Hold Your Dominion {Star Trek Fan Fiction}

Fourth Stage - Depression

The ride back, the transport from Andoria to Proxima Centauri - it was another festival of too much togetherness, too much heat, too much humidity and too many smells.

It was kind of a combination of wet wool, wet dog and overripe Limburger cheese. Someone had a bit of still-kicking livestock with them. That was not supposed to be allowed.

It was too much, and this time she didn't have a seat. Three-quarters of the way there, it overcame her, and she threw up, not quite making it to the head.

An attendant - a Denobulan - cleaned up as she watched and apologized profusely and tried not to let the smell bother her and make her engage in a repeat performance.

Finally, someone noticed and gave her a seat. It was an old – well, it's hard to tell with them – Vulcan woman. Gina sat down. "Thank you."

"I had my last one about ninety years ago," said the old Vulcan woman after a few days.

"Oh. Do, um, do you see your kids much?" Gina asked. It was nosy, she knew, but there was nothing else to talk about. It was perhaps another hour to her stop.

"Rarely," replied the Vulcan.

"I'm sorry."

The rest of the ride passed in silence.

The military offered a ride to everyone, to get back to their homes once they'd returned to the right planet. Everyone sat as far away from Gina as possible. No one wanted to take a chance on another dose of half-digested Andorian redbat.

Finally, she was dropped off. 712 Washington Street. What is it about humans, she thought, that we name everything for dead heroes?

She dropped her bags on the front step and fumbled with her key. But then something possessed her, and she turned around to face the front yard.

There was, still, the toppled tree, cloven in two by the military shuttle having landed on it a few weeks previously. It had died just as easily as Michael had, as readily as her future had.

She walked over and knelt down in front of it. A kick inside reminded her that she wasn't alone. "You won't know," she said.

The lump, that lump had been growing and festering. It was not the Junior-shaped lump in her womb. It was the one in her throat. It was close, so close.

Her mother and father had called while she was on Andoria, and she had gotten through that. And everything else had gone by, a fast-moving blur, colored the colors of a tree, a transport, a redbat.

"You won't know," she whispered again, and the lump got large, way too large, suddenly, and it choked her.

Wet face, wet hands where she covered her face, streaming nose watering the dead sapling, it was all flowing.

"You won't know," she repeated.

She stopped for a moment and looked up. A neighbor had come over. "Mrs. Nolan?" he asked, "We heard. I'm so sorry."

Shaking, she allowed the man to help her up. "Let us know if there's anything we can do," he said.

You won't know.