Between Dreams and Waking

Posted on 23 Jul 2012 @ 1:24pm by Chief Petty Officer Lucalin Mrina Ph.D.

620 words; about a 3 minute read

Location: USS Galileo - Cargo Bay 2
Time: MD07 - 2230 hrs

[ON]

Lucalin is running. In the dream, he always is. Not only running, but sprinting. He tears down narrow tunnels, air streaming past his ears in a low whistle. He grips a corner and throws himself around it, barreling down a new corridor, the weight of the spear firm and solid against his palm. He knows it is a spear, or something like, because he has had this dream before. Felt his way up and down the wooden shaft. Cut himself on the honed gem blade. He isn't sure what kind of gem it is; it doesn't matter. It is hard enough to withstand the force of his arm thrusting it against stone; it is hard enough.

He hungers, like always, but this hunger is melded with another hunger somehow. A need - eerie and dark and strange - to drive the spear into flesh. It doesn't matter whose or if they've done anything to deserve it. He longs for screaming in the world to match the screaming in his head - thousands of his wounded, dying brothers falling at the hands of their enemies. Useless, pale, and wanting. They are weak, but they built him to be strong.

And why not? Why not be strong? Why not rend the limping limb from the pure body of his people and lead them to a brighter future. One where the better race emerges from the shadows underground into the light above, claiming the suns for their own. He can hear them, miles away, the rats scuttling through the maze of his homeland; he is there is moments. Fast and sure. And the arcing gemstone blade finds purchase in flesh - finally, finally - and the screams are as sweet as they had been in his mind as he throws his spent victim to the stone and leaps upon him, tearing and biting. Bone cracks between his teeth, sweet marrow pouring forth, blood and life sliding down his throat-

Lucalin gasped as the doctor's hypo sprays jerked him back to consciousness. Every heartbeat in the room, every clicking, tinkling, beeping piece of equipment, the sound of the electricity running through the lights here and in the corridor, doors whirring open and shut, boots on carpet, screams in the distance, the nacelles churning through the ship's shell, too much, too much, and everything hurt, dear merciful Mera, the pain of it and the feel of the sharp edge of the tube twitching in between his back muscles. The boots on carpet grew closer, heavier, different, new, a group running, not in panic, heartbeats steady and strange, but he hurt and couldn't bear to listen. Too much. He could barely move his tongue to warn them.

His hand, so visceral and powerful moments before in the sanctity of his dreams, was heavy and hard to manipulate now as he dragged it from the floor to touch Delainey's face. The smell of his own blood and the others in the room was sweet, pleasant to his barely conscious palate, dreams and reality blending. More screams, closer, as were the boots; Lucalin touched her face. 'You're not safe,' he tried to tell her, his tongue heavy and useless in his mouth. 'But you shouldn't worry. Death is just as life, another mystery moment by moment. Mera is with us, in us, guiding us, even if you've never heard Her name. The godspirit of his ship is with us, too. And in all this, we will be or not be, according to their will. Don't be afraid. Safety is overrated. They're coming closer now. Stand tall. And if you fall...'

[OFF]

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