Again.

Posted on 26 Sep 2023 @ 6:45pm by Lieutenant Aria Rice
Edited on 27 Sep 2023 @ 7:42pm

521 words; about a 3 minute read

“Again.”

Her voice is firm, the accent Earther, speaking standard. No universal translator needed, just a firmness that is like the crack of a whip. “Again, Aria.”

I turn, raise my arms above my head, going onto my toes. Again and again. I spin. Again and again.

“Again.”

I see myself in the mirrors. A skinny girl, thin, my hair in a tight bun, in the leotard. Spinning and spinning like a dancer on a music box. Faster and faster until I stumble and fall, my feet bleeding with it.

“Again.”

I push myself up, watching her for a moment. Behind her, my mother, watching me. Mouth a thin line, her body fragile. A dancer’s body.

And I start again.

The hilt of the blade is firm in my hand, unyielding. I move, spin, jump. I slide across the floor on my knees, swinging my blade. It blocks against the Klingon’s blade. It’s practice, but no one uses practice weapons here. These are just not as sharp as usual blades. Everything is real. The dim light, the sweat. The blood. My hair is braided, away from my face. I roll away from the next attack, up on my feet again. A hand slaps across my face, sending me down again.

“Again,” I say, firmly, pushing myself up before spitting blood onto the floor. The Klingon smiles at me, a grin sparked by the blood. Humans bleed so easily. But we can take so much. They have no idea, what pain we feel and push down. I smile back at the Klingon, pulling out my second blade.

He rushes at me, and I block him, watching his eyes. He is strong. I am fast. I slide my blade along his and spin, quickly, running. I run. I spin. Arms raised, going on my toes. I spin. I spin down. I nick him, he bleeds. I roll away.

“Again?” I ask.

Breath catching in my raw throat, my lungs trying to suck as much oxygen in as possible and slow down my pounding heart. He laughs, not surrendering. Klingons do not surrender. But he smiles and shakes his head. It has been training. Just training. A First Officer and a Klingon Warrior. And we have trained for a while, we have other duties to attend. I have Etisa to see later.

“Weakness is death. Fear is death,” he says to me, with a slow grin. “You do not have fear.”

I watch him, a small voice inside of me screaming to disagree. I squash it. Deal with it later. Like everything else. Like the knowledge of an assassin, like the suspicion it runs deeper than just one individual. I am dancing on the edge of a blade, if I stop spinning, I will fall and cut myself. “I am not afraid,” I say lightly, walking to put the blades away. There is a mirror and I see myself.

Hair braided away from my face, dark makeup. Blood painting my mouth and chin. Body slight, but not fragile. I’m not fragile. I won’t break.

But at what cost?

Again.

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