Breaths in Transit

Posted on 30 Jul 2025 @ 3:19pm by Lieutenant JG Halux-denari-vettaliin
Edited on on 30 Jul 2025 @ 3:50pm

1,300 words; about a 7 minute read

Mission: Assignment: Arawyn
Location: Guest Quarters, USS Sarek
Timeline: 242507.30

=/\= Guest Quarters, USS Sarek =/\=

The guest quarters on the Ross-class Sarek were unbelievably comfortable, reflecting the more diplomatic-focused mission profile of the starship. The space was a single-occupancy suite, and had been thoroughly appointed for extended travel. Situated towards the front of the ships large, round saucer section, a large viewport occupied one of the room’s bulkheads, offering a breathtaking view of the stars as the ship traveled through warp towards Starbase 369. The furnishings were sleek and curved, minimalist in the traditional Starfleet design, but still offering comfortable seating.

To one side, a modular desk curved gently from the wall, its embedded LCARS panel glowing with unread messages and shipboard advisories. Halux hadn’t touched them yet. Instead, he sat by the viewport in a reclined meditation chair, its frame designed to subtly rock in response to micro-movements, mimicking the comfort of a Denobulan sleep cradle. On the table beside him, a small hydroponic tray hosted three delicate herb clippings—personal companions he tended aboard every assignment, their pale green leaves catching the flicker of warp light.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the steady hum of the ship wrap around him. It wasn’t silence—no starship ever truly was—but there was something in the Sarek’s energy that he found calming. Purposeful. Balanced. He could only hope the harmonics on board the Arawyn were similarly peaceful.

This wasn't just a ride to his next post. It was a moment of breath between chapters.

On the desk, his PADD blinked again with the arrival of a subspace message. One of his spouses, no doubt. He smiled to himself, then reached slowly for the tea—letting it steep a little longer before reading.

There was still time.

The soft chime of the waiting message echoed once more before the screen lit up with the familiar seal of the Betazed Research Cooperative. Then, her face appeared—Revek, his first wife—framed by the soft lighting of her lab and the gentle blur of stars beyond. Her hair was pulled up, as it nearly always was, coiled in a braided updo laced with silken threads of violet and soft gold. He could feel his smile widen as she began to speak.

My Halux.

Your absence is a quiet gravity, pulling at the corners of my hours. I find myself leaving space for your commentary during staff meetings, even though no one here is clever enough to tease me like you do.

I passed the flowering vines near the lab’s arboretum today—the ones we stood under last visit—and they’d begun to bloom again. I caught myself smiling at nothing, and the interns assumed I was finally softening. I didn’t correct them. Let them think I’m turning gentle in your absence.

Have you arrived yet to your new assignment? If so, I imagine you already have your herbs placed by the window and that you’ve found the corner of the room with the best acoustics for your humming to them. I envy the walls that get to hear that.

The readings from the neural empathy array came through at last—your theory about harmonic resonance in post-trauma neural nets was spot on, by the way. I submitted your notes under joint authorship. You’ll receive the citation soon, unless Starfleet censors it for being too emotionally competent.

I miss you. But I am proud of you, even more. You are walking into a place that needs what only you can give—gentleness without fragility, insight without intrusion, and laughter that doesn’t demand understanding to be felt.

Remember to rest, love. Your heart is deep, but even deep wells must refill.

It had been too long since Halux had seen Revak, though they stayed in regular communication as time allowed. Her voice—calm, melodic, threaded with that wry sharpness only she could deliver—still echoed in his quarters every few days, filtered through the distance of subspace. But no message, however thoughtfully worded, could replicate the way her presence filled a room. She had gravity. Not the kind that pulled down, but the kind that held him still, centered.

Their last real time together had been during his practicum rotation on board the Telamon. They’d spent three weeks together on Kephedra Station, sharing space, theories, meals, and stories. At night, she read fragments of obscure linguistics texts aloud to him in Denobulan, and he countered with emotionally charged metaphors from Terran literature, trying to make her laugh. Most nights, he succeeded.

As he turned toward the viewport, a familiar ache settled just beneath his ribcage—not sharp, but persistent. It had been nearly a more than six months since he’d last stood in the same room as Revek, and even longer since he’d seen Lyla in person. The messages, the shared poems, the occasional late-night laughter over subspace…they helped. But they weren’t the same. He missed the weight of Revek’s hand on his shoulder when he overthought something trivial, the way Lyla tucked her feet under herself on the couch as she read him half-finished lines from her latest holonovel. Starfleet had taught him many things—how to serve, how to lead, how to listen. But it hadn’t taught him how to be in love at a distance without longing trailing behind every footstep.

Now, aboard the Sarek, preparing for his new assignment, Halux found himself reaching instinctively for their voices—not to ask questions or seek advice, but simply to anchor himself in the rhythm of their presence.
Gazing out at the streaks of light beyond the viewport, tea in hand, he spoke softly—not recording, not transmitting, just remembering.

“You’d say something about metaphorical starlight,” he murmured. “Then remind me that distance is a function of perception.”
Halux lingered by the viewport a moment longer, the silence in the room wrapping around him like a meditation shawl. The stars stretched endlessly ahead, lines of light against the warp field—motion without noise. A soft floral note rose from his tea, mingling with the faint hum of the Sarek’s systems. He exhaled slowly through his nose, savoring the calm.
Then the ship’s intercom chimed—gentle, unobtrusive, but certain.

“Senior transit personnel: We are approaching Starbase 369. Estimated arrival in fifteen minutes. Please prepare for disembarkation. Repeat: arrival in fifteen minutes.”

The voice belonged to Commander Rell, the Sarek’s XO—precise, no-nonsense, but not without a practiced warmth. Halux blinked once, grounding himself in the present. He set his tea aside and reached for the black collar of his uniform jacket, adjusting it with a practiced flick of his fingers. A quick glance at the mirror confirmed the balance between presentation and comfort—he wasn’t here to impress anyone. He was here to listen. To help.

He took one last look at the stars. They no longer streaked—they twinkled now. The subtle shift in the warp field shimmered through the viewport, betraying the subspace envelope’s dissolution. Just beyond the field’s fading edge, Starbase 369 hung in the distance like a great blossom against the dark, slowly rotating, lights pulsing like a heartbeat, steady and strong. It looked serene, almost peaceful.

“Time to begin,” he said to the herbs by the window, gently brushing a finger along the soft edge of a leaf. Then he turned and made his way to the door, shoulders straight, gaze calm.

Whatever awaited him aboard the Arawyn, he would meet it not as a symbol of Starfleet, nor as a representative of Denobulan culture.

But simply as Halux—the one who listens.

 

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