Maybe... Distant Thunder

Posted on Oct 30, 2017 @ 9:13pm by Lieutenant Tomas' Vukovic
Edited on on Oct 30, 2017 @ 9:15pm

Mission: Fear Itself

"Maybe ... Distant Thunder"
(follows Susan's "An Inside Job")

=/\=

Stardate: [2.17].1029.2018
Location: Unknown
Scene: Uncertain

=/\=

He woke to the alarm ... fresh from a dream of distant thunder.

That had been the dream. But yellow sunlight poured in shafts through the half shielded window of his room. The sky outside was clear and blue. And he never used a chronometer anyway; his internal system automatically corrected itself for local time wherever "local" was. Still, the soft pulsing buzz was the alarm on the bedside table. He reached out from under the covers and tapped it into silence. He swung his bare feet out from under the covers and sat up on the side of the bed, scrubbing his face with his hands. He didn't need to consult the time. He knew the time. He ALWAYS knew what time it was.

It was time ... to get out of bed. But he didn't want to. Nothing about this day was what he wanted. But there was nothing to be done about it. He got to his feet and padded naked across the room to the facilities. In the shower, he took his time, forcing himself to breathe slowly and evenly. It was a discipline. In ...out. In ... out. As BORG, he never had to shave. The kind of BORG he was could grow hair if it was required. The BORG Queen from that other dimension had seen to that. But that was not how she would remember him. So he went shorn. And now he had to remind himself to breathe carefully again. In ... out. In ... out. He had begun to hyperventilate, and that would do no one any good. The soapy froth went down the drain. He was on a planet. A planet with water to spare; hence the actual water shower. A Captain's shower. Was he a Captain? No ... not a Captain. He could be, if he needed to be. But he didn't need to be. Not now.

Now ... he needed to be who he was ... Tomas' Vukovic. And he was on TERRA, having beamed down late the day before and taking this room, just a short distance from the place he had to be soon. The water from the shower head poured over him in hot streams, sluicing down his muscled back and thighs. The heat mist filled the bathroom, and clouded the light over the sink. The light dimmed in the fog, and he heard the sound again ... distant thunder.

And he knew what the thunder had been. What the thunder was. The sound of feet, thousands of feet. Thousands of feet stepping down from regeneration alcoves onto deck plates which boomed with the pounding of each of those steps. Thousands of steps as the BORG came awake in the Cube. He knew that sound like he knew his own body. But it was wrong. He shook his head beneath the shower, the water pouring over his head. He'd never served on a BORG Cube. In fact, those ships were reminiscent of earlier BORG, not the BORG of his day and age. He had fought those mind-linked BORG elsewhere, that other dimension, but he'd never crewed on such a vessel. It was his imagination running away with him. That must be it. He stepped forward, out of the streams of water and banished the BORG from his mind, their thunderous steps fading as he toweled himself dry.

=/\=

He poured himself a bowl of cereal ... something with raisins and dates mixed with flakes of various grains. He tried to drown it with milk and was only mildly successful. The crunch in his mouth of each spoonful reminded him too much of the distant thunder of BORG feet on deck plates he'd never trodden. He pushed the bowl away only half eaten and spread strawberry jam on a piece of toast he'd managed not to burn in the toaster on the counter in his room. It was more to his liking, but even that hinted at the sound of marching BORG as he chewed. He didn't need to eat. Regeneration was sufficient. But food was a comfort, and he had not regenerated. He'd slept. He could do that, too, but then he needed to eat. He just didn't feel like eating. He poured himself a glass of fruit juice and drained it straight away. His body would use the sugar, burn it in his organic systems, and tonight afterward, he'd regenerate aboard ship.

He looked up self-consciously, and tried to remember what ship was waiting for him. But then the sound of BORG feet grew louder in his mind, like distant thunder, and he forced himself to get up and dispose of the remains of his breakfast in the disposal. No replicator here. Not in this cultural zone.

He dressed carefully and efficiently in black. Not because it was appropriate, though it was. But because that was how she remembered him. A black suit with a a white shirt, the collar so sharply creased it would cut paper. He secured the collar with an onyx pin. Looked at himself in the mirror. And saw the BORG green eye for just a moment before it changed back to something more human. Breathe, he commanded himself. In ... out. In ... out. Breathe, dammit! Nothing like this could be allowed. No weakness. He needed to be a rock. To be a stone. But he wasn't. They needed him to be that stable, and he was having to fight for every breath.

{Excuse me, Mr. Vukovic} said the room.

Tomas' sighed, took a breath and cocked one ear toward the ceiling.

"Yes?" he replied.

{Your transport is here. You asked to be notified.}

Tomas' thought for a moment. He decided he probably had arranged that.

"Yes, thank you," he replied. "What form of transport is it? And where is it waiting."

{Your transport is standard for this cultural zone ... an unmanned EMcab. It is waiting at the front entrance.}

"Thank you. I will come right down."

{Your transport acknowledges.}

Tomas' picked up the PADD he'd been writing on last night before going to sleep and slipped it into his suit pocket. He left the room behind him, carrying his "go bag." Except for the covers thrown back on his bed, the room looked not unlike it had when he'd come in the night before. He took the elevator down three floors to the lobby and checked his bag for later retrieval. The clerk at the desk gave him a perfunctory smile which Tomas' made sure to emulate. He didn't feel like it. He did it because it was expected of him. Be polite. Be courteous. Be stable. He heard the distant thunder briefly, but squashed it immediately. He was doing better. He just had to focus.

He stepped through the front doors, and the door of his transport opened automatically, sliding back to reveal seats enough for six people. But the vehicle was empty. He'd asked for that, too, he was certain. There was no doorman either. He stepped away from the hotel and into the sunshine. The fountain nearby flung water in carefully sculpted arcs in a dozen directions. He felt drops of water thrown clear of the fountain splash against the side of his face, and he wiped them away as he slid into his seat.

"Please, fasten your restraints," the transport advised. "Thank you for choosing EMcab."

He would have smiled, but the sensors wouldn't understand that he routinely traveled much faster than this vehicle would ever go, and he rarely wore restraints. That was what Structural Integrity Fields were for. But then, this was an EMcab, not a star ship. There were other concerns here. He fastened his restraints and the vehicle purred silently away from the hotel.

"Where to?" the EMcab asked, attempting to mimic an organic driver.

Tomas' plugged the destination into the input/output access and selected "Silent" for trip mode. He didn't want to make conversation with a machine right now. He pulled the PADD out of his jacket's breast pocket and thumbed it to life. Began editing and adding things to the document he'd created. By the time the transport arrived at their destination, he was satisfied with his effort and put the PADD back in his pocket.

"Thank you for choosing EMcab," the transport said again. "Have a nice day."

Tomas' sat silently for a moment, glanced up at the monitor. "Fuck you." he said, his face a mask, and got out.

=/\=

The oak tree outside the front doors of the chapel broke the sunlight up into twinkling bits as the wind moved the leaves about. The chapel was old, if appearances could be believed. Stone and lumber apparently. A tall steeple with an ancient bell rose up over the doors. Silent fields reached out in all directions, brown with the end of harvest and the coming of colder nights ahead. The oak tree itself was slashed with reds and yellows and browns, a silent riot of color. Tomas' closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The smell of the fields, the dust in the air. And only the sound of an organ playing inside, muted by the closed front doors.

He went up the stone steps and opened one of the heavy wooden doors.

"Hello, sir," said a man he'd never met before.

"Hello," he replied.

"Would you care to sign the book?" the man asked.

Tomas' looked him up and down, the spare cut of his suit, muted in every way. His hands held just so, clasped in front of his waist. His face a mask of solicitude. Tomas' wasn't sure if he was a human playing the role of a greeting machine, or an actual man without much ability to seem human. He was tall, almost gaunt. HIs smile didn't reach his eyes. And his little brush of a mustache irritated him.

"Maybe later," he answered finally.

"Very good, sir. Please go on in. They're about to start."

Tomas' walked past him and promptly forgot the very presence of the man in the foyer. He pushed open the sanctuary door and stood for a moment in the back of a rustic church, wooden pews lined up to either side of him. A raised stage at the front held the organ on one side with its player, and a piano on the other side without one. One man stood behind the pulpit. A casket held prominent place nearby. The organ continued to play softly. No one in the pews turned to look at him as he walked down the center aisle, feeling every step, hearing the distant thunder of BORG feet on deckplates. In ... out! he demanded of himself. In ... out!

He managed to reach the front without dying and took three small steps to the stage and the pulpit. The other man nodded and stepped back. The pulpit was his.

Tomas' Vukovic looked down on the assembled folk in the pews. He knew every single one of them. There weren't many. Only the ones that should be there. Somewhere else there would be crowds of onlookers. People overcome with ostentatious grief. Not here. Not these people. These people were actually grief-stricken. Actually overcome. Nobody here was faking anything except him. He shook himself and looked down at the first pew.

Iphie looked back.

And the children. Tomas' didn't know them ... except for Dahlia, of course. Dahlia wasn't looking at him. She had wrapped her arms about herself and stared stonily at the floor. Iphie had her arm around the smallest of the children. And in the pew directly behind them was Jake Crichton. He was looking at the kids. But Iphie was looking at him.

He heard his heart pounding in his chest. The sound of distant thunder.

And he began.

"I knew Xana Bonviva."

It was all he got out before a drop of rain splashed on the PADD he'd laid on the pulpit.

At least he thought it was rain.

=/\=

Location: USS PHOENIX
Scene: The Vulgar Tribble kitchen

"Iphie!" one of the cooks dragged her into the kitchen. "He's crying!"

Iphie looked up at Tomas' Vukovic, the BORG who had been humming a Russian tune, and saw great wet tears cutting down his face.

"Oh, gods!" she breathed. "Medical emergency to the Vulgar Tribble!" she shouted.

She climbed up onto the alcove platform and triggered the regeneration release. Tomas' slumped forward, carrying her to the floor along with him. It was only seconds later the medics arrived, but it seemed like minutes ticking by as she tried to revive Vukovic.

Just as they were about to strap him to an anti-grav gurney, he opened his eyes and seized her hand.

"Iphie!" he hissed.

"I'm here, Cy. I'm here."

"Iphie! She's dead!"

"Who's dead, Cy?" but his eyes closed again, and his hand went limp in hers.

"O gods, o gods, o gods!" she whispered.

And she was crying, too.

=/\=

NRPG: This has been on my heart for some time, but I didn't know it. It jumped into my consciousness a few days ago. And I realized that the thing Tomas' (and therefore me) fears more than anything else is the loss of all those he loves or cares about. He fears being finally and irrevocably alone. Real fear is much worse than terror because it is unrelenting. Like the pounding cadence of BORG feet on deck plates. Sarah has asked me to join her in a novella engaging some of these same concerns. I am happy to do it. Thanks for letting me play. Sarah, this is for Xana.

=/\=

Kenneth Field
writing for

Lt. Tomas' Vukovic
Senior Flight Officer/Helm One
USS PHOENIX