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

Posted on Wed Dec 30th, 2015 @ 12:35am by Admiral Rochelle Ivanova
Edited on on Sun Jan 3rd, 2016 @ 10:34am

2,377 words; about a 12 minute read

Mission: Resurgere

Somewhere in the obfuscating darkness that had come to claim and overwhelm the frail and fragile life of the ailing Phoenix, her damaged brain still churned. It worked, albeit backwards, sending her to a world so very different, and yet similar, to the one she’d been born into. It was a cold, cruel labyrinth of alternate endings – of change she, perhaps, so badly wished would have been born into reality. It tore her backwards… Backwards away from being carried in James Archer’s capable arms as their group plunged headlong away from the crippled Vindicator – away from her bold defiance – away from everything she knew to be real and just… And most of all, away from the pain of unadulterated defeat… Kind of.


In the depths of a brain trauma induced dream, it brought her back to cold, quivering fear.

She was shaking. Trembling, really, and even though the jewel encrusted evening gown she wore offered little by way of protection against the elements, it wasn’t that which set her skin to crawling and her body quaking, but rather the benevolent uprising of fear. While it wasn’t an emotion that the great Commodore Rochelle Ivanova often felt, it came to set upon her psyche during a chance wrinkle in time in which her entire world threatened to rupture and burn to cinders. Yes… She was most definitely afraid. It was a cold sensation that rippled deep in the pit of her belly before birthing itself, spreading like ice water through every vein, artery, and capillary in a violent search for her rapidly beating heart. All the while it seemed to laugh at the very way it caused each and every last one of her nerve endings to balk and shy away from such an alien stimuli, resenting the very texture of such a vehement reaction to the pariah that was war. She’d been bred for this. Born for this. Had never been bested at this… And yet there she sat, bleeding and shaken, staring a madman in the eyes as he, like one of the Moirai, held her life string in his capricious hands and threatened to cut it short with a pair of golden sheers.

“Oh Rochelle,” Tr’Bak lilted from across the flickering view screen, at once drawing Rochelle’s expressive blue eyes back to the lines of his olive skinned face. All around her, sparks flew from exposed wires, klaxons blared, and the computer’s oddly calm and monotone voice droned on about something to do with the ship’s cores having gone critical. “My sweet, sweet, brave Rochelle.” He tutted an almost soothing croon, though there were only minutes to spare before the USS Vindicator-E joined the five previous mighty incarnations of her name as nothing more than burning debris and worthless space junk; a hollow memory of the steadfast flagship she had been as recently as half an hour before that very pinnacle of time, and yet the Commodore remained at her post. It was fruitless, the great ship’s weapon systems had gone off line several vicious hits ago, and still Rochelle chose to defy the savage on the other end of the link out of nothing more than sheer, bitter, hatred.

“What?” She growled, reaching to wipe a rivulet of blood away from her upper lip. The question was hardly fitting of a flag officer’s utterance to an enemy, but given imminent death resting soundly on her horizon, she simply hadn’t a care to give. Only thirty minutes ago, the resplendent young woman had been in the throes of yet another black tie diplomatic affair, dressed to the nines and hobnobbing with the regents of yet another society hopeful of joining the Federation. She’d been more than comfortable in the confines of her own skin, more than confident in her speech and the zeal of her approach – until that creature had shown his scabrous face. In that moment, the slim sliver of time that it took for Ael’Riov Vrith Tr’Bak to reveal himself, Rochelle had felt the universe shift to a whole new paradigm in which no good could, or would, come of that disenchanted evening. It hadn’t been fear then, nor had it been when her beloved Landon had provoked the son of a bitch out on the ball room’s marble floors. Fear had come much later, though time, decidedly, was relative in the broad spectrum and sense of things.

As if on cue, Tr’Bak chuckled as he watched his all but defeated foe and the ice in his snifter of Romulan Ale jangled against the glass held cupped in the palm of his singed hand while he ever so languidly shifted position in the comfort of his command chair. The thing may as well have been a throne the way the sneering bastard draped himself across it in a fashion not unlike the old Roman Caesars had once adopted. “My offer, Rochelle. It still stands.” He spoke each word, each syllable, with an air of arrogance and overwhelming pride, which when combined with the nonchalant flash of his brows and wrinkling of his forehead, made the ‘offer’ seem so very elementary when, in fact, it would alter the very preface of her life. Their lives. All of their lives.

Part of her wanted to sneer at him. Defy him. Hiss words of hate and discontent, something along the lines of ‘go fuck yourself’ would have suited the mood perfectly, but the insistent beep of failing computers made Rochelle flinch. Her time, their time, was drawing ever nearer. “The lives of the people that call this ship home in exchange for me agreeing to go as your prisoner in their stead?” The redhead heard herself asking. Her voice sounded distant, disembodied, hollow, and hardly the commanding essence of a warrior. It didn’t fit.

Tr’Bak’s answer, whatever it may have been, was quickly cut off by the snarl of a masculine voice from the human woman’s right. Her ever present protector rose from his own hollowed silence to at long last speak his mind; “You aren’t consid—“ Almar, however, would never be allowed to complete his train of thought. By the simple lifting of the Commodore’s hand, he was quickly silenced.

“This isn’t your choice, Commander.” She hissed in warning.

Almar’s massive fist rained heavily down upon the arm of his chair, thundering as it made contact with the leather upholstered surface. He wouldn’t be given a chance to speak before Landon’s own damnable roar broke the silence. She nearly flinched at the passionate ferocity contained within every note; “Gods damn it, Rochelle!” The normally soft spoken Trill roared, “You can’t do this. You have more at sta—“

“ENOUGH!” With a curled and bloodied lip, the Commodore somehow managed to find it within herself to bellow loud enough that even the child in her womb jumped at the boom of her voice. She didn’t dare look at the men beside her, didn’t dare give them any source of credence. If she had, her resolve would certainly have crumbled and she’d have redoubled her efforts to think of something – anything – that would save them all from the ruin Tr’bak had created. There wasn’t anything that could be done, simple as that. The diminutive Commodore, ever so brilliant and wise, had run out of options and choices. Her ship was crippled – doomed, and those who had evacuated already ran the brutally high and elaborate risk of their shuttles being captured. Worse yet, Tristan and Zed were out there along with hundreds of other people running for their lives at her demand and behest – who the Hell was she to even consider allowing them to be destroyed for the simple sake of pride? Her head shook and her trembling hand fell to rest over the gentle swell of her belly carefully bound and camouflaged belly. At nearly twenty-nine weeks of gestation, she was about to make a decision that would taint her child’s very existence. It was likely that the monster at the other end of the screen, gloating as he watched them squabble, would extinguish the little flickering light of his life before he even had a chance to suck in his first sweet breath of air.

Rochelle’s eyelashes fell closed over stinging eyes that welled with a mix of remorse and sorrow, while her tongue snaked out to taste the bitter tang of the blood that marred the perfect fullness of her pouty lower lip. “I…” She paused and sighed as she sought to re-enforce her shaken resolve. It simply wouldn’t be. Landon’s eyes and beautiful face remained painted against the backside of her eyelids, begging for another way, another answer – mourning the loss of both his lover and their unborn son. I’m sorry, her subconscious whispered to him, reaching quietly to cup the softness of his cheek – of course the image was only a wish, only a memory that would we cast asunder the moment her arctic blue eyes reopened to the sorry state of the world she lived in. “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,” she nodded, trying to set her words in stone no matter how hard her intrepid heart rebelled against them. “You’re hereby ordered to evacuate the ship, Commander Dahe’el, Captain Neyes.” Almar snorted sharply in response and she could hear Landon’s sharp intake of breath in preparation to fight her, but the reprisal of the woman’s lifted hand told them that their silence wasn’t just expected, it was in high demand.

“Does this mean that we have an accord, Commodore? It seems you understand my terms perfectly.” The Romulan was smiling now, beaming really as he readjusted himself and looked back and forth between other off screen members of his bridge crew as if in preparation of a triumphant celebration.

“It doe---“ Rochelle’s words were cut violently short by the knife sharp squeal of klaxons as they blared a wild warning, clashing with the plaintiff cries of the Vindicator’s own. They were different, distinctly Romulan, and most definitely wailing from across the uplink that bound Tr’Bak’s proud face to her eyes. All at once, Rochelle, Landon, and Almar’s weary heads lifted and their eyes, wrought heavily with a mixture thick with concern and confusion, watched the image on the screen in front of them shake and rattle with surprising force. Tr’Bak was no longer smiling while holding his prized blue ale. He was swearing in Rhiannsu and gesturing wildly for his crew to respond to whatever orders he was giving.

It didn’t make sense. Just seconds before, the Romulan Ael’Riov sat poised on the cusp of certain victory and about to greedily claim the spoils of their war – but the answer to so many unasked questions quickly availed itself to their spinning minds

“We’re being hailed…” Almar announced incredulously, “By the Pendragon.”

Whatever was said or done after, wasn’t heard – Almar’s lips may have been moving, and Tr’Bak’s too for that matter, but Rochelle heard nary a word of it. A tidal wave of raw emotion surged, hot and vicious, through the young Commodore’s system, lifting her on high with a moment spent in sheer elation. That beautiful second in time was to be, however, fleeting. The heavy galloping beat of her pulse in her ears faded to an insistent whining ringing, efficiently stealing her away all other sounds, forsaking them for a painful silence that no amount of head shaking would rid. Rochelle’s heart found itself skipping, and hardly out of rapture, as she adjusted herself in her seat and prepared to rise to meet the scarred face of the rogue Vulcan; Vokar – an action that threatened her very existence, rocking her on knees that refused to support her injured form. What had once been a world of light and sound, shrieking of her doom and unavoidable disaster had turned to the perfect bliss of victory only to be discarded for an obfuscating and paralyzing blend of fear and pain as it reared its ugly head once more.

Distinctive ink black darkness reached for Rochelle’s tender, battered form, curling its fingers around her creamy throat and squeezing against the delicate pulse to be found just beneath the surface of her skin. She choked, sputtering as she struggled for the precious gulp of air anxiety refused to allow into her lungs – or was it simply anxiety? Blood loss, the pain of several broken ribs, a surge in hormones, a sudden drop in her blood pressure – any number of her battle granted maladies could have claimed victory single handed, but combined together they were a force that quickly sent the woman deck bound.

The action of catching the falling leaf of a woman was instinctive. Almar was quick to gather her tiny body in his arms, cradling her against the broad expanse of his chest as he met Vokar’s hail with his own response and quickly illuminated the dire urgency of their emergent situation. Rushing to their sides, Landon quickly assessed what he’d already feared; Rochelle was dying. The ship was seconds away from coming completely apart at her seams, and there were still so many souls that needed to be saved at the expense of a badly bruised, but hardly broken, Romulan’s pride. Even as consciousness began to fade, Rochelle could feel Landon’s hands quickly working to release the tighter binds of her gown, trying his best to stabilize her as Almar reached to hit his combadge. The vibrations of his steady voice reverberated through his chest as he spoke until last thing she’d ever remember about the valiant USS Vindicator came and went in the sharp singular tick of minute’s smallest fraction; the familiar sensation of weightlessness that came with being transported.

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

All other characters used with loving permission, APB October

 

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