A/N; This is another idea that popped into my head while I was working on my other stuff. I'm writing it concurrently with the others and have every intention of finishing everything. I wanted to experiment with first person point of view, and this is the result. Please read and review; I've never written anything like this and I want to know if it jives.
The alarm blares above my head; without a second glance I reach up and switch it off. Most days the inspirational power chords of the theme song to the wildly popular twenty-first century Star Wars provides me with just the right amount of motivation to get myself out of bed on limited hours of sleep. Most days I like to compare myself to Luke Skywalker, as ridiculous and juvenile as that may seem. But some of the similarites are uncanny. We are both ex-small town boys, thrown into extraordinary circumstances we could've only dreamed of as children. We're both involved in trans-space battles much bigger than ourselves, persuaded into joining by the murder of a family member.
Today, though, instead of providing me with the inspiration I desperately need, the now familiar tune only serves to remind me that I'm not Luke Skywalker. I don't have the Force working with me anytime I need to do any heavy lifting. If I want to know what T'Pol is thinking when she sends me those damn unreadable looks across the bridge, I have to rely on my less than reliable ability to read Vulcan body language. Today, the theme song to the movie about the man I idolized as a child shifts me into a pissy mood before I've even left my quarters.
I can't blame my poor desposition entirely on a song, though. Repairs to the Enterprise have been keeping my entire department busy, and unfortunately, the spare pips on my uniform do not exempt me from the menial tasks. Lack of stimulation to my wildly imaginitive brain had led to incredibly vivid nightmares of death and destruction raining down from the sky. Time that could've been more productively used doing nearly anything else, I had spent lying in a puddle of sweat, shaking with adrenaline and trying to forget the images that seemed to have seared themselves onto the back of my eyelids.
I sit up slowly, running a hand through pillow flattened hair. It's Monday morning, which means a Command Meeting on the bridge in twenty minutes. I don't want to go; going over the recent hum-drum repairs to the ship is not my idea of a good start to the week. I could send my second-in-command, but having Hess show up instead of me might raise more questions than if I did make an appearance, albeit a little worse for wear.
I decide against a shower, and simply pull on yesterday's uniform over the Starfleet issue underwear I had fallen asleep wearing. It's hardly hygenic, but somewhere along the way I had lost my desire to slip into a freshly pressed recently laundered uniform every morning. I stick my head in the lav long enough to make sure I'm somewhat presentable. My hair is short enough that it doesn't need to be combed; I haven't shaved in two days but I've never been heavily endowed in the facial hair department, so it just looks like a five o'clock shadow.
I leave my quarters just as Malcolm is passing by in the corridor; he pauses long enough to cast me an odd look before I fall into step next to him. "Good morning, Commander. Rough night?"
I shoot him a look that hopefully tells him my nighttime habits, or lack thereof, are not up for discussion. "It was fine. How 'bout you, Lieutenant? How's the armoury holding up?"
He shruggs, an action that up until a year and a half ago, I wouldn't have thought him capable of. "Aft phase cannons are still offline, but the repairs to the forward photon torpedo tubes are almost complete. We should be bristling for battle by the end of the shift."
He sounds incredibley upbeat for a man that, like me, has been pushed to indecent lengths the past couple of days, and in that instant, I hate him. It doesn't last long, though, and by the time we reach the lift at the end of the corridor the brief hate born of jealousy is replaced by a grudging respect. He's good at his job, but I don't tell him; he knows.
I lean heavily against the lift walls, and allow Malcolm to program our destination into the controls. Nothing is said during the brief ride up four decks to the bridge, as if my companion suddenly interpreted my unspoken request for silence. I'm aware of him watching me as the doors to the lift open up on the bridge, but don't respond to it, because I suddenly realize that we are the last to arrive. Hoshi, Travis, T'Pol, and Captain Archer are all standing around the tactics console, and as we step out onto the deck plating all four pairs of eyes focus on us.
Malcolm apologizes for our tardiness as we take up our places around the table, and I somehow manage to not point out to him that at 0755, we are not late for the meeting at 0800. Captain Archer seems to realize this, and waves off Malcolm's apology with a hand. He glances cautiously at me out of the corner of his eye before asking Hoshi to begin.
She starts by updating everyone on the changes in function she's made to the universal translator. She approached me late last week with the possible modifications, and after telling her to run with it, I assigned two of my people to assist her. It's nice to see that everything worked out the way she hoped it would, but it's even nicer to see the reddish glow in her cheeks when the Captain acknowledges her hard work, and praises her for it.
Hoshi finishes, and after a nod from Captain Archer, Malcolm's clipped accented tone fills the void. I drown out his words; even without the update he gave me this morning, I know how repairs in Malcolm's department are going. Our sections overlap sometimes, so we're always aware of what the other is doing. I don't need to hear it all again to know that the port cannon assembly is giving them trouble.
I can feel T'Pol's gaze on my face as I stare down vaguely at the pad in my hands. I imagine her eyes burning holes in my skin, and wonder if it would hurt the same. It's been a week since she effectively told me to buzz off, though in much more diplomatic terms. I'm quite positive it's partly due to the lack of neuropressure that the nightmares have come back en force, but under threat of death I would not confess that to her. As a result of growing up in a large family, I know when I'm not wanted. Besides, I hate the fact that I grew to rely on those sessions to get me through the days. Spending an hour with T'Pol every night became the light at the end of my tunnel. When repairs and modifications and upgrades added up to be too much, I could always look forward to that hour in her quarters. I wonder if she realizes how much it all meant to me when she told me to-
"Commander Tucker!"
My chin jerks up at the sound, and I meet Captain Archer's gaze, a small side helping of concern flashing in his brown eyes to go with the main course of annoyance written all over his face. I clear my throat uncomfortably, and squawk out, "yessir?"
He sighs, in perfect imitation of my father when he was pushed to the limits of his patience, by me. That comparison frightens me for a moment, and rather than risk annoying my Captain any further, I resolve to ponder over that thought later in the day. "I was just asking about Engineering. If you could try to stay with us, Commander, I'd like to know how the repairs are coming."
Embarrassment colours my cheeks. It's not the first time I've zoned out during a Command Meeting, and it's doubtful to be the last. But disappointing the Captain, even in such a small capacity as this, always cuts right to the core. I quickly run through all the major tasks my crew and I have been getting into, and it doesn't take long. Most of the items on my to-do list consist of stuck doors and leaky faucets. What I wouldn't give to have the plasma relays fuse together...
I finished reading off the litany of odd jobs, and the Captain ends the meeting with little fanfare. But of course, not before asking to speak to me in his office. Alone. I sigh. I know I'm in for it; as fair as Captain Archer is about pretty much everything, he doesn't take well to his senior officers dozing through his command meetings. He's been pretty easy on me in the past, but I'm never sure if this is the time he's really going to come down hard. I share a knowing glance with Malcolm before following the Captain across the bridge.
He takes a seat behind his desk, and motions me to do the same in the chair opposite him. He takes a sip from the coffee cup I have yet to see leave his hand this morning as I get comfortable. My seat is a little over two inches shorter than his; it's one of those little tricks Starfleet can't help but employ to better create the feel of disparity among ranks. The general feeling is that the appearance of a Captain looming over an officer is an effective means of establishing a sense of superiority. They don't realize that these back handed tricks aren't needed with Captain Archer. First of all, the crew respects him because he earned it, not because he's taller than they are. Second, he would tower over me if he was sitting on the floor, and I was the one in the high chair.
He sets his mug down on his desk, looks up at me, and I'll be damned if that hint of concern isn't back in his eyes. "What's going on with you, Trip?"
I know exactly what he's talking about, but I don't let him know that. I learned long ago that not only is ignorance bliss, it's also an effective shielding measure. "What do you mean, Cap'n?"
He sends me a deadpanned look that tells me he sees right through my feigned denseness. "Don't jerk me around, Commander. You know exactly what I mean. You look like hell."
By some miracle of certainly divine intervention, I manage not to scowl at his words. So he's pulling out the big guns. By reminding me of my lower rank, and being blunt bordering on rude, he lets me know in no uncertain terms that he's a Captain, and I am not.
I stare at the desk top in front of me, and somehow reel in the urge to drum my fingertips on it's surface. "I, uh, didn't sleep well last night. Y'know, with the repairs and all."
The Captain nodds knowingly. He knows that lack of mental stimulation makes me crazy, in simple terms. It's why he tries to make sure I'm on away missions taking place during slow times, and why he mostly excuses the prank wars that plague Engineering every couple of months.
"Are you sure that's it?"
His question surprises me, and I can feel my eyebrows raising in astonishment. I wonder briefly if being psychic is a requirement for a commanding officer, but quickly dismiss the thought. He's the first Captain I've served under that's been able to read me so well.
I don't tell him the truth. He doesn't need to know, he might worry. And when Captain Archer worries, it generally tends to involve Doctor Phlox, and his favourite little hypospray. As much as I would appreciate twelve hours of restful sleep, I do not like to be under the influence of his drugs. So I steel my surprise behind my best poker face, and nodd stiffly. "Yeah, Cap'n. That's all it is."
He looks me over carefully for a few seconds, then nodds himself, in the way that signifies he's made up his mind to believe me. "Why don't you put in a half day today, Trip? Take in a good meal in the mess hall, then get yourself into bed."
The thought of returning to the Land of the Nightmares immediately puts me on edge, but still I agree with him rather readily. I can still get a lot of work done while remaining out of sight. I wait until he dissmisses me, then I get the hell out of there, after promising that he won't see me for the next twelve hours. I don't take offense; it's his way of letting me know he's worried, and I'll be the subject of his careful scrutiny until he comes to the conclusion that I'm all right.
I spend a few minutes longer on the bridge, quietly discussing solutions to the problems Malcolm finds his team facing, before excusing myself and scurrying back to engineering. Unless there's something extraordinary going on, time spent on the bridge during a lull in the action can sometimes be as painful as pulling teeth without anastethic.
Down in Engineering, I hunt down my SIC and get an update on what's happened in my absence. I sign off on her pad, officially relieving her of duty for the next twelve hours, and send her on her way. She goes happily, without a fight, obviously enamoured with the idea of twelve hours of uninterupted Hess-time.
I scroll down the pad she had handed me, select a job at random, and set to work on crossing it off on my list. Sure, replacing plasma conduits wasn't the most glamerous, or challenging task on board the ship, but it had to be better than whatever it was the bridge crew was up to. I begin with gusto, partly content to have something to occupy my hands, but at the same time disheartened that it was something as instinctual as removing conduits. Very little brain work involved in the process. About twenty minutes and halfway through my job, a quiet and decidedly feminine voice speaks up at my elbow. "Commander Tucker?"
I switch off the plasma torch, and turn around. Ensign Sato stands before me, a surprise but certainly welcome visitor to Engineering. She looks worried, guilty, almost, and when combined with the fact that I had seen her not thirty minutes ago, I'm certain I'm not going to like what she has to say.
"What can I do for you, Ensign?"
She glances down at her hands, and that's when I notice the data ship she has clenched in between her fingers. She looks up and stares me right in the eye, and I swear I can see tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.
"Um, sir, I don't know quite how to say this." I want to tell her to get on with it, but before I can, she says, "When I was running through those modifications to the UT, I found something waiting in the queues."
I don't yet realize the connection this has with me. Whenever a communication is received by the ship, it waits in a storage file, or a queue, until one of the communications people sorts it into the proper mailbox. It may seem like a slightly cumbersome procedure, but on the whole, it makes scanning for incoming viruses much easier.
She holds out a hand, the data chip is nestled comfortably in her palm. "I'm really sorry, sir. I don't know how this could've happened."
Before reaching out and taking the chip, I send it a suspicious look. "It's for me? Who's it from?"
If at all possible, she seems to grow even more agitated. Her chin drops to her chest. "It's...it's from your sister, sir. Elizabeth."
The plasma torch slips from my suddenly lax grasp, but I only barely register the loud, resulting clatter as background noise. A message from my baby sister, my sister whose been dead for ten months now. It's like...it's like she's speaking to me from beyond the grave. I shake that thought off as quickly as it manifests, and snatch the chip from her hand. Some words pour out of my mouth, and I at least have the presence of mind to hope it's thanks. I leave the torch where it fell on the floor, and hurry with the chip to my office in the corner opposite the warp engine. My quarters seems like a better idea to play this message, what with the added privacy, but I know I can't wait to read it. Butterflies have appeared in my stomach, and my hand trembles as I lock the door behind me.
I flop down in my chair, and without further ado, slip the chip into my computer terminal. The Starfleet insignia appears on the screen, displaying the date and time the transmission was recieved. Squinting, I recognize the date as about two weeks before the attack, and my heart twists painfully in my chest. I instruct the computer to play the message, and lean forward in my chair, resting my elbows on the desktop.
Elizabeth's smiling face fills the screen, and suddenly there's inexplicable tears in my eyes. I blink them back, and reach out to trail a finger down the long line of her hair as she smiles at me. "Hi Big Brother!" The recording fails to capture the sheer presence she possesses in personal conversations, but I find myself grinning nonetheless.
After giving me a brief gossip refresher course in the comings and goings of our family, and her friends, she goes on to tell me tell me about her post graduate work in her chosen field of architecture. She holds up a blueprint off the building she had a hand in designing, and this time the computer does an adequate job of relaying her obvious pride. She tells me that she misses me, that when she looks up at the stars at night she imagines she can see Enterprise zooming across the sky, taking me on adventure after adventure. She smirks a little at this last part; she was the only family member I had told about my pregnancy, but she never fails to get in a jab when she feels it's appropriate. Her attitude sobers up quickly, and she makes me promise, albeit a little one sidedly, to be safe. The last time she made me promise this, I dragged Malcolm over to the terminal, and made him run through his updated security procedure. Back then, a conversation with Malcolm allayed her fears, but now that memory doesn't seem to do the trick. She tells me that my other siblings, and parental units send their love, and that they all wait to hear back from me. Then, with one last kiss to the camera, she's gone. Her images winks out, and the terminal spits the chip back at me.
For a long minute I simply sit there, staring at the blackened screen and imagining I can still see her face there. The pain in my chest becomes too much, and I drop my head to the table top. She's amazing. Was amazing. So loving and incredible and full of life. And now I'm not even sure where she is, if her ashes were cast away in the breeze that followed the attack, or if one day her body will be found, one of the unfortunate victims that were only a metre too close to the energy beam to survive. I don't know if she was vapourized in seconds, or trapped under a building in an air pocket, waiting to be rescued until she starved to death, or crushed under the tons of building materials that collapsed in the aftershock. The uncertainty kills me. I know now that I couldn't have prevented her death, even if I had been there with her, but it doesn't stop me from wishing she didn't suffer. It's bad enough she had to die, but imagining her alone in the throes of agony, wondering which breath will be her last...
"Rostov to Commander Tucker."
I raise my head slowly, glaring at the intercom and wondering if Ensign Rostov has the best timing in the world, or the worst. I swipe a hand across my face, mopping up the stray tears, and reach out to press the button with a finger that only trembles slightly. "What is it, Ensign?"
"We're having a little trouble with the manifold assembly, sir. Do you think you could give us a hand?"
I can fake a normal tone well enough, but removing this scowl from my face would require non-recommended doses of Phlox's favourite little hypospray. I depress the button again. "Gimme a minute, and I'll be right out."
He acknowledges, and my office once again falls into an uneasy silence. The chip remains in the dataport; I reach out with careful fingers and pull it out. The now near-holy data chip takes up residence in one of my uniforms zippered pockets, incidentally the one over my heart.
I stand slowly, take another minute to scrub at my face with both hands, then unlock my door and head out.
The first thing I notice is someone on my team has finished with the conduit I had been replacing. I make a mental note to thank whoever it was when I send out the weekly schedule on Friday, and weave my way over to wear Rostov stands with Crewman Agar. They both nodd at me, then Rostov gives me a quick rundown of what's giving them trouble, and what he suspects the problem is. I encourage free thinking in my crew; if ever they hit a road block, I don't mind giving them a hand, but I expect to know why they need it, and what they think will fix it. Rostov's explanation is mostly right, but I know that to make it really stick, I will have to demonstrate.
I hold a hand out, requesting their requisitioned plasma torch. It seems to be my tool of choice for the day, and I consider briefly carrying one around on my belt from now on. I quickly check the settings, then fire up the torch, pleased as punch at the dark blue flame that erupts from the tip. I glance at Rostov and Agar, making sure they're watching as closely as I know they are, then set to work.
I kneel before the manifold, gently touching the torch to the warped metal. A tiny display of pyrotechnics erupts at the contact. Rostov's saying something to me, shouting in an attempt to be heard over the screaming metal, but I don't stop. I glance down at the torch controls, using my thumb to increase the size of the flame when the manifold proves more resistant than I thought. Rostov is even more insistent now, resorting to tugging on my arm to gain my attention. I turn my head to glance at him but there's a great burning heat in my hand. I whip back around to the torch, when suddenly a white hot flash fills my vision. I'm overwhelmed by the sense of weightlessness, then the darkness that had been chasing me for the past ten months catches up, and swallows me whole.
...to be continued...
