Work Text:
The message arrives while he’s eating breakfast.
He’s on Starbase 8, having spent the last week mediating some very long, very tiresome negotiations between the Retellians and the Bzzit Khaht. They’ve finally concluded and Pike is supposed to be on leave the next few days. But a Fleet Captain’s work is never done, so he’s not surprised to receive a message from Command, notifying him that he’s got a new assignment.
He opens it, and sees the words “inspection of a training cruise” staring back at him.
The sounds of the station - the distant hum of the engines, the conversation of people walking past in the corridor - fade out, replaced by the harsh sound of Pike’s own breathing.
He opens the attached crew manifest with numb, clumsy fingers, and scrolls through the list of cadet names. It might not be this training cruise, he tries to tell himself. Starfleet runs dozens of them every year.
Still, it feels like an inevitability when he finds the names he’s had memorized for nine years. Muliq Al Alcazar. Maat Al-Salah. T'quiel Dawn. Yuuto Hoshide. Andrea Lopez. Dusty Swender.
He’s known his future was coming, that it was getting closer. He just didn’t know it would be today.
He looks down at the remains of his half-eaten breakfast, what’s likely to have been his last meal. He wishes now he’d picked something more exciting than granola and fruit. He could cook something else, he supposes, but he doubts he could keep it down.
He suddenly wants to talk to Una, so badly it feels like a physical ache in his chest. He wants to see her face, to hear her voice as she says -
As she says what? That he doesn’t have to do this? That there’s another way?
Unbidden, his mind starts spinning alternatives. He could write Command back, insisting that they let him take the leave he’s owed. He could run away from Starfleet altogether. He could go on the training cruise, and insist that everyone stay out of the engine room. He would still retire, and make sure that James Kirk gets command of the Enterprise, so he can do whatever he does at the Neutral Zone to prevent a war. He would watch over Spock, keep him safe. He could save everyone, he could -
He almost believes it, and it scares him. If he heard Una begging him over subspace to find another way, he doesn’t trust his resolve not to crack.
Even if he did, he doesn’t want their last conversation to be one of tears and goodbyes.
He stands, intending to clear his dishes, but his gaze is drawn back to his PADD, the damning message still showing on it.
It’s not fair. The complaint is no less true for being childish. Acquiring the time crystal saved all life in the universe from being wiped out by Control, and this is his reward? To be ravaged by radiation on an unimportant, last-minute assignment, denied even the dignity of death, and to have to know it’s coming?
He hurls the PADD across the room. It shatters against the wall, and the pieces clatter hollowly to the floor.
A dull sense of shame creeps in as they do. Putting your body and life on the line has always been part of serving in Starfleet, even the greenest cadet knows that. He’s had a good career, a good life. He’s had the privilege to command starships, to hopscotch around the galaxy, to walk on alien worlds, to meet and serve with incredible people. He’s always believed that the cost was worth it.
He doesn’t want to stop believing that, just because the price is now due.
He checks the time. He’s expected to beam aboard the training ship in less than two hours, so he’d better get ready. He clears away the remains of his breakfast and picks up the shards of his PADD, then heads to the shower.
As he’s undressing, his gaze catches on his own reflection in the mirror. He doesn’t think of himself as being especially vain, but he can’t help comparing what he sees with what he’ll soon look like. No more smooth skin, no more thick hair. Even the blue of his eyes will be dulled, clouded over. He leans closer to the mirror, until he can see every eyelash and every pore, trying to commit it all to memory.
Even when he turns away from his reflection and steps into the shower, the thoughts don’t stop. How much of his body will survive what’s coming? He looks down at his hands, and remembers - such a long time ago, now - Tilly blurting out that he had beautiful nail beds. Will he still have fingernails, tomorrow? Will he even know, with his body encased inside that horrible chair? He won’t be able to feel anything, any more than he’ll be able to move. He’s suddenly hyperaware of the water running down his skin, the tiles beneath his bare feet, the slickness of the soap in his hand. He puts it down, and gently caresses his own arm with his hand. When was the last time someone touched him? He doesn’t remember. He hadn’t known at the time he would never feel it again.
He leaves the shower and towels himself dry, then pulls on his uniform. He tries to fasten his collar once, twice, his fingers trembling. He closes his eyes and mouths the names of the cadets he saves. Dusty Swender. T'quiel Dawn. Muliq Al Alcazar. Yuuto Hoshide. Andrea Lopez. He repeats them again, and again, until his hands steady.
He opens his eyes and fastens his collar.
The next task is packing. One of the advantages of ‘Fleet life is that he doesn’t have much, but even so he finds himself pausing over his belongings. How many will he have any use for after today? Surely not his uniforms, and likely not the rest of his clothes either. What good will any decorations be, once he’s confined to a medical unit and unable to turn his head? He won’t be allowed to keep his Starfleet files and equipment once he’s been medically discharged, not that he’d be able to use them regardless.
Really, he could leave everything here, for all the difference it’ll make, but he packs it up anyway. No point making someone else do it later.
Once his bags (all two of them) are stacked and waiting, he turns to the computer console. His notes from the negotiations are mostly up to date but he goes through them, making sure they’re organized neatly and occasionally adding a detail, before submitting it to Starfleet Command. He does the same with the rest of his pending reports, then turns to his more personal affairs.
He looks through his will, advanced directive, and legal next of kin documents, not because he needs to change anything - he’s long been in the habit of keeping them current - but because it’s reassuring to know they’re there, and then checks that they’re clearly attached to his file.
The last thing is his letter.
Most Starfleet officers have at least one, an “in case I don’t return” letter to their loved ones, but Pike has never been good at writing them. Even now, he considers leaving it, because what can he say in - he checks the chronometer - half an hour that will make this easier? But Una and Spock deserve a proper goodbye.
Video recordings tend to be favored for this purpose, but Pike doesn’t trust his voice not to falter, so he opens up a blank document.
Twenty-seven minutes later, this is the result:
If you’re reading this, you know what’s happened to me. I know you had hoped there would be another way, but some things just can’t be avoided, and that’s okay. I knew what I was doing when I took the time crystal, and I don’t regret it. I’ve had a good run, and I’ll go out saving people. There are much, much worse endings out there.
I have only one request: Don’t visit me. I’d prefer for you to remember me as I was, on the Enterprise, and I’d prefer to remember you the same way. Just go on being brilliant out there, as I’m sure you will.
I love you.
He attaches two copies to his file, one addressed to Una and one to Spock, and powers down the terminal. He wipes his eyes dry, takes a deep breath, then picks up his bags and heads for the transporter room. The USS Petrov awaits.
Once on board, there’s the usual whirlwind of names and faces, and then he’s led to the bridge. The Petrov’s a J-class ship and showing its age, but the cadets seem to have done an admirable job maintaining it. Pike would be sure to mention that in his inspection report, if he was ever going to have a chance to write it.
Everyone snaps to attention when he reaches the bridge. There are even more introductions, and then he goes around to each of the stations, asking the cadets about what they’ve learned. The cadets are young, and green, and clearly nervous about having a Fleet Captain look over their work, but they all show a great deal of promise.
There are worse ways to spend his last hours, Pike finds himself thinking, than on the bridge of a starship, watching the next generation of Starfleet officers work. But all too soon, his inspection of the bridge is over.
The next stop is the engine room.
For a moment, Pike considers trying to delay the inevitable. He could ask to break for lunch, or request that they leave the engine room for last. Surely one or two more hours wouldn’t make a difference?
But he looks at all the young faces around him, and knows he can’t risk it.
There’s discussion as they walk through the corridors, mostly about recent upgrades to the ship, but Pike doesn’t seem to be required to participate beyond nodding in approval, thankfully. That hyperawareness of his own body is back - how easily, thoughtlessly he puts one foot in front of the other, raises an arm, turns his head. All these years he’s had this body, and he doesn’t think he’s ever appreciated it the way he does in this moment.
His heart pounds pointlessly in his chest; the fight-or-flight response is kicking in. Details from an old biology class come back: Production of adrenaline speeds up heart rate and breathing, increasing blood oxygenation. Cortisol increases glucose availability. Blood is directed away from the digestive system and towards the muscles. His whole body is working in tandem to prepare him for the coming danger, unknowing that it won’t make a difference.
His inspection of the engine room is much the same as the bridge, except that despite his best efforts he’s barely aware of what the cadets are telling him. He clings to every second, knowing that the next one might bring disaster, and is torn between wishing for one more minute, one more minute, one more minute, and wanting the awful anticipation to end.
It still startles him when it does. There’s the crash of an explosion, then blinking red lights, the blare of an alarm, a computerized voice.
“Alert. Radiation leak detected.”
He yells at the cadets to leave, knowing that the radiation bulkheads will start to close any second. Most of them do, the able helping the injured. Pike lifts a cadet with burns down his legs, and half-carries, half-drags him to the door, then turns back.
Several cadets lie unmoving on the floor. Pike recognizes one of them as Maat, and he doesn’t have to check to know that they’re dead. But there’s one still standing at her console, frantically trying to shut down the warp engine. Dusty Swender.
“Four seconds to lockdown.”
“Get out of here!” he yells at her, but she doesn’t leave her post.
“I can fix it,” she insists.
Pike can hear the cadets behind him calling him, and he could just turn around and leave. Tenavik said that his fate was sealed, but it’s not, really. The visit from his older self had been proof of that. Nothing would stop him from leaving Swender and walking out of here.
Nothing except himself.
“Three seconds.”
Pike runs towards her, grabs her arm and pulls her away from the console, back towards the door. They’ve only gotten halfway when there’s another explosion behind them. They stumble, and he sees the bulkheads coming down. In one last, desperate motion, Pike shoves her forward as hard as he can, and she rolls into the corridor, just as the bulkheads close.
“Lockdown complete.”
He can feel the radiation burning his skin, now. He crawls the last few feet to the door so he can see the cadets outside. They look frantic, calling for engineering teams so they can get him out, but they’re safe.
They’re safe, he reminds himself, as his vision blurs, as his skin melts and blisters, as his mouth fills with blood. They’re safe, he reminds himself, as everything goes dark.
They’re safe.