[2367] The Flame of the Cursed
[Ensign Foval |USS Tolstoy|Crew Quarters]
“Hey, Foval, Foval you asleep?” Came the disruption from his room mate Glav.
“My eyes were closed, and I was laying on my bed is there any other…”
“Listen, shut up.” That caught Foval by surprise. The exchanges between him and his Tellarite colleague were almost a form of sport between them. Foval helped Glav in the field of manners, and in turn, Glav taught Foval the finer points of a good argument. To Tellarites, this was like a sport. Foval found this to be most interesting, particularly in dealing with dominant traits in other emotional beings. Ordinarily, the communications specialist would respond to the Vulcan’s sarcasm, probably with a jibe about his race using their beds for their other use every seven years But this was different, there was no mirth in his retort, and the first rule of Tellarite banter is that if you use “shut up” you’re conceding the argument.
He sat up “Is something wrong?” he asked The communications officer sat on his lower bunk and passed a PADD up to Foval.
“17 ships have been diverted to Wolf 359 in the past 20 minutes.” He said
“Have you informed the captain?” Foval asked.
“There is some classified chatter coming in from command.” Grav said “Captain’s eyes only. Something big is going down, Foval.”
In truth, the helm officer had been aware of something going down, he was the deputy helmsman for Delta Shift on the Tolstoy. In the inaccurate human terms, this was the nightshift, when Lieutenant Crivish was in normally in charge.. Howevver, both Captain Adams and Commander Nixon were on the bridge throughout his shift. He told Glav as much.
“Y’see? You mark my words, something bad is going down.” He said
A feminine voice filled the quarters. “All hands, this is the Captain, The Tolstoy has been ordered to Wolf 359. A single Borg Ship is heading for Earth. Starfleet is putting together a welcome party. We will be at yellow alert until we arrive.”
As if it was likely that Foval would sleep anyway. He jumped down from his bed and started to dress. Although he was off duty, yellow alert, particularly in a battle situation meant that he would have to be ready to relieve the Delta Shift helm officer, if things went sideways, or worse pilot a shuttle or escape pod if needed. He dressed, ignoring his room mate as he paced backwards and forwards. He replicated a cup of tarkalian Tea and sat at the single table in their small, shared cabin.
“You’re not telling me you are going to just sit there and drink tea?” Glav said, the incredulous tone clear to even Foval. “No” said Foval. “I intend to drink tea, and then meditate until the alert situation changes.”
“Ugh Vulcans. I’ll be…. I’ll be… at my station.” Glav said, and stormed out of their quarters.
In some ways, Foval felt a pang of regret about not being supportive to his friend. However, he was not a trained counsellor, nor was he an expert on these Borg. In fact, the Enterprise’s encounter with them the previous year had proven to be terrifying. Attempting to pacify his friend, was utterly useless. Instead he needed to ensure he was as sharp as his skills would allow.
The Vulcan drained the last of his mug, and opened the small case at the base of his closet. He retrieved his meditation lamp. He briefly considered writing a letter to home, however he reluctantly decided against it. His family knew the risks that Starfleet life carried with it, and asking his friend to send a last will and testament would do nothing for Glav’s mental state.
He placed the lamp at the centre of the table. As a junior officer, he didn’t have permission to use naked flames in his quarters. Instead he hit a control on his desk, and a 3D projection of a burning flame appeared over the lamp. Coming from the table’s built in projector t wasn’t perfect, and it didn’t emit heat or sound nevertheless it gave Foval something to focus on. In some ways it was better, as the flame danced, Foval could anticipate the random movements that it generated, tracking them, anticipating them. It was logical.
Three hours later, the Flame was almost forgotten as the Tolstoy cane straight out of warp, and straight into hell. A lone Borg Cube was effortlessly defending itself against at least a dozen ships. Some were held in tractor beams as cutting beams dissected them like a fruit knife. Others were being annihilated by pulse weapons, disruptor bolts, or possibly torpedoes.
As the Tolstoy got closer to the battle, Foval watched as lances of Orange phaser fire shot out of the ship. Almost dispassionately, he wondered if the beams came from his ship or one of the others still “in” the battle. The ship suddenly rocked, sending the Vulcan from his chair, and hislamp went skidding across the room, where it hit the carpet, while the 3D image of the flame hung over the table’s built in projector.
The doors to the room hissed open, and Glav frantically ran in The flustered Tellarite, looked at him, holding a phaser with a shaking hand. No he is more than flustered, Foval mused He is terrified.
“The bridge has been cut off.” Glav said.
“How long will it take to repair communications?” Foval asked.
“No” Glav said, almost in a whisper. “The bridge has been cut off of the ship.”
Foval was about to say something else when another jolt hit the ship. He tried to think where the best place to contact would be in a crisis like this. The auxillary control room? Engineering?
Suddenly two columns of green light filled the room. They shaped themselves into two humanoids, with pale skin. Their cybernetic implants made it difficult to tell where the organic started and the machine ended. Glav fired his phaser. The beam hit the shields of one of the Borg, almost as if they were wearing personal deflector shields.
Foval decided to do the only thing he could. “I am Ensign Foval of the Starship Tolstoy. Your presence in these quarters is not tolerated”
Glav omitted an incredulous curse. The one of the attackers lifted his arm and fired, Glav was gone in beam of light. From the smell of burning fur, it wasn’t a transporter beam.
“Resistance is futile” the cyborgs said in unison Foval turned to face the flame it was now white with a blue ghost version an inch or so away, the holographic system likely failed.
“I rather suspect that it is.” He mused
Instead of the burn of the aliens disruptor, he felt five fingers grab his shoulder, and something enter his neck. Groggily he fell to his knees as the Borg walked away crunching his lamp under their feet, then consciousness left him, and his life as Foval… paused.
Fin
Topic: [2367] The Flame of the Cursed (Read 5055 times)
previous topic - next topic
