(The events of this chapter take place during the 90-day window of Chapter 163)
Chief Medical Officer's Log: Stardate 88607.1
"The entire crew has completed their Universal Temperament and Logic Index exams as requested, and I am currently compiling the results into the primary analytical matrix. It is a menial task—inputting a name, cross-referencing parameters, and letting the algorithm organize the data.
However... it would be remiss of me if I did not acknowledge a sudden sense of... nostalgia. Processing these thousands of profiles feels remarkably similar to my time as a primary school educator... back on my homeworld... where I was... a husband... a father... and... and..."
Tegris swallowed hard, his throat tightening. "Computer... pause recording."
He sat back heavily in his office chair, pressing a hand against his mouth. A single liquid tear welled in his remaining organic eye, spilling down his cheek. He was feeling... overwhelmingly emotional. It was a sensation he had not experienced so intensely in centuries.
While he had gradually reclaimed his emotional capacity since regaining his individuality from the Borg Collective, Tegris rarely allowed his feelings to break through his composed exterior. In all things, he remained calm, measured, and stoic. But here, amidst the mundane routine of grading standardized exams, he was suddenly thrust back to his youth—grading homework at his desk after a long day in the classroom.
He gasped, drawing in a ragged breath as a wave of dormant memories flooded his neural pathways like unearthed treasures from a forgotten lifetime.
He remembered sitting in his sunlit study on El-Auria. He remembered his skin feeling smooth, young, and unmarred by cybernetics. He remembered his wife setting a warm cup of tea beside his console, leaning down to press a soft kiss against his forehead. He heard the distant, melodic laughter of his two young children playing in the living room with model shuttles they had built together.
Then, the golden light of those memories was shattered by the nightmare that followed—the day the Borg Collective descended upon El-Auria.
He relived the horror of billions of lives swept away in a single afternoon. Families torn apart in an instant; spouses separated forever. Names erased and replaced with cold, alphanumeric designations. Children ripped from their parents and placed into maturation chambers, emerging years later as fully grown, emotionless drones. A family of four, scattered to the far corners of the galaxy—never knowing, never missing, and no longer caring for those they had once loved.
Tegris bowed his head, quiet tears dripping onto his desk as the weight of losing his family washed over him anew.
Then came a sudden, sharp realization.
What if they were still alive?
What if they were still out there in the expanse of space, trapped within the Collective, waiting for the Cooperative to find them, free them, and restore their individuality?
Tegris looked down at his left hand—a complex assembly of black alloy, micro-servos, and synthetic neural pathways. It remained an invaluable asset in his work as Chief Medical Officer aboard such an unconventional vessel. Then, he turned his gaze to his right hand—unaltered, organic El-Auria flesh and skin.
A tiny, fragile ember of hope flared in his chest.
"Could you... still be out there?" he whispered aloud to his quiet office, staring at the blue veins beneath his skin as if they held the answer.
He wiped the tear from his eye, taking a long, measured breath to force his heart rate back down into nominal parameters. He had planted a seed of hope, but he chose not to act on it immediately. Not today.
He returned to his console, pushing the painful memories into a quiet corner of his mind, and resumed processing the examination scores.
Moments later, a soft chime rang from his desk terminal.
SCHEDULED EVENT: Monthly Department Head Briefing — 1400 Hours — Conference Room.
Tegris closed his datapad and stood up. It was time for another routine staff meeting, and he knew the Captain would expect a full progress report on the crew's index profiles.
—
In the bridge conference room, the senior staff gathered around the central briefing table.
"Holy Mother of the Sacred Chalices..." Gaimmack muttered, his eyes rolling back in his green Orion head as he chewed on the Captain's latest culinary creation. He took another bite of the soft, moist pastry swirled with rich dark chocolate. "What is this?!"
"It's called a Chocolate Babka, Gaimmack!" Anzyl announced proudly, walking away from the room onto the bridge carrying a silver platter piled high with warm, freshly baked pastries. "And there's plenty for everyone!" The captain always made sure to share his creations with the entire bridge crew whenever he made pastries for the monthly briefing.
Veirik looked down at his golden-brown pastry with a stoic glare, eyeing the chocolate swirls as if evaluating a tactical threat. "Remember when I suggested you increase your weekly cardiovascular routine, Gaimmack?"
"I do," Gaimmack said with a smile of bliss on his face.
"This is why," Veirik grunted, taking a large bite. The Illyrian super-soldier fought with all his willpower to maintain a stern expression while his taste buds experienced sheer buttery chocolate perfection.
"Every single month," Neil laughed, taking a bite of his own. "And I've served with Anzyl for years now. Trust me, some of his habits are worth keeping around."
"Alright, alright!" Anzyl said, returning from the bridge and setting the empty tray aside as he took his seat at the head of the table. "Let's get this meeting officially underway. Number One, you're up first."
Tegris sat in his usual chair, staring blankly down at the untouched babka on his plate. He didn't eat. He didn't look up. His mind was light-years away, listening to the chatter around him as if it were coming from the far side of a long tunnel.
"...and Medical?" Anzyl's voice cut through the noise as he flipped a page on his briefing pad. "T, how is the exam compilation coming along?"
Silence filled the room.
"T?"
The unusual lack of response prompted Anzyl to look up from his screen. He found his Chief Medical Officer staring blankly at the table. Usually, Tegris was the most attentive, sharp-eyed officer in the room.
"Tegris!" Anzyl called out, raising his voice.
"Huh? What—oh!" Tegris blinked, his cybernetic optic adjusting rapidly as he snapped back to reality. He looked up to find the entire senior staff staring at him in silence. "I... my apologies, Captain. What was the question?"
Anzyl raised an eyebrow, sitting back in his chair. He was not accustomed to repeating questions to his department heads. "How is the profiling matrix coming along?"
Startled, Tegris fumbled awkwardly with his datapad—a reaction so completely alien to his usual demeanor that it caught everyone's attention.
"Um... good," Tegris blurted out, tripping over his words. "It is... proceeding at an optimal pace. All examinations have been submitted. I am... currently inputting the raw data."
Anzyl leaned forward, eyeing the CMO with genuine concern. Tegris was normally the living embodiment of poise and precision, yet here he was, fumbling a datapad like a nervous Starfleet Academy cadet facing a surprise inspection.
"Are you alright over there, T?" Anzyl asked softly.
Tegris took a long, steadying breath, recalibrating his composure back to normal parameters. "Yes, Captain. I was merely... distracted by an internal matter. I apologize. All exams have been completed, and eighty-five percent of the data has been integrated into the algorithm. I expect to have the full report on your desk before the end of the day tomorrow."
"Mmhmm," Anzyl murmured, his gaze remaining fixed on the doctor. He knew his friend far too well; something significant had to be weighing on his mind to rattle him this thoroughly. "Alright then. Security, your turn."
—
A half-hour later, the briefing was adjourned. The senior staff gathered their datapads and filed out of the room, laughing and talking as they returned to their duties.
"Tegris. Stay behind," Anzyl said quietly from the head of the table.
Tegris, who was halfway out of his chair, froze. He slowly sat back down, placing his hands flat on the polished surface as the heavy conference room doors slid shut, leaving the two of them alone.