| (no subject) |
[Oct. 10th, 2004|08:28 pm] |
She leaves Crichton in the corridor, intending to go straight to the bridge, when she remembers she has not yet spoken to the Centauri surgeon today. The Captain has been unconscious far too long.
The watch officer reports nothing unusual, so she heads toward the medical bay. At least, she thinks, they have managed to procure more medical supplies. But what good this will do, if they cannot even determine what is wrong with him ...
She shakes her head slightly, forcing back the memories. The Captain is incapacitated. You must remove him, and assume command.
There is little she can do, but watch, and wait.
Entering the main bay, she sees no one. The surgeon is elsewhere. But as she approaches the Captain's room, she halts in the doorway, frozen for a microt before she snaps to attention.
He's awake, if still looking tired, standing by the bed, looking up in surprise at her approach. Her voice is strained, though her face is perfectly composed. "Captain." |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 3rd, 2004|09:22 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  drained | ] |
The simple routine of arranging shore leave rosters is a somehow reassuring, distracting her from thinking too much about recent conversations. From wondering what it says about her, that Sun--and even Crichton, an alien--can see through her so easily. From speculating about the other ship, the planet below them, or the aliens' connection to Crichton. And from remembering that these routine details will all be meaningless if Crichton cannot get them back through the wormhole.
There is very little she can do, now, to help them all get home. She has only to hold the ship and crew together for nearly a weeken, in unknown space, unable to promise them anything. There is still much she can do to ruin their chances. One wrong move, another lapse in judgment, and they will be finished. She fears she is far from equal to the task assigned her.
But there is no one else to do it. She sighs, but she has no energy left to be so ashamed of last night's display. She can only concentrate on today, on this arn, this moment. They will go down to the planet, and they will procure weapons for themselves. She will think no further ahead, now.
She presses a key on her console. "Shore leave schedules have been posted on all terminals. Report to the bridge before leaving." She comms Sun again. "Officer Sun, are you ready?" |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 20th, 2004|12:27 am] |
[suspicious] Is this someone of the crew's idea of a practical joke?
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 13th, 2004|08:32 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | guilty | ] |
She wakes beneath a heavy coverlet, sunk deep in a soft mattress, and for a few microts all she wants to do is lie there, and let the soft haze lingering in her mind block whatever urgent thoughts are trying to get through. Her mind is still slightly fuzzy, but the sound of movement across the room brings her to instant alertness.
The prisoner ... Lathan, she remembers belatedly, as she sits up abruptly, one hand going for the sidearm under purple pillow ... is sitting in a hard chair by the door, munching on leftover food cubes. He's slouched over a little, but stands up quickly as she wakes.
"Ma'am?"
She almost brings out the gun, startled, but then realizes he's not moving to attack her. Not that she could have stopped him, if he'd wanted to hurt her last night. She'd been nearly passed out drunk, if she recalls, disgusted. Drunk, alone with an unbound prisoner. He could have easily killed her.
She wonders absently why he didn't. In his situation, she would have. But perhaps he truly trusts she will get him home. She hopes that trust is not misplaced.
Her own death would be a small loss to this ship, but with her gone he could have easily left her quarters and killed Crais, Crichton and Sun, and sabotaged this ship. Once again, she has allowed her own needs, emotional and physical, to override her ability to do her duty.
Her memory of the day before returns slowly, from the reassuring routine of the sparring to her odd conversation with Crichton. Trying to explain to him what was innate for her and Sun, trying to make him understand them. The memory of the patrol ship encounter still burns, her own failure like acid destroying what confidence she'd had left.
She does not remember leaving the bridge, or entering the hangar bay. She does not remember how she ran into Crichton, or any of their words to one another in the shuttle. She remembers flashes of the fight, but she'd been so far gone he'd pinned her easily, and she remembers lying trapped under him, remembers him shouting. It's all a blur of fear and self-disgust, rage and despair. But she knows she was right. If her control has frayed far enough that she would be so weak before them both, they will be better off with her gone.
They clearly do not wish her to go, however, and while the memory of their words, their faces are clear still, she cannot begin to understand why.
You haven't done anything wrong. You're not a failure.
You can start over. Start a new life for yourself.
There's life beyond the Peacekeepers. Crais found one. So can you.
She cannot see how. But Sun and even Crichton are thinking more rationally than she is now, and if they still think she is needed, she will accept their belief for now.
She comms the guards, doesn't look at Lathan as she dresses. "You will return to your quarters," she tells him. "Soon, you will be returned to your carrier. I will contact you then."
She wraps her hair silently, putting on her jacket, the unadorned sleeves a harsh reminder of all she has lost. She will stay, for now, but she will not wear her rank pins again. She has lost all right to wear them. She will hold herself and this ship together until they are safely in port, and right now that is all she can bring herself to hope for. Anything else, whatever new life Crichton and Sun promise ... that is too much for her to contemplate now. Focus on today, she thinks. Do whatever you must to get us all through today.
She takes a deep breath as the door opens, and orders the guards to return Lathan to his quarters immediately. They salute her with respect and confidence, and she lets out a slow sigh of relief as the doors close. This will not be easy. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 27th, 2004|05:34 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  anxious | ] |
“Stay here. Wait ‘til I give the signal.”
Soft words, a voice rough with exhaustion, barely audible over the roar of water. “Sir, I strongly suggest--” A gesture cuts her off; she cannot see his face. Freezing cold water falls in sheets, and the sky is starless black. Her comrades are gray ghosts through her night vision scope, figures wavering through water.
Hailstones rattle against the branches of the trees, a faint sound against the river’s rage. Her commander is a white blur, turning away. She can’t see the water, can only see his feet, then most of his legs disappearing as he wades into the swollen river. Then darkness, as he’s swept off his feet, and she can’t see him at all.
Two microts to extricate herself from her pack, then she’s plunging into the river after him, boots slipping on wet stones, icy water slamming into her, closing over her head. The sheer force of the current stuns her, and the cold numbs her even through thick leather. Lightning flashes as she gasps for breath, and her sharp cry of pain is lost in the crashing of water as broken branches and other debris pound against her bruised back and shoulders. Her scope is long gone, and she can only see in short, chaotic flashes, a progression of still images in black and pale blue-white. In each of them, he’s carried farther away, and she reaches for him, sees his face lit for a microt, but he won’t reach to her, won’t try to save himself.
And she would scream for him, but the swirling current pulls her under and she opens her mouth to swallow frigid water. A desperate breath, and it’s as if her lungs are paralyzed, shock and cold and she can’t breathe, can’t move, can only see light flaring rapidly, lightning through water and stars behind her eyes.
She wakes gasping, shaking as she pulls herself up to sit on the edge of the cot, hunched over with her hands on her knees as she struggles to breathe normally. Several microts pass before she realizes where she is, the quiet beeping of the medbay monitors penetrating through the memory of rushing water and the harsh rasp of her breathing. She’s still fully dressed, and drenched in a cold sweat.
The Captain sleeps still, on the next bed, and she lets her eyes linger on his face for a long moment as she tries to calm herself. If he were to wake now, he would see her pale and trembling, disoriented and afraid. But mercifully he does not, and as her heartrate gradually slows she gathers what shreds remain of her control.
An old dream, but one that had returned with distressing frequency in the last few months. This was the first time since before . . . She lets out a shaky sigh, turning away toward the wall comm unit. A consequence of the Aurora Chair, no doubt. Though the dream bears little resemblance, anymore, to the events that inspired it. A mission more than twenty cycles ago now, before she’d even met Crais, a simple retrieval gone horribly wrong. They’d been ill-prepared, and the weather had been their worst enemy.
She’d stood on the bank and watched as Lieutenant Eiran was carried away by the river, knowing that anyone attempting to go after him would meet the same end. She hadn’t given way to emotion and shock until later that day, when for reasons she still cannot fathom she’d abandoned the mission objective entirely. Even now, she isn’t sure she regrets those actions.
But in the dream it’s always Crais who’s swept downriver, and she cannot save him, and he won’t even let her try.
Her nails bite into her palm as her fist clenches, but her face is blank as she checks the monitors by his bed. Whatever Lirrona had done, it had clearly drained what little energy reserves Crais had left. He would sleep for a long time, and that was probably better for him.
( The bridge is silent, save for the ticking of instruments. ) |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 14th, 2004|01:47 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | drained | ] |
She flexes her hand cautiously as she enters the bridge. It still hurts, but she can move it, and she's sure with vigorous exercise she'll be able to use it again soon.
No one rises or salutes her as she arrives, but she's too tired to attempt to discipline them now. This is a rough, untrained crew, but they performed well in the recent fighting. A few monens of training, and she can figure out who's worth keeping, and turn them into soldiers. Not Peacekeepers, to be sure, but a crew they can rely on.
Her lips twist bitterly as she comes to stand behind the Captain's chair, noting how easily she falls into old patterns of thinking. These will not be her crew for long. She and Crais are not the capable team they once were, and as soon as they make the station ...
"Watch officer, report," she snaps. She will not let this undisciplined crew see a trained Peacekeeper give way to emotion and exhaustion, not after everything she's already lost. Her pride, she thinks, is all she has left.
The officer on duty at the moment is one of the few Centauri who stayed when most of the crew left--apparently one of Crais' maneuvers was too dangerous for their tastes.
He does not salute her, but he at least turns to face her when he answers. "Damage to this ship is minimal, ma'am. We haven't yet finished going over all the modifications Scorpius made, but none of them have so far affected her performance."
She nods, squaring her shoulders with difficulty, resting both hands on the back of the Captain's chair. She will not sit down, though her whole body aches and her head buzzes with fatigue. "What is our estimated arrivel time at Babylon 5?"
The officer looks around the bridge. "Ma'am ..." At the hesitation, she shoots him an icy glare, and he starts, blinking. "We don't know."
"I thought you said the engines were not affected."
"They aren't. We ... don't know where the station is. We've gone over all the data we've received, and all the star charts, since we exited that ... hole. But we're not in any sector anyone recognizes."
She stares at him, and he shrinks back a little. Her hands around the back of the chair are clenched and white. "You don't know where we are?" The words are sharp, and she struggles against cold fear, rising as she gazes out the viewport. She knows something of basic navigation, but without any star charts of the sector, she is lost. They are all lost. The black outside is suddenly empty and cold, and she rounds on the navigation officer. "You have scanned all of the charts?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She lets out a shaky sigh, and hopes no one hears it. Crichton and his frelling wormholes. "Run them again! All of them!" She hears the edge in her voice, impatient and angry, and silently scolds herself. She cannot lose control. Not again. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 11th, 2004|10:16 pm] |
THe ship turns over in a dizzy spiral as they travel down the wormhole, and she's thrown against the back of Crichton's chair before she falls to the floor. She doesn't know how long it takes, but once she can see space out the viewport again there are no ships around, save for a single Prowler that appears to be disabled.
She reaches for a console, pulling herself to her feet with an effort. "All hands ... to your stations." The words are hollow, automatic. "Set a course for Babylon 5. Comm me when we are in communication range."
She grabs one crew member's arm, looks at another. "You two are with me."
She's shaking, she realizes abruptly, staring down at her hands. Her right hand is swollen and purple, and when she flexes the fingers she can hear bone grinding together, but she feels nothing. As the lift doors close, she stares out the viewport at nothing. Unfamiliar stars, in another universe. She is numb, wrung out and exhausted, and part of her wants to sink to the deck and collapse, but some remnant of pride keeps her on her feet as they walk toward the crew quarters.
She has never been so alone, and it is just beginning to hit her at this moment, as the battle is over. They have escaped, and in two days they will be at that station. What she will do, where she will go, she has no idea.
Her hand is starting to twinge as they enter the room, and she orders the crew to bring Crais to the medical bay. There is little she can do for him, with medicines that are made for Centauri and humans, but it will give her something to distract herself for a little while. She opens a medical kit as they lay him on a bed and leave. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 3rd, 2004|11:40 pm] |
She's just stepped out of the shower when the comm buzzes. It is time.
Slipping quickly into her tunic and leathers, she stands at attention before the mirror, wrapping her hair quickly, fastening her jacket. Dressing for battle, as she's done a thousand times before.
The familiarity is reassuring, something known for her to hold onto as she pulls on her boots. She has heard nothing from Crichton or Sun in three days. Nothing from Braca either, and for once she's grateful for Braca's pronounced lack of initiative, and the slow, cumbersome bureaucracy that is High Command. No orders have been received regarding her status, so no one has had reason to check her file.
These last few days, it's been all she can do to hold herself together. Forty cycles of training tell her a soldier must be rested and prepared for action at all times. But she can never sleep for long, tired as she's been. She cannot quiet her mind enough to relax. The memory of the Aurora Chair is waiting for her when she closes her eyes. In the training room she can forget everything for a while, but she knows she cannot afford to wear herself out before the fight.
She's running on pure nerve by now, and she hopes it doesn't show. She has never enjoyed waiting for action. This time, though, the usual doubts are multiplied a hundredfold. Fears for her comrades' safety, the possibility of failure, these she dealt with before every mission. Danger is nothing new to her, nor even death, but today she is a traitor, and though she has committed to her course she knows it is not the right one. She is a traitor to her oath and her ideals, her crew and her Captain, and when this is over she will be left with nothing.
If she lives to see this day end, she will face the consequences of her actions later. Now the path she's chosen lies before her, and she can only go forward. She is a soldier, and she knows the time for thinking is past.
Cycles of training have conditioned her to focus only on the preparations themselves. This is when she goes over the plan-what she will be called upon to do, and how she will do it.
The last arn before a mission, she allows herself to think only of concrete objectives. Wider goals and abstract reasons are an unnecessary distraction on any mission, and a thousand times more so on this one.
The weight of her empty holster against her hip brings her back, as she buckles her gunbelt. There is no past and no future here, in these final preparations. All plans have been made, and there is only the present, herself and her allies, her enemies and her objectives. The time for doubts is long gone, and the familiar motions of arming herself help her focus.
"Computer." She's surprised at the steadiness of her voice. "This is a command level override, Security Three Velka." The room's terminal scans her hand as she recites her authorization code. It's a simple matter to write up an order, sealed with all the codes and security clearances they need. A final stroke, and the terminal spits out a datachip.
She logs out of the system and slaps the comms. "Officer Sun. If you are sufficiently ... recovered, perhaps you can meet me in the steam room, and we can try a rematch? Unless you are willing to concede defeat already?" |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 27th, 2004|12:34 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | distressed | ] |
She casts a reflexive glance around the room as she hides the comm. It looks as if no one has been in here since she left.
If Braca had discovered the recent tampering with the ship's computers, she
would know about it. He would have sent guards to arrest her by now.
It is still afternoon, and Crichton's latest communication had indicated he and Sun would not be meeting her until later in the evening. She wants to get into the computer. She wants to verify what Crichton told her about the guards, and check their schedule, and the status of the Centauri vessel. She wants to try to find out something, anything, about Crais' condition. And she's afraid to, at the same time. She has no time to think of him.
Getting him out would be hard enough, even if she were completely focused and in control. She is neither. But she knows the only way she can help him right now is to put him out of her mind and concentrate. She has a mission,
and she must think only of that.
If she tries to access the computer's secure areas now, she might be discovered. She will not use the passwords she has recently activated until
it is necessary.
But she cannot remain in her quarters, doing nothing, until Crichton and Sun are finished with whatever preparations they have in mind. She needs to focus, and that means she can't stop to think too long about what she is doing, and what she has done. She needs to keep moving.
Tucking her comm into the cord holding her hair back, she leaves her quarters, heading for the training room. More than anything she simply wants to find the nearest training dummy and beat the dren out of it, but she forces herself to strip out of her leathers, sitting on the mat in her shorts and sleeveless undershirt.
Sore muscles protest as she stretches, legs straight in front of her, arms reaching for her feet. She hadn't bothered to stretch at all before or after her last workout, and she is feeling every blow Sun landed now. The pain is a distraction, and she seizes it as an anchor to here and now. Focus, she orders herself as she rolls over, lying flat and pushing herself off the mat with one arm.
She holds it for a few microts, her other hand out of the way, behind her
back, before lowering herself slowly till her nose touches the mat. The muscles in her arm burn at the effort, a tearing sensation as she pushes off the mat again. Breathing unevenly, she continues with a strained grunt, another eight one-armed pushups before switching to her right arm. Sweat rolls off her forehead, running down her nose and dripping on the red surface of the mat, and she forces herself to slow down, her arm shaking as she exhales.
Two more sets of ten, and she rolls over, staring up at the ceiling before getting to her feet. There are other soldiers all around, but none of them pay her any heed. There's a bar at one end of the room, built for someone taller than her, but she jumps and wraps both hands around it, sweat-slick palms nearly sliding off. Her arms feel like water, trembling as she pulls herself up. She draws on what strength she can find, concentrating solely on her breathing as she raises her chin above the bar before letting herself hang once more.
When she's finished she lets herself drop, a muffled groan escaping her as her feet hit the floor. A sloppy landing, and she sways, before moving over to a foam dummy and lashing out with a hard kick.
This is a release, no control or finesse here, striking blindly at the target until her ankle twists and she stumbles, sitting down hard. Sweat streams down her face, and she's breathing in harsh gasps. Stray wisps of hair have started to work loose from her queue, and abruptly she realizes that if she keeps this up too much longer, her hair is going to come undone and the Centauri comm is going to fall on the mat in full view of every commando working out here.
Rising unsteadily to her feet, she gathers up her leathers and walks slowly toward the steam room.
Silvery silk is smooth and soothing against her skin, and the steam is clean and refreshing, warm but not uncomfortable as she throws her clothes in the cleanser. Stretching out on a bench, she allows herself to close her eyes. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 20th, 2004|08:18 pm] |
She wakes from a restless sleep some six arns after returning to her quarters, dressing quickly in her old uniform. It’s a hollow feeling, pinning her old lieutenant’s bars to her sleeve for what may be the last time, insignias she had been proud to receive, once.
Honors she no longer deserves, if she ever did.
But now they will serve another purpose, she thinks, pulling on her jacket so that the sleeves cover the raw flesh of her wrists. Her face in the mirror is still pale and tired, as she wraps her hair carefully in a tight queue, but a few arns’ sleep has given her much-needed strength. And a plan.
( Finally, she can do something. She only hopes this plan will work. ) |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 14th, 2004|08:29 pm] |
I am pleased to discover that you are a Peacekeeper still.
The words echo behind him as the door closes, and she is alone. For the first microt, all she feels is relief. Her knees are trembling, and she’s afraid her legs are about to give out completely.
She remembers Braca, remembers his smirk, remembers the angry satisfaction as he struck Crais down, and she allows the rage to flood through her, swings a fist into the wall with all her strength. The wall is hard, unyielding, and pain shoots all the way up her arm. She lashes out again, blood staining the cold metal this time, imagining Braca’s face as he lay beneath her, wishing she’d simply blown his head off, imagining his blood spreading all across the floor. Drawing her arm back again, she stops abruptly, breathing hard.
She will not allow herself the luxury of an emotional display, not even alone with the security cameras off. She is still a Peacekeeper—because of her own actions and her own beliefs, not because that fool says so—and she is stronger than that. She takes a deep breath and turns around.
Spots of blood mark the floor where he was beaten down. The blanket on her bed is still rumpled where he’d sat.
It was necessary.
Scorpius had said his research would save millions of Peacekeeper lives, and half-breed or not he is clearly a formidable scientist. She stares at the blood on the floor, breathing fast and shallow. You are a soldier. You had a duty to perform. There was no other choice.
When a soldier becomes unfit for duty, regardless of how exemplary his service once was . . . when he endangers the lives and the mission of the Peacekeepers . . . The old words, drilled into her by a dozen training manuals, a hundred instructors, ring hollow in her memory. All she can see is his last glance at her, looking up from the floor as he was dragged away. Blood running down his face, fury and exhaustion and pain in his eyes, and all she wants to do right now is run to his cell and shoot anything she sees on the way, fall to her knees beside him and salve his wounds, carry him to safety.
But he is not the commander she once knew, and this crushing remorse she feels is irrational, and it will fade. Someday. It must.
She sinks down onto the bed, clenched fists resting on her knees, staring at the purple bruises forming on her right hand. Braca will undoubtedly want to speak to her tomorrow, and tonight she must sleep. She has had hardly any sleep since she got here, and she must rest, in order to be fit for duty.
The bed is still warm, where he’d sat only a few hundred microts before, and she curls up on top of the rumpled coverlet, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to block the memories.
She sleeps lightly, drifting in and out of troubled dreams, coming awake only a few arns later.
In the bathroom mirror, her face is pale, and there are dark purple shadows under her eyes. She washes her face, straightens her hair, tries to ignore the open bottle of salve and the few blood-stained cloths beside the sink.
Grabbing her jacket from the back of a chair, she slaps the door controls and walks quickly out into the hallway, unable to face the empty room and all that is there to remind her of him.
There are several soldiers working out in the nearest training area, and no one looks at her as she walks in. It occurs to her that they don’t know her, don’t know her actions. She is one of them, for all they know.
That should please her. But it doesn’t. She finds an unused dummy, drops her jacket by the wall. Teeth bared in a snarl, she aims a vicious blow, watches as the dummy springs backward, kicks hard as it rebounds at her. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 13th, 2004|01:53 am] |
As the door shuts behind him, she moves quickly to the comm unit by the bed. Now, she must do it now, or she will change her mind and whatever happens next will be her fault. As surely as the deaths of her former crew were her fault.
Her fingers punch the code for Braca's quarters, and she listens for any sounds from the bathroom. Only water running, and she lets out a shaky sigh.
"Braca." It's an annoyed growl, and she is suddenly very glad he cannot see her face. "What is it?"
"Captain Braca." She will not let him hear her hesitate, though her hands clench hard around the edges of the table. "Captain Crais has escaped. He is currently in my quarters--" She breaks off, unable to go on, but it is enough. Let him think she had to sign off so fast because Crais was about to see her. She cuts the connection, then stumbles over to the bed, sits down, and for a microt she struggles to breathe.
Let him come swiftly. If there is any mercy in the universe, let this be over ...
There is no sound now but the faint shush of running water, and the pounding of her heart. |
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| uncertain loyalties ... |
[Jun. 28th, 2004|03:16 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | distressed | ] |
The quarters she's been assigned are not as luxurious as her accommodations on the Centauri cruiser, and nothing like her old suite on the old carrier, but she's slept in far worse places. When the door is closed, she can almost forget that there are two guards stationed outside watching her every move.
Not that it would be difficult for her to incapacitate them both, if she wanted to. She may be older now, more accustomed to life aboard a carrier, in relative safety and comfort. But in learning to operate frag cannons and long-range lasers, she has not forgotten how to kill with her hands. Still, there is nowhere to go on this carrier, nowhere to hide. Whether she ultimately chooses to escape or to stay, she needs Braca to trust her for now.
Braca. Of all those she might have found herself dependent upon . . . Her lips twist bitterly at the memory of their last conversation, as she allows herself to lie back on the narrow bunk. Her entire body still aches, and her wrists and ankles are bruised where the Aurora Chair's restraints had held her. She has a pounding headache, but the pain is the least of her problems.
She doesn't even know how long she's been on board this ship. In isolation, in the medical bay, she remembers dreaming of black water, cold searing into her very bones, rising to choke her. She remembers waking in a cold sweat, but she cannot say how long ago it was. She has not slept since. As a soldier, she knows she should rest now; she hardly slept at all on the cruiser before arriving here, and she is too fatigued to fight right now even if she knew who the enemy is.
( Read more... ) |
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| Captured |
[May. 2nd, 2004|08:54 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | drained | ] |
As plans went, it had been a dismal one.
She'd had her doubts from the beginning. Three against an entire Command Carrier? She should have expected something like this.
She'd been warned Officer Sun might not be willing to leave. She hadn't expected Crichton to surrender so easily, to withdraw immediately from the fight and leave her and Crais to be captured without offering any aid whatsoever.
Sitting on a hard metal bench in a holding cell, she watches the guard on the other side of the door, resisting the urge to pace. Anger is useless to her now. She must maintain control.
It's been two hours since they were captured. She and Crais were separated immediately, and the guards did not respond when she asked where he was. She's inspected the cell for any weaknesses and found none; she didn't expect to. She knows every inch of a ship like this, and with the scant resources at her disposal she knows there is no way she can escape on her own.
All she can do now is wait, and be ready for an opportunity, if one presents itself.
Peacekeepers are trained to endure captivity, but none of her training prepared her to see familiar uniforms on the opposite side of that door. She has to remind herself, every now and then, that these guards are the enemy--though she's becoming painfully aware that she doesn't exactly know why.
She fixes her eyes on a point on the far wall, trying to calm her mind, focusing on breathing exercises she'd been taught in early training. But somehow, she can't seem to relax. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 24th, 2004|10:29 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | worried | ] |
After Crichton returns to his quarters to gather his possessions, Teeg follows Crais toward the docking bay. She's still deeply uneasy about this whole adventure, going over in her mind all that she knows, all that Crichton told her when she last spoke to him. Throughout this trip, she's hardly had a chance to talk to Crais at all.
It's not entirely his fault. After the first day on board, she didn't make much of an effort to seek him out. That late night conversation with the human shook her far more than she wants to admit, even to herself. There are some things she doesn't want to discuss with Crais, and some questions she's still afraid to ask.
But she can't shake the old feeling she remembers from her last days on the old carrier ... the feeling that everything is sliding out of her control, and there's nothing she can do to stop it. That she can no longer trust anything or anyone she once believed in.
Focus, Lieutenant, she orders herself sternly. You have a mission to accomplish. Worry about everything else later. |
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| Humans are - bizarre creatures |
[Apr. 23rd, 2004|08:20 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  annoyed | ] |
As executive officer of a Command Carrier, one of my many responsibilities was to prepare weekly news updates for the crew. Knowledge of necessary mission details and information about events taking place onboard the carrier are essential to maintaining morale. Lack of official news from the command staff leads to rumors spreading, causing unnecessary alarm and negatively affecting crew performance.
Information provided to all the crew was not as complete as the status reports I submitted to the Captain - there are certain things the lower ranks do not need to know. It was my responsibility to sort through the facts of each week's events and decide which parts of the truth could be safely circulated among the entire crew. Thus all Peacekeepers on board would feel that they knew what was going on around them, without compromising any sensitive information.
This was routine paperwork, and hardly the most interesting of my duties. I remember this today only because I have recently learned the human approach to spreading the news is vastly different.
Instead of selecting from the whole truth the facts which are most relevant and least likely to cause agitation and conflict, the human writers seem to choose the few facts which are least relevant to any important matter and add the wildest fabrications to them. The goal seems to be the creation of stories calculated to inflame readers, without offering any useful information. Unless explicit details of others’ sexual encounters are considered important knowledge by their species. Mr. Crichton tells me it is a human custom to be concerned with such matters. I cannot fathom why this is so.
I almost wonder if this undue obsession with knowing every detail of others’ recreational habits came about because many humans have great difficulty in finding recreation partners of their own?
Contrary to this particular human reporter’s suggestion, Captain Crais’ sexual activities do not interest me at all. However, I do know him very well, and – foolishly assuming that this woman was attempting to write a factual account of happenings on this station – I undertook to correct what was obviously a misconception on her part. She responded by calling me a monster, which was completely uncalled for, and implied that she wished to make me the subject of a future story. I told her in no uncertain terms that any attempt to do so would be harmful to her health, and I trust that will be the end of it.
I confess I am looking forward to leaving this station and this universe, and returning to a place that is more familiar to me. |
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| decisions... |
[Apr. 20th, 2004|01:45 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | distressed | ] |
She spent what was left of the currency Crais had given her on some clothes that might be less likely to alarm the humans, and some food - a few loaves of bread, something called "spoo" and some strange human drink called a "milkshake".
After that she called up everything the station's computers had on the design and weapons of Centauri cruisers, trying to get an idea of the kind of ship they were going to be flying, trying to prepare for a mission she knows far too little about. She found the cruiser's schematics in the computer. She also found something else...
Now she's sitting at her computer terminal, staring at the words on the screen. Forty-four words, and it took her two hours to type them. And she still can't find the courage to hit "send".
How in hezmana is she supposed to respond to this?
Captain,
Blood ties are not the only ties that bind comrades together. Or do you truly believe the almost twenty years we stood together in battle meant so little to me? You did not have to explain anything.
I would not have betrayed you.
She covers her eyes with one hand, leaning one elbow on the terminal. Since she arrived here, she'd almost managed not to think about the past. She was too busy worrying about the present. Figuring out where she was, how she got here, who these strange aliens around her were.
Now the memories flicker relentlessly across her mind. Entering Crais' quarters to find him sprawled on the floor, a weapon in his hand and not a mark on him. The bitter, choking feeling of helplessness, watching as the surgeon tried in vain to revive him; the sick certainty that everything was sliding out of control. The incomprehension and betrayal in Lieutenant Orn's eyes when she refused to do what all his training told him must be done. He was young, he couldn't know what it's like when all the roads before you lead into darkness, when duty and love pull in opposite directions, hard enough to tear you apart.
She can still see the wild, desperate gleam in the Captain's eyes when he woke at last, starting up suddenly and striking out at her, not seeing her at all - confusion and fury mingled when he recognized her and she caught him, holding onto him when he would have fallen to the floor . . .
One hand finds the "erase" key, and her shoulders slump, her head bows over the console, forehead resting on cool metal. She can still feel the warmth of his hand against her cheek, and now she can't stop shivering. |
|
|
| resting |
[Apr. 18th, 2004|01:50 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  relieved | ] |
Half an arn after leaving Crais' quarters, she has a key for a room one level below his. The woman in charge of renting temporary quarters entered her into the computer as a human, but she was too exhausted to bother correcting the mistake. She finds the room without any trouble, sliding the key card into the lock and stepping inside.
The room is sparsely furnished, with a bed, a chair, and a computer terminal, and not much else. Her head is throbbing painfully by now, but mostly she feels desperately relieved, at least some of her confusion and uncertainty alleviated by the sight of a familiar face.
Whatever dangers await them, she has a sense of purpose, a mission to prepare for. But a soldier must be awake and alert for such a mission, and she must rest now.
Sinking down on the bed, she pulls off her boots, crawling under the blankets. It's not as large or comfortable as the old executive officer's suite, but she has slept soundly on far worse. Hugging the pillow, she closes her eyes. |
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