It's time!

Posted on Fri Apr 17th, 2026 @ 10:27pm by Commander Peter Horn & Lieutenant Harley Horn-Davis & Glinn Vaaet Pazon

2,469 words; about a 12 minute read

Mission: Episode 9: Across Time
Location: Infirmary
Timeline: A little before "wait, what?"

Despite their youngest child still missing, life did go on. And so did a very important but delicate process. Harley tightly grasped her husband's arm, with near bruising strength. "Infirmary, now!" She hissed, her fingers tightening a fraction.

Peter didn't hesitate and ordered a site to site transport to the station's main medical facility. "Doctor!" He called out, while helping his wife ease herself in one of the nearby beds. He could feel the contractions over the bond and he cringed involuntarily even though he'd gone through this process four times before.

Vaaet Pazon did not immediately turn to face them. He was staring at a secondary monitor, his mind already three layers deep into a Fourier analysis of the station’s background humming. When the shimmer of the site-to-site transport faded and the Commander’s voice cut through the sterile quiet, Vaaet felt a familiar prickle of irritation. The Federation’s penchant for "emergency" transports always seemed to coincide with the least convenient moments of his research.

"Please, take a seat on the biobed," Vaaet directed, his voice a dry, rhythmic rasp that carried the clipped precision of a man who had survived the labor camps of Hutet by being more useful than his peers.

He moved toward the bed with a gait that was deceptively graceful, his hands clasped behind his back. He didn't offer a hand to hold or a soft word; such gestures were, in his view, a form of emotional dishonesty. He watched Peter cringing through the bond - a fascinating, yet ultimately inefficient, display of empathic leakage. as he stepped toward the biobed, his movements efficient and devoid of the wasted energy he saw in the humans. He didn't offer a hand to hold or a soft word. Instead, he adjusted the overhead sensor array with a clinical snap. To the parents, the station was a home currently under the shadow of a missing child; to Vaaet, the station was a failing organism. He could see the hypocrisy in the way the station’s "order" was fraying at the edges while the crew pretended this was a routine birth.

But it wasn't a routine birth, it was one after months of unchecked and unknown pregnancy. Harley huffed as she made herself as comfortable as possible, casting trusting eyes on her boss. Her husband she could only pity for having to go through this a fifth time. And she felt like he was crushing her hand more than the other way around.

She hissed audibly between her teeth as another contraction washed over her, watching it bleed into her bondmate's mind. The Vulcan's face had turned into a stony mask though his eyes betrayed his true feelings. "Right on time, right doctor?" She breathed happily.

Vaaet’s eyes remained fixed on the bio-scanner output, his brow ridges knitting together as the data began to stream across the primary display. He ignored the "trusting eyes" cast his way as trust was a variable he couldn't quantify, and therefore, it was useless in a clinical environment.

"Time is a relative construct, Commander," Vaaet replied, his voice devoid of warmth but sharp with focus. "Biologically speaking, the infant is 'on time.' Your lack of prenatal awareness for the preceding months does not change the gestational clock, though it does make the lack of baseline data a significant... puzzle." He adjusted a dial on the biobed’s side panel, his fingers moving with surgical precision. To Vaaet, the empathic bond between the two was like a feedback loop in a malfunctioning power grid: messy and loud. He glanced at Peter, whose Vulcan mask was failing to hide the secondary surge of pain from the contraction.

"Commander, if you continue to 'cringe' in sympathy, you are going to spike your own cortisol levels to a point where I will have to sedate you simply to keep you from cluttering my sensor readings," Vaaet said, not looking up. It wasn't an insult; it was a rational observation. "And you," he turned his gaze to Harley, "your heart rate is fluctuating within the expected parameters of a Stage One labor for a multi-gravida mother. However, the 'unknown' nature of this pregnancy means we must account for any Rhydonian environmental factors." He tapped a sequence on the console, deploying a localized cortical suppressant field around the bed to dampen the ambient noise of the station. In the silence, the rhythmic thump-thump of the fetal heartbeat filled the room - a stark, singular sound amidst the chaos of their lives.

"The child is healthy," Vaaet stated, his tone as flat as if he were reporting on the station's fuel reserves. "Strong. Persistent. Much like its parents, it seems to have a disregard for standard operational procedures." He paused, his analytical mind already jumping three steps ahead. The youngest child was still missing. The station was in turmoil. And here was a new life pushing its way into a fractured world. It was an irony that didn't escape him, but he suppressed the urge to comment on the hypocrisy of bringing life into a war zone.

"The next contraction will likely be more intense," he informed them, finally looking Harley in the eye with a gaze that was clinical yet intensely present. "I have calibrated the bio-sign monitors to filter out the Vulcan empathic resonance so I can focus on your uterine activity. Try to breathe. It is an efficient use of oxygen." He turned back to the monitors, his scales catching the blue light of the sensors. "Nurse, prepare a standard neonatal stabilization unit."

"No kidding," Harley breathed in a hiss as the next contraction washed over her. Beside her, Peter gritted his teeth, clenching his jaws together as she nearly crushed his hand. There was no way, however that he would even consider leaving her side. His mental walls were firmly in place but apparently not enough to prevent a bleeding effect.

Harley puffed and hissed her way through the contractions until it was time to push. As she had already delivered four healthy children, she trusted her body to do what it should and knew it would be a matter of minutes rather than hours. She gritted her own teeth between breaths, until a tiny wail broke through the room. Exhausted, she leaned back, waiting for the doctor to do his part.

Peter just watched, an anxious look on his face as the baby was finally born. He looked like he was about to ask if the baby was healthy, but words wouldn't form. So he simply stood there in support of his mate, his gaze darting between her, and the newborn.

Vaaet did not immediately move to hand the infant over. To him, skin-to-skin contact was a secondary biological impulse that paled in comparison to the immediate data requirements of a child born under "unknown" circumstances. He held the newborn with a firm, practiced grip that was not unkind, but devoid of the cradling warmth a human doctor might exhibit.

His eyes, sharp and dark, scanned the infant’s skin, noting the dermal pigmentation and the efficiency of the first few breaths.

"Respiratory clearing is optimal. APGAR equivalents are well within the ninety-fifth percentile," Vaaet announced to the room, though he was primarily talking to his own logs. He began a rapid, systematic sensor sweep of the infant's neural pathways, his fingers dancing over the PADD. "A curious resilience. Despite the lack of prenatal supplements, the bone density is remarkable. Perhaps a byproduct of the Rhydonian environmental stressors."

He finally looked up, catching Peter’s anxious, silent gaze. Vaaet’s brow ridges shifted, a subtle Cardassian sign of appraisal. He saw the Vulcan’s logic battling the raw, empathic bleed of the moment. It was a chaotic way to exist, Vaaet thought, but he supposed it was "effective" for their species.

"Commander, your silence is statistically more alarming than your previous cringing," Vaaet remarked dryly, finally stepping toward Harley. He didn't smile, but he did lower the infant toward her with precise care.

"I am fine," Peter answered stiffly, watching mother and child like a hawk.

Harley smiled happily as the newborn was placed into her arms. "She's very quiet," she observed, looking up at the doctors, "she's alright, right?"

Peter arched an eyebrow in evident surprise. "Another girl?" He queried, somewhat unnecessarily. Why else would Harley have said 'she'?

"Another girl," Harley confirmed, her smile making room for concern. "But she's very quiet and that worries me."

Vaaet didn’t move to offer a comforting pat. Instead, he stepped closer to the bio-monitor, his neck ridges tensing as he recalibrated the auditory sensors. To a human or a Vulcan, silence was an emotional omen; to Vaaet, it was merely a data point requiring further interrogation.

"Quiet is not a clinical diagnosis, Commander," Vaaet replied, his voice clipped and dry. "It is an observation of acoustic output. Efficiency of energy is often mistaken for lethargy by those prone to sentiment."

He leaned over the infant, his dark, analytical eyes tracking the rapid rise and fall of the small chest. He adjusted the specialized medical scanner, a faint hum emitting from the device as it mapped the newborn’s internal systems in real-time.

"Her pulmonary surfactant levels are optimal," he stated, his finger tracing a sharp spike on the PADD. "Oxygen saturation is at 98%. The lack of vocalization is not due to respiratory distress. If you look at the neural scan..." He turned the PADD slightly so Peter could see the shimmering blue lines of brain activity. "Her synaptic firing is remarkably orderly. She isn't 'quiet' because she is weak. She is quiet because she is observing. A rare trait in a newborn, and a highly rational one."

Unable to interpret medical scans, Peter just nodded, taking the doctor's word for it. He took the baby from Harley's arms and cradles her to his chest, studying her. "You are correct," he marveled as dark grey eyes stared back up at him. "She is observing me." He shifted the infant in his arms. "If this is rare, then she is already favoured by the universe. Her name shall be Nuhir." Watching as the infant grasped his finger, he smiled at her. "Now you need to be with your mother little one, while I go search for your brother." A worried frown creased his slanted brows as he lowered his daughter back into Harley's arms. "We will find him," he promised, and we will have him home safely soon." He bowed toward the doctor. "Please take care of them, I will return soon."

Vaaet watched the Commander’s display of paternal bonding with a stoic, unblinking gaze. To a Cardassian, a name was a record, a piece of a lineage to be filed and respected; to hear it bestowed with such emotional weight felt like watching someone attempt to perform surgery with a paintbrush. Efficient, perhaps, but unnecessarily messy. "Your departure is noted, Commander," Vaaet replied, his voice a dry, clinical snap as he adjusted the bio-sensor overhead. "Though I would remind you that 'searching' is a broad tactical term. High cortisol levels will not assist in your tracking algorithms. I suggest you rely on your logic, not your adrenaline."

[Peter - Optional]

He didn't wait for Peter to leave before turning his full attention back to the monitor. "Nuhir," he repeated, the name sounding foreign and sharp in his Cardassian lilt. He didn't say it with affection, but with the tone of a man labeling a specimen. "A strong phoneme. Statistically, children with 'observational' temperaments have a higher survival rate in high-stress environments like this station. She is already demonstrating a superior use of metabolic resources by not wasting oxygen on vocalization."

He tapped a final sequence on the bed’s interface, dimming the localized lights. "I have stabilized your contractions and initiated a nutrient drip. You will remain here for six hours of observation. The 'unknown' variables of your pregnancy require a full metabolic workup of the infant's cellular structure." He looked at Harley, his expression an impenetrable mask of clinical professionalism. "You should rest. Your husband’s search for your son is a logistical matter for Security. Your current objective is recovery. I will be at the secondary station should things become noisy."

"Noisy?" Harley queried as the baby settled against her to nurse. "I don't think there will be any noise here doctor, she's feeding now and I'm sure she'll sleep. If a nurse could have a cot ready I can place her in there so that I can rest too. And maybe the nurse could have Connor brought here, I'm sure he'll want the distraction and see his sister. Then he can call his other sisters and give them the news." She smiled happily at the stoic Cardassian, knowing that under all that façade, he did care.

"I will notify the nursing staff to facilitate the transfer of a neonatal unit," Vaaet replied, his voice a dry, rhythmic rasp that didn't soften in the slightest. "And I shall authorize a brief visit from your eldest. However," he added, turning his sharp, analytical gaze toward the infant, "if 'Connor' presents with the same empathic leakage as the Commander, I will have him removed. This infirmary is a place of biological recovery, not a theater for the dramatic exchange of 'news'."

He adjusted the localized sensor field one last time, ensuring the dampened acoustics would remain undisturbed by the station’s ambient hum. To Vaaet, the quiet was a tactical advantage for the infant’s development. "She is feeding efficiently," he noted, his eyes tracking the rhythmic pulse of the infant's throat on the secondary monitor. "A superior metabolic response. It seems 'Nuhir' has inherited your stubbornness, Lieutenant. It will serve her well in a sector that tends toward... disorder."

He didn't offer a smile as he stepped back toward his research station. Instead, he gave a single, stiff nod of acknowledgment—the Cardassian equivalent of a professional seal of approval. "I will be at the sub-processor array," he stated, already dismissing the emotional weight of the room in favor of the Fourier analysis he had been forced to abandon. "Rest, Lieutenant. Your cellular repair cycle is currently at peak efficiency. Do not squander it on unnecessary conversation."

"Of course doctor," the nurse/patient answered lightly, "I'll call if things with the wee one change. I just think Connor could use a little distraction, with his younger brother missing." She flagged another nurse to go and get her eldest son down to the infirmary. "He won't stay long," she promised, though she could see she had already lost the doctor's attention.


Commander Peter Horn
Station XO

Lieutenant Harley Horn
Nurse
pnpc Peter

Glinn Vaaet Pazon
Chief Medical Officer

 

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