The Family Business

Posted on Mon Dec 28th, 2020 @ 8:13pm by Lieutenant JG Ovrora Sh'rholok

Mission: 28 Days
Location: Andor
Timeline: Mission Day 1 at 0000

[11 Years Ago]
[The ice-cutter Y'lena]
[Andor]

The prow of the ice cutter gleamed in the bright Andorian sun. The floes ahead and to the side of them glistened as well giving the river around them an almost ethereal feel. Only the dark water flowing behind them where the ice had been crushed and pushed aside gave any indication that they were not completely surrounded by the sharp cold of ice and snow.

Ovrora particularly enjoyed standing at the front of the ship watching the sharp steel of its prow cutting a line in the ice ahead of them. When they were going at speed like this it was easy to feel invincible.

The young woman breathed deeply appreciating the sting of cold air as it entered her nostrils and flowed between her antennae making them stiff with cold. She turned to face towards the center of the small vessel draping her arms on the rails and leaning back, one warmly booted foot crossed over the other.

A few feet below her on the deck two young Andorians circled each other. It would have been hard for an outsider to tell which of the two was younger. The male stood a full 5 feet tall and held an ushaan-tor in his left hand, the hilt tilted back along his wrist so that the blade extended out from his hand and down his arm as though he had suddenly sprouted a spike of blue steel. The female, at only 4 and a half feet, also held one of the bladed weapons, but hers was thrust outward, blade forward as if to suggest the taller fighter should come and get her. The two circled on light feet, each eying the other for an opening.

“His guard is down on his right Tashe!” Ovrora called. As she did the smaller female rushed in, knocking the other fighter’s blade aside and pinning him to the ground with her own blade, now tucked down her arm, at his neck.

From across the deck a tall Andorian man stepped out of the shadows of the wheelhouse clapping. “Well done, Tashe,” he said, a smile in his voice. “You know his right is his weak side, though. Next time a bit faster. Had he caught your own weakness the match would have ended differently.”

Tashe stood, breathing heavily and grinning wildly. “Of course, Father.”

The tall man offered the boy a hand to pull him up. “You hesitated, Kith,” he said as he pulled the young man to his feet. “If that had been a challenger from the Ul’hrok, we would be handing over the papers for this ship.”

Kith glowered. “It wasn’t a fair fight. Tashe is three years older than me. She knows more than I do.”

Stooping to look the boy in his eyes, his father nodded. “Yes. But fights are rarely fair. Next time you can spar with Ovrora. See if you still believe that Tashe constitutes an unfair match.”

The young Andorian frowned, but did not reply, choosing instead to glare at his feet.
Ovrora jumped down from the prow, the spikes on her boots clanging against the deck as she landed in a crouch. “Kith would rather spend his time composing songs for Vriza Zh'shaatral than spar with me,” she laughed, ruffling her younger brother’s silver hair in the soft spot between his antennae. He ducked his head in annoyance.

“I’ll fight you any day,” he grumbled.

Even at the age of 11 he was nearly as tall as she was. Soon ruffling his hair would be a much more awkward action. She still had 4 inches on him, though, and she was going to exploit that as long as she could.

Her father came to her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and tucking her into his side. “And you, little one,” he said, using the pet name he had given her as a baby, “would you rather be doing something else than sparring with your siblings on the deck of your family’s ice cutter?”

It was a trick question, she knew. With her seventeenth birthday looming only weeks away Ovrora found herself in the impossible position of choosing between two very good options for her future. With her birthday she would reach the age of majority on Andor. As an adult she would be expected to take up a trade, something she had felt ill-prepared to decide on for the last several months.

She had hoped the two options -- Starfleet Academy and the Andorian Science Institute -- would resolve the issue themselves by simply disqualifying her for entry into one or the other, but she had in the last week received notice of acceptance to both.

Her father hoped she would choose the later of the two options; a choice that would keep her close to home and to her family’s transport business.

What more could you want in life than to be with your family, travel the world in your own boat, and have the freedom to come and go as you choose? her father had inquired of her when she first told him about her Starfleet application.

It wasn’t that he wouldn’t support whatever she chose. If it made her happy he would stabilize the surface of the gas giant they circled so that she could have what she wanted. Rather, he had spent her entire life planning for her to take over their family’s business when he retired. She would be the matriarch to follow his patriarchy. And all of these dreams would begin to run inexorably towards a very real result the moment she chose to stay on Andor.

And yet, it was because of her father that she had applied to Starfleet. Her earliest memories involved ports across the globe; far away cities, new foods and smells, a spark of unknown filling her with wonder and curiosity. It had been her father who cultivated this in her. Her father who had thought he was matching her to Andor, when instead, he had been teaching her to love exploration.

A squeeze to her shoulder brought her back to the present. “Have we lost you in that far away head of yours?” her father asked, laughter tripping off his tongue as easily as the snow and ice caught the sun and magnified it in gleaming brightness around them.

“No,” she said, her tone thoughtful, “just considering if I should tackle Kith’s weak side when we spar or try to take out his strong one?”

She ducked under her father’s arm and punched her brother’s shoulder making him squawk in annoyance.

“Father!” he whined, as he rubbed his shoulder. But Ovrora had already succeeded in piquing his interest and he was leaning down to pick up the ushaan-tor even as he said it.

Gleefully she accepted her sister’s weapon, settling into a crouch and beginning the opening circle.

Her father’s question could wait a day more.