LCDR Nolen Hobart — Of One Mind

[Kali Nicholotti]

((The Many-Doored Room))

The space was quiet, wide, and open. Squarish. Like an interior common area of a large administrative building. The floors were wood-planked, and the walls were painted green a third of the way up, and white the rest. The ceiling was lined with tiles, ventilation grates, and incandescent lights, but despite this there was no sense of claustrophobia. It wasn’t overly warm or stuffy, even though there were no windows. At each corner, there was a hallway that extended out and away. And every four or five feet along every wall that was, there was a door, brown, weathered, and heavy, upon which a small brass plaque announced its purpose.

Except one door, which was unlike all the others, and sat on a stretch of wall without any neighbors.

It was a different door, one of the plain ones, that opened. With a creak, Nolen Hobart poked his head out. Or, it looked like Nolen Hobart. It was, in fact, his mind’s Accountant, with neatly combed hair, slick with gel, and kept firmly tucked behind a translucent green visor atop his forehead.

Accountant: Hello? Anyone else here?

Muffled shuffling and scraping of chair legs against floors behind other closed doors could be heard, and footsteps. One door, and then another, creaked open, and a pair of other “Nolen Hobarts” appeared. The first to join him wore a grease-covered apron, and his hair was violently unkempt. Atop his forehead rested a set of welder’s goggles, held in place by the strap wrapped around his head. The second (or, at total count: third) wore a casual smile and flowing collared shirt, seemingly unbothered by purpose. These facts were all that the Accountant needed to know them each: the Inventor and Archivist, respectively. They had the same face, but then, everybody seemed to, so context clues were key to him.

Inventor: Pencil broke?

Accountant: You didn’t notice?

The inventor looked down in thought, before looking back to the Accountant.

Inventor: …my pencil broke?

The third just stood and smiled. He folded his arms and watched the other two Nolens converse. This, eventually, drew the Accountant’s attention away from the Inventor, who then pointed at the third Nolen.

Accountant: ::disbelief:: He noticed! How did you not notice?

This took the third by surprise. He wasn’t expecting to be part of the conversation.

Archivist: Oh! I wasn’t paying attention, I didn’t notice anything. I’m just jazzed to see you guys.

The Accountant pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath.

Accountant: The doors unlocked. That’s how come we’re here. That's why you're seeing us. They never unlock but from the outside.

Inventor: Oh, you’re right.

Archivist: Number-Guy is always right. This is nice. Should we play a game? The, um, red and black square thing. I like that one. It's relaxing.

The Accountant shook his head. “Number-Guy” was not his title, and “red and black square thing” was a pretty poor way of describing the game of Checkers, but the Archivist didn’t need to know the names. That wasn’t his job. And so he didn’t. Also, them being there wasn’t nice. It was a sign of trouble.

Inventor: You want me to lock them?

Accountant: Yes, but not yet.

The Accountant pointed at the Other Door. It was the Bad Door, and it looked the part. It was an ugly gray, marked by pink-purple splotches. It was weathered and old, and the latch and doorknob were gone from it. It shifted and clunked from a wind that couldn’t be felt. It had some other formal name, but that was long-forgotten. Or, if not forgotten, the name was never uttered. The three Nolens gathered around, and examined the planks of wood and nails that had fallen off the molding around it.

Archivist: ::whispering:: Do you think they got out?

He looked around, nervously, and suddenly desired very much to be back in his room, with the doors locked. That they could be unlocked from the outside meant that it wasn’t terribly safe, but it felt safe. Hiding in one’s work often had that effect.

Accountant: ::softly:: If we’re lucky, they were only as observant as the two of you. ::looking to the Inventor:: I’ll hold it shut, you get your tools.

The Inventor nodded, and darted off towards his room. He was careful not to let the door slam behind, lest to draw more attention to the lobby. The Accountant held his hands to the door, and leaned into it, holding it firmly in place. The Archivist watched on, fearfully.

Archivist: I’m not so jazzed anymore.

Accountant: ::sternly:: By right you shouldn’t be. Once they’re out, they’re almost impossible to put back in.

Archivist: Yeah, I know.

The Archivist looked around, this time sheepishly. The Accountant eyed him with suspicion.

Accountant: What did you do?

Archivist: Nothing! Maybe a week ago, I was just looking at my picture-books—

Accountant: ::annoyed:: “Albums.” Picture-books are for children.

Archivist: ::nodding:: And there was one. Not in the picture-book, but in the room. I didn’t go out, I swear. I threw a picture-book at it, I think I startled it. It seemed angry, and tore Tammy’s photo, and then left.

The Archivist’s eyes narrowed. The monsters didn’t startle. Not that he knew, anyway. And he could recall no balance with any “Tammy.” But then again, it wasn’t the Archivist’s job to know names. It was his.

Accountant: Tammy?

Archivist: ::straining:: Ehh. Tonya? Taloola? Anyway, I taped it back together, but it’s not the same.

The Accountant looked back at the door he was holding shut. Perhaps the boards had come off all the way back then. Or perhaps the monsters had found another way to get around. They were deviously clever. That was a terrifying thought, and he was glad that the Inventor returned just then to interrupt it, carrying an antique power tool and a transparent zipper bag full of assorted screws. The Accountant knew better than to question his methods. Strange as they were, they invariably worked.

Inventor: Okay! This should do it.

A voice from somewhere else echoed faintly through the ventilation ducts, and the Accountant strained to hear it over the whir of the tool as the Inventor set to work boarding up the Bad Door again.

Matthews: …sensors show that the last ship with evacuees just launched. We’ll be getting you out on one of the ones still in the hanger.

Inventor: Done!

Archivist: I think we need to go back.

The Accountant nodded. Noise from outside meant that the doors would soon lock again, and if one wasn’t back in one’s room when that happened, then one’s work wouldn’t be done. And that could throw the whole system off. He had to hurry; his ledger was waiting.

((Transporter Room, Deck 8, Main Module, Deep Space 33))

Nolen’s eyes didn’t want to open. He was laying on a hard surface, in a room that must have been small because it felt stuffy. He could sense the emotions of the minds around him swirl into a pungent stew. A lot of the fear was gone, or at least less prominent than it once had been. There was a hard, stony determination in the mix, familiar to him from all of the times he’d had to problem-solve with a team.

El’Heem: Response

Nibar: Last I saw there’s a medical team set up on Deck 2. Weyler and I will take the Caitian up there. We’ll get onto a transport from there once she’s stable. We’ll take all the wounded with us.

Matthews: ::Without looking up from the controls:: Weyler, how’s the Commander looking? Any sign of waking up?

Nolen tried to turn his head towards the voice of Ensign Matthews, and felt a pair of cold hands attempt to keep him from moving.

Weyler: Think so!

Hobart: ::eyes fluttering:: I’m back, I think.

He attempted to sit up and felt a sharp stabbing pain in his side. He hissed out a curse and coughed, just as he saw Ensign Matthews glance his way.

Matthews: Depending on the doctor’s orders, I do have a shuttle ready for us to use – personal ship, not a Starfleet—issued one. Sorry. We’re going to be roughing it with our escape. The ship’s specs shows she can handle up to ten passengers plus pilot and co-pilot. I hope the owner at least has their first aid stocked.

Hobart: Oy gevalt. ::gripping his side, painful sigh:: Did Stergis give the “abandon ship” order?

Nibar: Not yet, sir.

Hobart: ::sharp breath:: Then we don’t go. Take the wounded to Medical.

It felt like a broken rib or three. He’d suffered them before, on the away mission to Naz, after the planet had swallowed them up. He engaged in a series of slight and painful twists and stretches to determine the extent of his mobility, and eventually (and awkwardly) rose to his feet, with no shortage of help from DS33's paralegal.

El’Heem: Response

Nibar and Weyler helped load the stretcher-bound Caitian and the limping Bobbart to the transporter pad.

Matthews: Standing by to transport, Doc, what’s the word? Are our patients safe to transfer together? Or should I send you all first to be ready for them?

El’Heem: Response

Hobart: Hang on a second, Ensign. Let me get my bearings. You, me, Doc, and Jones will hang back here while I figure out where we’re needed. Check the Caitian one more time, El’Heem, make sure she’s OK for transport, then send them all up.

Matthews / El’Heem: Response

Hobart looked around the small room, leaning against the transporter control console to take the burden off of his abdominal muscles. He shifted until he found a relatively comfortable position. It was still exceedingly uncomfortable, and the pain threatened to consume all of his attention if he didn’t focus hard on other things. Like finding a medkit. He spied one across the room, meant for emergency care if someone didn’t (or couldn’t) get beamed directly to sickbay, and pointed.

Hobart: Should be a regenerator in there, Doc. Think you can do something about my ribs?

Matthews / El’Heem: Response

Nibar: Good luck. Energize.

As El’Heem left the pad and Matthews initiated transport, leaving the compartment with only four occupants, Nolen gently tapped his combadge.

Hobart: =/\= Hobart to Ops. How are we doing? =/\=

MacKenna / Stergis / Matthews / El’Heem: =/\= Response =/\=

He winced and resisted the urge to smack El’Heem as the doctor began to tend to him.

Hobart: =/\= That bad, huh? We’ve secured the transporter room on Deck 8, and it’s operational. Where do you need us? =/\=

MacKenna / Stergis / Matthews / El’Heem: =/\= Response =/\= 

Tags/TBC

———

Lt. Commander Nolen Hobart

Executive Officer

USS Khitomer (NCC-62400)

A240001NH3