Every single strike will be averted

Posted on Sun Nov 28th, 2021 @ 1:45am by Evanna Belyaev & Layil

Mission: Mirror Mirror
Location: Chief Science Officer's Office, ISS Fenrir
Timeline: Following Russian Science
1616 words - 3.2 OF Standard Post Measure

No less than two minutes after Evanna had made the call, the Fenrir's resident ghost appeared wordlessly and silently at her behest. His posture straight, stare vacant-it could be easily and entirely mistaken for puppetry and not sentience, and in-fact just toed the line between both. "Ms. Belyaev," he pronounced her name carefully, bowing his head in deference before his chin tipped up and his shoulders squared. Prepared for orders. Layil did not converse. He did not make small talk. He did not offer observations, or deviate from the single-minded focus of the task specifically before him. A living-dead machine, with wires and internals for guts.

In the time it had taken him to arrive, the blonde statistician had moved from the secure hangar to her usual office, a secluded space at the very end of the corridor that housed the half-empty rooms set aside for the Mathematics division. They'd been understaffed for months, a fact somewhat mitigated by Belyaev's own capacity to independently handle the work of a small team. Smithson had made good use of her whilst also constantly underestimating her and certainly hadn't paid nearly as much attention to his Assistant Chief as ought to have been warranted had he any concept of what she was actually capable of.

She would miss his ignorance.

The room was dimly lit, as what her preference, and the newly-minted Chief's placid features reflected the slightly greenish tint of the terminal she was bent over. Layil's arrival wasn't a surprise but it was through no fault of his personal skillset; in any space Evanna controlled, she inevitably maintained the upperhand. She glanced up first and then straightened, moving away from the console to regard him intently. "We have a new challenge."

It had taken her a while to get accustomed to Layil's lack of expressiveness, that at one point she'd taken for outright insolence-had now turned into a symbol of her complete and utter control over him. Facilitated by hishuri, and her own special brand of neurosynaptic manipulation. It was a challenge to determine how much of Layil was himself or if he were totally devoid; if he's resting beneath the surface or if he'd been entirely extinguished. "Elucidate," the man (well, man is a strong word-being might be more accurate-) requested in his flat, empty monotone.

"Smithson is dead." Though naturally eloquent, Belyaev's preference for brevity when working made a natural bedfellow for the soldier's choppy speech patterns. "And now I am Chief." The promotion had its uses but it also created the need to manoeuvre carefully. Her blue eyes met his, a staring contest that she couldn't possibly win and yet embraced willingly. As was usually the case when alone with Layil, Evanna's expression betrayed a glimmer of pride, mingled with amusement and infused with confident superiority. "There is more." With no need to play word games, she continued. "Gregnol knows. He is sending Agrax to interrogate the staff."

Layil, predictably, did not react. He waited for her to coalesce, to offer her opinion-to supply his head with thoughts and actions to take originating from said thoughts. At the lull in her statements precipitating an answer, however, he merely prompted: "What shall you have me do." There was a question in there somewhere, but it came off in the same cadence and pitch as before. They both knew that in an interrogation, Layil would break immediately-it's what he was designed to do. Belyaev had been working on it-and now came the time to put her tweaks to the test.

"I doubt he will waste time. Now that his ignorance is confirmed, I need to dig through Smithson's trash to figure out why our esteemed Captain has fallen off Starfleet Command's radar." It was too many metaphors in one sentence, Evanna knew well-enough that the man in front of her would only comprehend the literal and then only when phrased as a directive. It made him an exceptional conversationalist from her point of view; he never interrupted. Stepping closer, her upturned face craned to the side to objectively scrutinise his eyes, Belyaev selected her next words carefully. "Make sure Agrax enlists you. I want the names of those who do not pass interrogation before they are passed to the Captain."

"Understood," is what the vivid-eyed man answered with as soon as a directive he did understand penetrated through. True to form, he did not comment on her more literary elucidation, but he could follow along well enough to comprehend that the woman before him was inconvenienced in a quite significant manner, and now it was his task to ensure that this did not pose a continual and ongoing problem. He did not offer assurances or platitudes, unlike most of the other crew-and fortunately, he didn't have to-Layil was one of the few aboard whose work truly did speak for itself.

To the uninitiated, Belyaev's orders may have reeked of cover-up. The lieutenant had no need for that, at least not in the traditional sense. Methodical micro-management of her entire career very rarely left Evanna with the need to scramble to apply damage control and, in this case, Smithson's arrogant superiority complex was easily public knowledge. She had blown the whistle. She had taken Gregnol's orders at their most literal and showed him everything, or at least enough of it to satisfy his suspicions. Whatever damage needed controlling was arguably by her own design, so it didn't follow that she would panic now about the clean up. Belyaev didn't panic; she strategised.

They were her staff now. If the herd needed culling, she wanted the first shot.

"Agrax will interrogate me." This was not a statement of fact, nor an expression of concern; it was an order not to interfere. "You will provide me with details of my assessment."

A nod. "In what manner shall I communicate this to you." As always it took a split-second to deduce that Layil was asking a question, for clarity. Periodically they communicated via an encrypted device, but more common was this-face-to-face meetings that reduced the possibility of prying eyes. He displayed no compassion for her circumstances, that she would undoubtedly be interrogated and all that this entailed-in fact she frequently encouraged him to practice subjecting her to severe circumstances to shore up her limitations, but all the same. One might pretend. Layil did not.

He truly was a marvel. Evanna did not usually concern herself with sentimentality but his easy compliance evoked something akin to affection, particularly since he neither craved nor reciprocated it. The Chief of Sciences smiled, a sincere if not calculating gesture, and reached a hand up to pat his cheek. "I will let you know when she is done with me."

It was akin to touching a statue, so much so that the warmth of his skin came as a shock against her fingers. That he was alive, after all, that he bled and breathed and blood pumped in his veins and carried oxygen to his heart. He stayed before her, silent and watchful. He came up over her head, but despite the fact that he was undoubtedly one of the more proficient combatants aboard, it was utterly without threat. He was a tool, like a phaser, nothing more. "Understood," he repeated.

His lack of protest once again lent itself towards lingering appreciation, not so much for his tolerance levels but the pliability of his utter disinterest. A slender index finger considered the contour of his jawline, its well-manicured nail creating the faintest blemish before the trail reached the tip of his chin. Her finger remained there, settled gently against his stubble before offering a soft tap that acted as a bounce upwards to rest against his lips.

"Counter orders will be ignored unless received directly from me."

He would obey because she had been the only one with the vision to ensure it. When she had first investigated him, intrigued by the potential locked within his existence, Evanna had been quietly dismayed by the lack of imagination in his neural algorithms. Yes, he functioned. Yes, he had rudimentary obedience. But his baseline allegiance had been left far too open to random changes in the status quo and the wastefulness of it, not to mention the genuine risk of him absconding to the highest ranking officer who thought to activate his loyalty protocols, was intolerable. He deserved stability, consistency, an absence of ambiguity.

He had her.

Slowly, Evanna withdrew her hand. "You may go."

One couldn't say whether or not that was because of loyalty to her or because she'd managed to engineer a facsimile of a human programmed response, but it was almost easy to believe that he did choose it-the longer you remained in his proximity, the more he reflected a mirror back, and as all beings were wont to do, anthropomorphizing his generalized states became less and less problematic. Every once in a while it seemed that Layil acted of his own purpose, his own choice-but those instances were few, and far, between in their world.

He bowed his head, and did not provide a departing phrase as he straightened to exit through the large laboratory doors.

Belyaev watched him leave, the gleam in her eyes a typically odd brand of covetous maternalism, and then turned back to her console. A simple tap to open inter-departmental communications sent the alert right through the space.

[[All staff to the administration hub.]]

Time to break the good news.