The Stuff That Nightmares Are Made Of...

Posted on Wed Sep 16th, 2009 @ 5:00am by Lieutenant JG Drew O'Connell

1,270 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: The Shining Truth
Location: O'Connells' Quarters
Timeline: Backpost - Last Night

Drew stepped through the door to his quarters, pushing back the stubborn hair which constantly threatened to hang over his eyes. "Lights one tenth," he ordered quietly. It was later than he'd planned on returning home but he'd been caught up by the Chief CONN Officer and the opportunity to feel out yet another of the senior officers was too great to pass up. He'd drunk a bit too much, to be sure, but it caused little more than a swagger in his step.

Dropping his jacket on the back of the couch and slipping out of the black leather boots with the support of the aforementioned furniture, Drew moved toward the bedroom he now shared with his younger brother. Reaching the door, he doused the low level lighting and entered the silent room. To his right, Ian's prone form caught just enough light from the windows to allow Drew to choose the empty bed. Crossing to it in the dark, Drew was both relieved and proud that he'd not tripped on anything or stubbed his tow on random bits of furniture. Sitting on the edge, he stripped off his shirt and pants, depositing them on the floor and laying his head on the pillow.

Closing his eyes, sleep came almost instantly. And dreams...

Opening his eye, Drew was confronted by a mountain of man...Standing just beyond the light, a brilliant circle of white surrounded by pure black, Drew could just make out his form. Distinctly alien in size, weight and form, it was impossible to determine which species he was.

Racked with pain radiating from his wrists, shoulders and the left side of his face, Drew suddenly realized his vision was single. His right eye shut with swelling from abuses unremembered.

"Name?" The alien barked in Standard. It was no help in trying to identify his captor, his torturer.

As if in unconscious response, Drew heard his own tired voice issue forth. "O'Connell, Andrew Teagan."

"And what, O'Connell, is a Starfleet officer doing on Targus Major?"

With a groan, Drew responded to the already answered question. "I'm not Starfleet. I was cashiered from the fleet months ago. I already told you that."

The alien stepped into the light, revealing himself as a Targan. His fist drew back before rapidly descending on Drew's face. The Targan punched him on the already damaged side of his face and Drew was certain he could hear something crunch under the blow. Spitting out the sudden well of blood in his mouth, Drew protested as best he could. "I've already explained this..." He could hear the desperation in his own slurred, exhausted tone. "I'm not a Starfleet officer. They kicked me out for insubordination for failure to follow orders. Because your government protested the first time I came to your system and because that ignited the fire of another senior officer to hunt me down and expel me from the fleet."

"So then," the Targan asked, circling Drew like a predator. "Why are you here then, O'Connell?"

"I can't say," was the incomprehensible answer. Incomprehensible because all Drew wanted to do was end his punishment.

"I can see you do not value your own life enough to answer honestly." It was an ominous statement which implied the Targan had other means, perhaps the very thing he sought here in Targan space, to elicit the required answers. As if he were a magician revealing his final illusion, the Targan turned with a flair and motioned to someone Drew could not see in the dark beyond. "So I have recruited the assistance of others to ensure I know your intentions here, on my homeworld."

As another brilliant light flared in the darkness beyond, Drew was horrified to see his own brother hanging on shackles. He suddenly realized why his own wrists and shoulders were burning with pain. He too hung, dangling from the ceiling in shackles, bound by the wrists. "Ian," he croaked through a suddenly dry mouth. Whether it was terror induced or the clotting blood drawing away the moisture, Drew would never know.

In the new light, a second Targan emerged with a dagger. Its blade shone with red hot blaze of superheated metal. With a hiss which was rivaled only by the scream of pain, Drew watched with terror as Ian was stabbed in the right shoulder.

Lowering his voice, his terror replaced by mad rage, Drew promised. "I will kill you, you son of a bitch."

"Tell me, why are you here, Andrew? That's all I want to know."

In the second circle, the other Targan prepared his knife for a second stab into Ian's now burnt flesh. "I'm looking for someone. Someone I cared about."

"Who?" the Targan screamed with a mixture of joy at breaking his subject and anger at not quite getting the answer.

"Petty Officer Jasmine Chaudhary...she was lost on the USS Rook. I've been looking for her for weeks and my best intel said she might be here," Drew admitted through gritted teeth.

The Targan beamed with pride. "See" he said with false reassurance in his voice. "It wasn't as hard as you made it, now was it?" Turning his back on the O'Connell brothers, the Targan ordered the second, "Kill them both. The young one can end quickly...Make sure the older suffers greatly. Have his corpse quartered and sent to the Federation Embassy on Targus Minor, the Klingon Embassy on Wayla Four, the Cronin Cooperative on Crona Two, and the Fal'las Hegemony on Tri'old Prime. His suffering shall be a warning to our enemies..."

As Drew closed his eyes, he was forced to accept his fate...but Ian must escape. He vowed that his own death would serve to free his brother, he just wasn't quite sure how. In his mind, he heard that pleading voice, its soft English accent pleading with him in the silence. The reason he had come to this sector again in the first place. Somewhere in his mind or in the universe beyond, Jasmine Chaudhary cried his name.

'Andrew O'Connell, save me.'

With a jolt, Drew sat up in his bed. His heart raced as cold sweat plastered his hair to his forehead and ran down his bare chest. The sheets he slept on were soaked through with the same damp coolness from his own diaphoresis. He glanced over to his brother to ensure he was still there and safe, then at the chrono on the sidetable and realized he was an hour from his requested wake time. He caught his breath, which had come in ragged gasps at first, but had since slowed.

Deactivating the wake request, Drew made his way to the shower. He was glad of the water showers available in the senior officer's quarters as he stripped off his sweat soaked clothes and doused himself in its heat. Within minutes he felt better, the nightmare almost forgotten. Now he could only remember elements, concepts of the dream. What he did remember was unsettling though becoming more vague. By the time he had finished his shower, Drew had all but forgotten the details even if the unease stayed with him.

Stepping out into the bedroom, Drew retrieved his clothes from the closet and made his way to the living quarters. There he would dress and recover his wits, preparing for his first meeting with his staff later that day and, more importantly, he prepared for his sparring session with Shalie Montgomery. He ordered a cup of coffee and sat down to prep notes for the meeting.

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Lieutenant Andrew O'Connell
Chief Intelligence Officer

 

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