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lizbeeFandom: Star Trek: Picard
Rating: all-ages
Characters: Laris, Zhaban
Pairing(s): Laris/Zhaban
Notes: Originally posted to AO3 in March 2020. The AO3 notes were, "So it turns out that a good way to get out of a COVID-19 anxiety spiral is to write fic. (But not your novel, and definitely not working on anything related to your actual job.) As threatened/promised, another Dessa title. The timeline is possibly unlikely; I just like the idea of Laris and Zhaban being much older than they appear."
Summary: Earthers sometimes ask how Laris and Zhaban met. They construct charming stories and never tell the same one twice, and only a handful of people know the truth.
Earthers sometimes ask how Laris and Zhaban met. She and Zhaban construct charming stories and never tell the same one twice, and only a handful of people know the truth.
They learned very quickly that humans prefer an amusing lie over the real story.
*
The fact is, she doesn't remember meeting Zhaban for the first time.
They were university students. They shared some classes: exo-botany, soil microbiology. The course was rigorous, and their cohort grew smaller as people transferred or failed out. Laris was aware of Zhaban the way she was aware of everyone else in her class: Vena was humourless and earnest; Torin was arrogant and intelligent; Zhaban was polite and friendly.
She had not yet learned to watch properly.
They were assigned to collaborate in their second year. They worked well together, without the mutual sabotage which marked less successful collaborations, and celebrated their good marks with a glass of kali-fal and a game of zhamaq in her room.
Zhaban won, but Laris made him work for it.
"That was fun," he said.
"Says the man who took my fortress in forty moves."
"Usually it only takes twenty-five." He gave her a smile. "My mother is a zhamaq master -- and she doesn't believe in holding back just because her opponent is a child. My father can defeat her -- sometimes -- but I've never managed."
Laris saluted him with her glass.
"One day," she said.
She had thought -- hoped, maybe -- that the evening might end with some sort of overture. Their peers were beginning to pair off. She wasn't sure if she wanted a lover, but she was tired of being alone. The semester was at an end; they had a two-week break ahead. It might have been pleasant--
Zhaban just smiled at her, packed up his board and left.
The Tal Shiar came for her during the night.
She understood, later, that their recruiters had been watching Zhaban. His mother was an operative; he showed potential. When their paths crossed, she caught their attention.
Her family was old, faded. Once-powerful. One of her great-grandfathers had served as praetor. It was necessary to determine her allegiances before they took her into the fold. They were not violent. No one so much as raised their voice. This was gentleness, for the Tal Shiar.
For a time, she existed in a series of brightly-lit rooms. Sometimes she had food and water. Sometimes she went without. Sometimes she slept.
In between were the questions.
"Where did you grow up?"
On Rom Beta. The family estate. Her family owned a considerable piece of that colony's agricultural belt. She intended to take over its management one day.
"Where were you when your father died?"
Home. Asleep. She was eight. His shuttle crashed. It was an accident.
"Do you believe that?"
She said, "Is there a reason I shouldn't?"
Mistake. Her interrogator -- Laris couldn't see the woman's face, but her voice was low, her accent indeterminate -- made a note.
"Are you close to your grandmother?
Yes.
"What do you talk about?"
Literature. Music. Plants.
"What has she told you about her time as a prisoner of the Federation?"
"When she--?"
With a touch of impatience, the woman repeated, "What has she told you about her time as a prisoner of the Federation?"
"Nothing. I didn't know about it."
"Did she tell you about her dishonorable discharge?"
"I didn't know she served."
"What does she talk about?"
"She has very strong opinions about land management."
Another mistake. Another note.
"What is your mother's opinion of the Khitomer Accords?"
"I don't know."
"What is your opinion of the Khitomer Accords?"
"I don't have one."
"None at all?"
"I don't follow politics," Laris said.
"You should."
It was the first sign she might have a future beyond these rooms.
She went to sleep a few hours later, and when she woke up, she had been returned to her room. Five days had passed. Few other students were around, and no one commented on her absence.
She showered. Ate. Started the reading for the upcoming semester. Put it aside to read about the Khitomer Accords. Went for a walk in the cool sunlight. Came home, showered again, slept.
When her grandmother called, they talked about Laris's studies. It didn't cross her mind to ask her grandmother about the past. It was secret for a reason.
When university resumed, Laris found she shared no classes with Zhaban. She was relieved: clearly she had done or thought or said something wrong. Best to contain the damage.
She tried to concentrate on her studies, but every topic seemed -- fraught. She had considered herself safely apolitical, but even soil biology was touched by politics: the Romulans were penned in by the new Federation-Klingon treaty, and the Empire was turning inward, rihannforming planets previously considered unsuitable for colonisation.
Some of those worlds were already inhabited by intelligent species. These would be given the privilege of civilisation. Or they would be relocated to a suitable habitat. She read the official summaries of the Senate debates, knowing the outcome had already been determined by people like her interrogator.
A month went past. Laris found herself watching people more than before. Listening to silences. Paying attention to what went unsaid.
Waiting for them to come for her again.
Laris left the library one evening and realised two things: it was late, and she was hungry. The campus replimat was empty; she synthesised a bowl of soup, added enough condiments to camouflage the not-quite-real taste, and sat to eat.
A woman walked in, looked around, and claimed the seat opposite. She was unremarkable looking: black hair, worn short and straight, thin mouth, round chin.
"Jolan tru, Laris."
It was the woman's voice she recognised. Her interrogator.
Laris swallowed her mouthful of soup and said, "You have a face this time."
"And a name. Sareth."
"Jolan tru, Sareth." Laris put her spoon down. "You're not here to arrest me, then."
"You've committed no crimes." Sareth smiled briefly. "We've been watching. What's your opinion of the Khitomer Accords now?"
"I think…" Laris hesitated. "The Federation and Klingons aren't natural allies. They need a common enemy to focus on. Us. Unless we can drive them apart…?" She raised her eyebrows. "Is that right?"
"It's an astute assessment, for a novice." Sareth watched her. "I hear you play zhamaq."
"A little."
"Did your grandmother teach you?"
"If I say yes, am I politically tainted?"
"The military discards people too easily. The Tal Shiar takes a wider view. Your grandmother raised two generations of loyal citizens. You could reward her by serving us."
*
Decades later, the officers debriefing her ask what would have happened if she had said no. She has to tell them that the idea never crossed her mind.
"I was eager to serve. I was a loyal citizen--"
"Even then? After you were abducted and interrogated?"
Her primary debriefer is a dark-skinned human woman named Mary Khan, who speaks English with an accent Laris finds herself mimicking.
"More than ever."
Khan's eyes widen. Laris is still learning to read human expressions, but she thinks this one is pity.
"I was tested," she tells her, "and they found strength I didn't know I had. I was lucky."
Laris is being completely honest. Holding nothing back, for the first time in her life. She's a little offended that Khan doesn't seem to believe her.
*
Tal Shiar handlers worked in pairs, the better to watch each other. Sareth was Laris's primary handler; her secondary was a man named Tratav. He had his own primary recruit: Zhaban.
He wore a military uniform and the rank of an enlistee. His smile was as charming as ever, but she no longer trusted it.
"Laris will continue her studies," said Sareth. "Zhaban will resume his degree after his tour of duty."
"The intention," Tratav said, "is to embed operatives within rihannforming projects. But that's the work of decades. In the meantime--"
"In the meantime," Sareth said, looking from Zhaban to Laris, "you two will get married."
Marriage to Zhaban would give Laris a reason to join Sareth's household. And marriage would tie them together: if one contemplated treason, the other would notice and report them.
Or so the theory went. In reality--
But they gave decades of loyal service before they broke.
Romulan marriage ceremonies were conducted in private, save for a celebrant. The traditional conclusion was the exchange of names.
Standing before the magistrate, Zhaban leaned forward, his breath warm on her ear as he whispered, "I don't want to give you my name."
Laris smiled up at him, keeping her eyes wide and her expression soft.
"Good," she whispered. "Me neither."
The magistrate smiled down at them.
Sareth's lessons in deceit were already paying off.
That night, in bed with her new husband, Laris said, "I'm sorry about your studies."
They lay side by side under the covers, on their backs, fully clothed, not touching. After this first night, they could retreat to separate rooms, but the forms had to be observed.
"Don't be," said Zhaban. "Farming will keep. I wanted the uniform." He smiled. "Of course, I saw myself as an officer, not a cook. But I don't argue with orders."
"When do you ship out?"
"Next week."
"Are you scared?"
"Only--" Zhaban hesitated. Rolled onto his side and pulled the covers up around them. In that fabric cocoon, he said, "The military trains us to trust our crewmates. Our lives depend on each other. But--"
"You're also to spy on them."
"Tratav says I should maintain a distance."
"He's right." Laris shifted. Her knee bumped his leg. "When were you recruited?"
"Same time as you. But I knew it was coming. My father told me what Sareth is"
"Do you mind?"
"No. I'm proud to serve."
Of course he would say that. He was in bed with a Tal Shiar operative. Well, a recruit. He had to know she'd report their conversation.
"Me, too," she whispered.
"Jolan tru, Laris," said the stranger she had married.
"Jolan tru, Zhaban."
*
Mary looks sick when Laris tells her.
"You know," she says, "if you want to leave -- I mean, you're not tied to him. The offer of asylum is for you and Zhaban as individuals, not as a unit. You're not trapped in a marriage of convenience, no matter how long it's lasted."
Laris wants to laugh. So, because this is the Federation, land of freedom and honesty, she laughs.
"How old are you, Mary?" she asks.
"Forty-four."
"I'm one hundred and ten years old," Laris tells her. "Zhaban and I have been married for almost ninety years. Sareth and Tratav are long dead. At this stage, it's--"
"Habit?" Mary asked.
"Not a good one. But I'm fond of him."
Mary smiles.
"You fell in love."
Laris is quite certain this woman works for one of the Federation's security agencies. Such as they are. The softness in her expression tells Laris two things. One: humans are susceptible to romantic stories. And two: there's a grain of truth in Tal Shiar jokes about Federation intelligence.
Mary says, "May I ask--"
"Is it necessary? Does the Federation need to know the intimate details of our lives?"
"No," Mary admits.
Laris nods. And keeps the most important truth of her marriage, like her name and Zhaban's, private.
end
Rating: all-ages
Characters: Laris, Zhaban
Pairing(s): Laris/Zhaban
Notes: Originally posted to AO3 in March 2020. The AO3 notes were, "So it turns out that a good way to get out of a COVID-19 anxiety spiral is to write fic. (But not your novel, and definitely not working on anything related to your actual job.) As threatened/promised, another Dessa title. The timeline is possibly unlikely; I just like the idea of Laris and Zhaban being much older than they appear."
Summary: Earthers sometimes ask how Laris and Zhaban met. They construct charming stories and never tell the same one twice, and only a handful of people know the truth.
Earthers sometimes ask how Laris and Zhaban met. She and Zhaban construct charming stories and never tell the same one twice, and only a handful of people know the truth.
They learned very quickly that humans prefer an amusing lie over the real story.
*
The fact is, she doesn't remember meeting Zhaban for the first time.
They were university students. They shared some classes: exo-botany, soil microbiology. The course was rigorous, and their cohort grew smaller as people transferred or failed out. Laris was aware of Zhaban the way she was aware of everyone else in her class: Vena was humourless and earnest; Torin was arrogant and intelligent; Zhaban was polite and friendly.
She had not yet learned to watch properly.
They were assigned to collaborate in their second year. They worked well together, without the mutual sabotage which marked less successful collaborations, and celebrated their good marks with a glass of kali-fal and a game of zhamaq in her room.
Zhaban won, but Laris made him work for it.
"That was fun," he said.
"Says the man who took my fortress in forty moves."
"Usually it only takes twenty-five." He gave her a smile. "My mother is a zhamaq master -- and she doesn't believe in holding back just because her opponent is a child. My father can defeat her -- sometimes -- but I've never managed."
Laris saluted him with her glass.
"One day," she said.
She had thought -- hoped, maybe -- that the evening might end with some sort of overture. Their peers were beginning to pair off. She wasn't sure if she wanted a lover, but she was tired of being alone. The semester was at an end; they had a two-week break ahead. It might have been pleasant--
Zhaban just smiled at her, packed up his board and left.
The Tal Shiar came for her during the night.
She understood, later, that their recruiters had been watching Zhaban. His mother was an operative; he showed potential. When their paths crossed, she caught their attention.
Her family was old, faded. Once-powerful. One of her great-grandfathers had served as praetor. It was necessary to determine her allegiances before they took her into the fold. They were not violent. No one so much as raised their voice. This was gentleness, for the Tal Shiar.
For a time, she existed in a series of brightly-lit rooms. Sometimes she had food and water. Sometimes she went without. Sometimes she slept.
In between were the questions.
"Where did you grow up?"
On Rom Beta. The family estate. Her family owned a considerable piece of that colony's agricultural belt. She intended to take over its management one day.
"Where were you when your father died?"
Home. Asleep. She was eight. His shuttle crashed. It was an accident.
"Do you believe that?"
She said, "Is there a reason I shouldn't?"
Mistake. Her interrogator -- Laris couldn't see the woman's face, but her voice was low, her accent indeterminate -- made a note.
"Are you close to your grandmother?
Yes.
"What do you talk about?"
Literature. Music. Plants.
"What has she told you about her time as a prisoner of the Federation?"
"When she--?"
With a touch of impatience, the woman repeated, "What has she told you about her time as a prisoner of the Federation?"
"Nothing. I didn't know about it."
"Did she tell you about her dishonorable discharge?"
"I didn't know she served."
"What does she talk about?"
"She has very strong opinions about land management."
Another mistake. Another note.
"What is your mother's opinion of the Khitomer Accords?"
"I don't know."
"What is your opinion of the Khitomer Accords?"
"I don't have one."
"None at all?"
"I don't follow politics," Laris said.
"You should."
It was the first sign she might have a future beyond these rooms.
She went to sleep a few hours later, and when she woke up, she had been returned to her room. Five days had passed. Few other students were around, and no one commented on her absence.
She showered. Ate. Started the reading for the upcoming semester. Put it aside to read about the Khitomer Accords. Went for a walk in the cool sunlight. Came home, showered again, slept.
When her grandmother called, they talked about Laris's studies. It didn't cross her mind to ask her grandmother about the past. It was secret for a reason.
When university resumed, Laris found she shared no classes with Zhaban. She was relieved: clearly she had done or thought or said something wrong. Best to contain the damage.
She tried to concentrate on her studies, but every topic seemed -- fraught. She had considered herself safely apolitical, but even soil biology was touched by politics: the Romulans were penned in by the new Federation-Klingon treaty, and the Empire was turning inward, rihannforming planets previously considered unsuitable for colonisation.
Some of those worlds were already inhabited by intelligent species. These would be given the privilege of civilisation. Or they would be relocated to a suitable habitat. She read the official summaries of the Senate debates, knowing the outcome had already been determined by people like her interrogator.
A month went past. Laris found herself watching people more than before. Listening to silences. Paying attention to what went unsaid.
Waiting for them to come for her again.
Laris left the library one evening and realised two things: it was late, and she was hungry. The campus replimat was empty; she synthesised a bowl of soup, added enough condiments to camouflage the not-quite-real taste, and sat to eat.
A woman walked in, looked around, and claimed the seat opposite. She was unremarkable looking: black hair, worn short and straight, thin mouth, round chin.
"Jolan tru, Laris."
It was the woman's voice she recognised. Her interrogator.
Laris swallowed her mouthful of soup and said, "You have a face this time."
"And a name. Sareth."
"Jolan tru, Sareth." Laris put her spoon down. "You're not here to arrest me, then."
"You've committed no crimes." Sareth smiled briefly. "We've been watching. What's your opinion of the Khitomer Accords now?"
"I think…" Laris hesitated. "The Federation and Klingons aren't natural allies. They need a common enemy to focus on. Us. Unless we can drive them apart…?" She raised her eyebrows. "Is that right?"
"It's an astute assessment, for a novice." Sareth watched her. "I hear you play zhamaq."
"A little."
"Did your grandmother teach you?"
"If I say yes, am I politically tainted?"
"The military discards people too easily. The Tal Shiar takes a wider view. Your grandmother raised two generations of loyal citizens. You could reward her by serving us."
*
Decades later, the officers debriefing her ask what would have happened if she had said no. She has to tell them that the idea never crossed her mind.
"I was eager to serve. I was a loyal citizen--"
"Even then? After you were abducted and interrogated?"
Her primary debriefer is a dark-skinned human woman named Mary Khan, who speaks English with an accent Laris finds herself mimicking.
"More than ever."
Khan's eyes widen. Laris is still learning to read human expressions, but she thinks this one is pity.
"I was tested," she tells her, "and they found strength I didn't know I had. I was lucky."
Laris is being completely honest. Holding nothing back, for the first time in her life. She's a little offended that Khan doesn't seem to believe her.
*
Tal Shiar handlers worked in pairs, the better to watch each other. Sareth was Laris's primary handler; her secondary was a man named Tratav. He had his own primary recruit: Zhaban.
He wore a military uniform and the rank of an enlistee. His smile was as charming as ever, but she no longer trusted it.
"Laris will continue her studies," said Sareth. "Zhaban will resume his degree after his tour of duty."
"The intention," Tratav said, "is to embed operatives within rihannforming projects. But that's the work of decades. In the meantime--"
"In the meantime," Sareth said, looking from Zhaban to Laris, "you two will get married."
Marriage to Zhaban would give Laris a reason to join Sareth's household. And marriage would tie them together: if one contemplated treason, the other would notice and report them.
Or so the theory went. In reality--
But they gave decades of loyal service before they broke.
Romulan marriage ceremonies were conducted in private, save for a celebrant. The traditional conclusion was the exchange of names.
Standing before the magistrate, Zhaban leaned forward, his breath warm on her ear as he whispered, "I don't want to give you my name."
Laris smiled up at him, keeping her eyes wide and her expression soft.
"Good," she whispered. "Me neither."
The magistrate smiled down at them.
Sareth's lessons in deceit were already paying off.
That night, in bed with her new husband, Laris said, "I'm sorry about your studies."
They lay side by side under the covers, on their backs, fully clothed, not touching. After this first night, they could retreat to separate rooms, but the forms had to be observed.
"Don't be," said Zhaban. "Farming will keep. I wanted the uniform." He smiled. "Of course, I saw myself as an officer, not a cook. But I don't argue with orders."
"When do you ship out?"
"Next week."
"Are you scared?"
"Only--" Zhaban hesitated. Rolled onto his side and pulled the covers up around them. In that fabric cocoon, he said, "The military trains us to trust our crewmates. Our lives depend on each other. But--"
"You're also to spy on them."
"Tratav says I should maintain a distance."
"He's right." Laris shifted. Her knee bumped his leg. "When were you recruited?"
"Same time as you. But I knew it was coming. My father told me what Sareth is"
"Do you mind?"
"No. I'm proud to serve."
Of course he would say that. He was in bed with a Tal Shiar operative. Well, a recruit. He had to know she'd report their conversation.
"Me, too," she whispered.
"Jolan tru, Laris," said the stranger she had married.
"Jolan tru, Zhaban."
*
Mary looks sick when Laris tells her.
"You know," she says, "if you want to leave -- I mean, you're not tied to him. The offer of asylum is for you and Zhaban as individuals, not as a unit. You're not trapped in a marriage of convenience, no matter how long it's lasted."
Laris wants to laugh. So, because this is the Federation, land of freedom and honesty, she laughs.
"How old are you, Mary?" she asks.
"Forty-four."
"I'm one hundred and ten years old," Laris tells her. "Zhaban and I have been married for almost ninety years. Sareth and Tratav are long dead. At this stage, it's--"
"Habit?" Mary asked.
"Not a good one. But I'm fond of him."
Mary smiles.
"You fell in love."
Laris is quite certain this woman works for one of the Federation's security agencies. Such as they are. The softness in her expression tells Laris two things. One: humans are susceptible to romantic stories. And two: there's a grain of truth in Tal Shiar jokes about Federation intelligence.
Mary says, "May I ask--"
"Is it necessary? Does the Federation need to know the intimate details of our lives?"
"No," Mary admits.
Laris nods. And keeps the most important truth of her marriage, like her name and Zhaban's, private.
end
no subject
Date: 2023-07-12 01:28 am (UTC)(Also, LOL at "rihanforming.")
no subject
Date: 2023-07-12 02:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-07-12 11:10 am (UTC)Your characterization and portrayal of Laris is what we should have seen much more of in the series--intelligent, observant, insightful, wryly humorous, and perfectly consistent with the character who appeared far too infrequently onscreen.
Everything about Laris's experiences and backstory rings true to Romulan nature. In a story written largely as dialogue, you've subtly conveyed background and setting, including allusions to the Romulan domestic and interstellar political situation, without slowing the pacing.
And then, of course, there's this:
"It didn't cross her mind to ask her grandmother about the past. It was secret for a reason." Oh, yes indeed. Copy that. ;-)
In your hands, a character who deserved far more than what she was given finally gets what she's owed. Thank you for this.
no subject
Date: 2023-08-16 01:30 pm (UTC)I still haven't watched Picard, except for a bit of S3, mostly because you suggested to me that these characters get short shrift in it. Thank you for remedying that with such thoughtful and evocative depth.