Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

ca. 3180

They were going to die here.

Death wasn’t something Tarka actively tried to think about, but he would have been an idiot to have not considered it (and for all that he was, Ruon Tarka was no idiot.) A lab explosion maybe, the result of an overzealous theory chock full of high risks and a minimal chance of payoff, but oh boy would the payoff be worth it. Or it might be that he’d say the wrong thing to the wrong person — an Andorian who woke up on the wrong side of the bed, or some Xindi-Insectoid ready to quite literally bite his head off. 

There was always the slim chance he would die of old age after a life well lived, with his name documented in articles and grants and inventions that would guarantee he'd made a mark on history. A revolutionary in the fields of astrophysics and engineering, gone but never forgotten, so on and so forth.

He’d even considered the very real chance that he would die under control of the Emerald Chain. He hadn’t resigned himself to that fate but he couldn’t deny its possibility. People died in this hellhole all the time; the only reason he’d not been killed yet was that he had some use to Osyraa.

Or he’d had some use to Osyraa. That had gone up in a surge of energy, magnificent but not enough. “Osyraa hates liars.” Osyraa was never meant to know that he’d lied. They must have miscalculated somewhere along the way. Forgotten to carry a four or solved for the wrong variable… he’d been trying to figure out where they had failed ever since it happened. All of that was inconsequential though. Finding where they went wrong would be pointless once the guards’ weapons liquified his organs and muscle tissue from the inside out.

There would be no glamorous death for Ruon Tarka. He was going to die here, bloodied and bruised on the floor of a grime-coated Emerald Chain prison cell, despite the multiple health and safety violations dirt posed to a controlled setting. 

Something told him that even death was a better fate than whatever awaited Oros. 

Worse (unthinkably worse) was that now Oros knew what he’d done. Oros knew and was paying the price for Tarka’s desperation. 

Tarka was under no delusion that he was a good person. Never had been, from the moment he decided that his time and intellect would not be wasted on those who refused to appreciate either. He was selfish and unfettered and he’d never bothered to lower himself for another’s comfort. His pride outweighed the natural affability of his ancestors. While not a monster (certainly not compared to the guard currently trying to shatter his skull), he also wasn’t good. He’d accepted that long ago.

Bur Oros was a good person. One of the best, in mind and soul. And there was no way that Tarka would let him die here. Not in this camp, not in this universe.

That was the singular thought pushing Tarka to stand and make a desperate grab for the guard, despite his entire body screaming in protest. There was neither the time nor energy for guilt over killing him. That would be dealt with later.

Time was all at once racing around him and frozen in place. The alarms were blaring from every angle, or maybe just one highly concentrated location. He couldn’t tell, he couldn’t focus . There was one thing that he absolutely needed to do though.

He could hardly stand to look at Oros, barely conscious, knowing that he was the reason for it. No apology would ever be enough but he gave it anyway, interlaced with excuses that amounted to nothing and a promise he refused to break. He would get them both out of here. 

The removal of his tracking device was painful, bringing him down from the adrenaline rush of the fight. But he was already a walking contusion thanks to the guards, his head spinning from where he’d hit the floor. What was one more problem to add to the mix?

When he knelt down to lay a hand on Oros’ back, he could feel how hard he was fighting to breathe. He would have to hurt him again in order to remove his device. I’m so sorry, he thought. What he said was, “hold still.”

And just like that, they were free. Still in the lab that had been their home for almost two years, still dressed in prison uniforms now stained in blood, but they were free. Tarka felt like he could conquer the world in that moment. 

Except Oros could hardly stand — his ribs, he said. Potentially broken, and again , it was entirely Tarka’s fault. That was okay. It had to be okay. They could still get out of here. 

That's what Tarka had to believe. Beyond that, he needed Oros to believe it. Relentlessly optimistic with the mind brilliant enough to turn fiction into fact, Oros had given Tarka so much to believe in. He just needed to returnthe favor, but Oros spoke up before Tarka could assure him.

“I forgive you.”

Tarka froze, his fingers still twisted into the fabric of Oros' shirt. “I don’t deserve that.” He was convinced he never would. And just where exactly did Oros find the gall, the sheer audacity while he was fighting just to stay conscious, to absolve Tarka? 

There was an old Risian custom, now only in use among the most traditional of circles, of writing a letter on your deathbed. It would be addressed to the person who had deeply wronged the dying during their life, and in it, they would be forgiven their most egregious offense. There were exceptions — violations and crimes that were unforgivable in Risian society under any circumstance. But those weren't the sort of acts being forgiven. The letters allowed the writer to leave their body with no malice bound to their soul. It guaranteed peace in one's final moments.

There was no way Oros could’ve known this fact, and while cultures across the galaxy had been known to have similar traditions, there was a statistically insignificant chance that it was one shared by his own species. Tarka had always thought it an asinine concept, spending your last bouts of energy fixating on someone who had wronged you. Yet that’s what Oros was doing.

No, Tarka thought, it wasn’t. Because this wouldn’t be the end. “I… I would’ve done anything for freedom.” Then keep your fucking eyes open long enough to enjoy it. “I will fix the transporter. I will find another way. We will go to Kayalise together. I believe it. But you must leave now. Please.”

Oh, so that’s what Oros was playing at. “No.” 

“Ruon--”

“No.” It wasn’t up for debate. They had made a promise; they had reiterated that promise every single day for the last year, through calculations and stolen resources and all the nights they’d lain beside one another planning for home. “Either we both get out of here or neither of us does, but whatever happens, it’s you and me. Understand?”

It was impossible to tell if Oros’ silence was him conceding or if he was physically unable to argue back. Tarka chose to take it as approval either way.

If Oros’ ribs really were broken, they had no medical way to treat him. The both had gaping wounds in the back of their necks that would be breeding grounds for bacteria if not healed properly. That wasn’t touching on the rest of the damage done to their bodies, or the fact that there was no way he could carry both Oros and the transporter. They would have to rebuild it from scratch That’s fine, he insisted. It was all fine. They would figure that out later when they were out of here.

He had to stay focused and quickly ran through the logistics of how much time they had. Oros would be able to run those numbers faster but he was too busy keeping his kidneys functioning to be of much assistance. “Hey, Oros. Eight.” Silence. Or… not quite silence. Oros’ breathing had been labored, heavy in Tarka’s ear just a moment ago. Now it was leveling out. No, no, no . “Oros. Eight. ”

Then, just loud enough to give him back a fleeting sense of hope, “Three.”

Tarka’s sigh of relief was so heavy that it hurt his lungs. This would work. As long as Oros stayed conscious, this would work. “Good. Good. Keep going.”

“You’re… supposed to go.”

“I want to hear you for now.”

“... eight.”

"Excellent. Now hold on." He helped Oros to sit up, being as careful as he could to not put pressure on his ribs but knowing that it would be inevitable soon. The speakers were already ordering backup to their location. “This is going to hurt, I’m sorry. Just stay with me.” He threw Oros’ arm over his shoulder and stood. Oros screamed, and Tarka felt his body tense up in protest. 

Oros had been right; he would slow Tarka down, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. They’d spent weeks memorizing the layout of the entire camp from top to bottom. By now, Tarka was sure he knew it better than he knew his childhood home. He would avoid thinking about how depressing that was later. The important part was that they both knew every exit, every ventilation route, every possible way that the guards could take to reach their cell. 

Tarka did what he always did best: he theorized the best way out of here where they would meet minimal interference. This place would be swarmed any second now, but there was a service shaft down the hall that they could use. They just had to get to it. “We’ll find a way home.” 

Then, as best he could under Oros’ weight, he ran.

Chapter Text

History should never get it twisted: Starfleet admiralty in the 32nd century fucking sucked. 

Charles Vance had accepted the position knowing that it wouldn’t be pretty. In the past, admiralty might have been a cushy title, coming with all the perks of authority and none of the expectations for actual work. But that sort of frivolity couldn’t exist in this time. Not in the aftermath of the Burn when survival wasn’t guaranteed; certainly not with the Emerald Chain staking their claim across the galaxy. With Discovery helping to solve both of those problems, he hoped that they would finally find some peace. They had been finding peace for the first time in decades. 

And then the DMA hit.

One incident would have been a tragedy. Two in a matter of minutes was a disaster. And with the DMA blipping in and out across the galaxy, they were fast nearing a crisis He was running on as little sleep as possible without jeopardizing his cognitive functions — it may not have been what Kovich intended when he gave him that exact amount, but there weren’t many other options. 

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and with the destruction of both Kwejian and Deep Space Repair Beta Six, they were long past the point of desperation. 

Currently, he was standing in his office, staring at everything they’d compiled thus far. He wasn’t a scientist by any means but he suspected even if he was, it wouldn’t do them any good. Commander Stamets and Discovery’s crew were struck, Starfleet’s personnel here at headquarters were at a loss. 

“I’m going to ask Tarka and Oros for their assistance.”

He’d been thinking over it carefully before saying it outloud. Still, he should have anticipated the response from the poor sap who had to hear it. One of their science officers who’d been assigned to deliver him the latest batch of inconclusive data on the DMA. The Bolian —  Brettah, he thought her name was —  squeaked. A genuine squeak . The poor kid probably hadn’t expected to be used as a sounding board today. “Admiral?” 

He looked up from the information she’d delivered to Brettah herself. “Have you worked in either of their labs?

“A few times, sir. They’re, um… very good at what they do.” Which, as far as Vance could tell, was her admitting that she had very little clue on what exactly they did. That wasn’t her fault by any means. The consensus he’d overheard from most people was that Tarka and Oros were a force unto themselves. Aurellio had had the best luck keeping up with them, but even that was because of Aurellio’s own skills.

It was just further testament to how helpful they might be.

He could already hear the pushback on this one. Allowing non-Starfleet personnel access to the full gamut of information they’d collected on the DMA was a risky move. It was one thing to let the pair have free rein when it came to scientific advancement, but this… this was an active Starfleet investigation with far-reaching consequences if they failed. The natural solution then was to make sure they didn’t fail. For that, they needed the best. And Oros and Tarka were undoubtedly the best. People were scared and were acting as they saw fit. That was exactly what Vance was doing, too. 

They were both brilliant. There is no one he would trust with this more than Tarka, and there’s no one Tarka trusted  more than Oros. It had taken a long time working with Tarka for Vance to realize that. He didn’t understand it, but Tarka had made it pretty clear that he had to accept it. 

Brettah was watching him, clearly trying to not look curious and failing. Vance met her gaze and nodded down at the table. “Thank you for this, Lieutenant. I know you have work to do, but first I need you to compile everything we have on the DMA on one chip for me.”

“Everything, sir?”

“And then some.” He was just hoping that, between the two, Tarka would be the one he'd run into first.

“Vance stopped by,” Oros announced as soon as Tarka stepped into their lab. Then, after looking up from where he sat at the center worktable, he added, “you’re bleeding.”

Without thinking about it, Tarka touched the thin cut on his cheek. Sure enough when he pulled it back, there was blood. Great. “Did you and the admiral play nice?”

“I’m always nice.”

“I’ll tell that to Vance next time he whines about you biting his head off.”

To his credit, Oros did look offended at the accusation. Just not offended enough to dispute it. Instead, he reached under his work table and started rummaging through a drawer. “Why are you bleeding?”

Muscle memory had Tarka reaching for the offered dermal regenerator before he slumped down in the seat beside Oros. “One of the propulsion lab assistants dropped a case of liquified propellium. Glass shrapnel, everywhere.” Oros hummed in acknowledgement — he’d been the one to remind them all about propellium’s volatility when it’d first arrived. “If they’re going to make us use their people, the least they could do is give us ones who know what they’re doing.”

“Maybe someone shouldn’t have asked for more propellium than what was absolutely needed.” 

Tarka was too busy healing the cut on his cheek to see the pointed look that he knew Oros was giving him. “‘Absolutely needed’ is subjective.”

“It’s really not.” 

“Agree to disagree.” If Tarka could take a holo of Oros like this, fondly exasperated and rolling his eyes for what could only be dramatic effect, and compare it to how he knew Oros must’ve been earlier with Vance, it would be a study in duality. Not that he would fault Oros for it. In fact, given their history with despotic authority figures, it was a wonder Oros had given Vance the time of day.

Being at the beck and call of the Federation wasn’t ideal, but it did have its perks. The virtually unlimited access to their resources, for starters. Minimal supervision, and if they wanted less, all Tarka had to do was tell Vance to back off. The living accommodations were decent, if only because it was the closest thing to stable housing they’d had in years. And, as much as Tarka hated to admit it, many of the projects they’d been brought in to assist with did have some modicum of intrigue. 

If all of that was theirs for the low, low price of aiding the Federation from time to time… Well, it wouldn’t be befitting of two geniuses to pass up a golden opportunity. Besides, Tarka was more than happy to act as a buffer between the two. “What did Vance want?”

Oros smiled at him — always a welcomed sight — and swiveled around in his seat to stand. He also grabbed a disc that had sat on the edge of his desk. With a swipe of his hand, he let the message fill the center of the room and gestured for Tarka to stand. “To show you this.”

Dozens of files filled the room, all of which amounted to a fat lot of nothing. But also not nothing. Data and sensor readings and a running list of theories that were so asinine he couldn’t believe anyone would have actually considered them. Vance had given him basic details of this thing in passing. The sheer magnitude of it was nightmare inducing, and that didn’t begin to touch on what it was capable of. “Is this…”

“Yeah.” Next to him, Oros was already rearranging the attachments in the air into an order that made the most sense to him. It was largely thanks to years of partnership that Tarka was able to follow his rationale so easily. “The unknown gravitational anomaly that took out a repair base and a planet lightyears away, all within seconds. 

Tarka grinned at the confirmation; only one word came to mind. A dangerous word coming from him. “Interesting.”

Next to him, Oros was already rearranging the attachments into an order that made the most sense to him. It was largely thanks to years of partnership that Tarka was able to follow his rationale. “He thinks you can help Discovery figure out how it works.”

Did he now? “He thinks that I can help, or that we can help?” 

There was a downward twitch in the corner of Oros’ mouth, which was the only answer Tarka needed. “I told him one of us should stay here to keep on top of other things. The propulsion lab is just starting up, and the spore drive prototype is close to completion. We shouldn’t fall behind.”

“We could take a two week vacation to go hiking on Betazed and still not fall behind. A few hours won’t kill us.” Not that either of them would take a vacation or go hiking, but the point was there. It was impossible to fall behind when you were the ones setting the pace, and he and Oros were already miles ahead of the nearest competition. 

No response. Oros zoomed in on a photo of the DMA and made a point to not look anywhere else. It was a tactic that he’d been trying (and failing) to hone for years, when there had only been so many places in their shared call that he could focus his attention on before giving in. By extension, Tarka had over a decade of experience in calling him out on it. “Oros.”

Oros sighed.  He didn’t look away from the image, but he did minimize it so he could glance up at Tarka. Step one, complete. “Ruon.”

“Eight.”

Again, no response but Tarka had all the time in the world to wait for one. Okay, maybe not all the time, especially if there was a mass of dark matter roaming the metaphorical halls that Vance wanted them to work on. But Tarka was a master at giving patience to Oros. If there was nothing else to thank Risa for, he would thank it for teaching its people the importance of biding time. Granted that time was usually in regards to waiting for visitors to decide which form of debauchery they were going to start with first, but. Still applicable. 

Oros’ eyes flickered between the files and Tarka, standing only inches away. They both knew how this would go — Oros deflecting, Tarka ignoring the deflections and instead tugging Oros back from wherever his mind was going. It was the same song and dance they’d perfected years ago. After another sigh, Oros finally said, “Three.”

Neither had noticed the added tension in the room until it melted away with Oros’ response. Tarka took the chance to close out of the files. His mind was buzzing with possibilities, and he suspected Oros had already gone through the disc with a fine-toothed comb long before sharing them. He wasn’t concerned with that for now. 

If not for their slight height difference, they would be standing shoulder to shoulder. It was still close enough that Tarka gently nudged Oros to ease any remaining tension. “Nothing is going to happen. We’ll go onboard, mess around with their goodies, maybe meet the man whose blood we’ve been staring at for months.” Because he knew it was necessary, he repeated, “nothing is going to happen.”

He didn’t use the word promise but it hung in the air between them, in the same space the files had taken up only moments ago. Oros knew it was there too; Tarka just had to let him accept it. “You don’t know that.”

“Between you and me, there are very few things we don’t know.”

“No, there are very few things you’ll admit you don’t know.” Fair enough.

Oros didn’t need to say what they were both well aware of. After a decade of staying in near constant motion, Tarka was the one who had struggled to stay still once they finally came to a stop. On the other hand, Oros had settled into their current assignment with ease. A little too easily, in Tarka’s opinion. He’d not yet figured out if that was due to actually liking it here or if Oros took solace in the fact that the Chain was no longer patrolling the galaxy. It certainly wasn’t for the rousing company offered. It was a sad day when an entire cohort of scientists plus one overworked admiral thought Ruon Tarka was the friendly one of the two. 

It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t home, but it was safe and that was something Oros clung to. That wouldn’t be guaranteed if they set foot on Discovery for even a few hours. It definitely wasn’t helped by the knowledge that Discovery had recently been overrun by the very reason that Oros hesitated. 

The Emerald Chain had splintered months ago but that didn’t negate the damage they’d done. However, just as Oros was good at diverting, Tarka was good at being convincing. Once again, thank you Risa.

Tarka plucked the disc from Oros’ hand and turned to sit back down at their shared workstation. Oros stayed standing but shifted so that they were facing one another. “Come on. An ancient starship refit for the modern man and the chance to study this thing? It’ll be fun. If we ask Vance nicely ,” he made a point to emphasize, “maybe he’ll even agree to get us a tour of the place afterwards.”

“You could ask Vance for his kidney and he’d probably comply,” Oros said.

“Do you think I should? I’ve been told humans only need one of theirs.” Tarka was only half joking but it had the desired effect anyways. He watched as Oros first dipped his head and then chuckled, soft and low and a clear indication that Tarka was chipping away at his resolve. “Best case scenario, we make some grand contribution that potentially helps save lives. Worst case scenario, you sacrifice a few hours to humor them.”

Oros exhaled loudly through his nose. “You mean humor you."

“Me?” Tarka smiled. Not the grin he used whenever he had a breakthrough; not the smirk that was impossible to bite back when he realized he’d won a debate before it had even started. This was the smile reserved solely for times like this. “Oh, I’ll have a good time no matter what. It would probably be beneficial to have someone there acting as my impulse control, though.”

There it was: the knitting between Oros’ eyes, the twitch of the fingers on his left hand. All signs of him knowing that Tarka was right but not yet wanting to admit it. In anticipation, Tarka slid the chair out from beside him, prompting Oros to take a seat. “I’ll think about it.”

It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either. He’d take it. “Thank you. I’ll make sure Vance knows how generous you are to… oh.”

He had been preparing to send a communication agreeing to the task when the recipient he’d been intending sent a message of his own. Tarka accepted the incoming message; Vance had come through requesting a visual response, but he’d have to settle for audio. 

“Vance. I was just thinking of you.” Oros leaned an elbow onto the table and shook his head — the exact reason Tarka had opted for no visual.

“Mr. Tarka.” It was hard to tell if the drag in Vance’s voice was his usual cadence of something else. “I take it you got my message?”

“I did. Oros made sure I got it at the first opportunity.” Kind Oros, regardless of the impression he made to those in charge. “When did you want us to start?”

“I was going to ask for your earliest convenience, but we don’t have that luxury anymore. Discovery needs to jump for an evacuation mission. I want you onboard when they do so we don’t waste time. Can you be ready in  an hour?”

Either of them could have been ready in far less than that; it was more so a question of if they wanted to. “Shouldn’t be an issue.”

“Both of you?”

He looked at Oros, who had been predictably quiet so far—  typical when talking to Vance with Tarka as the spokesman. Tarka opened his palm in the direction of the audio chat, a silent gesture of be my guest . Oros looked to be reevaluating their entire relationship as he spoke. “Ruon will be there. I’ll have to assess the damage done from a liquified propellium incident first, but… we’ll see.” 

“You might have to settle for second best, Vance. Of course, second best should be more than enough.” As he was talking, Tarka passed the disc to Oros who reopened it. Almost immediately, Oros began tracing figures into the air, overlaying the files with his thoughts and theories.

The pause on the other end told them both that Vance didn’t like that answer. Too bad. However, ever the professional, he wasn’t about to vocalize that. It did sound like he was speaking with a very clenched jaw. “Fine. That should be fine. I’ll meet you at the transporters for any last minute questions. Thank you, Mr. Tarka.”

“My pleasure.” Again, the low, low cost of occasionally being helpful. Worth it. As soon as the line was closed, Tarka looked at what Oros had been working on over the files. “What are you thinking?”

A lot, always. Oros’ brain never knew when to stop. Neither did Tarka’s, but he did admittedly handle it better than Oros most days. “There’s not a ton of cohesion in what they have. Too little data, but… that makes sense. You can’t really spend time collecting information on something that destroys and then disappears.”

“Not like this.” Something clicked together in his brain. One glance at Oros told him that, as usual, they were on the same wavelength. Oros’ eyes widened, Tarka felt a buzz of excitement just underneath his skin. “We need to bring it to scale.”

“A working model. We know what it does, we should be able to…” Oros  had already created a new holoscreen that he was using to create their outlines. “Reverse engineer it, more or less. Figure out how much it takes to get it going once it’s at its destination. Oh. Oh , that might be how it moves. A—”

“A space-time tunnel,” Tarka finished for him. Oh yeah, they could do this. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. They’ll really have to start naming things after us at this rate.” 

“Didn’t you tell me once that your great-grandfather has a club sandwich named after him?” Oros’ tone was light and he never once looked up, not as he spoke nor when Tarka reached across him to add his own input to the schematics.

“I was hoping for something a little more esteemed than that.” Anything done in honor of breaking a record on Risa wasn’t exactly how Tarka wanted to be remembered. “This is a good start. We’ll impress the entire ship once we’re there.”

Oros stiffened just enough to be noticed by someone who’d known him, for better or worse, for so many years. “Ruon, I told Vance–”

“That you would see. You heard him: we’re in a time crunch, so there’s no time to see.” The look on Oros’ face said that he knew Tarka was right, no matter how little he liked it. “And you told me you would think about it. You have ten minutes to think about it.”

“Vance said an hour.”

“Exactly.” Tarka’s eyes scanned their work in front of him, side by side with the files they’d already received. The photos of the anomaly were unsettling, he couldn’t deny that. But between the two of them, it shouldn’t be too hard.  “We’ll say… ten minutes for you to think about it, five for me to convince you to come anyway, and the rest for us to finish the schematics. Should be plenty of time.”

Chapter Text

Paul Stamets wouldn’t call himself a particularly prideful man. Other people might call him that, including his nearest and dearest, but prideful had a very specific connotation. It implied something unfounded. When it came to his work, much like when it came to his family, Paul chose a very different word to describe himself: protective.

His work in astromycology spanned almost a millennia, the known and unknown multiverse, and the most intricate region of subspace that the Federation might ever find. It was glorious, beyond anything he could have ever imagined when he and Straal first conceptualized the spore drive one long, caffeine-fueled night. There was no telling what wonders the mycelial network might one day result in, nor what it could have done if it had been allowed to exist for the past nine hundred years.

Yet for all that the mycelial network had given the universe, and to Paul specifically, it had been abused time and time again. Accidentally and on purpose.. Even he had allowed it to be harmed. He’d not known any better back then, but he did now. His livelihood, his family , existed in large part thanks to the spore drive and, by extension, the network. Truly, he owed it more than he could ever repay.

Most days, it felt like he was the only voice that the mycelial network had. Sure everyone else on Discovery knew how important it was, and he’d allowed this century’s Starfleet full access to his work as well. He could never be sure if they really got it, though. They weren’t the ones who’d poured years of their life, literal blood, sweat, and tears, into understanding it. 

Paul was one of two people capable of traversing the mycelial network. And he was the only person still alive to have experienced the spore drive from beginning to the glorious present. So yes, he was protective over his research. And if that protection and his own sense of decorum came through in the desire to toss other scientists through the nearest air duct, so be it.

He’d never even heard Tarka’s voice despite the multiple lines of communication he’d tried to open. Oros, at the very least, had responded a handful of times, but even those were just to say that his messages had been received and that they would be in touch shortly. Paul quickly realized that the “they” in question was actually just Aurellio acting as the middleman. 

That wasn’t touching on the commentary Aurellio made about them from time to time. Obviously brilliant, but Paul got the sneaking suspicion he wasn’t the only person whose nerves they’d grated on.

However, unlike them, Paul was a professional acting in the role of a Starfleet commander. That, and knowing that his husband would be less than pleased if he learned Paul had gone off on two guests, was what had him plastering on a clearly forced smile to his face once face-to-face with Dr. Ruon Tarka.

Saru, ever the diplomat, was handling him with far more grace than what was owed. Managing to insult their ship and Paul’s work in under two minutes had to be a record. But they had a mission to accomplish. “Admiral Vance said your partner would also be joining us?”

“Vance likes to say a lot of things. But no, Oros couldn’t make it.” Paul hadn’t realized that helping to understand a genocidal threat was optional. “My partner is finalizing a few other projects that are too close to completion. It’d be pointless for him to leave his station for a side gig. I’m sure you understand.”

On second thought, maybe it was better that Aurellio had acted as messenger. Paul was pretty sure that, had Tarka responded to his communications like he was responding right now, he’d have single-handedly ruined the Federation’s relationship with its 'best scientists’. “Getting to the root of a monstrous anomaly of unknown origin capable of complete planetary destruction isn’t exactly what I’d call a side gig .”

“Well, you and he can argue semantics some other time. You’ll be more than fine in my capable hands.” Around them, the bridge crew was doing a poor job at pretending not to eavesdrop. Linus looked like his head might pop off from how hard he was straining his neck to listen. “Don’t take it personally. Now, what are we waiting for? Let’s get started, the DMA awaits.”

It truly was a testament to Saru’s patience that he carried on like he did. “If you’ll both follow me…”

“You're the first Kelpien I've ever met. You really do have the strangest feet.” Paul could add insulting an entire race to Tarka’s growing list of offenses now. If worse came to worst, maybe the DMA would accept a Risian sacrifice in exchange for answers.

During Oros’ short journey of talking to Vance and then boarding Discovery , there was only one thing going through his head:I told you so , in Ruon’s voice. Incessantly. On a loop. In the exact same tone he’d heard him use at least a thousand times. He’d not actually met up with Ruon, but he knew it was coming.

Worst of all, Ruon would be right. 

Oros genuinely had planned to stay at Federation Headquarters while Ruon made this trip. They’d read the same data and worked together to create a scaled model; he doubted there was anything he could offer that Ruon couldn’t on his own. He didn’t need to be here. 

(Except what if Ruon became hyperfocused on one possibility and didn’t look outside of it? Or, for all of his genius and capability, simply overlooked something that Oros might have caught? Or what if Ruon said the wrong thing to the wrong person and this wound up being the day he got his teeth knocked out? Or—)

In the end, there had been no choice but to ask Vance to let him on the ship (to both of their dismay— he knew he was not the favorite between him and Ruon ). Luckily Vance didn’t need too much convincing. The admiral had shot off a quick message for Discovery to expect a last minute guest, and that was that. The ship had jolted through space just as Oros had stepped off the transporter pad. For all the information they’d been given, somehow it had all neglected to prepare him for that. 

By the time Oros had collected himself, Ruon had already made his grand entrance and been led to the bridge. And by the time a crewmember had escorted him to the bridge, Ruon was apparently underway in speaking with Commander Stamets and the ship’s first officer. The lieutenant at the conn had at least looked sympathetic when she told him, “Mr. Tarka said you wouldn’t mind them starting without you.”

Truthfully, Oros wouldn’t have expected anything less. To those not fluent in Ruon, it was easy to read that as dismissive. To those who were fluent in Ruon.. well, Oros had never met another speaker so he couldn’t attest to anything for a fact. But he knew what it meant: take your time, I’ll handle things until you arrive. Thank you.

Ruon really wasn’t as complicated as he liked to think.

Those he spoke to on the bridge were courteous enough considering he was bothering them while working, and a Saurian crewmember offered to lead him to the others. Oros had the sneaking suspicion that Ruon had already made some sort of impact, based on how the Saurian (he really should have gotten his name) all but scurried away after dropping Oros off to the right location.

“--it rupture subspace? Those answers will help lead us to who's responsible.”

“Sorry.” Based on the tone Ruon was using, his companions could probably use the break Oros offered by making his presence known.” Am I interrupting?” 

Two of the room’s three occupants turned towards Oros. He’d obviously been addressing the actual Starfleet members, though as usual, Ruon didn’t much care for propriety. The Kelpien — the first officer, he assumed — inhaled to say something but was beaten to the punch. “Not at all. You’re late, though. Vance said to be expecting you.”

“I caught him right before the ship jumped,” Oros explained, scanning the room as he walked inside. The schematics they’d worked on an hour ago were spread throughout the air, up for scrutiny by two sets of eyes he had no way of trusting just yet. He did his best to keep his gaze on Ruon instead. “It was… bumpy.”

“We’ll have to make that ride smoother for the prototype, but,” Ruon waved to usher him closer, “all in due time. Mr. Saru, Commander Stamets. My esteemed colleague, Oros.”

“Welcome, Mr. —” Oros held up a hand to stop Saru before he could finish. 

“It’s… there’s no ‘mister’. It’s just Oros.” A reply he’d crafted so many years ago that it was hard to remember any other option. 

Thankfully, if Mr. Saru was caught off guard, he had the decency not to show it. Or maybe Kelpien facial features were difficult to read. Either way, he nodded. “Oros. Welcome to Discovery. Mr. Tarka was just proposing his plan to make a working model of the DMA. Here, on the ship.”

“Our plan.” He hoped neither of the other men noticed, but Oros let himself relax just a bit once Ruon saddled up beside him. “Oros here had just as much a part in it as I did.”

“... what is under your fingernails?”

“Science. Come on, give them the rundown while I clean up.” Ruon patted Oros’ upper arm, a sign of reassurance, before crossing the room to do as he said.

Great.

They knew it was risky; he’d reminded Ruon of that no less than five times after they’d come up with it. The problem had never been if their model would work, but rather just how well it would work. That was another reason Oros had talked himself into joining. Ruon could make people believe in the most far-fetched of possibilities, but Oros spoke with practicality.

He’d already memorized the safety precautions and probabilities needed to convince them that creating a wormhole onboard a Federation starship was a good idea. He could do this. “Well…”

That memorization proved to be completely unnecessary. Commander Stamets had barely seemed to register that Oros was there; he was still fixated on the schematics in a way that was incredibly familiar. “It really could work… We can enclose both ends of the wormhole inside a containment field.”

Which was exactly what Oros would have suggested. Then again, this was the man responsible for the spore drive technology that had been their central focus for months. It was no wonder that he’d had the same thought. “Right, right. I… took the liberty of calculating how much energy is needed for the containment field, based on what we had on-hand about Discovery’s output, but… it would be worth it if someone more familiar with the ship double checked them.”

“I can look them over,” came Stamets’ immediate reply. “Obviously the evacuations take priority, but we should have plenty of power leftover so that everything is perfectly safe.” He was now speaking entirely to Saru. Ruon and Oros could talk a big game (and he expected Ruon had ), but someone familiar with both the ship and its crew was a much better advocate than the two of them.

Oros only hoped that all of the safety protocols were right. 

He felt a hand splay across his upper back — Ruon, hopefully sans whatever mystery substance he'd been playing with before Oros' arrival. Mr. Saru looked between the three men in front of him with an expression Oros once again could not read. Then, to the of relief from them all, he said, “I will give Commander Nilsson the conn. And personally supervise.”

Oros didn’t know Saru, and he only knew Commander Stamets through short messages and the hours spent combing through his research and achievements. But he did know Ruon, possibly better than Ruon would admit to knowing himself. So Oros knew, before even looking, that Ruon was grinning at Saru’s response. “We’re gonna need a bigger room.”

“The spore drive lab should work. There’s plenty of space and we won’t have to reroute anything since it's already centralized.” 

“Great. Maybe we can scope out the original hub in-person and compare it to the new and improved system. It’ll be like studying ancient scripture.” 

Oros jabbed an elbow into Ruon’s side just as Stamets turned towards him with a look that could shake a Medusan. Saru cleared his throat. “I’m sure Commander Stamets will gladly provide you with anything you need. After we’ve worked on the DMA.”

“I would, Assuming there’s any information I’ve not sent over already? I’m pretty sure I’ve shared everything I have with Aurellio, but there might be a citation that got lost with him playing messenger.”

Right. This was the secondary reason Oros had decided to join this excursion at the last moment: to keep Ruon from acting up. He wrapped his hand around Ruon’s elbow and gave Stamets what he hoped was a convincing smile. “Let’s… focus on one thing at a time. The lab?”

“Thank you, Mr. — apologies. Oros.” Saru nodded his appreciation and seemed to be making a conscious effort to not look at the two other men bristling like a pair of alley felines. “Gentlemen, if you’ll follow me.”

For everyone’s sake, Oros kept his hold firmly on Ruon as Saru led the way. It went unsaid that it was just as much for his own comfort as it was to keep Ruon in check. For all that their hypotheses would soon be underway, they were still on an unfamiliar ship now far from Federation Headquarters. He had no sway over anyone aboard except for Ruon, and it seemed like Ruon had already rubbed enough people the wrong way. Par for the course, really.

Still, he had managed to convince Mr. Saru and Commander Stamets that their idea was best. It made sense. For all of Ruon’s self-importance, it was hard not to listen when he talked. He’d once told Oros that Risians were natural salespeople. From the brief period of time Oros had spent on Ruon’s homeworld, he was still unsure as to whether or not that was a good thing. Oros had also never felt it appropriate to ask; instead he let Ruon take the reins when it came to presenting their ideas. 

That was what had secured them just about every job and lecturing opportunity they’d scored over the past decade. It was the entire reason they’d wound up on Vance’s radar in the first place. As much as Oros might dislike the specifics, Ruon’s silver tongue had not failed them yet. Well… not in most aspects. Ruon may be better at speaking, but Oros knew the importance of something Ruon chose to disregard: professionalism. 

“Commander Stamets,” Oros tightened his hold on Ruon to signal him to keep quiet, “I just wanted to thank you for everything you’ve already provided to us regarding the spore drive. It’s been extremely helpful. If you have some time, I was hoping to ask a few questions? Nothing big, just a few questions I had about the developmental process.”

The look of surprise, followed by what he hoped was a genuine acceptance, was what Oros best provided. A buffer to keep Ruon from burning every bridge in the known galaxy.

By the time he and Oros returned to Federation HQ, Tarka felt a rush of delight unlike anything he’d felt in years.

This is what he thrived on. The actualization of ideas that had previously lived in his head, the looks of awe and excitement when others realized what he was capable of. Numbers and formulas and theories that hadn’t existed until he’d smashed them together. 

He’d never understood the poisons some people chose. Alcohol was fine in moderation but too much impacted his thinking skills. Gambling was no fun when your mind was constantly running through axiomatic probability. Sex… he could take or leave. But this? This thrill, racing through his dendrites until every last neuron was lit up like a binary sunrise? This was Ruon Tarka’s poison.

Well. One of his poisons. The other now felt within arm’s reach, closer than it had been since he and Oros stood side by side in that miserable excuse of a lab right before everything turned to shit.

After Saru had shut down the DMA model for being a “dangerous precedent” (no one ever got anywhere playing safe), there had still been enough data to draw multiple conclusions. So that was what he, Oros, and Stamets had done, with occasional commentary from the grumpy engineer who’d invited herself to stay. He’d sooner stick his right arm into an atomizer than listen to Stamets’ voice, but Oros interjected often enough to make it bearable. That was also another reason to call the day a success: the simple fact that Oros had joined him. They’d worked, taking notes and postulating about how best to apply what they’d learned. 

Whoever had speculated known species to be the culprit should have their degrees revoked and publicly shamed. The DMA had arrived in this universe via some sort of synthetic tunnel. It was being controlled by some power source at its center. That power source had to possess unfathomable energy unlike anything recorded in Federation or non-Federation space. 

Sure, figuring out the DMA was important. Protecting the galaxy, honoring the lives already lost, all that hero bullshit. What Tarka cared about was much more important: a chance for him and Oros to go home.

There was just one problem. Oros had been engaged aboard Discovery , once they began working. That was his zone. But since returning to their quarters, he’d acted as if the entire ordeal hadn’t happened at all. He’d instead asked what Tarka wanted for dinner and then launched into a detailed summary of his plans for the next day. He was purposefully avoiding the very topic that Tarka couldn’t get off his mind.

It was a sticky situation. If he said too little, it was feeding into Oros’ denial. But if he said too much, it might push Oros to an edge neither of them was ready to stand on.

So Tarka did what he did best: he calculated the risk over dinner and Oros’ itinerary. He sat with his results long after they’d both settled in; he reviewed the DMA notes at their dining room table while Oros sat in the living room with a mug of tea in one hand and their information on the spore drive in the other. He was planning to meet with Stamets tomorrow (Tarka had been invited but immediately declined. That many egos in one confined space had to be a safety hazard).

The results came back poorly in Tarka’s favor, but he took his chance anyway. “You realize that whatever the DMA is using for power must be incredible.” There. Completely unprovoked, leaving no room for misinterpretation. He didn’t look up from his work, but he did hear the purposeful thump of Oros setting his mug down. An opportunity for Tarka to end the conversation at that, and yet. “Equivalent to a hypergiant star, at least.”

“Ruon…”

“Probably more, considering how well-controlled it is.” 

“What are you thinking?” Oros’ asked hesitantly. Then, when he didn’t get an answer, he sighed. “Ruon .”

Tarka glanced up, only to see that Oros was already looking at him. Not in the way he preferred Oros to look at him, but a look that was still far too familiar. Tarka had spent the past decade watching it develop. Pleading for him to just stop talking. It told him to quit trying, to not take off running on what Oros had long ago deemed a fool’s errand. “Like you don’t already know.”

“I do know, which is why I’m asking.”

Why do you need me to say it? But Tarka knew that answer too. It may have been a test coming from anyone else but this was Oros. He wasn’t looking for Tarka to take the bait, he was asking him to keep quiet. If they didn’t say it out loud, they could pretend it didn’t exist. If Tarka kept his mouth shut, Oros wouldn’t remember just how much he had lost. 

Neither had spoken the word Kayalise aloud in years. And it was all Tarka’s fault.

Any response he could have given turned to ash in his mouth. He had done this to Oros. He had taken someone brilliant and kind, the last good thing at the end of the world, and Tarka had ruined him. Oros’ hope had fractured on the floor of that lab, the pieces ground into stardust as they spent the next ten years running. If there was any left, he was keeping it far away from Tarka. Rightfully so, too — Tarka wouldn’t have trusted himself with it.

They’d moved on, or at least they’d done a decent job at pretending to. Tarka doubted Oros could ever truly forget what had once been his life’s ambition. Tarka certainly hadn’t, not when he looked at Oros every single day and was reminded that yes, this was where he was meant to be, but it wasn’t where they were meant to be. It wasn’t the home they’d promised each other. “Oros…”

“Don’t.” Here was what Tarka never stood a chance against. The absolute dejection in Oros’ voice, the slump of his shoulders as if simply existing was too heavy on his bones. “Please, just… don’t say it. It’s not going to happen.”

“You don’t know that.” Tarka wasn’t looking to argue. It was just wrong to hear Oros say these things. “Statistically, anything’s possible.”

He might have preferred a fight. Tarka would’ve taken the most devastating fight imaginable, fueled by anger and fought with words aimed to kill, over the expression on Oros’ face. It was almost apologetic, like he was sorry for ever allowing Tarka to believe in the first place — exactly what he’d told Tarka three years ago. Oros shook his head slowly, a deliberate move to make sure that Tarka knew his position. “Not this.”

This. The one thing that had kept Oros going during his imprisonment, long before Tarka showed up to destroy everything. The first aspect of Oros’ culture that he’d felt comfortable enough to share, what Oros and Tarka had risked their lives reaching for. Their promise spilt in blood all over that cell floor. Now all of that was boiled down to just being a this.

Silence stretched between them for what might have been hours but was really just a few long, drawn out minutes, Oros perched on the edge of the couch and Tarka resisting the urge to break the table he sat at just for some sort of noise. He’d never done well in silence. Oros knew that, had known that since they’d first met. And of course, because Oros was kind and gracious and better than this universe deserved, he took pity on Tarka by finally speaking. “Look, it’s… it’s been a long day,” he said as he pulled himself off the couch. “I’m going to go to bed, and… maybe tomorrow we can think of a way to make the new spore drive a smoother ride.”

In any other situation, Tarka would’ve bitten out some quip about running away. But this wasn’t any other situation; this was Oros. The exception to every single rule Tarka had ever made. 

In some juvenile attempt to make himself feel better, Tarka said, “You can crash with me tonight if you want to.” An offer they’d traded between one another on a regular basis, one that was rarely turned down.

He knew the answer before Oros spoke. The downward twitch of his mouth, how he wrung his hands together.“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Of course it wasn’t a good idea. But Tarka would fall asleep better if he knew that Oros would be the first thing he saw in the morning. It was a selfish idea. Then again, that really did just seem to be Tarka’s brand.

As always, Oros owed him nothing. Not a second thought of lick of kindness. Yet, as he made his way towards his bedroom and paused in the doorway, he deigned to give Tarka something anyway. Oros looked over his shoulder and nodded. “We did good today, Ruon. That’s all we need.” 

Translation: I’m not going anywhere. Tomorrow we’ll keep going. Please don’t ruin everything good with a reminder of everything bad. 

Tarka waited until Oros’ door slid shut behind him to slam his head onto the dining room table. If they’d done such good work, then why did he feel so fucking awful?

Chapter Text

When Oros woke up, it was with one goal in mind: pretend that last night hadn’t happened. It hadn’t been the first time he’d left rather than discuss that particular topic, and it wouldn't be the last. 

He’d known, as soon as he realized how powerful the DMA controller had to be, exactly where Ruon’s mind would go. A pipe dream that had proven itself impossible a long time ago. But Ruon didn’t know what it meant to give up, and now it was the one subject that they teetered around like broken glass. It was the only thing they’d ever genuinely argued over: that Oros had accepted Kayalise as unattainable while Ruon held tight. Simply put, Oros didn’t have it in him to argue anymore. 

On the rare occasion Ruon found an excuse to bring it up (or, gods forbid, thought he found a new lead), Oros now just walked away. It wasn’t kind, and usually meant a sleepless night for both of them, but it was the only way Oros knew to keep himself sane. Walking away hurt less than listening to Ruon chase an impossible dream that Oros had given him. 

Ruon was (presumably) still sleeping when Oros left his bedroom, which made things much easier. He got ready for the day, checked for any catastrophes that had happened in the lab overnight (none, thankfully) , and replicated two piping hot drinks. One Bajoran spiced tea — not quite like that of his own planet, but the closest duplicate he’d found — and one overly sweetened cup of coffee. Then he sat down on the couch, in the same spot he’d been last night, and he waited. Oros was very good at waiting.

If he were a braver man, he would have knocked on Ruon’s door. Hell, if he were a braver man, he would have apologized hours ago. He could’ve apologized at any point, stolen into Ruon’s room with the sole intent of fixing anything he might have potentially broken. If he’d done that, Ruon would’ve cut him off almost immediately. Said it was fine and pulled back the covers to welcome Oros into his bed. There’d have been no room for doubt that they would be okay.

But Oros had never considered himself a brave man. 

It was close to half an hour of sitting in silence before Ruon emerged from his own room. Oros had started compiling a list of questions for his meeting with Commander Stamets while he waited; he immediately closed out of the screen when he saw Ruon. He was rubbing a hand across the back of his neck when he made eye contact with Oros — a nervous habit to feel the scar there. He’d not changed out of his pajamas yet but it did look like he’d attempted to comb through his hair to no avail. He’d obviously not slept well.

Oros could apologize now, hours after the fact. Ruon would still say it was unnecessary but they would both know that wasn’t true. They could talk through it, or promise to do so later in the evening. Instead, Oros motioned towards the second replicated mug on the coffee table as a peace offering. 

“Four sugars?”

“Five. Unless today is the day you stop playing Rigellian Roulette with your enamel.”

Ruon huffed out a laugh and strode through their living room to take a seat next to Oros. “Not a chance. Remind me what time you’re meeting with the mushroom man?”

“In about an hour and a half.” The one good thing about last night was that it meant Oros had been too busy to feel anxious about his talk with Stamets. Discovery was docked at Headquarters for the morning, and he’d already set foot on it once. It would be alright, just as he and Ruon would be alright. “That means you get to regale everyone else with details from yesterday.”

“Hmm. Babysitting duty.” Ruon took a long sip of his coffee. “Is that invitation to join you still on the table?”

Oros pretended to consider it for a moment while simultaneously reopening the file of questions he’d started. “Only if you plan to apologize to Mr. Saru for screaming in his face.”

“So that’s a no.”

And that had been that.

“He’s married.”

Tarka had been paying full attention to what Aurellio had said, but he’d long ago perfected the art of pretending to only half-listen. He gave it a full three seconds of staring at the calculations in front of him, and then responded. “Did you say something?”

“Stamets.” Aurellio repeated, which somehow made it worse. He had to know that Tarka was fucking with him and was just refusing to rise to the bait. Instead he kept his gaze on his own holomonitor next to Tarka’s. “He’s married. Happily, and monogamously as far as I can tell.”

A fact Tarka already knew from having read through Stamets’ file (first when they’d initially been asked to head the next gen spore drive research months ago, and then again that morning after Oros had left for his meeting). Yes, Stamets was married. Had been for close to nine hundred years now, which had to be some sort of human record. Tarka also knew the man’s alma mater, graduate thesis topic, middle name (a Human concept he didn’t care to understand), and a small but informative list of the man’s anaphylactic allergies.

That last fact hadn’t been in his public file. Tarka may have taken some liberties to check over Vance’s personal stash of information during his research. For science. “Good to know,” he said, not taking his gaze off of the data in front of him. “I can swim fifty meters in twenty-three seconds.”

There it was. The physical reaction of Aurellio’s eyes widening because he’d been caught off guard. “ What ?”

“Sorry. Are we not sharing useless information? I figured that’s the only reason for you to bring up Stamets when he’s not barking at you to get to us.” It was a testament to their ten months working together that Aurellio let that comment go. It was also a testament to his value that Tarka had even agreed to work with a former Emerald Chain member in the first place, but that was a story for another time.

It had worked out that Aurellio was in their lab today of all days, when Oros was away. Tarka usually offered to work directly with Aurellio anyway so that Oros wouldn’t have to. He found it much easier to play nice than Oros, who was always so rigid around Aurellio that it was a wonder he hadn't snapped in two from the physical stress. 

Naturally, Tarka would’ve preferred Oros here rather than on Discovery, but he couldn’t have argued with it. Not when Oros had willingly agreed to leave his comfort zones, and especially not after their near-fight last night (which he absolutely was not replaying in his head over and over again, shut up) This was one of the best possible outcomes from yesterday; Tarka should be happy.

He was happy, for multiple reasons. That didn’t mean he had to like the idea of Oros willingly spending time with someone whose ego could rival Tarka’s. From what Aurellio had shared, it would be a wonder if Oros didn’t walk off that ship with a migraine. Then, of course, there was the fact that he’d left Tarka to deal with Aurellio and their cohort on his own. Maybe that was his penance for mentioning the power source last night (stop it). 

Whatever Aurellio thought was running through Tarka’s mind, he was wrong (mostly. Somewhat. Shut up). And treading on thin ice considering the lack of sleep Tarka was running on. Granted that was nobody’s fault but his own. “I’m saying that you can stop… fretting.” 

Ruon Tarka did not fret. He was just exhausted and his mind was elsewhere and maybe not having Oros here just meant that there was no one around to tell him to reel it in. He turned towards Aurellio to tell him just that but was cut off by a voice from across the lab. “Commander Stamets might not be the one he’s fretting about.”

“He is absolutely not the one he’s fretting about,” another voice chimed in. From behind that voice came a low chuckle, and for the third time that week alone, Tarka regretted agreeing to Vance placing a group of borderline-toddlers into his and Oros’ lab.

Tarka pinched the bridge of his nose and turned towards the group that was supposedly running an analysis on Stamets’ spliced DNA. “New lab rule: the word fretting is hereby banned. The next person to say it will have to recite Plavex’s first sixteen principles of transradical ionic polarity from memory.” As a bonus, he added, “In the original Edosian.”

Marlas flicked her left antenna in Tarka’s direction but made no other movement. On the other hand, Glind was smirking a bit too widely for someone with a job to do. It was probably a safe bet that neither of them had any intention of stopping their conversation, but had instead switched to internal communication — the obvious twitch of Glind's earlobes was their tell. This was the price Tarka paid for allowing Vance to place not one but two telepaths on his team.

The third member of their cohort, Thalirk, had the common sense to keep his remarks to himself, but Tarka could still hear him snickering. No doubt Marlas and Glind would clue him in on their commentary after they were dismissed. The sheer level of disrespect in his own Federation-funded-and-controlled lab. This is why he preferred working with Oros – he would keep the interns in check while Tarka handled any and all interactions with Aurellio. It was a system that had been working fine for months now. But no, Oros had taken a field trip and now Tarka was being attacked from all sides. The one silver lining was that it was just their primary group in the lab today. No Starfleet assistants floating in and out, no admirals looking over his shoulder. This was contained chaos.

There had been the reassurance that he wasn't the only person unhappy with this arrangment. The kids had looked just as annoyed as Tarka when he showed up to the lab that morning sans Oros. Glind had gone so far as to ask if they could go home, something Tarka almost took them up on. But there was work to do, and the group became much more compliant when he ran through what he’d gathered from Discovery. He kept the important parts to himself, naturally. Then Aurellio had shown up to help, and the group had begrudgingly gotten to work. Because Tarka was just their boss, but they wanted to impress Aurellio. Again, the disrespect.

Working with Aurellio hadn’t been Tarka's first choice; taking on a cohort of Federation scientists hadn’t even been his sixth or seventh choice. Vance had made the call on both those things, but Tarka had to admit (to nobody but himself and Oros) that both choices had their occasional merits. For example, the kids and Aurellio could work on their continued navigator problem while Tarka unraveled the DMA data. The downside was that, without Oros around, everybody thought they had free reign to act up more than usual. Hence the new rule. That had to be... rule fifty-nine, if Tarka remembered right.

Aurellio at least had the decency to keep his voice low when he spoke again. “Can you recite the first sixteen principles from memory in the original Edosian?”

“ I already have my degree, credentialing, and renown. They are one step above coffee-fetching duty.”

Aurellio didn’t look like he believed him but didn't think it his place to argue. He hummed in acknowledgment and returned to the spore drive date he’d been pouring over. Honestly, that particular endeavor had now been knocked down several places on Tarka’s priority list. “He’s a good guy. Stamets.” Apparently, Aurellio wasn’t done with that topic. “Oros will be fine with him.”

Tarka sighed, only partially for dramatic effect. There was a chance that Aurellio genuinely thought he was being kind, but Tarka was not going to take his word on this matter. 

It had taken Vance three days to convince Tarka to work alongside Aurellio. It had then taken Tarka a week to get Oros in the lab at the same time as Aurellio. He would be friendly for the sake of experimentation, and on a conscious level, Tarka knew that Aurellio had been manipulated in his position within the Chain. Most days, he could overlook it. But there was no universe where Tarka would ever trust an Emerald Chain member, former or otherwise, when it came to Oros. Aurellio had to know that. 

He was spared that conversation when Glind spoke up. “Mr. Tarka?”

“Don’t say the F-word.”

“I couldn’t speak Edosian even if I tried. They have too many tongues.” Smart kid. “It, uh… doesn’t look like we can isolate the Tardigrade components from Commander Stamets’ DNA. The anatomical structure keeps falling apart.” 

Thalirk groaned and let his head fall onto the table he sat at with an audible thud. His thick forehead ran the risk of breaking the table at this point. “It’d be easier to resurrect the damn animal and take some of its DNA.”

Rather than turn her gaze towards him (it would’ve been a useless gesture coming from her), Marlas let both of her antennae twist in Tarka's direction. “Maybe we need to talk to Vance about investing time into studying resurrection. If anyone could convince him, it’d be you.”

“Doesn’t rule number,” Aurellio looked past Tarka to the large holographic board on the far wall, riddled with multiple languages, computations, and a phallic Klingon doodle no one had deleted yet, “thirty-seven say not to manipulate the admiral?”

“That rule’s only in effect when Oros is here to enforce it.” Which he wasn’t. Because something had possessed him to go have a nice chat with the mushroom man today. And now Tarka was running on only a few hours sleep after he’d tossed and turned most of the night. It took everything in him not to groan in frustration.

The spore drive prototype was farther ahead than they’d expected, but not nearly where it should be considering what Tarka and Oros were capable of. It had been their main focus for months and probably still would have been if not for yesterday. Now… unless the spore drive could mimic the DMA’s power source, Tarka could not care less about it.

There was the chance that Oros would have an epiphany after his talk with Stamets that would solve the problem —  never count his brilliance out. Unlikely though. They’d been unable to isolate the tardigrade DNA from Stamets’ super special fancy blood, and there was no record of any other multidimensional creature they could look at. It was a waste of time. Tarka could’ve used this entire morning to focus on something bigger. The prototype was useless without a navigator anyway. As far as anyone knew, there was only one person who fit that mold.

No… no, that wasn’t true.

Tarka quickly sat up. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d been hunched over without Oros around to scold his posture. “You have kids, right?” He continued before Aurellio had a chance to answer. “Perfect. I’m putting you on babysitting duty over these ruffians. I have an errand to run.”

“You know they’re all adults, right?” Tarka was already closing out of his work materials. “And having kids doesn’t mean I’m a babysitter. You don’t babysit your own children, you parent them.”

Now Tarka was choosing to just fuck with Aurellio. Call it emotional compensation for the whole your former boss robbed me of my personhood for years aspect of their relationship. “Alright, everyone,” he announced to the lab. “I’m leaving Uncle Aurellio in charge. Make sure to be on your best behavior and clean up after yourselves. I want a good report when I come back.”

“Are you going to talk to Vance?”

“Wear something low cut.” 

“Tell him to never let Oros leave us with you again.”

“Tarka, I can’t believe—.”

The whole field of science was about believing in unlimited possibilities; it was a wonder Aurellio hadn’t realized that yet. “Thanks for joining us today. You’re really a life-saver.” Tarka clapped him on the shoulder and grinned. It was only partially for show.

The last thing he heard before exiting the lab was Glind, delight clear in their voice. “Mr. Aurellio, where do Human babies come from?”

Okay. Maybe the cohort had a few more uses than he gave them credit for. Tarka would have to get Oros to compliment them the next time they were together. For now though, Tarka had his own impromptu meeting to arrange. Discovery would still be docked for another few hours. He could manage with that.

Chapter Text

“You look like shit.”

“Good morning to you, too.” If possible, Vance sounded even worse than he looked. Tarka couldn’t imagine the man’s current stress levels and quite frankly, he didn’t want to. He had enough on his own plate without doing something invasive like asking Vance how are you?

There was probably proper protocol for entering the head of Starfleet’s private office, but Tarka wasn’t Starfleet. He made himself right at home by sitting down across from Vance at his desk. “Did you look over the report Oros wrote up? He insisted on getting it to you as soon as we left Discovery .” Maybe that was an overstatement (or a complete lie), but Vance didn’t need to know that.

“I did. Along with Mr. Saru’s report, and Commander Stamets’.”

Tarka waited a few moments for any elaboration. When none came, he shook his head. “Did you understand the reports?”

“I understand that you and Oros proposed a highly dangerous plan that very easily could've taken out major functions of the ship, if not the entire thing, during a crucial evacuation mission.”

Ah. That would explain the look of… what exactly was that, exhaustion? Exasperation? Something Tarka had yet to identify but that he’d seen on Vance’s face multiple times over the years. And it’s not as though Oros hadn’t warned him (repeatedly) that it was a risky plan before Tarka had even boarded. He propped his elbows on Vance’s desk and steeped his fingers together. “We took a calculated risk and made sure that there were multiple failsafes in place. Yes, there was… a close encounter with the containment field, but neither Oros nor I would’ve let any actual danger come to that ship.” Not with both of them on it.

It was impossible to tell if Vance actually believed him or if his mind was too busy elsewhere to properly reprimand Tarka. Probably a little of both. “Just… don’t do it again.”

Tarka shrugged. “We already got the data we needed, there’s no reason to do it again.”

Vance leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. Not exactly the pristine image of a Starfleet admiral. Then again, Tarka didn’t view him as an admiral. Just some guy who had offered him and Oros sustainable work and enough resources to keep everyone happy. “What is if you want? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not looking all that great yourself.”

“Almost blowing up a 900 year old science vessel has that effect.” So does tossing and turning all night long with a burning need to knock down your best friend/business partner’s door, but Vance didn’t need to know that. “Actually, Discovery is what I wanted to talk to you about. I need to pop over there for a visit. Can you make that happen?”

“Hmm.” Vance gestured upwards to activate a holoPADD, probably brimming with unread messages and enough disastrous news updates to drive the sanest man mad. “Oros is over there with Commander Stamets right now, isn’t he? Why didn’t you go with him this morning?”

Because he’d already suffered through hours of Stamets’ presence yesterday; his sanity couldn’t handle much more. “Oros is there to help us with the spore drive. I’m looking to make a social call.”

Through the orange glow of the holo, Vance appeared unconvinced. “I’ve known you for ten years and you’ve never made a social call to me without wanting something.”

“You’re not a sentient antique. You’re just starting to look like one.” Harsh. True, but harsh. The fact that Vance didn’t argue with him was yet more evidence as to just how far his mind actually was from the conversation.

(“Tell Vance he needs to sleep more. He’s not been looking well lately..”

“You could tell him yourself.”

“He won’t appreciate it coming from me. You, on the other hand...” )

Maybe Tarka would follow Oros’ advice and lecture Vance on the sacred Risian concept of self-care one of these days. Not right now though; he had more important matters to take care of. “I just want a few hours to look around. See the new tech integrated with the old. Plus, yesterday was the first day in months I’ve seen anything other than HQ. If I have to keep looking at the same walls for too much longer, I’m going to lose my mind. And, need I remind you, you need me mind.”

There was no chance of Vance arguing with that, even if he had been at the top of his game. They both knew just how valuable Oros and Tarka had made themselves. It was what allowed Tarka to be so casual in almost every conversation they had, why Oros was able to get away with behavior that would have otherwise been considered insubordination. Simply put, the rules didn’t apply to them. They couldn’t apply to them; Tarka had made that quite clear when Vance first approached him all those years ago.

Across from him, Vance pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tarka, listen, I don’t have time for this. You don’t have time for this. I thought you were going to look through the data you got yesterday. You remember, the data you almost caused an implosion to get?”

Right. Tarka supposed that was a priority at this point. “I already have. Thrice.” It was the only real thing he’d been able to do last night when he’d been too antsy to sleep. “Oros looked it over too.” That morning, when they’d both drank their daily dose of caffeine and acted as if everything was fine. “More information is needed, but we can come up with a game plan on how to move forward. Of course, I need Oros onboard to do that, and he’s not here right now. So it's either I twiddle my thumbs and wait, or you buzz over to let Discovery know I’ll be paying a visit.”

“You could be working on another endeavor,” Vance annoyingly pointed out. “What about the… the propulsion lab, or defense modifications? Or the spore drive.” It was telling that that hadn’t been his very first thought. “We need that up and running; it’d be a hell of a lot easier to investigate the DMA if we had multiple ships with jumping capability.”

“The spore drive is covered,” Tarka brushed it off with a wave of his hand. He didn't bother addressing Vance’s first two options: he had no desire to work on the lower ranked projects without Oros to keep him from throttling the revolving door of lab assistants. It really would be easy if Vance trusted the people they had picked. “The kids have their assignments for the day. They’ll never learn anything if they’re only allowed to do important work with someone breathing over their shoulders.”

For the first time since Tarka had walked in, Vance looked up at him with full attention. Eyes wide, shoulders squared as though he was preparing to launch out of his chair. “You left a group of barely qualified interns alone in your lab with classified tech?”

Tarka fought back the urge to roll his eyes. It was fine if he questioned them — they were interns to his lab, each capable in their own right and half-chosen by Tarka and Oros. Any criticisms he had were because he knew how much they sucked. He doubted that Vance could pick any of them out of a lineup. “The fact that you’d think I’m that irresponsible hurts, Charles,” he slowed down the admiral’s first name. “I put Aurellio in charge.”

“That somehow feels worse.”

“Hey now.”

“I heard the Xindi kid bit an ensign last week.”

“Did you? News to me.” He’d heard it was a lieutenant. And well-deserved. Something about the lieutenant questioning the intellectual capabilities of… what was it? ‘A glorified Risian pool boy and some twat who won’t even bother disclosing his species.’

Oros had let Thalirk leave his shift ten minutes early when he’d heard that; Tarka had commented that they should be glad that it was only a bite. Xindi-Arboreal jaws were said to be capable of breaking through bone.

Not that any of that helped his current situation. He doubted mentioning potential prejudice within Starfleet’s ranks would do any good for Vance’s current stress levels. A different tactic, then.

He relaxed back into his chair and cocked his head to the side, hoping that he could still pull off the facial expressions that damn near every Risian native was taught. Look unassuming, unintimidating, and you can convince tourists to do just about anything. Vance wasn’t a rich tourist, and this wasn’t exactly a leisurely environment, but Tarka had had plenty of years to adapt those teachings for his own purposes. “Listen. All I want is a change of pace. You can’t do anything with the DMA until I give you a plan, and I can’t give you said plan until Oros is back onboard. None of the other projects are going to fall behind schedule in the interim. And,” this was the important part, “the sooner you say yes, the sooner I’ll get out of your hair. Hmm?”

Quite frankly, Tarka wasn’t fully convinced of his last point. While he would probably never admit it, it seemed as though Vance didn’t actually mind when Tarka interrupted him. He might even, gasp, enjoy it. There was probably a deeper meaning to it, Vance not needing to act in an entirely official capacity while Tarka humored him. The longer Tarka bothered Vance, the longer Vance could have an excuse not to let himself be crushed under the weight of everything on the horizon.

Then again, he was still a man who was (Tarka had heard) good at his job, and there was only so much time available to waste. After a pause, Vance sighed and opened a new screen in his holo. “I’ll let them know you’ll be stopping by. Please don’t attempt to blow it up this time.”

Tarka tried not to look too pleased at getting his way. He suspected he failed. “I promise on my life.”

“There is no higher promise coming from you.” Not entirely true, but Vance didn’t need to know that. “While you’re over there, tell Oros not to blow it up either. I’d have given him the same lecture before he departed this morning, but.”

He didn’t bother to explain because it wasn’t needed. Vance looking for anything other than the cold shoulder from Oros was like looking for a single Rigelian flamegem in the long-gone Delphic expanse.

“I’ll probably run into him, so I’ll make sure he knows you send your warmest regards. Thank you for your time, Admiral. I’ll let you get back to your work.” Tarka pushed himself out of his chair and made for the exit. He stopped in front of the door. “Actually, speaking of Oros.”

“Yes?” Vance had already shifted his attention onto a new holoscreen he’d opened in the two seconds when Tarka’s back had been turned.

“He mentioned that you look like you could use some more sleep. I know, I know,” he interrupted before Vance could preach about the fate of the known galaxy or some other catastrophe. “But he said it’s bad for morale if Starfleet’s most important player is falling apart. You should really consider doing something about that.”

If Vance thought to respond to Oros’ concern, Tarka didn’t stick around to hear it.