Sacrifice (Thunder)

Paul Thunder ached, and burned.  His lungs felt like they wanted to rip out of his chest.  Every time he felt he was about to cough, he didn't.  He wasn't sure if that made it better, more bearable... or worse.

The big Bartokian, Varitic, had put him in a room with a replicator (limited programming, he was sure... couldn't have him making weapons), and a mirror.  As if to tempt him.

His body ached with the dull pangs of hunger.  He hadn't eaten for almost thirty hours.  That wasn't so bad – he could handle that, in itself, alone... if that was all he had to endure.  He went through worse in Starfleet survival training.  But deteriorating lung tissue, which equaled troubled breathing capacity, made each hour of the trip more agonizing.  In the mirror, which he couldn't stop looking at at first, his skin had paled.

Had he kept the nanomodules Starfleet prescribed, his lungs would have been repaired by now... without help from the Bartokians... and the nanites would have increased the energy efficiency of his digestive system, so that he wouldn't be hungry.

Being an Arcadian was all about three things: Belief... commitment... and sacrifice.

Sacrifice.  When you realize what's truly important in life, it doesn't become easy to separate yourself from the things you once thought mattered.  But it becomes easy to make that decision.  To understand why it needs to be made.  Admitting there's a problem, and not denying it... That's always the first step.

Every Arcadian understood that.  It was what made them Arcadian.

Paul Thunder watched out the window of the quarters he'd been assigned, aboard the Dinaqa.  Beyond lay the iridescent streaks of stars at warp.  With experienced eyes, he noted their positions as they approached then whipped by.  Like the Ti Klec girl said: En route to Bartok.

Ever since he joined Starfleet... infiltrating the enemy ranks... he had dreaded a moment like this.

Bartok.  He had done it now.  Not quite in the fire, but definitely in the frying pan.  He wondered how many humans resided on Bartok, if he would even get a chance to see any.  He heard Bartok was pretty.  He'd never been there.

Not that it made any difference: It was their world.  Not his.  They were the enemy.  And he had thrown himself into their midst.  He was treading on enemy ground... moving deeper into enemy territory with every passing light year.  When he got to Bartok, there would be questioning.  He would be asked to confirm his claims; to supply relevant information.  To prove it.  To complete his apparent betrayal of Starfleet.

That wouldn't be hard.  As the Tokyo's (former) tac officer, he had all the information he needed.

And then what?  What would they do with him, once they finished with him?  He shuddered at the thought.  Granted, they weren't Klingons, or Romulans, or Cardassians, but... requesting asylum didn't make him their guest.  He served on a ship that, by his own admission, had been part of a force to disrupt Bartokian relations.  They'd probably put him on trial.  Or skip the trial, and he would just disappear.  He didn't want to get thrown away in a Bartokian prison somewhere, forgotten, forced to live at their mercy, much less take a head-shot from a Bartokian pulling the trigger.  It was too disturbing to contemplate.  Like letting the aliens win.

Once, after relating the story of Kayla Rondak to a friend, along with all the things he'd learned since, he had gotten a remark from the friend in the (very irritated) form of, "That wasn't very nice."  Thunder had shut Kayla out.  Cut her off.  Sacrificed any chance of friendship with the Bartokian.

Thunder's response was, "If I piss you off, I'm glad.  It means I'm doing something right.  We have to wake people to the truth of the invaders who don't belong.  We can't do that by being nice.  'Nice' doesn't get attention."

It was war.  If he died, or disappeared, he would be a casualty of war.  So be it.  In war, sacrifices had to be made.  The weapons weren't always guns; the battlefield was difficult to detect, when it was one's way of life.  Life was about war, and war was about sacrifice.  Most people (humans) didn't understand why they were enemies.  Too few people understood, truly understood.  Recalling the Bartokians' reaction in their sickbay, when Thunder refused treatment (and continued to refuse, as they took him to quarters), he considered, perhaps even they didn't know.

Paul Thunder left home at the age of twenty.  It was partly a choice; partly forced relocation.  He didn't know what he believed in, back in those days, but knew he needed to believe in something.  He chose (fell in with) the Humanists.  At the time, their rebellious nature – so bold, willing to challenge prevailing beliefs and rattle them right to the core; so in line with his own rebellious streak that he had not yet outgrown from his teens – simply appealed to him.

And then they were forced out.  Driven from Earth.  Expelled.  Exiled.  And what did he do?  He found himself, amidst that turmoil.  Outraged, he went with them willingly, proud to be among them.  Pride, belief in a cause, a goal... Doing what he knew was right... He needed that too.  Loyal to his own kind?  Loving his people?  There was nothing wrong with that.  He did love his people; he felt proud of their accomplishments.  Humans built the Federation – they built it; they set it up.  Every technical innovation in Federation society originated from a human mind.  It was the alien trash who seeped in, infecting everything with their putrid agenda.  Trying to make humans hate themselves and love the aliens instead.  He shook his head in disgust at the thought.

It was said that Earth was the most beautiful planet in the galaxy... and the least.  Both were true, subjectively.  It had its bright side.  It had its dark side.  Whichever was more true, it was home, once.  Home was home; there could not be a place more beautiful in the universe.  How he longed to go there.  Time should have softened the harsh memories of his youth.

But it was not to be.  Time could not dull the edge of memory's pain.  Then it became easy: Sacrifices had to be made – of friends, of family; of residence and security.  To win, one had to give all, or lose, with nothing.  In the beginning, Earth was home.  In the end: home no longer.  Home had been taken from him... from every brave man and woman who dared profess pride in being human, and nothing but.  Every brave man and woman who dared to call themselves Humanist.  They cut themselves off from it, by necessity; the umbilical severed from the womb.

Perhaps someday they might reclaim it, along with their heritage.  Who needed all these alien planets and colonies, when they had a good home right there, as long as they treated it right?

But for now, Arcadia... cold planet of gray mountains and barren skies, second in the Meloc system, where rain attacked with needle thrusts and locusts posed a constant threat... That was home.  It was Thunder's home.  And he missed it.

While examining the tactics of the situation that had arisen (or trying to, in his beleaguered condition, which made it hard to focus), and throwing in a dose of understanding the underlying political motivation, it occurred to Thunder: If he played his cards right, he might be seeing home again, soon.

Or he might not.

Arcadia had few allies.  Sympathizers, certainly, on most of the human-colonized worlds out there, and on Earth, but no outright political alliances.  Most of the time, they refused them.  And no one wanted to go up against the Federation.

There was a saying: The enemy of my enemy is my friend.  Would Bartok see the Federation as its enemy, now?  Obviously the UFP saw Bartok as an enemy, or at least a threat... or this situation would not exist.  Would Bartok, in turn, see Arcadia as an ally?  Would Arcadia's leaders see it that way, in reverse?

An Arcadian alliance with the Bartokians would not be something any Arcadian welcomed.  Help from non-humans?  Forget it.  Arcadia did not welcome alien integration, "equality", "diversity", and all that pablum.  That was what started this mess.  They just wanted to be left alone.  'Stay on your side, we'll stay on ours.'  Arcadians were Humanists, and Humanists were separatists.  But to survive, they had to fight their enemies who attempted to destroy them... and the Federation propaganda machine had been waging a cold war against the Humanists ever since it began.  In fact, the Humanist cause predated the Federation.

If he showed up on his planet's doorstep with Bartokians, he'd probably be looking for a new home again.  His sister... his twin sister, Paula... would never forgive him.  She'd be unhappy just with learning what he had done already... except he had his orders.  Coda, of course, would understand.

But not if he accepted food or medicine from the Bartokians.  If he took their substances into his body, he'd be soiled.  Forever tainted.  Then there would really be no going back.  Certainly not home.  He refused to make that sacrifice.

He refused the creature comforts also.  Instead of laying on the single-occupant bed in the room, he sat on the floor, back against the wall, facing the door, aching and burning, hungry and miserable.  He didn't know how long he could take it.  How long he had to resist temptation.

He had to remember why he was doing this.  He closed his eyes and entertained thoughts of just curling up and dying, never to see home again.