PL | Commodore Ivanova - "Quod Somnia Veniat; Pt VI"

Posted on Sun Jan 3rd, 2016 @ 11:03am by Admiral Rochelle Ivanova

2,011 words; about a 10 minute read

Mission: Resurgere

Joining James for lunch wasn’t a hard task to accomplish. He’d become predictable over the years, always choosing to isolate himself in one of the side parlors to enjoy his food in the company of a good book or a report of some flavor. He’d been mildly surprised with Rochelle took the seat next to him and perched over a cup of tea – it was the look in her eyes that perplexed him the most, however. A knowing look, it made the ice of her blue irises all the more sharp as they cut deeply into his own and every fiber that made up his face, searching, wanting, reading. The scrutiny there made him shift uncomfortably in his seat as he knew she was waiting for some sort of answer to a question she hadn’t yet voiced. What she wanted was brutally apparent, but he wasn’t quite yet willing to give it up so easily.

As she sat there waiting for the man to open up to her, Rochelle reached into the not too distant past to the very day they’d stepped foot back on Atlantis Prime. It seemed like only a few months ago that she’d ridden through the gates of Prastin for the first time since Kyym’s plan had been thwarted and she’d all but abandoned the Kingdom for lack of want to be chained to such a place. She’d never wanted to be a Queen, never wanted to wear the crown of any world – and yet by chance she’d been roped into it all by a relationship she wished she’d never started… And that had been nearly thirty years ago. It was strange how things changed and how time and fate collaborated in the very best and very worst of ways, weaving conspiracies that altered lives for the worst and for the best at the same time. Without having Atlantis as a rabbit hole, the people she’d commanded on the Vindicator, and those that had escaped the fall of the Federation as a whole, would have surely died. There wouldn’t have been a single place to turn nor flee to, and she knew it well. The crown she wore made her a martyr and it was a title she’d gladly keep so long as it kept those she loved safe and sound from the ravages of Tr’Bak’s infernal war on sanity and the sanctity provided by the laws of the Federation as a whole.

James had been at the forefront of that effort, taking on the role of protector and intelligence offer in a way never before seen, and all the more dire. She knew he hurt, that his heart bled for the loss of his family just as hers bled for the loss of her father and aunt. She hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself at the time, but despite outward appearances, James looked like he belonged in Prastin. He looked relatively happy and at home, surrounded by his extended Vindicator family; Almar, Landon, even herself… And a few short months after their arrival, Javaan.

Now that same man sat beside her, sharing a small side table and sitting so close their knees where almost touching beneath the polished oak surface and a small plate of tarts she’d thought to bring with her as a pairing to her tea. He didn’t dare touch her, perhaps out of fear that doing so would have caused some form of momentous retaliation on her part – her moods were never easy to gauge, and she hadn’t quite come down to the parlor on a social call… Of that much, James was absolutely certain. Instead his hands folded around his sandwich, drawing it to his lips as he considered her and allowed his eyes to be drawn to where one of the palace cats pawed lazily at a loose thread in one of the curtains. He knew what she wanted. It made it near impossible to look at her. On occasions when he did, she saw a haunted, sorrowful look brooding deep in his eyes. His face had thinned, hollowing his cheeks and aging him more than she could have thought ever possible.

Almost without thinking, she reached for one of the egg tarts; pleased that it was still warm from the oven. “You’ve been busy,” she said, holding the rest of the plate out to him. He responded without a word, but he finally turned his attention to what she was doing, “now eat and relax.”

To her relief, he did and in his softening she realized he looked like an animal taken out of its natural habitat and left to its own devices, willed to thrive or die in a hostile, alien environment.

“We don’t have to talk now, we can do it any time you like,” Rochelle assured him, taking a bite of her tart. “Truth be told, I already know the answers to my questions. This is just a formality.”
James sighed and set his food down, “I surmised as much, Rochelle.”

“You just don’t know where to begin or how to put it into words?” She guessed.
There was a brief flash of recognition in his eyes and he picked up a tart in place on his sandwich. Before trying to coax more out of him, Rochelle gave him a moment to finish eating. It was a delay that afforded her the time necessary to gather her own thoughts, but second guessing the emotions and feelings of others had never been among her talents – she’d always done her best never to assume and always to take people at face value. It was what had made her such an effective Commanding Officer. Her crew riding into battle for her had proven that. It had revealed to her, in glorious and violent technicolor, her woeful underestimation of just about everyone’s feelings. James’s, Landon’s, Almar’s… Everyone’s.

Beside her, the sound of ice hitting the bottom of James’s glass broke her from her review. It was as it she were part of a production line, immediately lifting the plate of tarts to offer him another if only to give her something to focus her restless energy on. Besides, it was her job to watch over him now, no matter how he may have claimed to be her in service. As Queen she was more responsible than ever for the livelihoods of those she’d drug to this world. But when she passed the plate over, he merely overlooked it and met her burning gaze.

“The boy wants what we all want, Rochelle.” He said. “Myself, perhaps, most of all.”
Despite her veneer of understanding, Rochelle felt her nerves bristle. “That’s the very definition of insanity. It’s a suicide mission,” she responded, curtly, “It sounds like a poor excuse, or rather, it is a poor excuse, but the trouble is, James, none of us were clairvoyant. We all had a plan and it didn’t include Tr’Bak’s coup.”

James’s brow knotted into a frown as though the redhead were babbling in a foreign language, “And now?”

“And now we’re here. We have a life here, we’ve saved countless thousands of refugees, united most of this damned galaxy, and I’ll be damned in I allow Javaan to run off and have his throat cut just so Tr’Bak can bathe in his blood.” She all but hissed in clarification.
James merely chuckled and shook his head, “You have all the technology necessary to defeat Tr’Bak dancing at your fingertips and all the man power necessary sitting on their asses, growing fat and old while they wait for you to take a stand.” His lips pursed for an offbeat moment as he eyed her lovely face, “You’re still afraid of him.”

Rochelle laughed bitterly, recoiling away from the sound of her friend’s words, “Bullshit.”
“You are, Rochelle, or you’d have done something a Hell of a lot sooner than now about how restless Javan is growing and how the senate is becoming imperious all on their own.”

“You mean the senate is growing imperious because you keep filing Senator Krayyn’s head full of information and pretty pictures about how a war could be won.” She cut him off and purred most demurely from beneath the thickness of her lashes. It did nothing to hide the smugness she fought him with, wielding it as a biter weapon against his brief display of arrogance.
James smiled and nodded his loss to her, “Guilty.”

“Treasonous.”

“Oh please. If wanting to see the Federation’s territory recaptured and some sort of order restored is treason, than all of our heads need to be taken off,” he guffawed with a heavy scoff, “The pretty one atop your own pious shoulders first and foremost, there Queeny.” His fingers gestured briefly to the woman’s delicate countenance. “Or do you still choose to deny yourself out of fear?”

For a long moment, Rochelle was quiet. Torn between irritated indignation and the sobering reality that she was, indeed, afraid of the aftermath that could come of a war between the Republic and the Romulan Star Empire, she simply watched James with a wary, cold eye. For someone as daft as he, he was certainly astute and far from ignorant. He could read people, and more so, he could read her. Denying him the truth he’d uncovered would only result in deeper digging and a blatant disregard for whatever modest burial of her emotions she’d attempted to create. There was no thwarting or sidetracking him, like a dog with a bone, James was relentless when he knew he had someone dead to rights within his mental scope.

"No," She finally responded, whisper soft and with the slightest shake of her head, "I don't deny wanting to restore order."

James softened slightly, allowing his fingers to flex out over the table in front of him, his food abandoned for the most part. He was about to draw breath to respond when his eyes widened slightly at the sight of one of the Queen's slender fingers raising to still and silence him.

"But," She began with the bob of her skull, "I refuse to have it done at the expense of my son's life, or yours for that matter."

He sighed. "Let me tell you a story. It's a long story, but I think you'll appreciate and understand it." He hummed, settling back into the expanse of his seat, his eyes focused on the wintery blue of the woman's, "It's about a girl who defied everyone and everything to rise from a lawless hooligan to a polished Commodore and ultimately the Queen of the strongest technological force the universe has ever seen..."

"James..."

"No. Hear me out. I think you'll be especially interested in the fact that she accomplished this against all odds and against the advice and pressure of others looking to derail and debunk her every... single... move." His final words were pointed, punctuated by the rapping of a finger point against the table top.

Rochelle nodded in perfect understanding, her shoulders slumping in defeat as she absorbed the brevity of the words he was saying. "I have no choice in this, do I?"

"Not a single fucking one, if you're honest with yourself." He nodded, reaching to pluck a bite of his meal with no small measure of satisfaction greasing his movements.

It was her turn to sigh. "Then all I ask is that you keep him safe, James. Keep him safe."

"I will, Rochelle. You have my word." He replied, allowing the fingers of his free hand to brush over the soft porcelain skin of her fingers.

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To Be Continued...
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Commodore Rochelle Ivanova
Commanding Officer
USS VINDICATOR, NCC 78213-E

All other characters loving used with permission of their associated players; APB October

 

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