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There was a buzz in the ship after their musical adventure. Erica found it exciting, but there were certainly those who were trying to hide from things their songs admitted to others. She just wanted a snack.
She slipped into the Port Galley and nearly turned right back around again when she saw Pelia wave her over with a hand yelling out, “Lieutenant! You’re not escaping. Come sit.”
Erica hesitated. Pelia had that too-knowing look, the kind that said she’d been waiting for someone to interrogate. “I just came for a sandwich.”
“Good. Sandwiches require sitting.” Pelia motioned for a second glass of what she had been drinking and slid it over to Erica.
Erica sighed, sat, and took the glass. “Rough day?”
Pelia’s eyebrows lifted. “I’ve lived through approximately 354 years of rough days and four actual apocalypses. Today was catchy.”
Erica laughed, “Catchy. That’s one word for it.”
They sat in quiet silence for a moment as Erica sipped her drink. Then Pelia said, far too casually, “I heard you never sang.”
Erica nearly choked, not prepared for the statement. “I…what? I sang! I mean, I definitely sang. A whole verse about flying the ship. ‘Ortegas is at the helm. The pilot seat is my realm.’”
Pelia gave a small, sly smile, like she’d just heard the world’s funniest wrong answer. “That was an ensemble piece. Doesn’t count. Everyone had something to sing about. Some people simply couldn’t help it. Some didn’t want to. Some had… nothing they were willing to let out.”
Erica shrugged and responded a little too fast. “I was busy piloting the ship. Kinda hard to break into song when you’re trying not to vaporize your best friends or aggravate Klingons.”
“Mm.” Pelia sipped her own drink. “Duty is such an excellent shield, isn’t it?”
Erica stared at her. “…I don’t know what you think I’m hiding, but trust me, my life isn’t secretly an aria.”
“No one’s life is secretly an aria,” Pelia said with a chuckle. “But everyone has a melody.” She tilted her head. “Even you.”
Erica threw up her hands. “Fine. If I had sung my own song, it would’ve been… I don’t know. Something catchy. Maybe a whole number called, ‘watch out for the asteroid.’ Big chorus. Banjo solo.”
Pelia stared at her then spoke as if explaining something complex to a child, “Lieutenant, songs reveal the feelings we shove into storage, stored behind our hearts, kept in secret. And you…” she pointed knowingly at Erica, “...keep an entire warehouse’s worth in here.”
Erica looked away. “Songs make feelings too loud. And at the helm, you can’t afford to be emotional. People depend on me. I love my life, this ship, my friends, my job. I don’t have some tragic admission waiting to erupt.”
“Mmm, we’ll go with that for now.” Pelia murmured.
The silence lingered longer than Erica liked. Maybe she did wish she’d had a song. Something silent and hidden discovered in verse. But she had no idea what that would be and that was not an admission she was willing to make.
She shifted, then asked, “What about you? You didn’t sing either.”
Pelia scoffed, “I refuse to be conscripted into emotional revelation by a cosmic phenomenon. If I sing, it will be on my terms.”
Erica grinned, unwilling to let Pelia off easy, “So then… what would your song be?”
Pelia went still, thoughtful. Then she sighed, as though choosing her words with millennia of care.
“My song,” she said, “would be about change. How it stops being a shock and starts becoming background music. People change. Passions change. You either adapt or you wallow in the boredom of monotony. Change makes life worth exploring.” Then Pelia’s expression brightened with absurdity. “Also, it would be about wanting the perfect pair of socks. After four centuries of mechanically constructed and replicated socks I have never found any that stay on my feet properly. Maddening.”
“Socks?” Erica asked to clarify.
“Excellent socks,” Pelia explained. “Which I cannot wear, tragically.”
Erica hesitated to ask, “…because…?”
Pelia lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The talons,” she said gravely. Then she winked.
Erica stared, brain immediately and uselessly thinking, ‘Lanthanites don’t have talons… right?’ But Pelia had already taken a delicate sip of her drink as though nothing strange had been said at all. Before Erica could press the issue, Pelia cleared her throat and sang, softly, almost to herself:
“I’ve lived long enough to notice
Things fade and then they’re new
Every age says ‘this is different’
Every age is right to do
I’ve been student, teacher, traveler
Built the tools and broke them too
Change arrives without a warning
So you learn to work it through.”
She brightened suddenly, hands lifting in a flourish:
“And yes, I dream of perfect socks
A sturdy knit that truly locks
Survives a century or two
When the universe retools itself
You change your ships, your names, your plans
But cold feet? Those are still an issue.”
She finished her impromptu solo with a little bow.
Erica blinked again, slow. “…So your soul-baring musical number is a philosophical lament about embracing change…and footwear.”
“Yes,” Pelia said, sipping serenely. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t watch that performance."
Erica burst out laughing. “I mean… yeah. I would.”
Pelia lifted her glass. “Then perhaps we will sing together one day, Lieutenant. Preferably at karaoke this Saturday. Let us keep the songs going.”
Erica smiled and lifted her glass as well. “I’ll be there.”