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Another day of the same. T’Pol arrived at her workstation on the Bridge and began reviewing the readings taken by the science department while she was off duty. They were passing distantly by an interesting anomaly – possibly a wormhole, given the way that it seemed to have been fading into existence with no obvious cause, remained at a high energy level, then began to fade out again. It was certainly useful – wormholes were of course a theoretical concept, but one that would provide great value to space travellers if discovered, which comforted her. It couldn’t be considered a waste of time to investigate this, even if it were indulging her curiosity a little.
Another day of the same. She arrived at her workstation on the Bridge and began reviewing the readings taken by the science department while she was off duty. She recognised them. Perhaps before finishing her shift yesterday, she had seen the readings as she finished up, and her mind had subconsciously extrapolated what they would be today. This sense of having experienced it before must have been the dream in which she worked through these numbers. She settled in to her work, not quite able to let go of the sense of having done it all before. Her eyes kept drifting back to the chronometer in the corner of her workspace – she had spent a whole day before seeing that exact date, glancing back at it again and again.
This unnerving feeling followed her through the whole day – she looked forward to being able to meditate, hoping to centre herself. A moment of quiet, her full awareness on herself.
Yet the universe denied her hopes – that sense was still there. She had been there before. Nothing lined up. She had been disconnected, somehow, from what was real, right.
If she had been dreaming last night, that may have mean she hadn’t slept deeply enough overall. It was time for her to go to bed.
The next day was identical. Could it still be a dream?
A few days passed. It was easy, now, she could recite every calculation she made that day in an instant. And yet, it was still there.
One evening, in her quarters, T’Pol reflected again. She could be certain – the Vulcan Science Directorate had determined, time travel could not exist. And yet, there could be no denying she was experiencing some kind of anomaly.
It couldn’t be in her mind – she had spent enough time experiencing it. Whether it were in her mind, or external, her possible strategies were the same.
As long as she read the inputs correctly, made the appropriate calculations, and passed on the results and interpretations to Navigation, it had to break them out of this somehow.
Despite having repeated the processes over and over, checking the protocols, equations, the equipment, the same results were returned every time. They were in line with their predictions of how they would change as they approached and then drifted from the anomaly. There was no way she could be producing incorrect results that would somehow doom her to repeat them day by day.
Some nights, she would stay up at her station for as long as she could. Yet the numbers she read out started at the same point and followed the same pattern. Most data points were diminishing as they moved past the anomaly. She saw this develop further the longer she stayed at her station, but eventually, she would be relieved of duty as she reached the maximum hours on-shift. She didn’t need to sleep, and she didn’t remember drifting off, but at some point overnight, something would shift and she’d be back the next day with the exact same starting point.
T’Pol had the readings routed to her quarters overnight, but yet again, she could not see any change. Staring constantly at the screen yielded the same results as at her station on the bridge, but when she took a moment to meditate or rest her eyes, it would reset. It occurred at a different hour every time – she tried to record it, but that reset as well. Clearly this phenomenon was centred around her perception.
Certainly none of the crew showed any indication at all that they were aware of the cycle. It was abundantly clear by now that she wasn’t dreaming – she had an excellent memory, but could not possibly repeat the sequence of the day in such accurate detail so many times over. Were it a dream, it would alter as her mind subconsciously processed whatever information it was utilising to construct the experience.
She should be able to stay up for longer to appropriately attend to her work, but something was affecting her such that she couldn’t spend a day-night cycle without drifting off somehow. All she needed was better discipline to tackle this situation properly.
She was dimly aware of her need to refocus, to have discipline, and break this pattern – who knew what the effects would be on the ship and crew? She found that this simply didn’t matter to her.
Four days? Five? It was hard to move at all. All it took was ignoring the captain’s attempt at checking in, and giving Phlox a reasonable excuse as to why she couldn’t attend her station. He was aware of her headaches, and if she said she didn’t want treatment, he couldn’t insist.
T’Pol typically ate twice a day with a usual routine, but she hadn’t exactly been prioritising it. She had already been eating a single meal a day. She couldn’t bear the idea of the mess hall, in this state. She ate a little of the dried food she had brought from home each time she got up.
One morning, when the call from Phlox came in, she forewent her typical excuse. She steeled herself for honesty.
‘I am not at my best today. I believe I need a day to rest.’
There were plenty of capable, qualified officers who could handle her work for a day. Why had it taken her this long to decide on this course of action? It would be irresponsible to expect herself to operate the systems with the sensitivity they required and perform calculations quite so carefully in her current state. She had to restore herself to functionality in order to successfully address the situation.
The same day, or perhaps the next, she took a shower.
Fully refreshed and prepared, she stood at her door, resolving to face the problem. She had to. She was still tired, but there was only one way to get rid of this phenomenon.
Her resolve didn’t make it to the Bridge. It led her to Trip’s door.
‘Is this a bad time?’ she asked, as he answered the door.
‘No, it’s my day off. What do you need?’
‘I would like to talk something through with you.’
He waved her in through the door.
‘You have previously advised me to keep an open mind. I now ask the same of you.’
His attentive expression was all the reassurance she needed that he was the right person to confide in.
‘I have been experiencing some sort of phenomenon. It may or may not be related to the anomaly we are investigating. I have experienced this day before. A number of times. I have determined that I am not dreaming. I am certain that it is the same day. Everything around me repeats. My current hypothesis is that it is affecting me only because of my telepathic sensitivity.’
It was clear that Trip was trying to hold back a far more shocked reaction. He settled on a simple, ‘Ok…’ He tutted, thinking. ‘I’m not exactly an expert in, um, spatial disturbances. I’m not sure I can help you.’
‘I… have been the only one experiencing this. No one else is aware. I needed someone to know. To listen to me.’
‘Look, I’m holding myself back on teasin’ you, you know, about the whole time-travel thing?’ He shrugged awkwardly. ‘But if you say that’s what you’re experiencing, I believe you.’
The repeats started to take on a softer quality. Every day, she would tell Trip, and every time he seemed to understand it faster. Was it her imagination, or did he seem familiar with this experience? Perhaps she was projecting. Their bond wasn’t strong, but sometimes it was hard to draw a clear line between their thoughts.
‘When was the last time you took some rest?’
‘A few days ago.’
‘When you say days, do you mean…’
‘In the loop, yes.’
He clicked his tongue. ‘No offence, but... you don’t seem that well-rested to me.’
‘The readings, the work, was... too much to cope with. I had to retreat. I spent five day-night cycles there, resting.’
‘Riiiight. So you were just holed up in your room? Thinking it over again and again? That doesn’t sound too restful to me.’
‘Time in which one doesn’t attend to one’s duties is defined as rest.’
‘Not necessarily. It’s about whether it makes you feel refreshed.’
‘I do not need to feel–’
‘Oh, whatever, you know what I mean. You’re not a computer, however much you may want to be. You’re an organic system, and you can’t be processing your responsibilities constantly. What makes you feel – gives you the sense that your mind isn’t being strained?’
‘I could read.’
He nodded approval. ‘Not work?’
‘I have a book of philosophical meditations.’
‘Sounds a little dry to me, but hey, if it’s your thing! Hoshi said last movie night reminded her of a mystery novel she’d really enjoyed, but it was in Brazilian Portuguese – so she’s translated it ’cause apparently it’s a must-read. I’ll go back and get it, then I can keep you company.’
They spent the day in companionable silence. Any time T’Pol thought about going back to work, she looked over at Trip. If she tried to go anywhere, she was sure he would insist she continue her rest. Besides, it wasn’t as though she had a limited amount of time to test his suggested course of action.
As it drew towards the evening, Trip began yawning. ‘We should probably both get some rest. I’ll get going.’
She must have given away more than she meant to with her expression, because he clearly sensed how she responded to that. ‘I mean, I can stick around, if you like. I’ll just read until you drop off, and let myself out?’
‘I will need to meditate first.’
‘Take all the time you need.’
After her meditation session, she tucked herself in to sleep. He took his place on a cushion on the floor, close by enough to be comforting, but distant enough to let her settle without feeling intruded on.
‘Good night,’ he smiled, and added, ‘I don’t know if I’ll remember, but I promise you I’ll be here for you tomorrow as well.’
Much like the readings had, Trip seemed to disappear the moment she fell asleep. She wanted to stay up, to keep him there, cling on to him, but she was so tired, his presence so soothing. Still, each day, she sought him out, and he listened, accepted her explanation that he’d told her to rest before, and kept her company through the day. T’Pol slept, Trip read, she drank tea, he idly scribbled ideas on engine improvements.
Most surprising was the day he showed up, unprompted. ‘I, ah, just had a feeling you could use some company today? I dunno why,’ he mumbled, seeming to notice again the tray in his hands. ‘Oh, um, I thought you might like a familiar meal. I passed on to Chef what you said about, ah, boiling the dried plomeek and discarding the water, to make it less gelatinous, right? So I hope it’s better.’ He placed the tray on the chest of drawers near the door. ‘I mean, it’s my day off anyway, but if you wanted some time to yourself, or if you’re busy–’
‘Not at all. Would you like to try a little of this meal?’
She sat and drank the cup of tea, then carefully decanted half of the soup into the empty cup. Handing Trip the bowl and spoon, she took the fork to eat the vegetables and sipped at the soup. Mild flavour, silky but not sticky texture, just a little of the Earth spices that best evoked the plants of Vulcan – it was the closest to authentic she had experienced since leaving the Vulcan compound.
Trip took a spoonful. T’Pol quietly watched the fascinating progression of expressions his face went through.
‘This is right, is it?’
She nodded.
‘Hmm. Can’t say it’s my favourite, but I think–’ he took another sip, ‘–there could be something comforting about it.’
‘Did you prefer Chef’s previous attempts?’ T’Pol raised a mischievous eyebrow.
He chuckled. ‘Nah, that was much too slimy. I couldn’t believe that people wanted it to be that texture! Makes sense that there was an extra step.’
‘Some regions do prepare the soup to be more viscous.’
‘Ahh. Well. I suppose my tastes aren’t that well-rounded,’ he said with a wry smile.
They finished the soup in silence, along with half of the salad dish prepared in the style of some region of Earth – with some sort of cooked grain mixed in, and hastily seasoned with a little of the Vulcan spices the High Command had sent with her. She idly wondered if the same seasoning had been added to everyone’s food, or just to her serving.
To supplement, she brought out her dried foods again, which had been replacing themselves every day. Bars formed from toasted grains, pouches of chewy dried leaves, discs of nutrient-dense fruits and roots – all developed to avoid cooking at the height of the day under the Vulcan sun, now favoured by space travellers with limited space and cooking resources.
They munched in silence until they each felt they’d had a good meal. Trip again retrieved his reading from his quarters, and they whiled away the day in quiet rest.
In the next few days, Trip did not visit again. She continued to excuse herself from work, though now she took herself down to the mess hall to eat a hot meal and spend time among her companions twice a day. To her surprise, no-one blinked an eye at her being off-duty. The only remark was from her substitute, who said a quick ‘Hope you’re all right!’ as she left the room to return to the Bridge.
The same conversations happened around her, the same groups sitting at the same tables, but she no longer wanted it to be otherwise. It was as it was, and she could solve the anomaly in her own time.
This morning was different: T’Pol woke up certain that this was the day she could address the spatiotemporal disturbance. She had no further theories nor evidence to work from, deciding only to assess the information she had today and work from there.
What a Human attitude.
And yet, wasn’t it logical? A lack of new information didn’t guarantee failure. One must attempt to address a problem to increase the probability of solving it.
It has been so long, it was like seeing the Bridge with fresh eyes as she arrived at her workstation. She began by pulling up the readings as always, only glancing at them as she began to go through the motions of the initial processing – and had to look again when she realised these weren’t the same numbers she had been working with. The readings had decreased in line with their predictions. Their distance from the anomaly had increased in line with their planned course. The date had ticked over one more day.
T’Pol had to draw on her practice at keeping a straight face. This shouldn’t be surprising. But here she was, free of the strange experience that had initially caused her distress, then allowed her exactly the right amount of time to recover.
Was it just a coincidence? Surely a spatiotemporal distortion could not be sapient. She, personally, had experienced the phenomenon as the only crew member with a psychic capacity, but the amount of time it took them to escape the anomaly was purely random.
Yet that evening, her meditation focused on the idea of gratitude, whether an intention could be known or not.