Pearseus: Schism

Croix

At the opposite end of the ship, First Mate Gerard Croix staggered into the graceful bridge; a tall, gruff, heavy man in his late forties, with grey hair that looked yellowish somehow, hair that flowed dirty under his cap. His pale face and long black circles under his eyes bore witness to his lack of sleep. Even the waiter who had served him dinner earlier that evening had informed him that he looked like crap tonight. He had not been surprised. The constant pounding in his head forbade sleep, making it a particularly rare luxury ever since they had started this damned trip.

Every night he thought he might be able to rest, if anything simply out of sheer exhaustion. Instead, as soon as he shut his eyes, the nightmares started. Consisting of nothing but darkness at first, accompanied by a horrifying feeling of loss, dread and loneliness, they had soon changed to include a soft, golden pulsing light. Warmth and relief emanated from it, and he vaulted towards it, when a disorienting voice started whispering numbers in his head. While he paused to listen, the light would fade in the distance, leaving the voice the only presence in the darkness. Louder and louder it wailed, until he screamed, begging for it to stop. The dream ended invariably with a violent explosion that jolted him to his feet.

His lack of sleep made him drowsy and heavy. This is just another dream, he thought as he stepped into the bridge. Despite the late hour, Captain Kibwe stood in the bridge, talking to two ensigns, their eyes glued to his mouth, hanging on his every word. Everyone respected Kibwe; his crew would go to hell and back for him. His nickname, Commander Sisko, had been given to him by Lucas, a short, nerdy Latino engineer whose passion was twentieth century science fiction. Everyone loved Kibwe, but Croix they feared, and that was fine by him. He stumbled to the main navigation grid, voices whispering ceaselessly in his pounding head. Yep. This is just another one of these damn dreams.

The voices reached a crescendo and a vein throbbed on his forehead as he approached the navigation console. He no longer cared what would happen, his only thought to punch in those damned numbers, in the off chance he might return to a peaceful sleep. No one paid any attention to him. The Captain had his back turned, still talking to the ensigns. Croix slinked over to the console and entered the coordinates with trembling hands, before disengaging the FTL alarms. The ship started its silent countdown to the new destination.

For one brief moment, the whispers in Croix’s head finally stopped and his whole body relaxed. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and raised his head to enjoy the feeling of calm. Then Kibwe glanced around, alarmed, sensing the ship’s new mood the second the computer altered its course. He cocked his head first left, then right. Like a dog, sniffing for a new smell, thought Croix.

“Croix, good thing you’re here. Could you check the nav comp? I’ve got a weird feeling the damn thing’s off somehow.”

Croix’s shoulders tightened, but he said nothing. He pretended to examine the navigation data when the FTL engaged with a hard jolt. Since the jump had not been properly calibrated, only the emergency systems prevented crew and passengers from becoming red blots on the walls. Although he had disabled most alarms, various independent systems announced their imminent failure. The noise deafened him, and the renewed pain in his head made him clutch it with both hands and howl as he crashed onto the floor. Deadly sparks danced around, barely visible through the thick smoke that filled the room.

A sudden jerk as the ship ripped through time and space to travel to its new destination threw Croix against the metal wall, crushing his head. Blood gushed, soiling the white of the wall with bright red stains. He blinked, feeling his eyelids hot and heavy, and wiped the wound with his hand. He stared at the red liquid covering his fingers in disbelief. It’s OK, I deserve it. I caused this. This is all my fault. He staggered to his feet in shock.

A moment later, the ship exited FTL with another jolt and a vicious explosion sent him flying over a console. He noticed the Captain lying under a broken beam from the gutted room. Croix had no idea what to do next. His legs hurt as he found his footing, trembling with pain. He stared at the reports coming in from every corner of the injured ship. A monitor displayed the engine room, where a raging fire had erupted. The computer closed the bulkheads and vacuumed the entire compartment in a desperate attempt to stop the flames from spreading. This saved the ship, but killed any surviving engineers. Green lights turned to red, one after another, to signify loss of life support as structural integrity failed. The acrid smoke brought tears to his eyes and his lungs convulsed in a desperate attempt to expel the poisonous air, triggering a choking cough. For some reason, an image of the smoke-filled clubs he frequented as a young man flashed momentarily in his head. Like then, he could barely make out the figures of the dancers around him, only now they wore masks of pain instead of joy.

One of the dancing figures around him crashed onto the floor like a broken mannequin, falling debris piling over him. Cold sweat dripped on Croix’s back as he realised he had just killed dozens, perhaps even hundreds of people. His mind felt numb and he brought his bloodied fist to his mouth to stop a scream, taking an unconscious step backwards. He slipped on the still body of another crew member and crashed onto the floor, eyes inches from the man’s dead eyes and bloody face. The room went dark and he looked around in panic. A reassuring dim light shone nearby and he crawled towards it. He recognised it as part of the escape pods’ navigation system. The voice in his head returned, whispering more numbers, and he cried out in a vain attempt to make it stop. It only got louder though, leaving him no option but to punch the numbers into the computer.

He jumped when a hand touched his shoulder and whirled around to see the injured captain. Glancing back to the console, Croix pushed some buttons with twitching fingers.

“What are you doing?” Kibwe demanded.

“There’s a planet” Croix said with a certainty he did not feel. His voice sounded hoarse. “We have to get down there. The ship won’t last much longer.”

He had no idea why he had said that; it felt like someone else was talking through him.

“Where are we?” Kibwe whispered, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar chart on the radar.

Croix raised his shoulders. He had entered the coordinates as the whispers in his head uttered them, with no consideration as to where they led. The FTL drive could have propelled them to the far end of the galaxy in the short time it was active. “Nowhere close to Earth,” he said, glancing at the screen.

The Captain stared at him with blank eyes for a moment, then stumbled. Croix held him steady, grinding his teeth.

“Come on, sir, we have to leave.”

“How did you know about the planet?”

“I saw it on the nav-grid just before it blew up,” Croix lied.

Kibwe looked uncertain for a moment, then nodded. “Go!”

A computer voice over their heads urged passengers and crew to head to the nearest escape pod. Another explosion threw them against the wall as they stumbled out of the bridge. Mercifully, they found a half-empty pod just outside and the people inside helped them climb in. As soon as they entered, yet another, deafening blast shook the whole ship. Metal trembled and ground against metal, then they were free. As they shot away from Pearseus, a final explosion ripped its hull open from bow to stern. Croix fell back on his seat with a satisfied sigh and closed his eyes, his head finally silent, all pain gone.

The last voice he heard before losing himself to the darkness belonged to a startled passenger: “How can that guy sleep?”