A Meditative Encounter

Posted on Wed Apr 2nd, 2025 @ 11:54am by Lieutenant JG Sylorik MD
Edited on on Wed Apr 2nd, 2025 @ 1:16pm

Mission: MISSION 0 - History Speaks
Location: Shuttle Erasmus-3, en route to Galaxy Station
Timeline: Two weeks prior to Circinus
Tags: Vor'Kal, Ro'ual, Tuy'Tharak, Ensign Garo Hakobyan,
2158 words - 4.3 OF Standard Post Measure

The console flashed.

Sylorik reacted to the winking light and adjusted the shuttle's course with ease, inputting a set of new coordinates. With only the slightest of vibrations, the shuttlecraft altered course at warp and the streaking stars outside the cockpit continued to rush past.

Glancing at the human male to his immediate right, he let out a slow sigh of annoyance.

Seated in the co-pilot's chair was a young upstart officer who was preoccupied with picking at the dirt beneath his fingernails with a pocket knife. Sylorik studied his fellow passenger's hangdog expression--mouth agape as he remained focused on mining the tiny slivers of crud that had accumulated in the space between his nails and his stubby human fingers.

Having already reached his tolerance level for the other man, Sylorik engaged the shuttle's autopilot and stood crisply. The uniform was still uncomfortable. Perhaps ill-fitting Starfleet attire would be the only annoyance in his new career.

"Mister Hakobyan," he said coolly. "I will be in the aft compartment performing meditation."

The young human officer glanced up at the middle-aged Vulcan as if noticing the presence of another being in his vicinity for the first time. He had been too interested in a piece of compacted filth on the tip of his knife.

"Huh?" he muttered. "Sure thing, boss."

Sylorik gently shook his head in disbelief at the total lack of courtesy and manners being shown by his fellow officer. Though it would be wise to assume his future interactions with members of others species might also grate on his nerves, he resolved to be more tolerant and less judgmental.

He studied the human--he was in his early twenties with dark hair, pale skin and a sharp-cut black goatee. He had introduced himself as Ensign Hakobyan and he wore the gold colours of an officer with a future in operations or possibly engineering. Hakobyan's boots were scuffed and he smelled terribly of someone who had very recently taken a bath in alcohol.

Sylorik recalled that many recent Academy graduates had taken part in an activity known as "a pub crawl" to celebrate their graduation achievements. Though invited by several of his classmates, Sylorik had politely declined the invitation on several grounds. Namely, he refrained from alcohol and synthehol consumption. Secondly, he felt at ninety-nine years of age--Vulcan or not--he was no longer a "young person". Middle age had happened sometime recently.

Clearly, Ensign Hakobyan had imbibed more than his share of drinks the night before.

Both men were recent graduates of Starfleet Academy and had received their first assignments the night previously. While most newly-minted officers were being given more "regional" assignments on starbases and patrol vessels, Sylorik and the young human had been assigned to the USS ELYSIUM--first of its name. They would rendezvous with the ELYSIUM at Galaxy Station in a matter of hours.

Without another word, Sylorik left Hakobyan to his nail grooming and entered the aft compartment of the shuttle.

He caught his reflection in a deactivated console and studied the Vulcan which stared back at him. From his large coffee-bean eyes to his dark complexion, he was every bit his mother's son. While his slightly curved chin definitely came from his father, the remainder of his facial features were clearly passed on to him from the maternal side of his family.
Touching his hair for a moment, he reflected on how different he was from his siblings: all had curly or wavy hair except for Sylorik. And he wore it differently than most male Vulcans--slicked back. Though, he recalled how his hair used to be as a child--hanging low over the forehead and trimmed neatly at sharp angles.

Sylorik reached into a nearby storage cabinet and removed his travel bag. It was the same bag he had used for most of his career. It had been a gift from his sister upon his ascension to Chief of Surgery at Du'Radzhek Regional Medical Center. That particular career accomplishment had been a source of pride of him and recalled how proud his family had been. Perhaps it was the pinnacle of his career--the so-called summit of the mountain, and he was now experiencing the inevitable downward return?

He touched the herringbone-patterned cloth of the bag momentarily and remembered the bewilderment his mother, T'Raya, had exhibited upon the news of his resignation from the hospital and enlistment in Starfleet. She had sensed something in her youngest child--a distress that could not be attenuated through meditation and focus. He pushed the memory aside and set himself to the task at hand.

Retrieving a small meditation lamp and metronome, he placed both on the floor before kneeling down to begin his usual ritual. The lamp was tiny and fit cleanly into the palm of his hand. The metronome was also compact and required only a slight flick to be started.

Sylorik synchronized the metronome and switched-on the lamp which emitted a small yellow glow. The lamp's burning wick filled the air with the faint aroma of incense mixing with the sterile atmosphere of the shuttle.

As the metronome ticked back and forth, he exhaled deeply, visualizing the evacuation of all thoughts and sensations. He could feel a sensation of emptiness broaden throughout his body--as though every trace of emotion and sensation were disappearing through each exhalation.

Structure. Logic. Function. Control.

In his mind, he was standing next to a table made of hardwood. The table's surface was rough and unfinished, with a low grit that felt coarse under Sylorik's fingertips. The table's legs were thin but the dimensions of the surface they supported made it so the legs were perfectly spaced to support itself.

A structure cannot stand without a foundation.

Sylorik took another breath. He could see a heavy stone slab now lying on the wooden table. Its thin legs shuddered slightly but the table held firm.

Logic is the foundation of function.

Suddenly, the stone slab was now covered in green blood.

Sylorik stiffened slightly at the image but remained focused. It was certainly not the first time something intrusive had crept into his meditations.

He repeated the last line of the mantra in his head: Logic is the foundation of function.

The stone slab reverted back to being grey, rounded and nondescript in his mind's eye. At seeing this, he relaxed a little and his breathing slowed.

Function is the essence of control.

The table now rocked violently. Sylorik recoiled in horror as the blood-spattered stone slab returned in his visualization. Green blood dripping from rounded rock onto the table and running freely down its thin legs.

"I am in control," whispered Sylorik. He willed himself to remain part of the visualization as the monks of Tuy'tharak had instructed him. Accepting any and all images was necessary to move forward.

He took a deep breath and could hear the metronome moving faster now.

The stone slab had disappeared. In its place, a young Vulcan girl lay motionless with eyes fixed upward. She wore a simple grey robe and long black hair in a half-up-half-down style. A tiny cut on her forehead telegraphed her only injury. Yet she was unquestionably deceased.

Sylorik had seen this girl before. She had died of massive internal injuries during a seismic event on the Vor'Kal colony several years before. She had been dead upon arrival at the triage site having been carried by the only surviving member of her family--a younger brother.

Why was she returning to him now?

His pulse quickened and he could feel an growing unease deep inside of himself. He had felt it many times before. The monks of Tuy'tharak referred to it as the Ro'ual--the fire dragon. It would slowly eat him from the inside out if he failed to confront the vision.

"I am in control," he repeated in a shrill whisper.

Sylorik had been present on the Vor'Kal colony several years ago as part of an emergency medical team sent from Vulcan. The colony had been completely destroyed in a planet-wide seismic event, killing thousands.

He could recall the faces and while logic has a role to play with death, dying and guilt, the sheer number of victims remained stuck in his mind and their voices calling-out to him had become too much. He had lost patients throughout his career before, but the Vor'Kal incident has been especially harrowing--even for an experienced doctor.

Surak and the typical Vulcan meditation techniques were no match for this level of trauma. Which is how Sylorik had come to the monks of Tuy'tharak. For months, they helped him regain his composure. It hadn't been enough to stop the intrusive visions or the... physical attacks.

Sylorik could feel his hands trembling but again, he willed himself to remain part of the vision. Confronting the intrusive imagery would almost will it to disappear, as he had been taught. But each moment he remained in the visualization seemed to tear at him from inside as if he was feeling his emotional regulation was being torn asunder.

He looked down at the body on the table. The child's face contorted and became an elderly woman. It then flitted to a young man. Then another young man. On and on, the faces continued to shift while Sylorik stood staring down at these deceased individuals and their ghastly injuries.

Reaching down, he touched the constantly-shifting body on the table with one hand.

The metronome was now moving faster and faster. Still, Sylorik kept his eyes shut and focused on the vision. To confront them, he must accept them fully.

"I see you," he said softly. "And I acknowledge your presence."

As if in response to his words, the vision changed: the bodies disappeared and only the table remained. No blood, no gore, nothing. The table was as it had appeared originally--of unfinished wood and thin legs.

Sylorik touched the table with an outstretched hand. The surface was rough--milled and sanded with a low grit. It certainly felt unfinished, bare and cold. Running the back of his hand along it, he could feel its long grain. An unseen splinter caught the side of his hand and he recoiled instinctively.

He held his hand aloft and studied the shard of wood now embedded into his flesh. Why remove it? It is only a vision, he reminded himself.

Pondering the significance of an unfinished wood table in mind, he was suddenly jolted awake by a hand on his shoulder.

"What a meditation!" came a voice.

The Vulcan doctor immediately came to his feet, looking around for the source of the interruption. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead and his face felt flushed.

He spied Ensign Hakobyan standing behind him--a silhouette in the doorway of the aft compartment.

"Lieutenant", he said with a strong Armenian accent. "I didn't want to disturb you but it has been six hours."

"Six hours?" asked Sylorik, a note of incredulity in voice.

Hakobyan nodded with a smile. "Galaxy Station is still an hour away but I thought you might want something to eat."

Sylorik glanced at the metronome. It had stopped.

It took him a moment to regain his composure.

Looking to Hakobyan, he replied, "Yes, Ensign. I could do with something to eat."

Hakobyan chuckled. "I thought you might. I'm programming my mom's ghapama recipe into the replicator. Have you ever had it?"

Sylorik shook his head. "No, Ensign. I'll be with you momentarily."

The young Ensign nodded and disappeared back into the cockpit.

For a moment, Sylorik stared blankly at the lamp and the metronome. How could he have lost so much time? What was this new vision that was intruding into his meditative visualization?

He began packing the items back into his bag when his hand came across a small metal case. It nearly slipped through his fingers as he picked it up. It clicked open and Sylorik took a small moment to examine four small vials inside the case. Each contained a dark syrupy liquid.

The liquid represented a last resort. It also denoted the probable end of his short career in Starfleet should anyone discover it. Possibly the end of his life's pursuit as a doctor. But it was necessary at times, he told himself. People relied on his ability to function as a doctor and a surgeon. Without that liquid, he would be nothing more than an emotional, convulsing mess unfit for Starfleet, for hospital work--he would unfit to load even a hypospray.

He firmly closed the case and placed it back in his bag.

Glancing up at the deactivated console once more, he could now see his flushed face. He looked less the Vulcan doctor now than he did when he entered the aft compartment some six hours ago, if Hakobyan was to be believed. He continued to stare into his reflection for a long moment.

"I am not in control," he whispered.