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Stardate 09382.6 (April 2324)
“You missed a spot.”
The cadet in the flower bed grunted, and tossed another bundle of weeds into the bucket at his side. “I’ve only got two hands,” he grumbled without looking up. “I didn’t miss it, I’ll get them all.” His accent was Old English, a little archaic, something in the vowels that sounded almost French.
“Not in the garden, kid. Your face. Left cheek.”
His head whipped around in annoyance, face pinched in frustration and smudged all over with dirt—except where tears had obviously tracked down the left side of his face without being wiped away. His hazel eyes, still rimmed with red, widened as he realized who had been speaking to him.
An admiral, her decorated red service uniform immaculate. She wasn’t a tall woman, though her voluminous white hair added a few inches, but given their relative postures, she loomed over him.
He scrambled to his feet, then froze for a moment, clearly unsure whether to take off his gardening gloves before saluting her. Before he could fumble them off (or transfer yet more mud to his forehead), she cracked a smile and said, “At ease, cadet.”
He relaxed—infinitesimally—and tried not to fidget with the gloves. He wasn’t making eye contact now. “S-sorry, ma’am. I didn’t realize…”
“I said at ease, cadet. You’re fine. What’s wrong?” She spoke so smoothly he almost didn’t realize she’d asked him a question. He looked up, trying to gauge her intentions, but her face was pleasantly neutral, open. She was middle-aged for an admiral, in her late eighties or early nineties, probably semi-retired from Command and teaching, though he hadn’t taken any of her classes.
“What’s wr-wrong?” he repeated, not quite catching her drift.
“Kid. You’re crying in a flower bed. And when I asked Boothby what you did to get put on weeding duty, he said you volunteered.” She nodded at the insignia on his cadet’s badge: command track, second year. “Unless you’re minoring in terrestrial botany, that’s a strange way to spend a chilly Saturday afternoon. Do you want to talk about it?”
“I—ma’am, I don’t—it’s really nothing, Admiral. I don’t want to bother you.” Not many 19-year-old boys can pull off “stoic” with muddy knees and a runny nose, but he was trying his best.
“Oh, hush. I’ll tell you what. My office is in the Archer Building, fourth floor. I’ll be grading papers all afternoon, for my sins. You finish here, get cleaned off and come by, and I’ll make you a pot of tea. Warm your bones up. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but I’d be grateful for the distraction. Oops,” she winked. “I mean the company.” Despite her age, the overall effect wasn’t grandmotherly, or even maternal—it was a mischievous big-sister grin, and it was as irrefutable as a direct order.
“Yes, Admiral—um…”
“Oh! I’m Tilly.” Her voice took on a satirical pomposity. “‘Vice Admiral Sylvia Tilly, Professor of Ethics of Theoretical Engineering at Starfleet Academy.’ Sounds pretty impressive, right?” This time he couldn’t help but return her smile. Her personality was like a force of nature; he felt caught up in it, but it felt more like a hug than a dangerous riptide.
“Pleased to meet you, Admiral Tilly,” he said, finally managing to drop his muddy gloves. He held out his hand, straightening up a little. “I’m Cadet Jean-Luc Picard.”