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Space. The final frontier.
. o .
“Captain, our ship does not have prior authorization to pursue vessels into Deep Space, if we proceed without first contacting Starfleet—”
“If we don’t pursue that ship, we lose our first positive Kree signal in eight years. Lieutenant Romanoff: punch it.”
“Yes, Captain,” Lieutenant Romanoff replied, plugging the numbers into the control board. “Commencing hyperdrive in ten, nine, eight. . . .” The USS Nomad began to groan.
Vulcanic ears tipped green with fury, Commander Stovok hissed, “Captain Stark. I must again advise against this course of action.”
Stark stared stoically out the bridge window. The curved windows provided a panoramic view of the vast, rounded glass vacuum awaiting them. Then the view became slightly stretched as Lieutenant Romanoff rounded out, “. . . Three, two, one, engaging hyperdrive.”
There was no earthly noise like it. With an elephantine groan, the Nomad began to cut horizontally through the vacuum of space, like a discus flung from a giant’s hand. It only gained speed with each perilous second, cutting off percentages of the speed of light, until finally: “Warp Factor 1.” The magical number. “Warp Factor 2.” Tuning out the intermediary quick-jumps until they reached, “Warp Factor 7,” their cruising altitude, Tony ordered dryly:
“Lieutenant Romanoff, engage inertial dampeners—not too much flare, we don’t want too much turbulence.”
“Engaging inertial dampeners,” Romanoff echoed coolly, flicking a few switches.
Normally, there would be a light jog as the ship settled. There was no jog at all. “Smooth as butter,” Tony remarked.
“Captain,” Stovok interrupted, but Tony had already noticed the problem, frowning as he felt the ship whining—accelerating.
“Lieutenant Romanoff, engage inertial dampeners,” Tony barked.
“We appear to have passed Warp Factor 8,” Stovok murmured helpfully, one Vulcanic paw gripping the back of Tony’s chair.
“Continued acceleration,” confirmed Lieutenant Romanoff. “Pulling back to 7.”
The entire bridge held its breath, even as the gear shift only seemed to push the Nomad harder. The view port became blurry—a dangerous wobble known as hard acceleration.
“Lieutenant Romanoff, full stop!” Tony shouted. It would be rough at high speeds, but space was not concrete, and the ship was more than equipped to handle a bit of hard tumbling. It was better than the alternative: Warp Factor 10 could overheat the paneling. If the ship broke apart, they would all be dead.
“Hail. Starfleet,” Commander Stovok interrupted gruffly.
Tony ignored him, because the half-Vulcan was a stickler for the rules, even in the middle of a ship-wide emergency. They had bigger problems.
“Ship unresponsive!” Lieutenant Romanoff announced, as the Nomad continued to scream through the vacuum, caught in a current. “Unable to engage full stop!”
Gripping his chair tightly, Tony watched the Warp Factor scream past 10, 10.1, 10.2. Every ship was graded to handle a certain amount of stress for its standard missions; more meant more resources, more time in the yard, less use in the field. As he watched an ominous red glow build on the front plate, he thought, There are 500 souls on board. Will you be responsible for their deaths?
“Commander Stovok, alternatives!”
Still gripping the back of his chair, Commander Stovok said immediately, “Contact Starfleet.”
“Off the table,” Tony said brusquely. “Assume Starfleet is d-d-dead and we are al-already stranded, alternatives!”
The last came out a shout. Warp Factor 11 was beginning to shear plates visibly.
“Inversion,” Stovok said suddenly. “Tumbling could off-set the—” Even breathing was becoming difficult with so much distortion, like sucking air through a stretched balloon, but Tony, in a burst of inspiration, grabbed the secondary wheel, activated it through a quick command, and, resisting the urge to yank it hard, carefully eased upwards.
It did not move.
“C-Captain,” Stovok grunted. “Allow me to assist—”
Tony growled at the thought, but as they screamed towards Warp Factor 11.5—the fastest speed his ship had ever recorded, bar none—and a huge rift opened on the front panel, he gasped, “Do it!”
Stovok gripped his hand so hard two bones immediately broke. Tony barely felt the pain through the sudden, swooped stomach sensation as Stovok hauled back on the yoke with all the superhuman strength granted by his Vulcan lineage—four times that of a human—and forced the ship upward.
As expected, it flipped, tail still caught in the unexpected current. Like a tumbling coin, it careened upwards, completing three nauseating, end-over-end inversions before the incredible engines roared to a halt in the frictionless vacuum of space.
The ten-second launch warning gave everyone a chance to brace; the subsequent acceleration forced even the hardiest engineers to strap into emergency seating. All unsecured passengers thereafter received a full washer treatment as the ship escaped the fatal rip current.
Blinking the sparks out of his eyes, Tony swung his head around the bridge blearily and asked through heaving breaths, “J.A.R.V.I.S.?”
“Reporting,” said the shipwide A.I. primly.
“Any breach?”
“Hull intact.”
Blowing out a relieved breath—no breach, no breach—Tony asked, “Souls on board?”
“501.”
Same number as they started with. “Confirmed casualties?”
“29.”
Tony winced. “Standby, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” he said. He did not want to know, on the bridge intercom, how many of those were fatalities. Starfleet would string him up for such careless maneuvering, even if it did save his ship—and the 501 souls on board. “J.A.R.V.I.S.?” he added.
“Reporting.”
“Where the hell are we?”
“Deep Space, Sector 5.”
“Contact Starfleet.”
“Unable to reach Starfleet Command. Alternatives?”
“Contact nearest friendly planet.”
“There are no planets in the area, Captain.”
“Locate nearest star system?”
“. . . Captain,” J.A.R.V.I.S. said. “There are no reachable star systems in a 10,000 light-year range.”
Dizziness swept over Tony. For a moment, he felt nauseous. “All right,” he said bracingly. “We’ll deal with that problem in a bit. Thank you, J.A.R.V.I.S. Bump up replicator rations, everybody gets a free coffee.”
“Is that wise, Captain?”
Tony huffed, said, “Who’s the Captain? Morale,” without adding, If we’re going to die out here, we die smiling and laughing, not weeping and eating each other.
Grimly, a part of him was sure that the shipwide rations were no longer being distributed as equally as they arrived, at least by a small fraction.
As he put a hand down on his chair to stand, he yelped at the spike of pain from the center, looking down at the bluing flesh near his thumb. “Fucking—Stovok,” he said, then looked over sharply, gasping when he saw the Vulcan lying facedown on the floor.
He scrambled. He got down on a knee, put a hand on Stovok’s back and said, “. . . Please be alive. Please be alive.”
“I am,” Stovok grunted.
Letting out a breath, Tony gripped his shirt, then said, “Please rise, then.”
“I believe my cervical vertebrae have been compromised,” Stovok said, with the sort of calm, Could I have a glass of water? air that made Tony do a double take. “Is Dr. Banner occupied?”
. o .
“Well,” Dr. Banner said bracingly, as Stovok lay, cool and imperious on the bed, “you’re not wrong.”
“Then attend to other, more pressing matters,” Stovok dismissed, in the manner of one about to wave a hand. His fierce glare had not abated, even though he could not move any part of his body, except to turn his head—which Dr. Banner had thwarted with a neck brace, because he risked doing far worse damage by moving it.
“It’s nothing that can’t be fixed,” Dr. Banner said to Tony, which was encouraging, except: “On Earth.”
Deflating, Tony said, “And we’re—a trillion miles away from Earth.”
“No, Tony,” Dr. Banner said. “We’re a trillion light-years away from Earth.” Then he disappeared to attend to more of the wreckage Tony had caused, tactfully avoiding the seven body bags.
They had a morgue, and they would move them, but—it seemed almost cruel, to put them out of sight, out of mind so easily. Or maybe Tony just wasn’t used to the thought of killing seven people and putting them out of sight, out of mind, so easily. That he could join Starfleet, prove to Captain Fury that he was worthy of his own ship, double down on the Command track even though his heart belonged to Engineering, improving warp cores, because he did not want to spend his life toiling in the bowels of a ship, meat fodder for when things went very wrong—
“You are troubled,” Stovok noted.
“Are you my therapist now?” Tony turned on him.
Cool blue eyes were very human underneath those pointy eyebrows. Stovok went on blandly, “Were I responsible for your mental wellbeing, it would be inappropriate for me to speak to you in such a candid and unguarded manner.”
“Oh, good. He’s honest because he’s not paid to be.”
“You have already been reckless. The least you can do is listen to me before your destructive habits cause further harm.”
Approaching the bed, Tony told him, “You know, I didn’t ask.”
“You must seek, then,” Stovok said in a very clipped, very unimpressed tone. “For if you do not seek to improve, you will kill everyone on board this ship, including yourself.”
“You really think I’m that selfish.”
“I think—”
“Maybe you don’t know me.”
“I know you well enough.”
They glared at each other. Then Stovok said tersely, “You will not continue to fly, Captain, if you persist in this behavior.”
Tony resisted the urge to punch a finger into his hard Vulcan chest and remind him who had already earned his rank and right to fly. It would not be fair; Stovok could not fight back. It was his fault Stovok could not fight back—that Stovok might not ever be able to fight back again, if they did not get back to Earth in a timely fashion. Any friendly, sufficiently advanced Starfleet planet would have the technology to repair the damage. But they were far from home.
Any home.
The thought sent cold water down Tony’s back.
“Captain,” Stovok warned.
Turning away from him, mute but breathing harder, Tony made the mistake of spotting the bodies. Seven people—mostly engineers, people least likely to be secured in an emergency—were dead. Two transport bay workers, four engineers, and one weapons’ expert.
His world tilted ominously. “Captain!” Stovok snapped, his animosity helping Tony ground himself, find his center.
He hated that Stovok could do that. No matter how badly the mission was going—a simple, Captain, calm yourself or Captain, stay alert could remind him that as long as he had Stovok—that ice wall beside him—all would be well.
The heart of his operation was grounded, for at least six weeks. Maybe indefinitely, depending on how well the repairs went.
And if Stovok went—
Your flying days are over.
Tony couldn’t breathe. He made the mistake of turning, reminding himself of the worst-yet-to-come: the seven body bags, lined up on the floor. Seven people were dead because of him. Starfleet Captains had survived worse, it did not have to be the end of his career, but—
Seven people who had been alive when they had disembarked, who had put all their faith in the USS Nomad, were gone, because of him. To add salt to the wound, the Kree were no closer to being caught. Tony Stark was no closer to being the hero of the Federation. Seven families would simply receive letters stating, Dear So-and-So, I’m afraid your beloved will not return to you because the man who killed them was too busy chasing his own glory, good day.
“Captain, look at me.”
Tony did, because no matter their differences, that tone—the volcano is erupting, the warp core is compromised, Captain, listen to me—commanded his attention. He regarded icy blue eyes set under strangely human brows—an unusual mutation for a Vulcan. (Many jeered that Stovok was not half-as-Vulcan as he claimed, until he demonstrated his superior strength in some calm test that put all doubt to rest.)
The bright blue uniform was not a birthright but a choice—science officer; a reflection of his command of the interstellar, an uncanny sweep that classified space like a canvas, detailing all the twists and turns of the vacuum, pinpointing the dangers of the unknown before they erupted, almost preternatural in tune with the geological, the extraterrestrial, the very bridge between species.
Coolly, Stovok said, “You will not. Let them. Die.”
Hearing it said aloud—that Tony Stark, who had rocketed through the ranks, who had broken every piece of red tape to do what he must to achieve his goals as a Captain of his own Constitution-class starship—grounded him. He might not have the faintest idea how he was going to fix the situation. He might not even know how to handle the future, losing command of his vessel and the best First Officer he could ever hope for.
But Stovok was right: his heart belonged to his crew. He would not let them die.
Nodding once, a simple, curt gesture, he instructed, “Remain at Bay for orders.” Then, despite the dire nature of the situation, he decided out loud, “You are not relieved from your post, Commander.”
“Captain,” Stovok warned.
Ignoring him, Tony stepped forward and dug into Stovok’s pocket, careful not to jostle him more than he needed to, aware that the brush of two fingers was as intimate as a kiss in Vulcan culture. He retrieved the communicator and instructed, “You’ll continue to advise.” Although the tips of Stovok’s ears were green, his expression was grim as Tony flicked on the channel and set the comm on his pillow before pulling out his own and asking dryly, “Clear?”
With a sigh, Stovok said, “Crystal.”
. o .
No sooner had Tony started to board the elevator back to the Bridge than a recruit came barreling down the hall, barking, “Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark!” With a sigh, Tony punched the “hold door” button with a closed fist. The Recruit slammed belly-first into the opposing wall, winding himself as he wheezed, “Mr. Stark, you won’t believe what’s happening in the warp core, it’s—temperature reading is off the charts—”
“It’s Captain Stark, Recruit,” he said. The lowest ranking member on the ship flushed scarlet. Punching the warp core level automatically, Tony added, “In light of—recent events, I will allow—you don’t have to salute,” Tony scowled, as the Recruit pitched a salute to make up for the lapse. “What is your name?”
“S-sorry, sorry, Captain—it’s Peter. Peter Parker, sir, Crewman 3rd—”
“Just talk about the core,” Tony instructed.
Pulling a PADD out of his pants, Parker shoved the tablet against his chest, hard enough to make him grunt. “Temperature readings off the chart,” Parker parroted. “Could be—massive breach, but I think it just cooled off rapidly. It’s like it—”
“Are you saying there’s a leak?” Tony asked, using three fingers to rapidly sift through the data, which displayed a series of rather alarming spikes in antimatter discharge, similar to solar discharges. Given that antimatter had a consistent tendency to explode violently at the slightest contact with regular matter—of which, Tony and everything on his ship was made of—it was a high priority to ensure that not one drop of it escaped the actual warp core it fueled. It was the equivalent of a primitive gas leak, except it needed no match to ignite: and what the data showed was that huge, Nomad-killing amounts of it had already escaped.
Worse: the tank was empty.
“Parker,” he said out loud. “Are you saying we’re on reserve?”
“Y-y-yes, sir,” Parker chattered, so dismal he was shaking with it.
“Not ideal,” Stovok chimed in coolly.
Parker jumped, twisting around bodily to look for the Vulcan. With a sigh, Tony juggled the PADD in one hand and the communicator in the other, informing dryly, “I actually prefer being a sitting duck, Commander.”
“If communication with Starfleet cannot be established for rescue, then our reserve fuel supply is our only hope for reestablishing contact with a habitable planet,” Stovok summarized.
“Yup,” Tony said succinctly. Then, daringly: “We could use the current.”
Parker blinked rapidly. Stovok said, “Negative. Ship cannot sustain reentry without warp core power to stabilize turbulence.”
It would be like jumping in a jet stream with a boogie board. Unless: “Use the reserves, ride the wave to reentry point,” Tony said.
“Captain, the whole point of this maneuver was to avoid being torn apart by—”
“We were boosting, if we just ride it—”
“A risky maneuver, and without sufficient fuel—”
“You’d rather sit here? You know no one patrols this area. Deep Space, it’s—we’re on our own.”
The biting pause was meaningful. Right. Because you didn’t build in any parameters. That’s on you, Captain.
Tony squeezed the comms a little, hyper-aware of Parker’s gaze on him, wide-eyed, trusting. You’ll fix this, won’t you, Captain?
Of course he would. He was a goddamn fixer. He fixed shit. It broke—he fixed it.
“I believe a period of reflection would not do us ill,” Stovok said at last, a measured response.
Tony exhaled. It wasn’t a bad compromise. “All right.” He considered it. “Eight hours,” he said. That would give Bruce time in the Med Bay, the warp core time to cool—not that it needed it, the main tank was bone empty. There was no hot-matter to stop vibrating. It was like the current had ripped the tank empty. He wondered if the second ride would be their last. He forced the thought from his mind, instead saying calmly: “J.A.R.V.I.S.? Set the clock. 0800.”
“Clock set. Your presence is requested on the bridge for further evaluation, Captain.”
“Ten-four. I will be there. Momentarily,” Tony dismissed. He passed the PADD back to the recruit and started to walk around the metal catwalk encircling the reactor.
Parker chimed in, “May I speak freely? Captain?”
“You may speak conservatively,” Tony said.
“. . . I thought you were on the Avenger.”
Tony paused mid-step, then laid his foot down on the metal walkway deliberately. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, a mix of emotions—rage, cold frustration, and a sweeping sort of indifference that only time and a lot of alcohol could buy—as a voice chimed in from his pocket, “Acting Captain Howard Stark was—”
“Thank you, Commander Stovok,” he interjected briskly. Somehow, hearing the Vulcan tell it made it more real. Clearing his throat, he searched for words to explain the disaster, the ever-diminishing, endlessly dissatisfying skirmishes between the Kree and the Federation. At last, he said, “I am not my father.”
. o .
Privacy was rare on a starship. When Recruits were packed eight pads to a room, it was ludicrous to allocate an entire living block for a single bridge officer, no matter his rank.
So, Tony shared a room with his First Officer. It wasn’t strange; it was simply Starfleet.
They were adults about it. It had been a little odd, through the growing pains, but they left bridge animosities at the door. The blue, Spartan room was their oasis. Besides, Starfleet had extremely strict guidelines regarding shared quarters. Neither of them desired to lose their rank, so they made it work, quickly.
It wasn’t as bad as it seemed. They were both required on the bridge frequently, so it was rare to share a shift, and even when they did, Tony could admit that Stovok was a perfect house guest, proper, quiet, and self-contained. It was still strange to catch him in an intimate moment, washing his face in preparation for a shift, sitting on the floor in cross-legged meditation, but Tony got over himself.
As soon as Tony stepped through the sliding doors, a weight lifted off his chest. Everything about the blue room bespoke peace.
The collar of his gold Command uniform hugged his neck. He stepped deeper into the refrigerated room.
A great emptiness swept over him.
Stovok still had a book on his table. Old-fashioned—a gift from the Bajorans. Most of their readings were transmitted to their PADDS, personal access display devices. How primitive, he thought, handling the soft paper, the smooth cover, feeling scandalous for even touching it, to waste so much material on something just one set of eyes could even enjoy. It is an experience. A sensory one that cannot be replicated on digital print, Stovok explained, once.
Tony had an eidetic memory. He didn’t need to enjoy books; he just needed to absorb the information. It was why he excelled at Starfleet; absorb the information, as quickly as possible, and hit the stars running.
It is a gift, he thought, Stovok’s voice in his ears.
There was a lump in his throat. God, he was so astray.
He sat down on Stovok’s bed, breaking protocol. Stovok would know—he had a keen eye for that sort of thing. But as soon as they landed, Stovok would be transported to a hospital. He pressed a hand over the smooth covers, a tightly made bed. You are perfectly suited for this role. You had a hundred more years in you.
They would put him back together and put him right back on a ship. They would ground Tony for six months, maybe a year. By then, he wouldn’t remember the luster of the stars.
There wasn’t much fun out there, without the right crew. It was mostly just empty space. A few good aliens, some terrifically bad ones, too.
Why do you want to be a Captain?
Flopping onto his back, Tony stared at the dark ceiling and thought about Fury’s question, the mic buzzing near his face, interrupted by a strange washing sound that he realized was Stovok’s breathing.
Because I don’t want to stay on Earth, he thought with grim truthfulness. It wasn’t the kind of answer Starfleet was looking for; it wasn’t the one he had given. But it was the truth, the heart of the matter: I don’t want to be landlocked. I don’t want to spend my life looking at stars, I want to go to them. I don’t want to live in a box. I want to—do something.
I don’t know what that is yet.
Half his life was gone. He should probably know.
Everyone told him he would make a hell of an engineer. But the statistics were grim, outstanding. Engineers died in space, in higher numbers than any other crew member. Some called it the ineffable luck of space: that space was dangerous, just like the aliens that wanted nothing to do with the Federation were dangerous. That there was no hope for the universe; it would always be dark, with just a few pinpricks of light. He knew, if he boarded as an engineer, there was just a fifty percent chance he would live to see his sixtieth birthday. Most engineers loved the stars too much to care. They weren’t driven towards the Command track, and they were blinded by statistics thrown at them about “inherent danger” of working with antimatter that screamed, Engineering is dangerous.
Tony didn’t believe it. He just thought that red shirts were expendable.
Rolling over, he accidentally compressed the communicator, triggering an alert. “Captain?” Stovok asked at once. The alarm was minimal in his voice, but present.
“I’m here, Mr. Stovok,” Tony said gruffly.
Cooling immediately, Stovok responded, “Are you well?”
Tony let that linger.
No, he thought gruffly. No, and why should I be? Isn’t there a goddamn time to be unwell? Can’t we be unwell when people die on these ships? Maybe he was the sick one, the weak one, the Captain who mourned for the people that died. He wasn’t cut out for it, clearly. Maybe he should be grounded, immediately and permanently. He probably did need psychiatric help—he still could not speak of the Avenger without seeing red, for all that Starfleet had failed. If they had analyzed the data patterns, they would never have sent that ship into hostile, uncharted territory, forcing a willful engineer to take command of a ship with no autopilot controls.
He saved eight hundred lives, Starfleet whispered, proud, proud.
Fuck you. You killed him. You killed him, in cold blood, because what’s one more?
He hated his father. A man who never even existed, and he despised him.
“Captain,” repeated Stovok calmly. It many ways, Vulcans felt even more deeply than humans—they could communicate telepathically, and they considered even light touches extremely intimate—yet they were logical to the bone. They were the twin ancestral race of one of the most violent aliens in the known Universe: the Romulans. It was the duality of Vulcanology, rage and quiescence, that made them so enigmatic to many, yet Tony understand why deep feeling had to be harnessed. It was consumptive. And Stovok was only half-Vulcan; his human nature was visible as he said frankly, “You must speak or we will not get through this.”
Drawing in a breath, almost alarmed at the thought, Tony said suddenly, “You did this.” It was wrong to cast blame, and possibly a punishable offense that Stovok’s cool memory would record, but: “It was your fault, you, you—” He looked at his shaking blue hand for a moment, startled to find the injury, and managed, “It was all your fault.”
“I took control,” agreed Stovok, which took all the wind out of Tony’s sails.
Because he knew. He knew Stovok would take the fall for him. Stovok would stand before the Tribunal and say, I killed those people. Stovok would let himself be stripped of his regard and thrown out of the Academy. Stovok would do it not through lies but simple truths.
Perhaps Stovok even believed it, somehow.
With a frustrated breath, Tony pressed the comm to his jaw and said simply, “God damn you.”
. o .
Eight hours later, nothing had changed.
No rescue party had emerged from the inky blackness. No miracle had arrived from the empty warp core.
All systems were nominal, but they were, for all intents and purposes, lost at sea.
Tony had managed to drag himself through a shower, carefully tending his hurt hand, alone, using a bit of numbing salve to take the edge off. He pulled on a glove for good measure, then looked at his own reflection in the mirror, his dark earth-tone eyes, and thought, Be an engineer. Be a Captain.
Exiting his room, he radioed, “Commander Stovok?”
There was no answer.
“Commander Stovok?”
Feeling his heart pound in his chest, he was about to ask again when Dr. Cho chimed in, “He’s resting.”
With uncertainty broiling in his gut, Tony hesitated, then said, “Thank you, Dr. Cho.” In a slightly more authoritative tone, he added: “Strap in. We’ll be departing momentarily, J.A.R.V.I.S. will keep you advised of countdown.”
“Affirmative, Captain,” Dr. Cho responded.
Entering the bridge proper, Tony saw Lieutenant Romanoff sitting in his chair, both legs slung over one arm casually as she read through a PADD. She swiveled around to regard him calmly. “Acting Captain Romanoff,” he greeted lightly. “Congratulations. You’ve been demoted. You’re now Acting First Officer.”
Inclining her head, Romanoff said, “It suits me,” and returned to active post at the helm.
Sniffing, Tony took a seat and surveyed the room. “The rest of you,” he said at last. “Prepare to reenter the current.”
“We’re all gonna die,” Ensign Barton, tactical officer, said tactfully.
. o .
It still took almost an hour to finalize preparations. Tony wanted to be sure everybody was really strapped in, because:
“This isn’t gonna be pretty,” Barton warned, strapped into his own chair, ready to handle comms in case of unexpected traffic.
“No,” Tony agreed darkly, also secured to his own seat by both straps. “But it’s this or eat each other.”
A few sets of eyes looked at him. He said briefly, “We will not resort to that.”
Everybody seemed fairly calm, despite the grim prospects. They had survived the first jump, after all, and a cup of coffee brought up the mood considerably. He was well-liked, for his recklessness—and he would pull them through. “All right,” he said buoyantly. “Let’s go. Lieutenant?”
“Ready to reengage hyperdrive,” Lieutenant Romanoff confirmed, hand on the throttle. “In ten.”
Tony drew in a breath.
“Nine.
“Eight.
“Captain?”
“Six.
“Five.
Fumbling quickly, Tony managed to get the comms out of his pocket just in time to say, “Go for broke, Stovok.”
“One.”
The ship began its controlled dive.
For a moment, it was joyful. Tony actually loved flying—above all, his favorite thing about Starfleet was being among the stars. Space, the final frontier, all of it—the absolute panoramic view of a starship, the sheer novelty of doing even the most mundane task in space was a thousand times more inviting than doing anything, no matter how exhilarating, on Earth. He feared he would die of heartbreak the day he was retired or benched. From the moment he got on a starship, he was hooked.
Even knowing the dread awaiting them, that swooping, sensational moment—that was joy. Some hated it—couldn’t stand being “up in the air,” even just the feeling of artificial gravity, the rigors of spaceflight and the dangers that it entailed. They’d trade credits, give up their careers, just to stay safe on a single planet.
Not him. He was happiest in transit. He loved flying. He loved the mechanics of it. The rigors, even, the exhaustion after a long mission.
He hated the necessary evils. But when it was good—
They slipped into the current. It was surprisingly easy, like a sailboat catching wind: belly of the ship skimmed, and they began to soar along, following the arc.
“No throttle,” he said immediately.
“No throttle,” Romanoff echoed.
“Really steady,” Tony murmured, ready to leap in on the wheel on his own throttle the moment they started to wobble out of control, but he trusted Romanoff—he did. He just loved flying, loved starships, more than he loved having a crew, dealing with Starfleet. If he could rocket around space alone, free as a bird, he’d be happy.
“Nicely done, Captain,” Stovok said hoarsely in his pocket.
Okay: so maybe not totally alone. He was too damn old for butterflies in the stomach. He shooed them away, focusing on his task as he said firmly, “Bridge to Engineering, what’s our output?”
“Super-high burst on entry, about eighty percent of the way through our second tank,” Senior Engineer Noh-Varr replied. “Maintain or decrease output or we’re dead in the water, Captain.”
“Understood, Noh-Varr.” To Romanoff: “How’s speed?”
“Warp Core 4.”
Tony ground his teeth. “Are we stable?”
“Mild acceleration detected,” Romanoff confirmed grimly.
It was bad news—they had almost nothing in the tank to negate the soon-to-be-catastrophic speed, and the ship was already slightly damaged from the last monstrous ride. One more joyride at Warp Factor 12—or, worse, a catastrophic jump out—could do more than tumble them, it could cause a structural loss.
“Warp Core 5,” Romanoff called out.
Stovok said calmly, “Eyes up, Captain.”
Breathing through his mouth for a moment to keep the very visceral image of his father, being blasted to literal pieces by an enemy ship, from his imagination, Tony said aloud, “There’s a time for giddy optimism, Stovok. I think we’re past it.”
“Warp Core 6,” Romanoff confirmed.
“Shit,” Barton said eloquently.
“There is always a time for optimism,” Stovok said calmly.
“If we discharge tank—”
“Warp Core 6.5,” Romanoff said.
Tony cut himself off, because even twenty percent of reserve wouldn’t be enough to fight: “Warp Core 7.” Their cruising speed.
He looked at the blurry window, the beautiful white and blue lights, literally invisible space streaking by. There were all sorts of dangerous cosmic phenomena out there, listed and unlisted. A Starfleet Captain must be prepared for anything. Black holes, “cosmic dips,” and fluctuations of all kinds created unimaginable stellar weather. Getting caught in a wormhole was not the most unreasonable death—but taking 500 souls with him was grim.
We tried. We didn’t starve.
It will be quick.
“Warp Core 8.”
“Eyes up, Captain,” Stovok repeated firmly.
“We’re holding,” Tony reported, surprised at how calm his voice was, how much of a lie it all was. We’re not holding. We’re actively falling apart. This whole operation was a waste. We were never going to catch that ship. And if we did—what? We few take down the entire Kree empire?
They’d capture us all. This was the better ending.
You just wanted a little revenge. This is you getting yours.
Massaging his own knee, Tony said aloud, “Warp Core 9.”
Romanoff was quiet. The whole bridge was, except for the screaming hum of the warp core itself. It was extremely rare for ships to go above Warp Core 7—it put a strain on the engines, it burned through antimatter like a bonfire. Hotter, brighter, faster. But the current caused rapid acceleration. Like a meteor in a gravity well, they were falling faster, faster, faster—nowhere.
“Warp Core 10,” he read off his chart.
“Have faith, Captain,” his First Officer said quietly.
Shutting his eyes for a brief, unhappy moment, he thought about what it was like on their last island in time, a paradise planet.
“We couldn’t stay here?”
Standing on the white sandy beach, Stovok looked at him, an unhappy tilt of the head.
“No, we couldn’t,” Tony agreed, sipping his martini, gesturing grandly at the perfect pool of azure water. “We’d be too happy.”
Then they hit the edge of the waterfall.
Without throttle, it was a rough edge: the ship continued to fly forward without the smooth edge. A huge wobble began; wobbling generated friction; friction meant heat. “Holy hell!” Barton said succinctly, as the entire interior of the ship rattled like a hockey puck on ice.
“Inertial dampe—”
Romanoff was already on it, even as the interior heated to such a degree J.A.R.V.I.S. warned, “Interior temperature exceeding safety limits,” and automatically deployed cooling air.
The panels were heating up around them. It was a terrifyingly close call as they rocketed through space, almost shaking apart from the inside-out, vibrating so hard they were in danger of losing everything to liquefaction.
But then, finally—with one last heroic cough of antimatter—the ship slid to a smooth stop. J.A.R.V.I.S. continued issued more cooling spray, as Tony gasped, “Warp speed—”
“Four. Dropping.”
Thunking a triumphant fist on the dash, Tony yelped in pain as his brittle hand contacted the metal. “Go team. Good job.”
“Got chatter on the line,” Barton offered, a mic to his ear, brow furrowed. “Might be Orions, think they’re passing through—”
“Get them—get them,” Tony said immediately, snapping his fingers. “Hail.”
“Roger,” Barton said, flicking switches, already raising their ship.
Leaning back, breathing tightly, Tony heard through his comm, “Smooth as always, Captain.”
He seethed wordlessly, letting it be both frustration and relief. “Lieutenant,” he added. Romanoff swiveled around to face him, eyebrows raised. “Excellent job.”
“When failure is not an option,” she said simply, “you do not fail.”
“. . . Well-stated.”
. o .
And just like that: they were back on good old terra firma.
Admiral Fury was predictably incandescent. “You nearly ruined my ship. You risked hundreds of lives. You killed eight people.”
Grimacing, Tony said, “I know.”
“You do not get to talk,” Fury warned, holding up a hand. “You incapacitated one of my best officers. It will be a miracle if Stovok is back on a ship before the fourth quarter.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You—” Glowering, Fury said frankly, “Captain.”
“I’m sorry,” Tony repeated, picking up his Captain’s hat and laying it on Fury’s deck. Fury glared at it fiercely. “I’m not cut out for this. You were right. I lied, and I—” He caught a mouthful of fabric, blinking rapidly against the obstruction as it landed back in his lap.
Tony opened his mouth to protest, but Fury held up a hand, then gestured for them to both stand. Without a word—because Fury had been so instrumental in getting him to the stars, despite his reckless behavior, countless misdemeanors that would have gotten other promising cadets kicked out of the Academy, no matter their stature, their stats, or their hero father—he led him across campus.
It was a gorgeous day, Tony would give him that. Cadets studying on the quad, people walking the grounds, leisurely reminiscing or “just visiting.” It was one of the few places on Earth he still really liked—because it reeked of space. It reminded him that he was on his way up, almost up top.
Finally, Fury shoved open a metal door. Tony stepped through it. “Why are we here?” he asked frankly. It was the back room of the Kobayashi Maru simulator. He knew because there were seats for the judges, and there was the projector, and there was where the would-be Starfleet officers would sit, sweating and swearing internally as they tried desperately to not lose their ships to enemy fire.
They would fail, all of them, in a terrifically galling, stressful, and ultimately tried-and-trued way of proving that no Starfleet Captain was immune to loss of life. “Sit,” Fury ordered. When Tony stayed adamantly at the door, Fury grabbed him by the shirt collar and threw him into a chair.
“Haven’t changed a bit, old timer,” Tony grunted, sitting up carefully in his chair.
“Why do you think we run this test?” Fury asked.
“You like watching people squirm?”
“Why,” Fury repeated, “do you think we run this test?”
Sighing, Tony shrugged and said, “Listen, Nick—I’m out. I don’t—”
“There’s only one reason,” Fury said simply, “to prepare you.”
“It’s archaic,” Tony said flatly. He tried tossing his hat again. Fury let it fall. Tony felt a weird crumpling feeling in his chest at the sight of his Captain’s hat, so hard-earned, just lying on the cadet’s floor, even as he went on, “You wanna prepare them for Romulan torture next? Be my guest. That’ll sell enlistment fliers.”
He started to stand, reclaim his hat, when Fury said, “I agree.”
Almost winded, he asked, “What did you say?”
“The Counsel thinks this is the best way to determine which Captains will hold up under pressure,” Fury said. Slowly, Tony took a seat, as they both looked at the clear glass window, the empty chairs. “But what Captain sacrifices their crew? We are preparing Captains ready to lose their crews. I find that a dangerous game.”
Tossing one leg over the other, Tony crossed his arms, grunted, “Make a point, Nick.”
“I could have you grounded. I could even have your ship taken away from you, for the kind of behavior you exhibited—pursuing an enemy ship into uncharted territory.” Tony grimaced a little, well-aware that Fury always had his sources, even if he had been fully ready to come clean, because like hell was he letting Stovok take the fall for him. But then Fury leaned down, recovered his hat, and said simply, “But then there would be one less Captain out there who puts his crew about his mission. And that’s not a Starfleet I want.” Holding the crumpled hat out again, he said, “This is no perfect world. This is the world we are living in. Are you ready to live in it, or run away from it?”
Staring hard at the hat, Tony tried to get up, walk away from it, proud. But even the thought of walking out that door to a ground life was impossible. He took the hat, almost gingerly, and popped it on his hat, as crumpled as it was. “Yeah, all right, whatever you say,” he grumbled.
“That’s Admiral, to you,” Fury reminded.
“Yeah, all right, whatever you say, Admiral,” he said.
“I will dock you my tab at the bar tonight,” Fury decided. Tony huffed and stood up.
“I thought Admirals didn’t drink. Paragons of virtue.”
“You have much to learn, Stark.”
“That’s Captain—”
“I can put the whole bar’s tab on your credits.”
“. . . Admiral, sir.”
. o .
Every hospital looked the same. Even on other planets, they looked the same. Just couldn’t get damn past those white sheets, antiseptic smells, heartbeat monitors.
But: “You look better already.”
Flexing his hand, Stovok reached out and laid a palm over his covered wrist. “I am better because of you,” he said graciously.
Tony huffed, because he had a lot of things to say to that, most of them self-directed hatred. He settled for hiding under his own cap, reaching up and tugging the top edge down, so it covered his eyes.
He was very surprised when the hand reached up, uncovered his eyes, so Stovok could look earnestly and say, “You did good, Captain.”
“God, please don’t call me that off the ship,” he entreated. “Feels like ship talk in the bedroom.” Flushing, he added, “Not that—” He blinked, flustered, as Stovok pressed his fingers to his face, overwhelmed with a feeling of gratitude, warmth, affection, exasperation, and above all, calm.
It brought his heart down. He felt like he could actually speak clearly as he said, “Did you just mind control me?”
Stovok’s expression went almost predictably exasperated as he removed his hand, replacing it at his side, his own cheeks a bit green.
“What happens if I try?” Tony said, lifting a hand, but slowly, reaching forward, again slowly, because he knew Stovok could hurt him real badly if he wanted to. Stovok didn’t try to stop him at all, as he rested his fingers against surprisingly cool skin. “Huh. Must be a—jammed—signal. Maybe there’s just—cotton fuzz. See, my thoughts—”
“For someone so insufferable,” Stovok said dryly, “I am still grateful to see you.” He slid his own hand around Tony’s wrist, and there was the faint echo of warmth, of calm, of—
Love. Wow. “T’hy’la,” Stovok whispered.
Swallowing hard, Tony said, “I missed you.”
Carefully, Stovok angled his fingers, until they met in what Tony recognized only from the most furtive moments on Vulcan as a kiss. Stovok almost refused to even tell him what it was, but: he felt it, too, the same flickering buzz, almost like the fizz of a champagne glass. It was nice. He could see why they liked it, especially if it was reciprocated.
He felt a brief pang, admitting aloud, “I’m sorry.” When Stovok slid his hand again to cradle his wrist, a more questioning hold, he explained, “I can’t—be. T’hy’la. To you.”
“You are my t’hy’la,” Stovok assured. Drawing him closer, room to sit a hip on the bed, he said, “It—is closest to your ‘beloved.’”
Tony slid his hand to his covered thigh. Stovok’s face flushed a bit greener. Tony started to pull away, but: “No,” Stovok assured, replacing it. “I like you close.”
“Is that why you always steal my chair?” Tony teased, gently rubbing his thumb over his leg.
Stovok said calmly, “It is not stealing. It is sharing.”
Tony thought aloud, “I think I could share with you,” before leaning in carefully, questioningly, not sure if he would be rebuffed entirely. Stovok leaned forward and kissed the tip of his nose.
Tony laughed. Stovok blinked once at him. “No, it’s fine,” Tony said at his genuinely questioning look. “It’s fine. It’s fine,” he said, kissing Stovok back in the same way, amused, because he imagined the same ritual occurring, observe and repeat. Starfleet Academy was based in San Francisco. How strange it must be for a Vulcan, trying to learn it all, and more. “You’re very—sweet.”
“What an unusual way to describe a person.”
“Oh my God,” Tony sighed, and kissed him on the mouth.
Tony could almost hear the telegraphed, Strange, and Don’t like it, and Maybe like it, just from bumped noses. Even as he started to pull away, Stovok gripped his uniform, keeping him close. Nicer, seemed to be the consensus, even if Strange was definitely up there.
Leaning into it, he decided to enjoy it for what it was: their own place of quiet amid the chaotic world.