Lt. Commander Orson Marshall - He Feeds On The Flesh And Dark Blood Of Wretched Men (Part II)
Jo Marshall
((Cargo Bay, Deck 5, Sasu Gol))
Then Alieth was there, standing in front of them as if she hadn't just been dragged through hell backwards by her legs. Flustered was the word Bear would choose if he had to, though his attention flitted from Vulcan to surroundings as Jal moved to inspect one of the coffin-like containers, brushing his palm along the outside of the box, wiping away a sheen of cold ice.
Alieth: Most of them look like archaeological artefacts, although I am not able to identify the culture. There are some others… most recent too.
Stoyer: Yeah, I don’t recognize any of them either.
Desoa: It is hard to tell.
He pulled his large hand away, brushing the ice between his fingers as it drifted through the air to the ground, becoming one with the covering on the floor. However, awareness seemed to light up in the twinkling eyes of the Tyrellian masterpiece as he regarded the coffins.
O. Marshall: See something you recognise there, big guy?
Bjarnadóttir: Response
Then Alieth's eyes were on him, or more specifically, on the tricorder in Bear's hands. The tricorder he'd modified back in the engineering room to give them a fighting chance at finding her in the swamp of the Sasu Gol. Upswept those eyes to his as she stared at him, barrel through as if she could reduce him to smouldering ash in an instant. For a split second, it reminded him of the Admiral.
Alieth: I would be grateful if you would return me that.
Stoyer split a smile on his features, likely thinking that Alieth was about to break Bear's arm for it. He clipped it back together, the parts snapping back into place with a satisfying crunch. A little bit of their Starfleet life returned. A little slice of normality to fill in those cracks where the shadows had carved through.
Stoyer: You seemed to have left it.
O. Marshall: You try keeping hold of it when you're being dragged backwards by a thing you can't see, and some dummy pilot has got the grip of a six-year-old. ::He held it out to the Vulcan with a cocked eyebrow. Projected confidence in every inch.:: You got lucky we picked it up.
Bjarnadóttir: Response
The Vulcan regarded the screen again in front of her, the light illuminating her face instead of sinking further into the dark. Whatever registered on there allowed Alieth a moment to refocus her energies, and Bear shifted his to the containers. Stacks upon stacks. Lines upon lines. Rows upon rows. The thought of why the Merchant Navy vessel would be transporting them was anyone's guess.
Alieth: It seems that the spiral of subatomic particles that I detected is coming from the centre of the bay, it seems to be anchored to something... something physical. ::She glanced sideways his way.:: But I am not able to scan it fully. ::Turning to the others.:: Do we know anything about the cargo manifest? Anything that might indicate what it is and if it... has attracted those things?
Stoyer: No, but there is supposed to be a manifest at the entrance of the cargo bay.
O. Marshall: It could be useful to fetch it. Get an idea of what they are before we start poking around and awaken the old gods of a long-gone world. ::He bristled, the ends of his beard sticking up, the hairs on the back of his neck fighting for air.:: Though, it feels like someone already did that.
The Tyrellian huffed as if agreeing, or finding the idea of it preposterous. His twinkling eyes, however, hadn't shifted from their concentrated focus on the containers in front of them. Recognition, perhaps, floating through his mind.
He knows more than you think he does, Pretender.
The voice slipped once more into Bear's ear and he batted it away with the flat of his hand. Tyrellians were interested in their history; they had enough of it to preserve over the years to make a galactic cartographer weak at the knees. But Bear doubted he knew more than his fair share about rows and stacks of coffins being transported through a subspace rift.
O. Marshall: You'd think he was in the market for some old bones and coffin that'd only fit him if we folded him in half.
Bjarnadóttir: Response
Stoyer abandoned the party and headed back toward the entrance to the cargo bay. It took a few moments before he arrived back, PADD in hand, and began flicking through it for what Bear could only imagine was "shadow box" or something equally descriptive.
Regardless, they needed to press on and find what it actually was, before the shadows came back.
Bolstered by their numbers, the small group moved slowly forward, following the carved out path for them, inlaid with coffins on either side. They carried on until the pathway opened up in a clearing, of a sort, with empty space in the middle. White swirled around their ankles as they approached one of the coffin containers, the lid hanging off, ajar and opened, surrounded on both sides by more recent caskets.
Sitting at the foot of it was an antique-looking device, carved from a kind of stone Bear didn't recognise and glowing with an eerie, unnatural blue light.
Vulcan eyebrows furrowed, and as far as Bear was concerned, that was rarely a good sign.
Alieth: The buzzing... is coming from there.
Stoyer: There is nothing on the manifest. But that is not surprising. A little latinum can make things change and disappear.
O. Marshall: You wouldn't need it, if you hid it well enough in one of these. ::He whirled a finger around at the containers.:: Crack one open and there you have it.
Bjarnadóttir: Response
Stoyer: Once we get out of here, someone can look into where this boat came from.
Bear glanced at the younger man and frowned. They'd been briefed on it not long before setting foot down on the ship, less than twelve hours previously. He used the thumbnail of his right hand to scratch his eyebrow, giving himself a minute to think before he folded Stoyer into one of the crates and sealed it shut for eternity.
O. Marshall: We know where it came from. The ship has only been here for three days. With a crew complement of forty-seven. ::He grimaced, remembering the threats the Vulcan nurse had made in the Sickbay.:: You don't think Diinr managed to get through forty-six people in three days, do you?
Alieth/Bjarnadóttir: Response
Stoyer: Can we destroy it or transport it into space, but I lost the enhancers somewhere.
O. Marshall: Of course you did.
Pilots were all the same, after all. Give them two ball bearings, they'd break one and lose the other.
Alieth/Bjarnadóttir: Response
Bear inhaled deeply through his nose, his gaze fixed on the whirling white mist at his feet. He shifted his boot, first to one side, then the other, seeing the swirling pattern wasn't reacting to his boot motion but... following it? Everything seemed so... familiar. The mist's composition, the assault on his brainstem, the complexity of knowing, without all reasonable doubt, that Diinr was hidden somewhere in there. Just waiting for another opportunity to pounce.
Desoa: We call it the D'ravo.
The trilling roll of the deep consonants emanated from the Tyrellian as he stood beside Petra and folded his arms across his chest. Dark eyebrows pulled together into the centre, betraying the marks on his skin illuminating under the glow of their palm beacons.
Alieth/Bjarnadóttir/Stoyer: Response
Desoa: Legends from the old world, of a monster who steals your dreams and makes you live through your nightmares. ::Briefly, he looked to Petra, then away as if tracing an invisible entity.:: They take your soul piece by piece until they leave nothing behind. Nothing but bodies and bones.
Alieth/Bjarnadóttir/Stoyer: Response
Whispers began from the coffins, each one of them growing louder and louder as they stood in the silence on the deck. Movement, barely perceptible, on the edge of their vision. Bear shifted his gaze to the containers, the lids moving, minutely, but the whispers growing louder. More insistent. Less patient. Calling out to them.
Desoa: These boxes… ::He placed a hand on one and it vibrated, the ice coming loose and spraying upwards.:: I fear they hold the crew inside them. For the D'ravo to feast upon. ::He looked down to the device, pulsating in the rhythmic light, the whispers growing stronger.:: We must destroy it before it claims us, too.
Alieth/Bjarnadóttir/Stoyer: Response
--
Commander Jal Desoa
First Officer
USS Triumphant
&
Lt. Commander Orson Marshall
Intelligence Officer
USS Gorkon
G239304JM0