“What would you like to know?” he prompted.
After pausing for a moment, T’Lon finally asked, “Has she ever spoken of our village?”
“No, I can’t say that she has,” Pennington replied. “To be honest, I don’t really know her all that well. I know almost nothing about her personal life. For example, I didn’t know she had a sister until I came here.”
T’Lon did not frown, but her expression shifted just enough that Pennington was able to discern her confusion. “I do not understand,” she said. “If you are not T’Prynn’s friend, then why did you travel with Dr. M’Benga to bring her here?”
“That’s an excellent question, my dear,” the journalist replied, sighing as he reached up to wipe perspiration from his forehead. “I guess you could say that our relationship is…complicated, but I’ve recently come to care a great deal for her, for reasons I’m not really able to explain.” Shaking his head, he added, “I truly hope she recovers from her illness, so that we can talk about it.”
T’Lon asked, “What will you do if T’Prynn does not recover?”
Releasing a small, humorless grunt, Pennington shrugged. “I really don’t know.” Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, he looked at her and asked, “I understand that T’Prynn once lived here but left when she was very young. Do you know anything about that?” As he spoke, he gestured toward one of the table’s other empty chairs and gestured for her to sit.
T’Lon took the seat, setting the water pitcher on the table. “It is tradition that residents not speak openly about those who have chosen to leave the village. I know only that she was dissatisfied with life in Kren’than and left the commune in order to seek answers to questions that could not be found here. She is not the only one to have done this; there have been stories of others following similar paths.”
“Have any of them ever returned?” Pennington asked. “You know, perhaps because they did not find the answers they sought, or maybe they did and decided that life here was preferable to whatever it was they found beyond the village?”
“A few have returned,” T’Lon replied. “The commune has never turned anyone away, but when someone requests reentry, the village elders proclaim that person ri-gla-yehat,what you would call ‘the Unseen.’ They are admitted back into the commune, but they serve a probationary period where they are never approached or addressed by other members of the village. It is as though they do not exist.”
Shocked by what he was hearing, Pennington frowned. “That doesn’t seem very compassionate.”
“Compassion is an emotional response,” T’Lon countered.
“Damned right it is.” Catching himself, Pennington cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “And how long does this probation last?”
T’Lon paused, then replied, “In human terms of time measurement, approximately twelve of your years.”
“Twelve years?” Pennington repeated, flabbergasted. “That’s a bloody long time to walk around with a scarlet V stitched on your clothes.” When the young Vulcan’s right eyebrow arched in what he recognized as a quizzical expression, he held up a hand. “Bad joke. Tell me where the logic is in treating people that way?”
“It is believed that one who has left the village and then returned must first demonstrate a renewed commitment to our way of life,” T’Lon replied. “The probation is a means of cleansing the mind and body of any remnants of the society they chose to embrace at the expense of the commune.” After a moment, she said, “I must confess, I do not understand the logic, myself.”
Before saying anything else, she looked around, as though verifying that their discussion was not being overheard. “I, too, have grown curious about what lies beyond the village. I wish to visit the cities, perhaps see the science academy, the temples of Gol, Mount Seleya. I may even wish to travel to other worlds. I admit to being intrigued by your planet, Mr. Pennington.”
“Nothing says you can’t do all of that,” the reporter said. “My understanding of Vulcan culture is that it’s based on self-determination. It’s your choice what you do with your life, right?”
Obviously nervous at the turn the conversation had taken, though doing her level best to maintain her veneer of stoicism, T’Lon replied, “Such questions have troubled me. If the Vulcan way is enlightenment and expansion of the intellect through the pursuit of logic, why must I then be punished for what to me seems nothing more than natural curiosity? I was born in this village, and I have lived my entire life here, and yet if I choose to leave, I will be ostracized and openly shunned if I choose to return.”
It was an odd dichotomy, Pennington had to admit, one for which he had no answers or even advice to offer. Even if he did possess such wisdom, would it be appropriate to share it with T’Lon or—for that matter—any other resident of the commune? He was a guest here, after all, and his gut told him that dispensing such guidance, solicited or not, would not be welcomed by the majority of people who chose to call Kren’than home.
Then a disturbing thought struck him.
“T’Lon,” he said, growing more troubled as he considered the notion that had so abruptly manifested itself, “do you know what will happen to T’Prynn if she recovers? With respect to her being here, I mean. How will she be treated by the village?”
“Should she choose to remain here, she likely would be proclaimed ri-gla-yehatby the elders.”
“Even if she doesn’t decide to stay here,” Pennington said, “and assuming that Starfleet doesn’t come swooping in here to drag her away in irons the moment she wakes up, she’s probably going to be here for at least a little while. She’ll have to recuperate to some degree, right? In that event, how will the villagers treat her?”
T’Lon replied, “She will not be denied any required medical care, but any other interactions will be subject to the elders’ proclamation.”
“So, for all intents and purposes,” Pennington said, “she would be alone.”
“Correct.” T’Lon looked up as the sound of a bell chiming echoed across the courtyard. “I must go now,” she said, rising from her seat. “It is time for afternoon studies. Thank you for your time, Mr. Pennington. It was a most illuminating discussion.”
“Indeed, it was, my dear,” the journalist replied. “Thank you.”
As the girl departed, stepping down from the veranda and heading across the courtyard, Pennington leaned back in his chair and reflected on their conversation. It seemed obvious to him that T’Prynn, should she recover from her ordeal, would find herself in a situation not at all unlike the one he recently had faced—rejected, alone, shunned by the very people she once had called family and friends.
No one deserves that,he thought. Not even the person who made your life hell.
Finally, it seemed—and assuming that she ever recovered to the point where it became an issue—that Pennington and T’Prynn would have something in common, after all.
Dust clogged her lungs, but she forced herself not to cough lest she give away her location. Feeble light offered by the string of luminescent bulbs hanging along the jagged stone wall made pathetic attempts to cut through the odd, luminescent fog permeating the tunnel. The lights were old, still powered as she remembered by a weak solar battery system somewhere outside the mine, and offered T’Prynn only a few meters’ worth of visibility in either direction of the underground passageway. Ahead of her and on the left, she saw a dark opening that she concluded must be another tunnel branching off in a different direction, or perhaps it was a chamber where mining once had been conducted.
Recalling the warnings her parents had given her about the dangers of coming here, T’Prynn thought of the numerous downward-sloped or even vertical shafts descending far below the surface. These were supposed to be covered to avoid accidental falls, but one could never be certain of the safety of the abandoned tunnel network, making it a place to be avoided. This had not prevented curious children from venturing into the mines, of course, after finding a way to circumvent the security barricades erected across each entrance to the deserted facility.