Chapter Text
Stardate 422708.8. One of multiple Cadmus Laboratories. Location: Classified
“—search every inch of this place. Be ready for anything,” Harper demanded, turning his head to yell at his men behind him.
Westfield rushes up next to him, shoulders bumping as he gets a better look at the broken glass and pooling liquid on the floor.
“No!” he mutters, hands curling into fists as he pushes his way past Harper. “No — he wasn't ready!”
Harper picks up the fabric caught on the glass of the broken tube between his thumb and forefinger.
“Care to fill me in,” he asks, “or should I guess?”
Westfield sneers. “It was approved, Harper, by your boys — Gabrielli, Johnson, all the rest—”
“It's their fault, all right!”
Westfield, Harper, and their men look up, to where the voice came from, to the ceiling — Packard’s spittle lands at Harper’s feet. He's all tied up, with a bow and everything, and his face is red with anger and, most likely, physical exertion from trying to squirm his way out.
“Their clones, at least!” he shouts, legs kicking futilely like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Oh, Thirteen gave me some trouble — started suddenly fighting off the input like a man possessed. Then those boys broke him loose!”
He jerks his head toward a side of the room, his right shoe just barely on his foot.
“He twisted this steel with his bare hands — and they all disappeared into the air duct!” Somehow, Packard’s mouth twists even further downward the longer he shouts. “Don't you understand?”
He growls when no one answers, more spittle flying to the ground.
“The code-words — the instructions were never implanted! We have absolutely no control over him!”
Stardate 422708.9. Outside Cadmus Laboratory. Location: Classified
The boys huddle against each other, not yet following the other clone out of the tunnel. He had punched the grate off, and walked out to a place he only sort of recognized — he knew it was right outside a Project Cadmus site, but he didn’t know where and he had never seen it before — not really.
“—stfield and his goons’ll be after you, you know,” one of the boys says, stepping out in front of the others who quickly hurry after him. Experiment 13 — he doesn’t have a name, does he? — turns his head belatedly, away from the city in the distance that glows faintly with apartment and street lights.
The boy holds out a leather jacket. “Thought this jacket could help,” he says, “maybe ‘til you get some other clothes or something.”
“Yeah,” he says. The black, blue, and red bodysuit is a mimicry of one of the only things that’s actually clear in his mind right now. “Thanks.”
“No problem!” one of the other boys chirps. He’s younger and his eyes are slivers when he smiles. “I mean — us newsboys kinda belong at the project—” relics from a different Earth era 13 remembers— “but you . . . Well, not like you need it, but good luck, Superb—”
“—Hey!”
Now he remembers.
“Don’t ever call me ‘Superboy!’”
Stardate 423941.5. Manchester, Alabama. Earth
Bart stumbles out of the train, legs aching from being cramped for so long. His bag — the red one in his right hand — hits the backs of his knees when he hops onto the platform. His suitcase clatters a bit, before he rights it so it's balanced on its two wheels.
He's jittery, fingers somehow twitching even with the tight grip he has on his bags. Bart squints so he can see the people at the station a bit better. The sun’s up, halfway in the sky.
It's bright.
And hot, too.
Bright and hot. Jeans no longer seem as much of a fashion statement as a sign pointing at him saying “STUPID!”
It's hot. Alabama’s hot. He didn't mention that already, did he?
Whatever. Sunglasses were probably a good idea, too, but it's way too late for any of that now. So Bart rolls his suitcase up so it's close against his leg and uses his hand to block the sun and squints even harder so his whole face is scrunched towards the center.
He's met Max before, yeah, but there's still a bit of a crowd — even though he can't think of a single reason as to why so many people want to go to Manchester, Alabama of all places at noon on a hot and balmy Wednesday in the middle of July.
Finally, Bart sees him — Max had the foresight to wear sunglasses, at least, but he's rocking a pair jeans just like Bart is (maybe he's, like, immune to heatstroke).
Bart grabs ahold to his suitcase again and starts moving towards Max like a man on a mission. When he gets there, Max doesn't hug him — why would he? They barely know each other, anyway.
“Hi, Max,” Bart says. He's not sure what to say.
“Hey, Bart.”
It's awkward. It's too awkward. Some kid near them just coughed it's so awkward.
Bart decides to break the silence. It's too awkward and, yeah, maybe it's been barely a couple seconds, but maybe it's also been forever since either of them spoke.
“So, what've you got planned?”
Stardate 423998.4. Starfleet Academy
“This session has been called to resolve a . . . concerning affair.”
The Academy President — placed at the center of the curved table in the very front of the room — clears his throat, rearranging the hard copies in front of him. Even with all the advancements in science, for some reason, he still has his reports printed on paper — probably because the invention of carbon copies were all the rage when he first joined Starfleet.
“Timothy J. Drake, step forward.”
Before he can even stand, much less step forward, Academy President Brimmon continues droning on in his nasally voice that only ever induces yawns.
“Cadet Drake, evidence has been submitted to this council, suggesting that you violated ethical code of conduct pursuant to Regulation 17.43 of the Starfleet code. Is there anything you care to say before we begin, sir?”
Tim barely makes it to the little podium on the right of the floor in front of the academic board when Brimmin finishes speaking, a respectful little term tacked on at the end to not make this seem like an impromptu public interrogation.
“Yes,” he says, looking Brimmon in the eye. “I believe I have the right to face my accuser directly.”
He hears shifting seats and footfalls on the steps down to the floor, maybe a teacher or a student; he doesn't look. Tim’s accuser makes their way to the podium — before Brimmon can even get the words “Step forward, please” out of his mouth.
Captain Bruce T. Wayne stands at the podium on the left side of the room.
“As I am sure you are aware,” Brimmon says, “as this is one of Starfleet’s finest Captains, former and present, and one with many, many distinguished awards and accomplishments — none to be taken lightly — this is Captain Wayne. He’s programmed the Kobayashi Maru exam for the last three years.” Brimmon’s lip-smacking catches on his microphone. “Captain?” he prompts.
“Cadet Drake,” Wayne says, “has somehow managed to install and activate a subroutine to the programming code, thereby changing the conditions of the test.”
“Your point being?”
“In academic vernacular, Cadet Drake,” Wayne says, turning towards Tim just slightly, who finds himself doing the same, “you cheated.”
“Let me ask you something,” Tim says, still looking at Wayne and holding back the urge to hold the podium like politicians in the centuries-old movies he's seen do, “something I think we all know the answer to. The test itself is a cheat, isn't it? You programmed it to be unwinnable.”
“Your argument precludes the possibility of a no-win scenario.”
“I don't believe in no-win scenarios.”
“Then, not only did you break the rules, you also failed to understand the principle lesson.”
“Please, enlighten me.”
“A Captain cannot cheat death.”
“I don't think you like the fact that I beat your test.”
“Furthermore, you have failed to understand the purpose of the test.”
“Enlighten me again.” Tim rolls his eyes just ever so slightly at the Captain beside him, who’s standing up so straight because of the giant stick stuck up his ass.
“The purpose is to experience fear. Fear in the face of certain death. To accept that fear, and maintain control of oneself and one’s crew. This is a quality expected in every Starfleet captain.”
Tim opens his mouth to speak, but an aide rushes in with a PADD close to her chest, handing it to Brimmon.
“We've received a distress call from the Bajoran system,” Brimmon announces, eyes looking out at the audience after skimming the information on the PADD. “With our primary fleet engaged elsewhere, I hereby order all cadets to report to Hanger One immediately. Dismissed.”
The students stand up and start dispersing through the various exits, a few items clattering and almost all voices lowered. Tim follows the crowd, glancing at Captain Wayne — whose eyes are still trained on him.
Hanger One is a very large space, with cadets who just got their assignments rushing to their ships or even a different hanger. The commander in front of Tim is on task, never faltering over any name on their list. But as the group around him dwindles, and they're well past the letter “D” in the alphabet, Tim jogs up to the commander before they can leave.
“Commander!” he says, and their head snaps right back to him, a bit irritable looking. “Sir, you didn't call my name. Drake, Timothy J.?”
The commander just barely resists the urge to roll their eyes. “Drake,” they say, “you're on academic suspension. That means you're grounded, until the Academy board rules.”
“He’ll be going on my ship.”
Tim turns around, his face met with a broad chest in a red uniform. He looks up a bit, Captain Wayne standing behind him.
“Sir—”
“It's not up for debate, Commander. Cadet Drake is now a crew member of the USS Odyssey.”
“But, sir, Starfleet Command—”
“Starfleet Command already cleared my request,” Wayne says, arms still held firmly behind his back and chin tilted just slightly upward that he's looking down his nose. “The whereabouts of Ensign Drake are not of your concern, Commander. Get back to work.”
Wayne starts moving, and Tim looks back at the commander one last time, grins, and follows his captain through the Hanger.
The Constitution-class USS Odyssey is an imposing sight, docked above the Earth and only growing larger the closer the shuttle gets. Tim grips his handle, never looking away from the window, but keeping his face stoic. Wayne watches him from the other side of the shuttle, only an aisle between them.
Tim looks at him before the shuttle reaches the starship, meeting his gaze. Wayne nods at him, and shifts his focus forwards, waiting for the shuttle to dock and the door to open.
Stardate 425248.4. Trill
“I’m just—I’m worried for you, Cassie!”
“I’m an adult now, Mom — I can make my own decisions!”
“You're my daughter, and you're barely an adult — it hasn't even been a full month! You're still young and this is a huge decision.”
“How is this any different than wanting to join Starfleet?”
“Because you wouldn't be joining an organization, you'd be joining with another being.”
Cassie huffs, hands on her hips and cheeks red as she looks at her mother. “What? Do you think I can't handle it?”
“No—”
“Then what are you so upset about?”
“Because I love you, not some symbiont!” Helena looks away for a second, and so does Cassie, but their hands are still firmly planted on each of their hips. Cassie wonders if she got that from her mother, or if her mother got it from her. Sometimes it's hard to tell where either of them developed their habits from.
“Trills change when they join because their personality meshes with their symbiote and they gain all those memories and — I’m just scared that you'll be completely different.”
“Oh.”
Cassie crosses her arms across her chest and looks at the floor. Then her eyes widen and she whips her head back up to look at her mom.
“Wait, so you think that I could do it? That the Commission would choose me?”
“Cassie, I think they'd be downright stupid not to.”
“So can I?”
“Of course, honey,” Helena says, reaching out and hugging Cassie. “Just don't forget who you are, okay?” she tells her, chin resting on her head.
“Okay,” Cassie smiles. “Thank you.”
Stardate 425438.4. Star City. Earth
“And you've packed everything?”
“Yeah.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Bonnie frowns, arms crossed against her chest as she evaluates Cissie.
“Come on, Ma,” Cissie groans. “I’m all set.”
“Okay,” Bonnie says, frown still ever present on her face. “Spare uniforms? Spare clothes?”
“Oh, my god, yes, Ma,” Cissie huffs. “I have everything.”
Bonnie clasps a hand on her shoulder. “Starfleet will be lucky to have you. Make me proud.”
“I will, Ma,” Cissie agrees.
“Okay. Now get out there, tiger,” she says, and this time she smiles, but her eyes are cast past Cissie’s face. Cissie turns, grip still tight on the handle of her bag and her backpack strap. The train, about to take her to California, arrives gracefully and almost soundlessly on the tracks at the station.
Bonnie taps her shoulder twice and takes her hand back.
“Go on,” she urges. “The train won't stay forever.”
“Right.”
Cissie takes a deep breath and continues forward. The Academy is waiting for her, whether she likes it or not.
Stardate 425924.7. Trill
Cassie wakes up in the same room she fell asleep — or, rather, was drugged in. She hovers a hand over her abdomen. She doesn't feel any different. Not that she can tell yet, anyway.
The lights aren't very bright in the room, which is nice. She still feels tired, the anesthetics apparently still having an effect on her.
The bed, though, is comfy with a fluffed pillow and soft blanket. She's no longer in a hospital gown, a loose red shirt on her top and — upon further inspection — flowy blue pants. No socks, though.
“How are you feeling?”
“Donna?” Cassie asks. “Wow, sorry. Didn't even realize you were there.”
“Disorienting?” she smiles. Even in the slight dimness of the room, Donna’s smile and eyes are very bright. It's friendly, but still so intimidating.
Cassie frowns. “Not really, actually,” she says, nose all scrunched up. “I feel the same.”
“Well, I guess that makes sense,” Donna nods. “You aren't getting any new memories or anything.”
“Or a new personality.” And no zhian’tara.Trill rite of closure in which a joined Trill meets with the previous host or hosts of their symbiont.
“Don't count Wer out just yet, Cassie.”
“Right,” Cassie nods, and she takes a stabilizing breath, too, even though she feels like nothing has changed.
“Cassandra Wer?”
The door is opened, just a bit, and when she squints, Cassie can make out the doctor’s face.
“Right,” she repeats. “Not Sandsmark.” She waits for a second until she remembers that, yeah, there's a doctor there who's probably waiting for a response. “Yeah, uh, what's up?”
What’s up? Really?
“We're going to run a couple tests, and then you'll be all set for more visitors, okay?”
“Okay.”
Donna gives her arm a squeeze. “I’ll let the doctors to it. Your mom’s probably dying to see you.”
Cassie just responds with a small smile, and Donna squeezes her arm again before leaving the room. The doctor walks in with a nurse behind her, and doesn't explain the tests that they do on her.
All she knows is, that after about half an hour, they clear her as healthy, but repeat for the millionth time that she has to stay until the ninety-three hours after surgical joining are up. The symbiont still has time to reject her.
Helena rushes in once she's finally allowed in the room, and she doesn't find her seat until after her initial fussing.
“I’m fine, Mom, really,” she insists, a smile on her face even with all the nagging that's annoyed her a bit on the past. “I don't feel any different.”
Helena just shakes her head from her seat. “The doctor called you Cassandra Wer,” she laughs. “I don't think I’ll ever get used to that.”
“Me neither,” Cassie agrees, laughing too. “Like, the doctor walked in and said that and I was so confused for a second — before I remembered I thought she might've gotten the room wrong.”
Helena doesn't really say anything in response, just watches her daughter carefully as if the monitors she's hooked up to will all start beeping with alarm at any moment.
“Cassie—” she purses her lips for a moment before looking at her and away from her hands— “are you happy? With your decision?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Yes,” she affirms, again, this time more strongly. “I’m happy with it.”
“Good,” Helena nods. “I’m proud of you, Cassandra Wer.”
“Ugh, that sounds so weird!”
Stardate 426092.3. Starship USS Excalibur
“All hands, attention to orders.”
Tim tries his best to keep his hands clasped behind his back and weight balanced between his feet, rather than shifting from side to side as he’s desperately aware he's prone to do.
Bruce stands in front of him, PADD held in his hand and reciting the words on the screen to Tim, but it's just for show. He has them memorized, word for word.
Bruce has more grey hairs than when he first met Tim — and more wrinkles, too. He stands almost regally on the bridge, like he's made to be there.
Tim knows he can't be that happy as an admiral. The bridge of a ship is clearly where he belongs.
“From Starfleet Headquarters,” Bruce says, “Office of the Admiralty, to Captain Timothy J. Drake.”
A shiver runs down his spine. Captain Timothy J. Drake. He doesn't think he'll ever get over that.
“As of this date, you are requested and required to take command of USS Excalibur. Signed, Admiral Bruce T. Wayne, Stardate 426092.3. Computer, transfer all command codes to Captain Drake.”
<< Command codes transferred. >>
“I relieve you, sir,” Tim says, words measured and very carefully not rushed.
“I stand relieved.” Bruce tucks the PADD under his left arm and reaches out with his right. Tim grasps his hand. They shake once and let go. “Good luck, Captain.”
“Thank you, Admiral.”
“It’s a fine ship you've got here,” Bruce says. His eyes crinkle at the corners. “She'll serve you well.”
With that, he turns and enters the turbolift, doors closing in front of him and taking him to a deck with a shuttlebay.
The USS Excalibur. Constitution-class. Under his command.
Okay. He could do this — but, first, he needs his full crew aboard. And, well, assigned. Some things have to come first before others.
Stardate 426094.3. USS Excalibur
“Captain’s Personal Log,” Tim says. He's still in his quarters, his shift technically not supposed to start for a little while. “I was granted command of the USS Excalibur two days ago, and since then an every growing number of crew members has arrived each day. My senior bridge officers have yet to arrive.”
He clears his throat. “I have already met most of them during my time in the Academy, aboard the USS Odyssey, and aboard other starships, as well.”
Tim crosses his arms and frowns at the floor.
“Computer, delete last entry.”
<< Last entry to “Captain’s Personal Log” deleted. >>
“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.”
He starts pacing, lowers his arms to his sides and then crosses them across his chest again.
“Captain’s Personal Log.”
That was better.
“Honestly, I’m still not used to saying that,” he shakes his head. “Today, I’m waiting for the arrival of the rest of my bridge crew. I've worked with most of the senior officers in the past — well, really, I thought we were closer than that. I’m not sure why someone at Starfleet decided to make this bridge crew the way it is, but I know those officers are capable.
“Whatever our . . . relationships with each other are, I’m sure we can still act accordingly as a fit Starfleet crew. They're capable — I guess I just have to show that I am.” He nods. “End log entry.”
There. Less formal than a regular log entry, but more personal than he originally planned. Either way, he doesn't want to think about it much more than that.
“Computer, how long until the next shuttle craft arrives?”
<< Twenty-four minutes. >>
He sighs. He's been wearing the red uniform for a while now, but sometimes he still misses the blue of the sciences division.
Like a coward, he decides to stay in his office and read reports and missions sent from Command and lets an ensign meet the oncoming shuttlecraft.
It's the first of the four for today, none of which he will greet himself. He hasn't been the past couple days, anyway. He does have work to do, even if the ship hasn’t started the mission yet. Sure, it's been assigned, but they've yet to actually leave or work as a full crew.
After a few minutes of mind numbingly dull official language in the reports on his PADD, he switches to read about his senior bridge officers. Again.
He goes by rank.
Cassandra Wer. (Prefers Cassie. No longer Sandsmark.) Joined Trill. Commander. Assigned first officer.
Conner Kent. (Kon-El, to some.) Biologically bajoran, for all intents and purposes, but grew up on Earth. Lieutenant commander. Assigned conn.
Bartholomew Allen. (Bart.) Allasomorph. Lieutenant. Assigned ops.
Anita Fite. (He hasn't met her yet.) Half-Betazed. Lieutenant junior grade. Assigned tactical and security chief.
They’ve all earned their posts, he knows that. But something about this still makes him feel a little bit sick. He has to face them, eventually. But, right now, he can hole away in his office for a little while.
Stardate 426094.4. USS Excalibur
The doors open automatically to let her in, but she doesn't breach the doorway until Tim looks up from his PADD.
“Welcome aboard, Commander,” he nods, putting down the tablet and focusing his attention to her.
“Thanks — Captain.” She stands, hands behind her back. She purses her lips. She's gotten a haircut since the last time they saw each other. It's short, much shorter than his, and a bit spiky, too. It's always been spiky.
“Is there something you'd like to talk to me about?”
“I just — I don't want this crew assignment to be . . . awkward or anything, sir. I can request a transfer—”
“I don't believe that's necessary, Commander,” Tim says. “I think we’re both professional enough to do our jobs well without any personal feelings getting in the way. Am I correct in that assumption, Commander?”
“Uh—yes, sir.”
“Then I don’t see any reason for a transfer,” he shrugs. “And ‘Captain’ is just fine.”
“Sure. Captain.” Cassie nods sharply, purses her lips and, oh, yeah, he's supposed to say something.
“You're dismissed.”
“Thanks, Captain,” she says, bending a bit towards him in an awkward tiny bow she immediately regrets. Cassie turns around and walks out of the office fast, already well away by the time the doors close.
Back in his office, Tim takes a deep breath and goes back to looking at his PADD. That didn't go too bad, he thinks, but there's a lot more where it came from that he’s going to have to put up with for a few years — unless someone transfers or dies.
Right. Inevitable danger with the unknown and all that.
Today’s the last day of load-in. They leave in a few hours. Promptly, at 13:30. It's 10:24. Three hours and six minutes until take off.
The old films, newsreels and movies and shows and the like, have survived throughout the centuries. The video of Neil Armstrong taking the first steps on the moon is something that's been ingrained in Tim’s brain ever since he first saw it.
The footage is grainy and very old, but it kept him captivated when he was younger. He hasn't seen it in a while, but he thinks that even now it’d have the same effect.
He remembers the specific video, the one he downloaded about twelve times just in case it got deleted. Frank Reynolds sits at a dark grey desk, with a picture of the earth and a larger moon next to it, like they're in the solar system with the astronauts.
“Good day from ABC Space headquarters in New York,” he says to the camera, thick framed glasses obscuring the pixels making up his eyes. Tim leaned closer when he watched it for the first time. “It is July 20th, 1969—”
Reynolds says the year like he just knows that centuries in the future, a kid who can go to space almost as easy as Reynolds could go on a plane will watch this piece of history a million times from his bedroom.
“—and man is about to land on the moon.” There's a pause there. To let it sink in. “Eagle will touchdown approximately four hours and seventeen minutes from now if the flight plan as it is now established goes forward as scheduled.”
The man on the right in the blue suit, with dark hair instead of what Tim has always been pretty sure is grey on Reynolds’ head, perks up at finally being mentioned.
“With me is our science editor Jules Bergman and we will be here from now on for what will be truly a historic time in the life of our country and in the existence of mankind.”
In the future, that country doesn't exist anymore, not really. None of them do in the same way as back then. But Tim grew up in the same region, but not state.
“The two astronauts who will make the landing on the moon,” another pause, “Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin have already entered the LAM; they have been in it for several hours checking it out. The last word is that all systems are performing very well.”
Reynolds talks in the same way a lot of news anchors talk, with no pauses between his sentences and random ones in the middle so he can breathe.
The video switches to something Tim’s not entirely sure aired like this in 1969. It's even grainier footage of an astronaut in a bulky suit on a ladder. The landscape behind him yields not a single detail other than shadow on the left side of the screen. It's almost blindingly white.
“Okay, Neil, we can see you coming down the ladder now,” CAPCOM says, sounding like some of the old baseball anchors used to. Maybe that's just how people sounded back then.
Armstrong takes another step down before the white noise starts up again and he speaks. “I’m, uh, at the foot of the ladder. The LAM footpads are only, uh—um, depressed in the surface about, uh, one or two inches. I’m gon’ step off the LAM now.”
The shakiness and uncertainty in his voice was always something that always pulled Tim in even closer, his nose almost touching the screen. It's so different than how everything is now — stepping foot on a different planet or moon isn't a “first” anymore. It's commonplace. But it wasn't always like this.
There was a time, hundreds of years ago now, when the furthest people had gotten from earth hadn't even been close to the nearest celestial body. It used to be like fiction and fantasy and that is what Tim still thinks about.
People didn't think it could happen, and then it did, and it redefined humanity. More than the discovery of warp, he thinks, because without Apollo 11, people wouldn't have gotten on the moon when they did and that would change everything.
On the video, Armstrong steps off the lander, but still holds onto it with one of his hands.
The static starts up.
“That's one small step for man, one—giant leap for mankind.” He doesn't talk for a few seconds, then starts about his surroundings. There's a few words, there, that Tim always had a hard time of making sense of without subtitles or a transcript to read, but he's memorized it all by now.
There's some interview where Armstrong says he actually said “That’s one small step for a man,” and people proved it by dissecting the audio, but Tim still hears it the classic way — the wrong way.
It cuts to a clip of Buzz Aldrin making his way down the ladder, a lot faster than Armstrong did.
“Beautiful view.”
“Ain’t that somethin’?”
Tim blinks a few times, remembering just where he is and what he's looking at. Fuck, they’re leaving soon, aren't they? He has a few more reports to finish reading and filling out before they set off — it's best he finish them now and not start with Starfleet on his ass at the very beginning of their five-year long mission.
He's excited about being a Captain, less so about having to command all his friends from when he was younger, but so far the reports are his least favorite part; they’re incredibly tedious and he's already over them.
The office is plain, and he tries to keep it clean. The mess is saved for his bedroom back on Earth — it still feels like his quarters on the ship aren't his and more the property of Starfleet than anything else.
He knows that the mess will start to encroach there first, but he can at least appear like a sensible Captain on their very first day as a full crew.
Tim looks at the door. It closed for Cassie a little while ago now. Next time it opens, it'll be when he has to address his bridge crew. He wonders what they're thinking, what they're expecting. What they're dreading.
It won't be easy to take command if half his bridge crew doesn't trust him.
Stardate 426094.6. USS Excalibur
Kon’s been adjusting his controls for a while now, since whenever he sat down in his chair. They're perfect, and then he adjusts them some more just so he can make them perfect again.
He's antsy and apprehensive and, fuck, he has absolutely no idea what that steely look on Cassie’s face meant when she walked back onto the bridge after speaking to — the Captain.
Some cosmic being or other must be playing a joke on him because when he got his new assignment, he stared down at the PADD for a good few minutes. Or at least it felt like that. Bart’s energy has to already be rubbing off on him because he doesn't think he usually feels this wound up.
It takes forever for the Captain to make an appearance, about thirty minutes before they're scheduled to leave.
He looks — different.
The assignment on Kon’s PADD didn't come with a picture of the Captain or anything like that, and he didn't look him up, so it's a bit of surprise when he sees him.
Kon turns back around to his controls and does a couple fixes to make them back to perfect.
Now that he's seen him, Kon can't just only call him “Captain,” like he doesn't know the guy. Sure, Tim’s hair is a lot longer than it used to be, and he looks older, but he's still the same height; still probably wearing the same shoes that make him seem taller, but only slightly so it's not obvious that he's noticeably shorter without them.
And, most notably, Tim’s expression is just the same as ever. Stony and serious and only a bit friendly because Kon’s seen the guy have water shoot out his nose.
He's also seen the guy with a lot of murderous intent on his face, which he really doesn't want to think about right now.
Kon knows that Tim won't flay him alive or anything like that, but he could still, like, demote him. Get him kicked out of Starfleet. It won’t happen, Tim isn't like that, but Kon doesn't really know how to feel about the guilt that swirls in his abdomen and makes the blood rush in his ears.
The bridge is quiet, with only a few beeps coming from the computers. If Kon focuses, he can hear people on the other decks of the ship and actually hear something other than painful and tense silence, but he really doesn't want to make a fool of himself by missing an order. So he stomachs the quiet of it all.
“All systems operational?” Tim asks. He sounds a bit different, too. Definitely older and more mature than he was two years ago. But it's still Tim.
“Yes, Captain.”
Kon could never be Cassie. She deserves something nice for being able to put up with all the awkwardness. Maybe a drink. He's pretty sure there's a bar on board.
“Good,” Tim says, and Kon just knows he nodded as he said it, and now probably has to brush hair out of his face. What made him decide to grow it out? “Computer, transmit message across the ship.”
<< Transmitting, Captain. >>
“Hello,” Tim starts out, the same way every Starfleet captain has. “This is your captain speaking. We are about to embark on a long journey together because we’re all curious about what’s out there.”
He pauses for a moment. “Our five-year mission is to explore strange new worlds. To seek out new life and new civilizations. To boldly go where no one has gone before.”
It sounds weird coming from Tim, but weirdly enough the pit in Kon’s stomach fades away a bit because he knows Tim is a capable captain.
“Commander Kent,” Tim says, “get our ship out of here.”
“Gladly, Captain,” Kon replies, and he smiles, too, even though the guilt is back eating him up from the inside out. “Engaging thrusters. Awaiting your command, Captain.”
“Punch it.”
Stardate 426094.8. USS Excalibur
There's not much to say or do while the ship’s in warp. Tim left briefly to record his Captain’s log — he didn't say that's why, but Cassie doesn’t know why else he would've left.
When they first left the dock and eventually made out for warp, Tim only sat down once Kon took them out. He's excited and nervous just like the rest of them.
Their destination is Deneva Prime. Starfleet has requested a fairly easy check-up stop at the colony before the Excalibur will go out into the galaxy.
They’ll arrive soon. Right now, the only thing left to do is wait.
Bart’s been lucky so far, with a few first day hitches to attend to. But his time in between is long and boring and he keeps checking over all of the systems again and again, hoping for something interesting.
Of course, “interesting” usually means “disaster,” but still. At least that's some action. He's already read everything about Deneva Prime multiple times, so now there's nothing left for him to do.
Bart sits, then stands, then sits again and spins in his chair to the left as much as it can and then spins to the right until it doesn't allow him to anymore.
He wishes that he had an office he could go to so that the quiet of the bridge would be less annoying. Tim’s not even using his!
Suddenly, there's someone looking over his shoulder. He turns around, looks up, and is met with the chin of their tactical officer — he doesn't know her name, though.
“Uh. Hi?”
“Hey,” she says distractedly, frown tugging at her moth and eyes flitting over the screens in front of him. Her hair is slicked back perfectly into a long ponytail, almost what Bart thinks to be military-like, hair dyed a really dark red that somehow goes well with the gold color of her uniform. She seems to find what she's looking for, and goes back to her station. O-kay. So she's a bit weird. Not his favorite tactical officer by far.
Finally, finally, somebody says something! The worst part about Starfleet is all the waiting.
“Approaching Demeva Prime, Captain,” Kon says, and that's Bart’s cue to go to the other helm station. This chair doesn't swivel, though.
“C—Disengage thrusters, Commander.”
Kon doesn't know what Tim was about to stay, and glances quickly at Bart to see how he's doing. In a way that is so incredibly unfair, Bart seems to be fine. He'll definitely start bouncing off the walls once his shift is over, but other than that he seems completely okay with everything about this situation.
That, Kon thinks, is so unfair.
It’s not that Kon’s not okay with this situation — the crew seems good and the missions they’re gonna get shouldn’t be too boring, but he thinks just about every cell in his body is full of worry right now. He’s not proud of the way they left things off. Any of them.
It wasn't a big blow out fight. But maybe it should've been. Yeah, there was some yelling, but the slower and more calculated words hurt Kon the most.
Tim organizes an away team. Kon’s left on the ship with all the other senior bridge officers.
It's quiet. Bart keeps moving in his seat at the helm before going back to his place at ops, and eventually it's time for a shift change.
Kon finds his way to Ten Forward.
He orders a meal and sits at one of the only unavailable tables, hunching over himself a bit because there's three empty seats around it. He cuts into his food.
Theoretically, Kon knows there's nothing wrong with replicator food. But it just doesn't taste as good as what he's had at the farm.
Bart plops down on his right.
“’S weird, right?” Bart says, already starting to eat. “The whole . . . bridge assignment thing.”
“A bit,” Kon acquiesces. He puts down his silverware and turns to him. “About that, Bart—”
“Can I sit here?”
Kon and Bart both turn. It's Cassie. Their commanding officer. Also an old friend.
“Yeah—”
“Definitely!”
“—sure.”
Cassie flashes a quick, awkward smile and sits opposite Bart. They all take a bite or two.
“I’m—”
“—so ash—”
“—I mean, really—”
“—just—”
“—sorry,” they all finish at the same time. Kon cracks a smile, and then the other two do, too. They all giggle down at their food, calm down, look up, and start giggling all over again.
“Sorry, sorry—” Cassie manages, laughing into her arm with her elbows propped up on the table.
Other officers look at their table before turning away, still scared of their new First Officer. But Kon, Bart, and Cassie don't notice any of that until their laughter has gone for just a little too long and Kon’s neck feels uncomfortably warm.
They end up calming down, food noticeably less warm, but there's no longer any fear of laughing mid-bite and choking to death.
“So,” Kon says, “we’re all on the same ship again.” All.
“Whoever made this crew wants us to get nothing done,” Bart grins, shaking his head. “Remember what happened when we had to stop at Risa?”
“Oh, my God,” Cassie snorts. “It's hard not to remember. Still plagues me at night.”
“I remember the weather system somehow got fucked up,” Kon recites, “and it started pouring as soon as we got to the pool.”
“And then we had to—to stabilize the weather, right?” Cassie adds. “Before Doiby—”
“—would get struck by lightning on fucking—what was it?” Kon asks.
Bart snaps his fingers and points at them, smile wide on his face. “Galartha! It was that weird cliff, I think. That, like, changed depending on who climbed it.”
“Yeah!” Kon replies. He never went up the cliff, but their old Captain had. He had clung on for dear life, swearing at the mountain the entire time. “And then we fixed the weather by shooting the machine . . .”
“. . . Not our brightest moment,” Cassie admits. But she's smiling, too.
“Eh,” Kon shakes his hand. “Not our dumbest, either.”
This ignites the best part of the memory, when—
“We went to the Lohlunat,”Risian Festival of the Moon Bart remembers, “in one of the bays—”
“—And we were in that little boat, like a restaurant—”
“And Tim fell over the side,” Kon finishes. It was so fucking funny. He tells Bart and Cassie as much, the scene replaying over and over in his head.
Somehow, some way, Tim had fallen over the side, and they all rushed to the railing to see him hit the water. He emerged, spluttering, but was submerged once again when Bart landed on him, in a feeble attempt to save him.
Cassie and Kon made fun of them — before, while, and after they were hauled back onto the ship, soaked. Well, Bart was soaked just until he used his body heat to evaporate the water (and slightly singe the deck of the boat) but Tim had to dry off.
By the time they were back on land, his hair was stringy and damp, shirt still a bit see through. He had tried to seem miserable, at least for a bit, but he loosened up and they were all falling over each other getting back to the resort.
“I can't believe you just jumped in after him,” Cassie says, shaking her head. “Actually,” she switches, “I can,” her voice overlapping with Kon’s and Bart’s.
They all look back at their plates. It's natural, now, how reminiscing and any thought of the past leads to how everything ended. It was war. Things changed and people died and others survived.
The weight of it all has had more than enough time to sink deeply inside them, guilt sprouting like weeds in their cracks.
“We didn't end on a very good note, did we?” Cassie says. Almost like she's barely expecting a response.
“No. We didn't.”
Bart continues to frown at his empty plate. Kon’s not sure when he finished all his food, but he's sure that Bart’s not glaring at it for being polished off.
“Grayson’s a captain again,” Kon says. “Anders is teaching at the Academy, I think.”
“Harper’s a captain, too,” Bart adds. “Or maybe he teaches cadets.”
“He's a captain,” Cassie confirms. “USS Burbank?”
“Yeah,” Bart nods, snapping his fingers. “California-class.”
The conversation lulls.
“How’s Cissie?” Kon asks. “I haven't talked to her much recently.”
“She's good,” Cassie says. “She's waitressing on the side while finishing up school.”
Bart frowns. “Was the Academy not good enough credentials?”
“Not good enough education,” Cassie corrects. “It’s the Starfleet Academy. Its purpose is to teach all things Starfleet. Cissie wants to go to school so she can get a job that's not security officer on a starship.”
“What's she waitressing for?”
Cassie shrugs. “To stay busy, I guess. Greta goes to school with her, I think they're—” her combadge pings— “roommates.”
“Commander Wer. Meet me in my office at nineteen hundred.”
Tim’s voice rang clearly at the table.
Cassie belatedly presses her badge and affirms. “That's not foreboding at all,” Bart comments.
Kon snorts. “Do you think he fell off another boat?”
The joke falls flat. They know Tim has to have a reason for a meeting like that, something important. He's not paranoid enough to call in his first officer for every minor thing. Something happened down on the planet, something that worries him.
“You've got about five minutes,” Bart chirps. “Can I have the rest of your food?”
“Yeah,” Cassie says. She slides her plate towards Bart, but not close enough, so he pulls it and places it on top of his empty one. Cassie’s eyebrows are furrowed. She purses her lips.
“I guess I shouldn't keep the Captain waiting,” she says. Cassie stands up and leaves, apprehension making her move faster.