What Survives of Us
Posted on Sat Jan 24th, 2026 @ 5:13pm by Lieutenant Sivek & Staff Warrant Officer Coen Hughes
Edited on on Sat Jan 24th, 2026 @ 5:24pm
3,090 words; about a 15 minute read
Mission:
In The Nick Of Time
Location: The Quarter of Lieutenant Sivek - Deck 2 - USS Herodotus
Timeline: MD005 1330 hrs
Coen gave a proper nod to the security guard standing in the corridor outside of senior officer’s quarters on Deck 2.
“Hello there. I suppose I’ve found the right place? New Vulcan engineering officer just in here?” Coen pointed to the door across from where the officer was standing. “Nice of the Captain to put a sentry out here. Sort of like a beacon, if you will, on where to send the welcoming committee. Right, thanks, then,” Coen smiled at the noncommissioned officer before turning to ring the door chime to Sivek’s quarters.
“Are you sure you want to go in there? I’ve heard he can be…”
“Be what?” Coen turned around sharply. “I tend to not buy into rumors until I see for myself. Bad Karma, you know. You could be on the other end of a rumor someday.”
Coen planted a smile on his face and turned back to the door, and waited patiently for the occupant to answer. The young officer standing behind him with a somewhat bewildered expression on his face.
The chime rang inside his quarters, a two-tone note that seemed far too loud. Sivek had been standing near the viewport, hands clasped behind his back as ever, watching the stars. He did not move.
When the chime repeated, he pivoted neatly, his charcoal-coloured tunic folding along the seams.
“Enter.”
“Hello, there. I’m Coen, Coen Hughes. I work as a nurse in Sickbay. I saw you pass through, but didn’t get a chance to introduce myself. I thought you could use a friend, and well…” Coen held up a bottle of amber colored liquor. “I’m not sure if you drink, but if you do, I thought you could use one of those as well. Saiph whiskey, barrel aged - Thyressian Veilwood, gives it notes of … Well, I suppose I should just let you try it if you’d like?”
Sivek's gaze shifted slowly from the viewport to Coen. It was a careful survey rather than a glance. His hands remained clasped behind his back.
"You are Staff Warrant Officer Coen Hughes,” Sivek said, recalling the personnel file he studied earlier that morning. “Son of Augustus and Genevieve. Aged forty-four years. A widower.”
“Ah yes, that’s right. Apologies, I didn’t know there would be a quiz. I don’t have your history memorized just yet, but I do know you’ve had a bit of a rough few years,” Coen replied, his tone gentle and friendly as he searched the Vulcan’s eyes for something more behind the rigid facts he had just recited.
“Consumption of alcohol is neither prohibited by Starfleet regulations nor harmful in moderation.” He crossed the space between them, and looked at the bottle in Coen’s hands. “The question, of course, is why you have brought it to me.”
“Well, like I said… I thought maybe you could use a drink, or a friend. Or maybe both?” Coen looked at the Vulcan for a hint of emotion, recognition of a friendly gesture. “I’m sure these last few days have been a bit of a shock. We don’t have to talk about it, I just thought maybe you’d like a friendly face, or to not be alone for a short bit.” Coen held the bottle out for Sivek to inspect. “Up to you, really.”
Sivek’s lips quirked–not a gesture of amusement, but also not one of critique. “Your choice of gift suggests a desire for social interaction. I find this interesting.”
The three-quarter Vulcan hybrid tilted his head slightly farther, studying the man before him. “You are personable. Optimistically so. Your presence is disarming, though that may be unintentional.” He glanced down at the bottle of whiskey for a long moment.
“I do believe there are drinking vessels somewhere in these quarters. I will endeavour to find them.” Turning his back on the nurse, Sivek strode toward a series of cabinets and began opening each one in slow, measured succession.
“If not, the replicator can take care of that right handily,” Coen suggested. He felt a slight awkwardness as he stood while Sivek took a little longer than necessary searching the cabinets, but Coen had a calm patience about him as he waited, despite the Vulcan’s scrutinizing demeanor. Almost by way of reflex, he gave the Vulcan a small smile, a way among humans to show affiliation. He recognized almost immediately that a simple expression like a smile wouldn’t mean much of anything to most Vulcans, but almost as immediately he began to figure that this Vulcan may be more practiced at interpreting nonverbal cues than others.
“So, have you any hobbies?” Coen asked looking to initiate friendly conversation. “Things you look forward to doing here?”
Sivek’s gaze shifted from the cabinets to Coen, noting the subtle lift of the human’s shoulders and his relaxed expression. “The concept of hobbies… is inefficient. A recreation of the mind’s activity through nonessential action. I prefer to direct my attention toward systems whose operation produces quantifiable results.” He knelt down and opened another cabinet which contained two glasses and a number of plates.
Reaching in with one hand, he removed the glasses and placed them on the table before Coen.
Coen began working the cork out of the round bottle of Orion-made whiskey and then started pouring. “Okay then, so your endeavors with quantifiable results. What sort of things do you spend your time on then?” He asked not willing to give up trying to connect with the Vulcan on some level just yet.
“I thoroughly enjoy my research into temporal resonance,” Sivek replied, with an almost overly solemn expression.
Coen’s eyebrows raised slightly at Sivek’s reply, “Did you get to do a lot of that in lock-up?” he asked somewhat cheekily.
Sivek straightened, regarding Coen with a measured calm. “Prison is not conducive to research,” he said evenly. “It is designed to suppress activity, to enforce stasis. Though, I was permitted the use of a computer terminal thrice weekly.”
“Do you like any sports? Games?” Coen asked. He was reaching, but he was determined to find some common ground with the Vulcan.
“A curious construct, Mister Hughes,” Sivek observed. “I have studied them, of course. They are a controlled reflection of conflict–an abstraction that allows a player to explore strategy without consequence.”
He watched as Coen placed a glass of whiskey in front of him. He took it, but did not drink. “In that sense, they are not without merit. Before my incarceration, I participated in kal-toh tournaments at the Vulcan Science Academy. Admittedly, I was not a great player.”
Sivek peered into the glass of gold liquid before continuing. “I am aware of a game known simply as Entropy. It originates from the planet Hudraxus Four and was discovered by Vulcan archaeologists researching the Buigvaar civilization that went extinct twelve millennia ago.” He watched as Coen replaced the cork in the bottle. “It is a complex and admirable game consisting of three-thousand seven-hundred-and-twenty-one cells within a hexagonal grid. Each player is allotted seven-hundred thirty-two identical stones. The center cell is neutral and must remain empty when play commences. The goal is to create a straight line of one-hundred forty-seven or more stones in any of the six hexagonal directions. Suffice to say, the game rewards foresight and balance.”
Coen blinked a few times as he tried to process the complexities of such a game and what kind of civilization must have played it.
“Chess - You ever play chess?” Coen asked cheerfully. “It, uh… doesn’t involve as many pieces. But, you could say foresight and balance are certainly involved.
Sivek’s brow lifted slightly. “Chess. Yes. I am familiar with it. Its elegance lies in its constraint–sixty-four squares, thirty-two pieces, a finite theatre for infinite outcomes.”
Reaching for the glass of whiskey, he brought it to his mouth and took the smallest of sips. It was not the first time he had tasted alcohol–his time aboard the Renomée had included lighter moments where his human comrades would tease him until he satisfied their requests for Sivek to partake and imbibe. He did so–not out of peer pressure–but out of a willingness to have them stop asking.
“Are you a connoisseur of chess, Mister Hughes?”
“Oh, please, call me Coen,” Coen replied easily. “I don’t know if I would say a connoisseur, but it was a quiet game to keep our minds busy camping out behind the front lines.”
“The front lines…” Sivek mused, attempting to remember what he had read about Coen’s personnel file. “Of course. You served as a medic with special forces in the war with the Dominion.”
“Aye, it was an interesting time for the Federation to say the least. What about you? I don’t know much about you, other than you’ve got this detail for a bit,” Coen gestured to the door. “What’s your story, mate?”
Sivek studied Coen for a long moment before settling on an answer. His features had darkened somewhat as he reflected on his life.
“My story is one of miscalculation,” he said evenly, “and regret.”
The Herodotus’ engineer blinked and locked eyes with Coen with no malice. Simply engaging. “Perhaps you are referring to my service history.”
He set the glass down and seemed to gaze into the amber liquid as though seeing moments of his life deep inside of it. “Prior to my imprisonment,” he began, “I served as an engineer aboard several Starfleet vessels. The first vessel was the Courbet where I served as an engineer during the Klingon-Federation War. The Courbet was one of many vessels serving in a task force near the Federation-Klingon border.”
There was a pause while Sivek clasped his hands behind his back. He wasn’t entirely certain why he did this–it seemed to betray some part of him that harboured regret, he noted.
“Following the outbreak of the Dominion War, the ship was allocated to Fourth Fleet. My personal experience of war at this time is limited. There were losses.” Sivek found himself thinking of how he had served during that time–his focus on following orders and ensuring the smooth running of the Courbet’s engines were his only focuses at the time.
“For someone interested in science and engineering,” Sivek went on, “being on a starship during a time of war felt… stifling.”
“Quite necessary though, I’m certain,” Coen stated punctuating his words as if to give Sivek some importance. “And your assignment here. Are you much looking forward to it?” He asked.
Sivek considered Coen’s question and tilted his head slightly as if the man had laid a paradox on the table between them. “Looking forward is such an imprecise idiom.”
He had always been fascinated with human expressions; perhaps it was the one-quarter human side of him that seemed to find delight. “To ‘look forward’ presumes time’s arrow moves in one direction–linearly and predictably. That is, of course, a perceptual bias. In quantum mechanics, the future is not a destination waiting ahead of us but a field of uncollapsed probability, coruscating with infinite potential outcomes. We do not move through time so much as time arranges itself around our choices.”
Sivek took another gentle sip of the whiskey and found it pleasant. “To look forward is an act of faith in continuity. It implies that one expects tomorrow to exist–and oneself to exist within it.”
“They say that animals have the ability to just live in the present,” Coen mused. “Back on Deneva, I rather enjoyed working with the veterinary physician there caring for animals, and we had a dog when I was a boy, a mutt, loyal and happy though…” Coen took a sip of his whiskey as he remembered his childhood pet fondly.
“Do you have much to say on emotions, Mr. Sivek?” Coen asked. “Many believe the reason that well-treated Earth canines are as happy as they are is because they do just live in the present. Even ones rescued out of abusive or neglectful environments don’t dwell on the past or worry about the future. I do think that’s where much of Human grief and turmoil does originate.”
The Human furrowed his brow as he took another sip, thinking about how he was alone on this ship, and the circumstances that brought him to seeking out such an assignment. “Though, perhaps not all,” he added thoughtfully.
“Your canine analogy is apt,” he said. “To live in the present is to be free of the weight of speculation and the gravity of regret. But sentient beings–particularly humans–derive meaning from both. The dog is happy because it forgets. You are human because you remember.”
“And where do Vulcans find meaning? Happiness?” Coen asked.
Sivek’s gaze drifted to the viewport at the far end of his quarters, seeing nothing but black and stars zipping past. He turned his attention to the glass of whiskey next to him and lifted it to his lips, having decided the situation called for reciprocal consumption.
“You should understand,” Sivek said, replacing the glass on the table next to him, “that I am three-quarters Vulcan–I am only capable of answering that query based on my own life experiences.”
“How would you answer it then?” Coen asked. “Based on your own experiences. I would expect nothing less. It’s the best anyone could do really. There’s no wrong answer, you know.”
Sivek considered how to best phrase a response that was accurate to his own life experiences. It wasn’t that he had difficulty expressing his own definition of happiness or fulfillment, but rather how an emotionally-intelligent human might interpret the meaning.
“Happiness,” he said carefully, “is a misnomer when applied to Vulcans. It implies a transient state, subject to fluctuation. We do not seek temporary elevation of mood, for such things are unreliable and, ultimately, inefficient.”
He took a slow breath, allowing his thoughts to unspool before continuing. “Meaning, however, is derived from order, from the alignment of action and principle. To live in accordance with logic, to pursue mastery over one’s faculties, to engage in service that preserves life or function–that is where fulfillment lies.”
“A noble pursuit, I’ll give you that,” Coen admitted. “But even if life has meaning or purpose, it still seems empty if you can’t find happiness or joy somewhere in life.”
“I found purpose in being a medic and then a nurse, rendering aid to the wounded and sick. Even comforting the dying unfortunately,” Coen recalled. “I found I was able to stay calm and level-headed even when chaos seemed to be raining down on us. It made me good at what I do, and I found some meaning in that,” he admitted. “But I have to say, I don’t really think I knew what I was doing in this world before I met my wife and fell in love. She really helped me see the joy in the little things. Taught me to laugh again, really laugh. War takes a lot out of a person.”
Sivek regarded him a little deeper than a typical Vulcan might. There had been something beneath the words that mattered more than the words themselves.
“Your wife,” he said carefully, as though handling a delicate instrument. “That loss–it is not something one predicts, nor something logic can brace against.”
Stars continued to streak past the viewport.
“When I was a child,” he said, “my instructors spoke of time as if it were a river: steady and unidirectional. Completely obedient to gravity. But that is a very imprecise metaphor. Rivers can be diverted. They can pool. They can vanish beneath stone and then reappear miles away.”
He considered taking another sip of the alcohol but decided against it for the moment.
“My work in temporal resonance has taught me several things, such as this: grief is not the past reaching for you. It is the echo of a moment in spacetime where something of great importance happened–and the amplitude of that moment is so powerful that it continues to reverberate. You are not dwelling,” he said, meeting Coen’s eyes. “You are encountering the echo. That is quite different.”
“That is an interesting way of putting it,” Coen replied thoughtfully. He paused for a moment as he regarded the Vulcan’s analogy, and then wondered if he was speaking metaphorically or not. It was clear to him that Sivek must be speaking from having encountered his own form of grief and given what the Vulcan had been through Coen could only imagine, though he was cautious about being too forward.
“You assume I’m still grieving,” Coen stated, then he began to nod slowly. “And you’re right. She’s not the only person I’ve lost in my life, but she’s the one that sticks with me. The one I can’t shake.”
“Have you ever experienced anything like that, Sivek?” Coen asked.
“Yes,” Sivek said plainly. “Though there is a misconception that Vulcans do not grieve. In reality, we grieve with great efficiency–cataloguing the loss. Isolating it. Then we apply logic as one would a compression field–to prevent catastrophic failure.”
He looked over at the glass and considered that a part of him might have a taste of distilled alcohol.
“I miscalculated once,” he said. “Not in mathematics, but in judgment. I believed I could anticipate every variable. That if I accounted for enough futures, I could prevent harm before it occurred.”
He paused for several moments longer than he had previously.
“I was incorrect.”
“I think we all have a little of that when we’re young.” As Coen’s voice carried a sad hint of nostalgia as he spoke. “Eventually something happens to take that away. Some are lucky enough to hold on to it a bit longer than others.”
A Joint Post By
Lieutenant Sivek
Chief Engineering Officer
USS Herodotus DTI-30656
Staff Warrant Officer Coen Hughes
Nurse
USS Herodotus DTI-30656
RSS Feed