Distant Shores - Marco Palmieri [23]
In addition to working at her writing, Kim is out almost every night at one rehearsal or another (singing and playing flute and hand-bells) or communing with the Paneranormal group of Strange New Worlds writers in Northern Virginia. She thanks her husband, Henry, for his patience, and for answering the numerous carpentry questions that arose during the writing of “Winds of Change.”
She was relentless and merciless. Drawing blood with only a thought from those who dared question her. Seeing crimson run from eyes, drip from noses. Firing a thoron pistol into the chests of unarmed men from point-blank range. Causing immediate death. Spitting accusations at a downtrodden prisoner until the spirit in his eyes disappeared and he wearily agreed to confess. Sealing his fate. The images tumbled over one another until she was no longer sure if they were real or imagined. Memories or ambitions.
Finally, with concentration, she became sure of some of it, at least. The eyes watching the action were her own. The will behind it hers, too. She feared she was seeing her future.
Kes ducked away from Tuvok’s dark, slender fingers where they rested on her brow, her cheek, and her chin, dots of fire that suited her mood better than the relative cool of her own skin. “No!”
She sprang from her chair, narrowly missing Tuvok’s still outstretched hands, and paced the length of her quarters. To the head of the bed, past the dresser, back to the desk chair. The sapphire tones surrounding her had lost their usual calming effect.
Why wouldn’t they, when it was here she had battled Tieran, the Ilari warlord?
At the end of her second lap, she noted a muscle working in Tuvok’s jaw and rushed forward to explain. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant; this just isn’t working. I’m sure you can tell I’m not any calmer.”
Kes interpreted the twin creases between his eyebrows to mean that he was perplexed, disappointed, and maybe even disapproving. She perched on the edge of her chair again and tried to concentrate solely on Tuvok’s response.
“You have been restless and conflicted since sharing your consciousness with Tieran,” he said. “You observed firsthand an existence that was different, and very much more violent than your own, and are dwelling on your participation in it. Confusion is an understandable state, but a reconcilable one. The logical course of action is to use meditation and the meld as a means of clearing your mind of such unsettling thoughts.”
Unsettling? Clear her mind? He made it sound so simple, her problem so innocuous. Kes wanted to laugh. With effort and the gritting of her teeth she managed to say only, “What if I don’t want to follow the logical course of action?” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her tone. “Yes, I observed the aggression of a warlord, but it was more than that. I matched it. I fought him, and I grew stronger. In the end, I beat him, and I felt powerful. I liked that feeling. I don’t want to suppress it.”
“You have many strengths, any one of which offers you power over others who lack it. I fail to understand your surprise.”
“I’ve always considered my strengths to be intelligence, and determination, maybe. Not strength to win a battle, or the rush of adrenaline that makes you forceful.” The orange flame of Tuvok’s meditation lamp flared higher on her desk, as if in response to her agitation.
“I know that in Tieran’s case, he’d gone mad with the power and was willing to do anything to keep it, including torturing and killing. But do strength and aggression necessarily have to be bad? Isn’t there a way they can be used for good? I have to find out, Tuvok. I’d like to do more. To be more than the Kes who helps out in sickbay and manages the airponics garden. But I have to make sure that I’m not going to be like him now.”
He cocked his head. “And your aspiration is?”
Kes rose again, spinning