Acknowledged

Posted on Sun Sep 14th, 2025 @ 1:36pm by Tavrek Harland

1,337 words; about a 7 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: USS Guinevere
Timeline: 2387

The quarters of civilian Tavrek Harland were quiet.

Light came not from overhead panels but from the soft flicker of artificial candles placed with careful intention around the space. They did not burn, of course. No flame, no scent, no risk. But the holoemitters inside each wick shimmered with just enough variation to trick the eye. He had tuned the flicker patterns himself. Not for realism, but for memory. Real flame was rare but not impossible...but he was not exactly keen on accidentally putting his quarters on fire.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, hands resting lightly on his knees. The air held the faint trace of kas’for-ila tea, still warm on the table nearby, and the gentle hum of the Guinevere’s systems filtered through the walls like a low, constant breath.

Tavrek’s dark hair curled slightly at the edges, grown out just past regulation. It was neither fully Human nor fully Vulcan in style. His clothes were simple and well kept, made of a woven fabric chosen for its texture rather than appearance. He did not care for ornamentation. But he paid attention to detail. He always had.

His ears, though less sharply angled than some, still marked the shape of his Vulcan blood. But his eyebrows were softer, almost human in their arch. It marked him as something else, not fully bloodied, but it was the softness of a human. Yet the shape of his mouth, the cool green-grey of his irises, those were his mother’s as well. Just not the human one.

He was less aware of those contrasts when he was mostly around non-Vulcans. For him, it was just part of who he was.

He opened his eyes.

He had not grown up on Vulcan. His education had never followed the strict curricula and austere cadence of Vulcan monastic schools. Instead, his childhood had been shaped by balance. Carefully, deliberately so. Vulcan disciplines at home, taught in his mother’s low and measured voice. Meditation. Logic. Calligraphy. And then science modules, cultural immersion classes, and long afternoons in a mixed cohort on An’ael Station, with loud children and louder questions, urged by his human mother to experience life as a human would. Memories of running around and playing, laughing without shame.

It had been balanced. That was the word he always returned to. Not divided, not torn, just balanced. Embracing both cultures and making them part of his internal tapestry.

His human mother, Doctor Nina Harland, had died years earlier, and Tavrek was now a grown man. Age had not drawn itself across him with the severity it might have for others, but still, the grey at his temples had begun to appear. A reminder that he aged more like a human than a Vulcan, if the mirror and his genetics were anything to judge by.

He let out a breath, slow and steady. Then he closed his eyes for a moment, letting the quiet of his quarters settle around him. When he opened them again, his eyes were steady. "Computer, subspace transmission to Sakra. Alpha-niner-zero-delta ShanaiKahr," he said, voice calm but deliberate.

The screen flickered. Then he waited.

The Vulcan woman who appeared on the screen was older, her features austere, her bearing upright. Her green-grey eyes fixed on him with the same steady focus he remembered from childhood. “Tavrek.”

“Mother,” he replied, automatically switching to Vulcan. His voice took on the clipped, measured cadence of the language, and he bowed his head in quiet respect. “I wished to inform you that I have settled into my new post. The USS Guinevere appears to be a sound vessel. Structurally and operationally.” His tone was composed, neutral. But beneath the surface, there was something else. An offering, carefully placed. The words were a report, yes, but they were also reassurance. He was well. He was safe.

On the wall behind Sakra, a familiar detail caught his eye. Hanging in its frame, positioned with the kind of exactitude only she would use, was a piece of calligraphy he had written as a boy. The brushstrokes were deliberate, if a little uncertain, forming the Vulcan proverb t’nash-veh k’etwel shetau k’etwel.

‘I learn one path by walking another.’

She had never mentioned framing it. Never commented on the gift. But she had kept it. Displayed it. That, in her way, was love.

Tavrek let the silence rest for a moment before speaking again. “I have been catching up on the reading materials attached to the mission briefings,” he said. “Thus far, it is quiet. That is preferable. It allows more time for research.” There was no inflection to the words, no emotional emphasis. Yet something in the stillness of his posture, in the way his eyes lingered on her image, made the words feel like more than a report. He inclined his head slightly. “And your students, Mother? Are you finding them receptive?”

Sakra inclined her head in return, the gesture precise. “They are, and in time will improve. Quiet is a gift, Tavrek,” she said, as if she could detect a tone in him that longed for something a little less quiet. “It allows for clearer thought and uninterrupted inquiry. I trust you are making efficient use of the time.”

She did not ask what he was researching. If it were important, he would tell her. If not, the assumption would be that he had prioritised appropriately. And having made sure that her son understood that he should indeed be using the time wisely to do his research, she continued. “The students this term are within expected parameters,” she spoke calmly, eyes on him. “Their comprehension of fundamental principles is satisfactory, though some exhibit a tendency to pursue metaphor before structure. I have adjusted the sequence of instruction accordingly.” Her eyes remained steady, but there was the smallest shift in the tilt of her shoulders…a gesture Tavrek had learned to recognise long ago. She was not displeased. In Vulcan terms, it was almost...warm. “It is acceptable.” She paused, then added with unhurried finality. “I have to return to my work.”

Tavrek nodded once, slow and deliberate. “I am pleased you are well.” He could have ended the transmission there. It would have been sufficient. Complete. But instead, he let a pause stretch gently between them, and in that pause was something quieter. Something chosen. “I know it is not necessary to state. But I will. I love you, Mother.”

Sakra’s expression did not change. Her posture remained formal. But there was the faintest narrowing of her eyes, the kind of micro-expression that, in another species, might have been mistaken for sorrow. Or memory. “Your sentiment is acknowledged,” she said.

And then, after a breath that she did not quite need to take: “Peace and logic, my son.” Then the transmission was ended, with the usual send off.

Tavrek remained still for a long moment. The room had returned to its usual quiet, the screen dim once more. The faint scent of kas’for-ila lingered in the air, grounded with a trace of mineral heat. He reached for the tea and finished it in silence.

Then, without hurry, he gathered the cup and pot and brought them to the small washbasin. He could have instructed the replicator to recycle them. He did not. Instead, he washed them by hand, the motions precise and unhurried. Cloth against ceramic. Water over skin.

As he dried the cup, a soft sound escaped him…not a word, not quite a melody. A low tune, almost hummed beneath his breath. Something without name, shaped by memory and quiet habit. A song his human mother might once have sung, long ago, on An’ael Station. He could not recall the lyrics. Only the feeling.

When everything was clean and returned to its place, he extinguished the candles one by one, fingertips brushing each emitter with gentle pressure.

---

Tavrek Harland
Translation Specialist
USS Guinevere

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