guard, which is not something many can boast around with…”
Michael looked up from under her hand, furrowing her brows. “I am late.” As if exposing the obvious would excuse anything.
“Yes, you are.” Again, bending, the hand, the wine, one sip. She kept the glass close to her, arms crossed. “And yet, here you are.”
Michael’s heart suddenly throbbed at her throat, in her ears. Was she hallucinating, or was Laira Rillak undressing her with her eyes? And that smoky voice, by the stars…!
Michael licked her lips and took a gulp of her coffee, less hot but still invigorating. “I don’t think I wanna talk about business, President Rillak. My ship, your politics.”
“Alright, Michael. Then, what is it you wanna talk about?”
Michael smiled smoothly, like a little girl, like a teenager. It was so easy to speak with Laira, so refreshing. “Tell me about – the music you like. Surely someone like you must have a taste for harmony and songs. Don’t you?”
A brow quickened up, followed by a slight tucking up of lips. “I have my one or two favorite groups or solo artists, yes. But I wonder if you know them. I know…” She bent to the screen and searched inside the local database.
Michael swallowed and remained silent. She gasped but forced herself to remain calm. She was seeing the President of the Federation closer than ever before, P.A.D.D. leaning on his support.
“Ah, here. One of my favorites. I don’t think you’ve heard of it before.” She pressed against the screen of the P.A.D.D. and leant back, closing her eyes.
An elegant woman’s voice resounded in the silence of the room, a hopeful melody. The text was – heartbreaking. It spoke of loneliness and quiet solitude, rain and a moment in time. An eternity in the vanity of time.
As the song ended, Michael opened her eyes again, mirroring Laira. She felt much more relaxed now. “It was beautiful, thank you. Who is the singer?”
“A lady of the late twentieth century, long gone. But her songs are pure little gems.”
“Her diction is so incredibly clear. I could taste the raindrops on my tongue.”
Laira Rillak exhaled deeply before Michael could understand the scope of her words.
“It’s now late, Michael. I will let you dispose of the night at your convenience. It was a pleasure to see you, again.”
Michael blushed faintly. “The pleasure is all mine, Madam President. Thank you for letting me share this moment with you. It was – rejuvenating.”
Laira Rillak giggled softly. “You see, Michael Burnham, you have no trouble surprising me at all. I wish you a good night and very sweet dreams.”
“Same to you.” The screen went black. Laira, Michael added, to herself, in the room now vacant of the President’s presence. She remained silent, afraid that if she called the woman by her name aloud, the magic of the moment would vanish.
***
Days passed by and it was difficult to focus on the matters at hand. Michael was more irritable than usual, and she couldn’t determine why. One part of her mind pushed her in Book’s direction, of his loss and his loss of temper thereby. She knew he was trying to cope in his way and that she had to let him. On the other hand however, an intrinsic might urged her to handle and save him. She was struggling so hard, she finally gave it up.
So one night after hours, she went to her private arrangements and changed into sportswear. She took a towel and left her quarters to walk briskly past the corridors, nodding from time to time at the crew members awake at this late hour of the night. She could have teleported with a simple touch of her tricom badge, but she was grateful for the few steps she could take until she reached her destination. Upon arrival she took a deep breath. She had been quick to get to the holoroom and smiled as she entered it. It smelled of old stuff, like a space devoid of fresh air. She liked it as it reminded her that life was not as pristine as computers, AIs and technology of the future would have them believe. She liked – dirt as it triggered memories of a distant past, before she had been given over in Amanda’s and Zarek’s care on Vulcan. Where everything was clean, anyways.
She chuckled and turned to the console integrated into the wall, placing her hand on the pad to access the database. Old-fashioned security measure to prevent voice overriding. She shivered of joy already at what was coming up next. “Zora? Start Michael Burnham program zero-zero-seven-thirteen.”
“Michael Burnham program zero-zero-seven-thirteen – starting – now. Enjoy your free time, Captain Burnham.”
“Thank you, Zora!” She frowned at the politeness in her tone. Since when was she talking to the board computer as if it were a person? She would have to dwell on it another time. Now, she wanted to have fun, and as the images flashed on the walls and the holograms jumped to life next to her, she had already forgotten about all the stress of her past weeks, only focusing on the sounds, the movements and the action before and around her.
Michael exited the hologram room a couple hours later, sweating, panting, blood burning but happy. Towel around her neck, she jogged back to her quarters. The door swished open and she entered her dark rest room. “Zora, lights 70 percent.”
She went to the replicator and ordered a bottle of water.
Drinking big gulps, she left it half finished on the couch table, where she picked up her P.A.D.D. to browse through some music. Of course she had her favorite albums and songs but tonight she felt like being creative and spontaneous. She let the assistant rummage through the database and the ship wide comms channel in search for entertainment.
She took it to her en-suite bathroom and placed it on the shelf that served as support for a little mirror, a mascara applicator, a lipstick tube and a makeup remover. She liked to put some color on her face when she had time for it, but she was no stranger to the convenience of quick applicable masks one could program on a little portable device. It looked like a suitcase you opened up, placed your face on the inside to the left, and it analyzed your pigmentation, your degree of freckles, the pinkness of your skin around the eyes and lips, and programmed several skin makeup masks that you could get from a replicator. It did not reach the degree of artistry of an MUA, but quite so, and for those mornings when Michael needed to look the part but had no second left to conjure a miracle in front of her mirror, she left it to technology to play the part.
Humming the melody of the track in the background, she got under the shower, leaving the P.A.D.D. leaning against the console-to-ceiling mirror behind the sink. Her fingers lingered a little bit too long on the icon in the upright corner but she switched it back to the music app. She stepped into the ionic shower and sighed delightfully.
Singing while the huffs of vapor delicately plummeted on her arms and thighs, she took a shower gel that she applied on her whole body. Snapping the shower head she changed it to cleansing rod mode, in order for the cleansing to reach those parts of her body that were prone to stay in the dark during the day. It took a few minutes but the sensation was divine. She could literally feel the dirt lifting off and her skin becoming smoother than a peach’s.
“Oh, by the love of the stars, that’s sooo insane…! Insanely good!”
Michael bobbed her head to the rhythm of the song, making little humming sounds with her nose while pressing her lips together and swaying with her hips in front of the mirror, naked. She needed no covers and it felt absolutely liberating to be herself. No mask, no clothes, no restrains. Free!
Eventually she stopped bopping with her ass and laughing out loud to her own silliness, she went out of the bathroom, holding the P.A.D.D. with music in her hands. She placed it on her bedside table and took a look at her wardrobe, now shivering a bit in the coolness of the sleeping room. She made up her mind and took a gown of smooth blood-red silk she lazily knotted around her waist. Looking at her reflection in the tall mirror next to the wardrobe – another little luxury reserved to the few – she found herself very pretty and let her braids fly around her head, in a flirtatious way.
Then, she stopped, one hand on her hip, the other at her face, as if she were thinking deeply. Then she air-kissed her reflection and laughed again. Taking her P.A.D.D. with her, she left the room and walked into her living room. It consisted of a couch with two chairs, a big dinner area with a table and six chairs, a main replicator and a secondary one – special captain’s privilege – as well as a cooking area, left unused until then. To the left, next to the sleeping room, a little desk with table and chair had pride of place. It was the only authentic and personal things Michael had insisted on taking with her. They were made of wood, not polycarbonate like the rest of the furniture, and came from Earth. She liked their polished surface and the smell of old leather encased in the wood.
The areas were divided by arches of white, bows with holes to let light get through and give the whole room, only one basically, a kind of aerial feeling. Running along the whole length behind the pieces of furniture, the window panes into the blackness of space. The only room separated with a door and a closing mechanism was the sleeping room and its en-suite bathroom.
Michael went to the main replicator and ordered a glass and a bottle of liquorish wine. As she came back to the couch, she noticed a movement underneath the music program. Slightly frowning, she pushed and closed the latter away, discovering the glittering face of Laira Rillak.
“Madam President? How – how come you call in so late?” Michael bent to take the bottle of water, coming dangerously close to the camera, and taking her seat back on the couch she took a sip of the liquid. “Have you been missing me…?” She teased.
The Cardassian-Bajoran-Human didn’t answer at first. Michael waited patiently, finding this curious, but filing her observation for later analysis.
“Captain Burnham… errr… No, I mean, yes, I was calling, to… see if you were well. It has been some time since… Sorry, am I interrupting something?”
Michael smiled at the camera, enjoying the moment. She had her left elbow propped against the back of the couch, her head resting on her hand, her legs bent, and her feet tucked under her bottom. "No, not at all. I was in the holoroom to practice a bit. I've found that sometimes moving around helps relieve stress better than drinking. Although—everything in its own time. This and that." She winked.
President Rillak cleared her voice and licked her lips, blushing a bit.
Michael remembered the late-night encounter in the bar well. "Madam President... are you calling... are you really calling to get some news, or does your inquiry have some other purpose?"
Laira Rillak coughed a bit, but Michael could have sworn the President of the Federation had choked on something. She got red in the face.
“Madam President? Are you okay?”
“Yes, Michael… Captain Burnham… I’ll just get some water.” She stood up and, turning her back to the camera, she stepped outside the camera view to come back a minute later, a stemless glass with amber liquid in her hand.
Michael looked at her. She was as always wearing her trademark blue pants, but instead of her usual two, her blouse displayed three open buttons, and she had tucked up her sleeves, leaving her underarms bare to show the distinctive Cardassian protruding marks like a mountain riff along her ulna. For some reason, Michael found this detail utterly charming, as Laira Rillak, the ever-strict diplomat with the ascetic bun, was always keen on hiding her origins, which was impossible, however, since she could not conceal those cranial protrusions of hers either. It was as if she had made it her duty to be different than her visible heritage. Would she have been of Romulan descent, no doubt she would have made it her life mission to challenge the rest of the Federation peoples to speak in their names.
Yes, she was tough, but Michael knew better. Laira Rillak seemed fragile too. Not broken, but delicate, though her sturdy frame, even without blazer, made another impression. At a deeper level though, Michael could discern a vulnerability the tall blonde was not fond of letting anyone know, as her most treasurable treasure. And in such moments she deliberately shared with Michael, the latter felt much honored to be the one to be on the receiving side.
Pumps had been kicked away, and Laira was sitting barefoot on the couch. Her makeup was still on, but she looked tired, and a lock of her hair had slithered out of her oh so ascetic bun.
“Oh.” Michael exclaimed at the sight of the golden lock escaping its tight frame.
“What? Oh, my hair? Yes. It does this kind of things when it gets late.” She smiled warmly and shifted positions to sit more comfortably, feet on the ground. She started unpinning her long tresses, placing the thin hair clips on the couch table in front of her. “So, tell me, how is the mission going on?” She enquired, in a semblance of conversation.
“Well… the, the mission… it’s… errr… w-we are making progress. But nothing official yet, too soon to discuss.” Michael just stopped talking, mesmerized by the show unfolding before her very eyes.
The President of the Federation had to have noticed that absence of speech as she looked up, a few seconds later, a little smiling garnering her lips. “Yes?” She ran her fingers of both her hands, fanning her hair, before tucking a few strands behind her ears. “Do you want to add anything?”
“No… I’ve never… I’m sorry, I…”
Laira Rillak provided a tired smile. “Don’t be, Captain. It is my choice and mine only whom I disclose my most intimate to.”
Michael swallowed. “Madam President…” She started, then remembered something. “Laira…” She looked up, uncertain of her next move. “Of course, only if it’s okay for you that we might go on on a first name basis, in private.”
“It is. Michael.”
A lightning bolt struck the Captain of the Discovery straight between her ears and in her neck, its warmth spreading like fire across her whole system. It was incredible what reactions this woman could initiate in Michael. She had felt something like similar for Book, but it had never been that passionate. Their basis was one of mature friendship. With Laira it was more like taming a wild animal. It was… more… intriguing and interesting.
A new pang, in her thorax this time, let her know this was taking a new dimension. Rillak was the President of the Federation, damn it!
“Michael? Are you okay? You look as if you had seen a demon.” Laira hesitated. “Do you think I am a monster?” She let the question hanging.
Michael heard the way Laira pronounced her name, so fluently, so effortlessly. When had it started? And why was it so easy for the tall and unreachable woman to unhinge Michael so quickly?
“No…” She started, speaking under her breath. “I just think you’re admirable. And that people are afraid of you, because, you know, you’re different. Because you're a tough woman with a controversial mixed heritage, who isn't afraid to speak her mind and make decisions with far-reaching consequences. Often, deciding the fate of many people and calculating risks for the greater good, and still trying to unify a large scale of several cultures, on top of that.”
“So are you.” Laira spoke softly. “I am no more a hero than you are.”
“I am no hero.”
“Believe me, Michael, you are. Need I remind you that you were the one who solved the mysteries of the Burn and led your crew into the future?” Laira was scrutinizing the screen, in search for confirmation. She needed none, she was just making sure Michael was of her opinion. “I guess not many people will understand the intricacies and the difficulties you are facing, day after day, with little to no real support. Because even if you have a ship counselor and crew to share some of your moments, the reality is…”
“… that you are always alone when you have to make a decision. And that you always have to bear the consequences, when it goes wrong.”
“Michael…” Laira sighed. “I didn’t want to brush you on the wrong side of the fur, that day after we encountered Nalas and his crew. I just wanted to-”
“Tell me now, Laira. Have you ever been to Akosonam, have you seen the fissure of Jo’Rad? Have you?” There was a sudden insistence in her voice that scared Michael herself. She would have understood if the President had refused to answer. Instead, the latter smiled and licked her lips.
Laira took a deep inhale and a brow quirked up. “What do you think?” She had not asked provokingly, just like a friend, teasing one another, but slowly tired of the game.
“I… I…” Michael suddenly noticed that she didn’t really want to know the answer. She wanted to – trust. Needed to trust Rillak. No, needed to trust – Laira.
And as if the latter had felt the urgency, she leant on and exhaled. “The answer is no. I have never been to Akosonam, I have never seen the fissure of Jo’Rad. But after our encounter with Nalas, I definitely reckon I would love to. To honor his memory.”
Michael felt a rumble in her belly. So that was it. That was how truth felt. She parted her lips to say something, but the words remained stuck in her mouth. Instead, she looked at the woman in front of her in the little device, taking a sip of her beverage, keeping it to her, and mirroring her pose, feet tuck under her bottom. The air that passed her lips was jerky, ragged.
“Michael, if that is of any consolation, I… I would like to reiterate my highest esteem and utter respect for your courage and your actions. It makes you no less strong or capable of leadership.”
Michael swallowed the lump forming in her throat. But she couldn’t be mad at the other woman any more. She had seen her actions reflected in Book’s and it had shown her the limits of her own undertakings. She turned her head to look away, before switching back on Laira’s face.
“I appreciate your thoughtful words, Laira, but you were right. Being a hot head might help in the heat of the moment, but on the other hand, have catastrophic consequences on the further development of a venture. Being a captain means putting the well-being of your crew first. And venturing alone in space, I…”
“Michael… Stop beating yourself up, please.” Laira was now talking very gently. “You did put the well-being of your crew first by rescuing Lt. Tilly and Adira Till that day. As a matter of fact, I didn’t have to stick my nose in any databases to know how much of a personality and irreplaceable additions they both are to the rest of your crew. I just had to see – your crew rejoice with them at the bar, and it was clear for me that you have something I don’t.”
Michael frowned. “And that would be?”
“You have a special connection with everyone, which makes you special. I intend to distance myself from people in order to keep a clear eye and focused mind on every decision I make. But you use your empathy and natural, human charms, I daresay, to connect and bind with your closest ones. Even if in the end you have to decide all alone, on your own, you can still count on your team to have your back at the end of the day.”
Michael listened in silence. After a while, closing and reopening her eyes, she tried to find some words. “I am sorry we have differences of opinion. I truly understand the empty loneliness one feels when faced with moments that demand so much of oneself.”
“Oh, Michael, I didn’t want you to feel so bad. I was just…”
“… describing my life? Your life? I… I would like to help, do more, be-more…”
Laira looked at the camera, pensive, before she slowly exhaled. “There is nothing you can do, at this time, to help me in my condition. I’m afraid our divergences in opinions won’t stop, Michael. You are the Captain of the Starfleet flagship USS Discovery, and I am the representative of all the species and all the folks adhering to the Federation, you, among others, have sworn to protect.” She saw Michael refrain a retort. “Don’t underestimate my intelligence, Captain. Of course I did my homework and know you are bound by an oath to protect and serve.”
“I am not an army. I am just the Captain of a ship-“
“A ship that goes on perilous missions in unknown territories to make first contact with unknown species with high risks to never come back or worse, irreversibly emotionally and intellectually mutilated by the horrors you encounter…!”
Michael’s surprise must have shown all over her face as the President of the Federation cut herself short in her elocution. Michael saw the big gulp she took, leaving the empty glass on the table. “Madam President… Were you expressing your concern right now, that I should – that I should do what, exactly…?” She started to grin, unable to stop the little move of her lips upwards.
Laira blushed, this time very openly. Treacherous liquid, down there in her glass… “I was expressing my concern to a friend, because I... yes, I reckon I… have grown… fond of you.”
Wow. What a confession. Michael stopped smiling. She went all serious, instead. “Laira… are you sure…?”
The tall blonde fidgeted with her fingers, lips pressed hard together. “Sure. Of what exactly?”
“Of your feelings for me? I mean…” Michael felt utterly self-conscious, uttering it that way. It sounded like a romantic thing, which of course couldn’t be. They were only having a decent conversation, among peers. Nothing more, nothing less.
“I am.” Clipped, short, crisp answer.
Michael nodded. “Alright. Actually… I have been… I have… I’m happy we met tonight,” she finished, before her treacherous and tired tongue could give her away.
“Michael?”
The latter looked up, hearing some disquiet in that pretty voice. “Yes?”
“It doesn’t change anything to our professional relationship.” There again, that hard tone, the austere bun. “But,” Laira went on, softer this time, “I respect you and your opinion. And it is a rare-thing to be considered and seen as a person, not just a role. I hope you understand.”
Michael exhaled and smiled lightly. “I understand, Laira. And I promise I will take care of that bond between us, wherever it may lead. It is an honor to be seen-by you.”
Michael saw a furrow of concern bar the forehead of the Cardassian-Bajoran-Human, and for a moment she thought the blonde would lecture her. Instead, she saw her smile, nod and run her fingers through her hair. One last time.
“Michael, I may have broad shoulders, but yours are no less powerful. Never forget that. And for now, it’s time we go to bed. It was a pleasure to talk to you, Captain Burnham. Have a good sleep, Michael.”
“You too, Laira.” Unable to say more, she just waved her goodbye and smiled.
As the screen turned black again, and the room silent, Michael felt the weight of her tiredness at once. Yawning, she stood up from the couch and, without even changing into her pajamas, she just slipped between the covers, and almost immediately fell asleep. That her arm was extended to the left side of the bed had absolutely nothing to do with the prior conversation. No-thing-at-all.