Ours Are The Furies: Together Alone

[Vansen Tyree]

"Bet you didn't realise I was a one in a billion sort of human, eh?"

That in itself wasn't news. He'd had the same conversation with every Chief Medical Officer he'd ever served with, heard the lectures about how damned inconvenient it was to reprogram the blood synthesis machines on starships that had them, opened up a vein periodically to build up a stockpile of his own blood on ships that hadn't. Perhaps that had been a small silver lining when his career had begun to move away from combat command to strategic command: Admirals at fleet headquarters didn't need to go to such lengths to ready themselves for danger or injury. He wasn't supposed to be getting shot at these days. That he'd not brought a supply with him on this visit to Jovan Station was perhaps an oversight; even without whatever attack had transpired here, being this close to the border should have flagged a potential risk that he should have considered. Live and learn. Fortunately, he had the opportunity to.

One word stuck out in his mind. Donor. His particular blood time was an odd quirk of divergent evolution among the human population on Rendili. No other planet in the galaxy had that particular string of extra antigens, and even on Rendili it was incredibly rare. Scientists and historians had traced it back through the generations to a particular geographic region; and while they were confident there was no single common ancestor, the leading theory was some sort of exposure during the early days of colonization, or perhaps even aboard one of the sleeper ships that had first brought humanity to Rendili eons ago.

Regardless of the specifics, it all meant one thing: Vansen was incredibly lucky. He was hardly the only person from Rendili in the Alliance, but one whose ancestors hailed from that same tiny region of the homeworld, finding themselves in this tiny corner of the Alliance, on the far side of the galaxy, exactly when he needed it? Vansen wasn't some Force skeptic, he'd seen Jedi first hand and knew what the Force could allow them to do; but he'd always been confident and comfortable in the knowledge that whatever the Force was, it didn't give a rats ass about him. Now, evidence seemed to be pointing to the contrary, and Vansen wasn't sure if he felt more willing to accept that this was mystical intervention, or just random chance.

He looked down at himself, frowning a little as he felt strangle tingles and sensations moving through his body. He knew it was psychosomatic; he knew there was no way his mind could perceive the presence of foreign blood in his veins, and yet it tried to convince him that they could. It wasn't unwelcome - quite the contrary, since the damned stuff was busy keeping him alive - but it was strange. Not something he'd ever had to wrestle with before; any transfusion he'd received in the past had either been synthetic, or his own.

Slowly, he flexed the hand he found himself staring at.

"I guess that narrows down the list of people to thank," he half-muttered, half-grumbled, though the words were good natured, affected only by the grizzled lilt his voice always carried. A faint flicker of curiosity got the better of him. "So whose the unfortunate soul whose blood I've stolen?"

[Taataani Meorrrei]

Taataani squeezed Vansen's hand gently, lending her presence and her warmth to him. He needed to hear this, but there was something in her that questioned whether it ought to come from her. Why was she better suited than the Doctor from before? But rather than feeling standoffish or reluctant, she was honored. Deeply so.

"Therre'ss no jill forrtune at all. The donorr...sshe'ss jyourr daughterr."