Parallax
by Xenutia

Title: Parallax
Author: Xenutia
Disclaimer: One of these days I'll find a new way of saying this. I would love to write professionally for Star Trek, but until then, I'm getting some practice in for no profit. It's just for fun. And it's way off course anyway, I was getting bored of writing strictly canon!
Rating: PG
Category: You really need one? Oh, um . . . mystery, romance, adventure, some action, some humour, a little bit of AU . . . ack, help! I don't know. You tell me. General.
Codes: R/S, A, Tu
Summary: The crew once more face the mysterious Shades and the things they have created, and everything that Hoshi believes about her life, her new husband, and the events of the past year are about to be thrown into confusion by a visitor wearing a familiar face.
E-Mail: sorted@witzend.fsbusiness.co.uk
Author's Note: I don't know where this one came from but I do know that I'm enjoying writing this a lot so far. It's the sequel to Under My Skin', but it's also the sequel to Incentive', which confuses the heck out of me! They go in that order with this as part three. There are no episode spoilers except for one crucial tie-in to Shockwave II, and mild generic references to some season one and two stuff that you won't notice if you haven't seen them. I don't know how many parts this will be when I'm done, but I don't want to rush it. Unfortunately, I don't think this story will make sense if you haven't at least read Incentive', although you could possibly make do if you haven't read Under My Skin'. I think. Give it a go and let me know if you get stuck, okay? I'll try to explain as I go along where I can.
Posting Notes: I'm going to try and post one chapter a week. I don't think I can really go any quicker than that as this is so very complicated and I'm having to take my time just to know which way is up, but I'll try to be religious about it, and update every Monday. If you would like to read the new chapters earlier, they're posted at the Linguistics Database, a web site for Hoshi enthusiasts, every Wednesday. Anybody that would be interested in taking a look will be more than welcome!

PROLOGUE

parallax/ paralaks/ noun 1 the apparent displacement or the difference in apparent direction of an object as seen from different points not on the same straight line. parallactic/ -'laktik/ adj. (early French parallaxe from Greek parallaxis, from parallassein to change, alternate, ultimately from PARA- +allos other.)

parallax/ 1 alternation, the mutual inclination of two lines forming an angle 2 to change a little, go aside, deviate

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The room is unlit and unused, but through its flimsy internal walls shudders of sound reverberate into the motionless air. There is the sound of giggles forcibly muted, muffled as if a cloth has been shoved in the woman's mouth by an indignant lover. It is dark in here now, not the dark of quiet streets under a spring moon but the utter pitch of deep space where there is no glass in the doors and the only window looks out onto an empty region of near starless black nothing. It is dark and quiet but that is about to change, and when those tiny thumps against the corridor wall have inched their way to the closed doors and the giggles have dried up, this room will be far from empty, and missing the quiet. Whether the darkness will remain or not only time will tell.

There is the swish of the doors and a square of solid light like one white patch on a black blanket, spilling colourless illumination onto the floor. It is broken only by two figures, black against the light, and for one bloated moment the silence holds. The two figures are motionless, looking in as the dark bleeds out. Then:

Look, stop being such a fidget. Do you want me to do this properly or don't you?

I'm not fidgeting. It's not my fault you couldn't say no to another glass.

Well, I didn't want to offend anyone, did I? They made an effort, and they deserved our attention.

Yes, I noticed you and the champagne were getting along very well.

This was your idea, sweetheart, I wanted to sneak off on shore leave and find a bored vicar.

And not ask the captain? He'd kill us. Well, he'd kill you. I'm just a woman.

You're a loud woman. Now do you want me to do this, or don't you? Yes or no.



All right then. Shut up and hook your train over your arm. Unless you want me to trip over it.

Last of the great romantics. All right, I'm tucked. Go.

I'm just getting my breath back.



The two figures move together, sending their shadows streaming forward in new bars of grey like pillars against a sunset sky. One is clearly a woman, the passive giggler with a corner of her veil damp from stifling her laughter and a fountain of white silk tumbled over her arm. The other is the indignant lover, his angular face smeared with lipstick scars like a polka-dot handkerchief, his suit crumpled. He looks uncomfortable in it, as if his foremost thought is to get himself out of it when his mind should be consumed with the prospect of getting his new wife out of her dress. They dance around the problem in hand, weaving fabric in and out of elbows and knees until the woman resembles a pom-pom gone hideously wrong. The man is panting from their trek through the corridors, his shirt a marbled shrink-wrap as he sweats, but gamely he wedges his sleeves back on his sharp elbows, and slips his arms under her knees and around her ribs. Her face is a study of pained amusement as she watches his dark head, bent to calculate his best approach. He is so serious at times, and she has never been one to flutter at the type of grim defiance he displays as he lifts her . . . but what is life if a person can't surprise themselves, sometimes?

I told you to keep that veil out of my face.

It is out of your face. I know because it's in mine.

In that case, it's grown. Did you feed it or something?

She laughs at that, knowing he won't. Don't bump my head on the door frame.

I won't bump your head on the door frame.

You did when we practised.

That was different.

Yeah, you hadn't gone through about a gallon of Dom Perignon then.

I mean I had stage fright. I'm over it now.

I can see that.

The room remains dark as they complete the ritual that one had thought so silly, but which now seems to have become the most important thing in the world. It will remain dark for the rest of that night, but it will not be silent. The indignant lover-turned-indignant husband gets his wish and frees himself of the starchy suit and sticky shirt, and the giggles from the misshapen pom-pom resume with vigour . . . but there are other sounds now, richer sounds, murmurs of fabric and whispers of voices in the dark, and they only descend into quiet when every other guest at the reception has long since slept, and the ship glides on into starless space, waiting for the morning.