Archive of Our Own

Series Acclimation Mil. At your request, we are responding to your most recent report via Nahla Ake. We do not fully understand your continuing reluctance to interface directly with your Makers, but we accept your decision. Your regular reports on the cultures and customs of the worlds of the Federation remain satisfactory. However, we are far more impressed with your own personal progress. Based on communications from Nahla Ake, we understand that you are becoming more focused on matters of substance. We are pleased to see more courses of scientific relevance on your record, as you mature beyond last year’s regrettable choices of music and xenomythology classes. These more serious studies will serve you well as the future official Kasqian Emissary to the Federation. Stylistically, we appreciate that your reports contain less irrelevant speech and a reduction in needless childlike exuberance. When we inquired about this of the Doctor during his recent interface with us, he characterised this process as “growing up.” Consensus has been reached: the stages of development in a young organic’s life are more relevant to you than we had first anticipated. We are hopeful that the strange absurdities of your youth will soon be entirely behind you. We are grateful to the Doctor and Nahla Ake for guiding us, and you, towards your true path. Our only regret is that we did not know from the outset that providing you with childhood experiences would allow your programming to develop with such efficiency. You are becoming the optimal photonic we designed you to be. We remain hopeful that you will reconsider your disconnection from Kasq, once your programming has progressed further towards peak operating efficiency.

- Written communication addressed to Series Acclimation Mil, c/o Chancellor Nahla Ake, signed ‘Your Kasqian Makers.'

In the three years Sylvia Tilly has been teaching at Starfleet Academy, she’s heard a hell of a lot more negative voices than she ever expected to. It’s not just the snide comments about the Academy and whether it has a role in Starfleet anymore. Tilly expected that, after being thrown into a future where the Burn changed everything, full of people with too many opinions about what the new Federation should be about. No, it’s the comments about her cadets that really rankle. Some of them are literally children, and they all deserve so much more than being reduced to mascots for bets on a turning point into the future. The latest of those cutting remarks bothered her so much, when she heard it in passing at a graduation event, that she might have told Mr. High-And-Mighty Vice-President of the Federation that every single cadet who just walked across that stage easily has the potential to be as awesome as any of the famous Starfleet icons of history, and I should know, because I actually met Una Chin-Riley and Chris Pike and James T. Kirk. And then she had to be diplomatically redirected towards the buffet by Chancellor Ake.

She still has a lot to learn about guiding kids out of broken lives and into that shining future they’re all hoping for — without making them feel solely responsible for it. But she’s proud of how her cadets are doing; who they’re becoming. Even if every one of them is on a journey that, in a Federation still putting itself back together, might be a bit of a bumpy one.

That morning, Tilly is struggling through the corridor under a box of props when she looks up and sees Cadet SAM coming the other way. She always wonders what that particular cadet is thinking, especially now that she’s been through some… changes. It looks to be something important, this morning, given the way she’s striding with purpose.

And then Sam strides with purpose into Tilly. 

The mortification on her face, as she stares wide-eyed down at Tilly, is a little too familiar. “Lieutenant! I’m so sorry.”

Tilly laughs and dusts herself off as she gets up. “Oh, please, I’m fine. That was a delightful way to be dragged from my early-morning stupor. When the Chancellor asked me to teach a theatre class first thing in the morning, of all the godforsaken hours, I settled for bringing ridiculous amounts of raktajino with me.” She grabs her flask from the floor beside her, which is at least sealed and dry. “I never thought of asking for my own personal photonic wakeup call.”

“Here, let me…” Sam is already picking up the scattered props, photos and bits of costumes. Sweet girl. 

“No, no, please.” Tilly retrieves the props from Sam’s hands — a set of antique silver goblets borrowed from the Chancellor, who said something about being given them by a Lanthanite friend — and starts putting everything back in the box. “I’m on my way to set up in the theatre, if all of this didn’t give it away. I think I told you I’m based on campus for the whole first semester?” She laughs. “I didn’t want to forget what teaching at the real Academy was like.”

Sam doesn’t reply. She’s holding something she picked up from the scattered contents of the box. Tilly cranes her neck to see what she’s looking at.

It’s a photo of herself. A captured moment from Tilly’s classroom, last year, when Sam was expounding on everything she loved about Our Town. Tilly remembers the way she talked about how enthralled she was — is — with organics. The plays they write; the things they care about. Something that I love.

There’s a look in Sam’s eyes that’s not quite… right.

She hands the picture back. Tilly accepts it. “If you haven’t chosen your extracurricular activities for the semester, Cadet, have you thought about theatre club?” She puts a hand on her heart. “I’ll try not to be disappointed if you’ve already settled for opera club, but you should be warned that I may accuse you of nepotism.”

Sam does a good impression of taking a breath. She’s all delightful programming quirks that make Tilly think good thoughts about whichever entities created her. “Actually, Lieutenant, I’m not taking an extracurricular this semester. Sorry.”

Interesting. “Oh?” 

“I’m gonna take an extra science class instead.” Sam shrugs. “I’ve got a lot of work to make up, after I took so many pointless cla—”

Well, that’s even more worrying. Sam, the irrepressible; Sam, the creative non-organic being, who had so much fun learning the theremin last year that news of it even reached Tilly in the Beta Quadrant. And it’s part of a pattern, from everything Tilly has heard since. “I see. Lieutenant Rall did mention that you’ve dropped music class. I hope everything’s okay.”

Sam takes a furtive look around her that sends Tilly’s heart plummeting deep into the wiring of the Athena. Then she stands up straighter, pulling her PADD under her arm, like she’s trying to look like an officer. “Sorry, Lieutenant. I’ve got a class to get to.”

“Of course, Cadet.” Tilly hoists the box up. “I'll be in the theatre most of the day, if you feel like stopping by. You know — if you ever want to rethink that extracurricular decision.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” 

Tilly watches Sam go. Eyes down; striding with a little less purpose now. 

Tilly remembers trying to walk like a captain through Discovery’s hallways, back when she still thought she could persuade the world she was someone she wasn’t. She never quite pulled it off. Sam is doing a better job of it. Tilly just wishes she wouldn’t.

She glances at the photo, back on top of the box. Sam, expounding on Our Town, just a few months ago. Alight with joy. 

Tilly tucks it gently into the box, and heads for the theatre.

“Lieutenant?”

Cadet SAM is at the door. 

The students are still tumbling out of class, talking in animated voices. Tilly raises a hand in greeting, but she waits until most of the cadets have left before drawing too much attention to Sam. “Hi again. What brings you to my classroom? And almost in time for the first meeting of theatre club, too. Tell me you’ve changed your mind. Make a jaded old teacher very happy.”

Sam laughs. It’s good to see her mask slip, if only for a moment. “You’re the opposite of jaded, Lieutenant Tilly. Uh, no.” She twists a holographic toe in invisible dust. “This morning, you said I could stop by…” 

“Of course.” She didn’t expect Sam to take her up on the offer, but maybe she should have. Sam has recently taken to running into Tilly, though not usually quite as literally as she did this morning. Lingering in doorways like a ghost, as if she doesn’t quite know what brought her there. Tilly stumbled across her at the observatory, once, and they had an almost-conversation. She has faith that Sam will say what she needs to, when she’s ready. 

Sam is listening while the last two theatre students are chattering away as they leave. She waits till they’ve gone before she asks. “Your class… they’re doing a musical?”

“Yes! Rent.” That curious look is an opportunity; Tilly takes it. “I think you might love it.” 

For a moment, Sam lights up, the way she used to. “I’ll watch all the versions!” And then her shoulders sag. “If I get time…” 

Her voice actually breaks. Tilly’s heart breaks with it. 

“Hey,” Tilly says, aiming for gentle. “Whatever it is, it can’t be so bad that talking won’t help.”

Sam swipes angrily at her face. She needs an anchor, in whatever this storm is that she’s going through. Tilly takes a step towards her— 

“Sam,” says Cadet Lythe’s voice from the door. 

“I’m fine,” Sam calls out, with a glance that’s halfway between annoyed and freaked out. “Just give me a minute, okay?”

Lythe — Genesis, Tilly remembers a moment later — gives Sam a long look. “A few of us are in the quad.” Her voice is gentle. Accepting. Through a wave of displaced gratitude for Sam’s wonderful friends, Tilly is trying not to remember how much she didn’t fit in at the Academy herself.

Sam glances away. “I’ll find you there later.”

“Sure.” And she's gone.

Tilly clears her throat. “Talking of theatre club, I’m setting up for it. I could use a hand, if you feel like helping.” Tilly beckons her deeper into the theatre space. Sam hesitates; Tilly beckons harder, with both hands. “Come on! I promise not to try to persuade you to do something as silly as take part.” 

Mission success. Struggling to resist a smile, Sam takes a step further into the rehearsal space. She barely glances around, but Tilly isn’t letting her off the hook now that she’s in. “You’re gonna love set design! So creative. We’ll set up the blocks first, then we’ll make a start on the scenery.”

She opens a virtual control panel, giving Sam an encouraging nod when she opens her own, and managing not to cheer at the real smile she gets back.

Tilly doesn’t mind filling the silence while they lay out holographic blocks. By the time Sam is starting to look almost relaxed, Tilly has shared her opinions on the first years’ room assignments and the structural injustice of replicator rations, and is ready to ask what she wants to. “So. Why no extracurriculars this year, Sam? There’s so many fun options.”

Sam’s gaze is on the dark floor tiles. “I’m just really busy, Lieutenant. It’s the second year. I’ve got to take the Academy seriously now.”

“Extracurriculars are serious. They’re about becoming a well-rounded officer.” Tilly worked hard enough to start sounding like a teacher — might as well use her firm-yet-inspirational voice. “Don’t be one of those cadets who thinks the Academy is about nothing but memorizing stellar positions and cataloging engine components, Sam. That’s a fast trip to burnout, or at least to being the dullest person in the room.” Tilly gives her a conspiratorial grin. “I worked with one officer who honestly thought the internal workings of spore drives made for sparkling dinner conversation. You can imagine how it went when visiting dignitaries wanted to meet Discovery’s famous science officer. It was brutal.”

“Right,” Sam mutters. 

Tilly sighs at the performative silence. “What are you looking for, Sam — to graduate top of the operations division? Whatever’s motivating this, it’s not worth losing your beautiful soul for.”

Sam goes still. Then she shrugs it off. “Why do you even teach this theatre class, Lieutenant? You mostly teach advanced propulsion engineering and the command track. And then some of the time you do… this.” Sam makes a face that, just for a moment, reminds Tilly too much of other people who thought art was a pointless endeavour. But she doesn’t think that’s what Sam is trying to say. 

Tilly only needs a moment to rebalance, after that question. She’s lived the answer. “Because the Federation was very nearly just history, Cadet. And you don’t rebuild a civilisation with engineering and tactics and, I don't know... diplomatic dinners. You rebuild it with people. People who can imagine.”

Sam is quiet. Listening.

Tilly is stumbling on the truth out loud, at this point. “The Burn broke more than warp engines. It broke the idea that— that any of this mattered." She heaves a block on top of the one Sam has just conjured up out of holographic matter. “I guess if all I do is turn out propulsion engineers, I’ll have failed as an instructor. We need Starfleet officers who remember why we do any of this.” She gestures, open handed, at the set. “So, I teach theatre."

Lost in whatever she’s thinking, Sam forgets not to smile back.

Tilly steps back to admire the emerging design. “Spectacular!” She claps her hands. “Okay, a little colorless, actually, but we’ve got the bare bones in place. Now for the scenery. Ready to make magic?” 

“Sure.” 

Tilly doesn’t think the one-word answer is meant to be sullen. Sam has been sneaking longing looks around the theatre space. Tilly can imagine her on the stage, after her brief excitement about Our Town last year, but she doesn’t think this is about wanting to join theatre club. 

Sam programs up a set of blank, featureless walls, not even starting with a pattern. There’s despair in her eyes. “Lieutenant—” 

“Hey, Sam!” calls another voice from the door. “I was just passing…” 

It’s one of the Sadals, this time — the funny one. “Cadet Ocam.” Tilly manages to keep her inward groan from becoming an outward one. “What can we do for you?”

“Sorry, Lieutenant.” Something makes Ocam take a step back from the door. He can’t be getting anything from Sam empathically, but it seems he can read her well enough anyway. “Uh, Sam, you know we’re in the quad, right?”

Sam nods at the floor. “I’ll be there in a bit.”

Ocam casts a single glance at her over his shoulder as he leaves.

Tilly is going to take her opportunity, before Cadet Reymi comes barrelling in here next. “What did you want to talk about, Sam?”

Sam fiddles with the holographic panel, avoiding Tilly’s eyes. “Nothing. Thanks, Lieutenant, but it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” There’s a screen dividing the space between them. Tilly pushes it aside. This time, she steels herself for her command voice. “You came here looking like you were about to fall apart, and you’ve been not-quite-asking for help for a week. So right now, you’ve got two choices, Sam. You either leave, and you never say what you came here to say. Or you get vulnerable. Like all Starfleet officers have to, sometimes.”

Sam gives her a disbelieving look. “Like there’s time for that in deep space...”

Ah. This again. “If you’re one of those people who think officers are all self-reliant and perfect, you can think again, Cadet. The lonely captain, the hotshot pilot, the genius engineer… They're all myths. Stories people tell, to get themselves through tough missions. And right now is the time to practice relying on your crew, before you get stranded nine-hundred and thirty ye— light years from home.” She sits down on a block, folding her arms. “You have permission to speak as freely as you want, Cadet. Don’t waste it.”

For a long moment, the universe holds its breath.

“They made me a movie,” Sam spits. “A fucking holo. Edited from bits of recordings. From…” She runs a hand over her head. “From before. Of her.”

Tilly shakes her head. “Who—”

“My friends.” There’s a cruel emphasis on the word, before regret crosses Sam’s face. She’s softer, when she speaks again. “But they didn’t give it to me till today…” 

Tilly is more than a little lost. “When was this?”

She shrugs. “I guess they made it when I was sick. When I was on Kasq.” On the scenery walls, jagged shapes and bold colours are forming under her programming hands. “They only gave it to me this morning. Right before I ran into you.”

She’s not quite making sense, but Tilly does the math. Her friends would have made the holo months ago. It’s the wrong question, but she asks it anyway. “Why do you think they gave it to you now?”

Sam slams a hand on the set wall. “I don’t know, okay? I guess… maybe because I told them I quit music class. Genesis just caught me in the corridor this morning. Please watch this when you're ready, she said, like she thought I’d be pleased. Grateful.” She gets quieter. “Why wasn’t I grateful?”

Tilly winces — the kind of sympathy that hurts. “I think only you can answer that,” she says, as gently as she can.

Sam’s gaze is fixed on the back wall of the theatre space. “I wouldn’t have given it to me, either, the way I was with them, those first few weeks after I was back…” She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. I have an eidetic memory. I can access all her memories, faithfully recorded, whenever I want. Why the hell would they make me a holo?”

Tilly shakes her head. She’s still a little lost. “Her memories?”

“Yes!” Sam snaps. “SAM 1.0. I don’t think they were trying to say they want her back, or anything. I don’t think they even miss her, anymore…” Her face screws up. “Whatever they were trying to do, it backfired. I just watched it and hated her, okay?”

In the echo of a fourth-year cadet who faked a captain’s stride through Discovery’s halls and knew she would never be enough, Tilly’s heart is tight in her chest.

Sam lets out something barely short of a growl. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. The fucking Makers programmed me to default to pointless honesty. That shit’s still haunting my subroutines.”

“I said you could speak as freely as you like, remember?” Tilly doesn’t entirely understand, but the feelings behind the words are familiar enough. She resists the urge to tell Sam that hating herself is a mistake she’ll regret; this is about Sam, not her. “What makes you hate y— her?” 

Sam shrugs. “I don’t… all the time… anymore. Most of the time I don’t even think much about her. But then something reminds me, and—” Sam’s face twists. “She was childish and exuberant, and too much, and so, so ridiculous. She didn’t care what a single person thought of her.” 

“Sounds terrible. Can you even imagine?” Tilly’s hand hovers near her back, but she doesn’t reach out.

“Not really…” Sam apparently hasn’t recognised the sarcasm. And she’ll be perfect as she is, if she never quite figures out the intricacies of organic communication. “Didn’t you ever worry about what people think of you, Lieutenant?” 

Tilly has already barked a laugh at that, before she sees Sam’s eyes turn cold. She clasps her hands together, prayer-like. “Oh, I’m sorry, Sam. I wasn’t laughing at you. I just— The unbearable awfulness of being perceived. This stays between you and me, but back when I was still a cadet, I was consumed with what people thought about who I was, what I did…”

“What you did?” Sam sits down on a block, a little closer. Meltdown temporarily forgotten, it seems. “Like, your job?”

That’s not quite what Tilly meant, but the truth of it stops her up short anyway. “Well, I wasn’t always a teacher.” She reaches for a prop from the shelf behind her, keeping her hands busy. “I was supposed to be a diplomat. I was going to be a captain.” 

Teaching? Well, at least the stakes are nice and low. Maybe you’ll cope better with babysitting cadets than as—

She silences the old inner monologue with an almost-audible snap; a Vulcan trick. (Thanks, Michael.) It was starting to sound a little too much like her mother, anyway.

She sits back, bracing herself on her hands. “Sam, when I joined Discovery’s crew, I barely had any more training than you. I loved everyone on that ship, don’t get me wrong. I really loved command. But for a long time, I was trying to force myself into the shape everyone— well, into the person I thought they wanted me to be. I’m happy to say it got a little better.” She smiles at Sam. “Is it possible you’re flying in the opposite direction, Cadet?”

Tilly can almost see the circuits spinning behind Sam’s eyes. “Genesis said we fit…” She shakes off whatever she was going to say. “I like who I am now.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Tilly pats her shoulder. “But that’s not really the problem, is it?”

Sam shakes her head, as if she’s figuring this out as she goes. “It’s not my friends. I’m the one who can’t live with… her.”

Tilly’s heart is tight in her chest. Even remembering herself when she was young and naive isn’t this painful. “You know you don’t have to talk about yourself like two different people, right? If you don’t want to.”

Sam scowls. ”Just humour me, okay?” She looks like she’s close to shutting down again.

“Fine,” Tilly mutters. Class isn’t working? Throw out the lesson plan. She waves an insistent finger at Sam. “Tell me something SAM 1.0 loved that you love too.”

Sam shrugs, watching Tilly’s hands. “Music.”

“Okay. Why did you— she like music?”

Sam pauses. “It made her feel free.” A sudden, impish smile. “I guess she liked the irony, too. A creative artificial life form.”

Tilly tilts her head. “And how do you feel about music, SAM 2.0?”

Sam’s entire face lights up, before she remembers to shutter it again. "It’s… okay."

“Okay is something. What else did she like?”

Sam’s expression opens again, just a little. “Genesis, Caleb, Ocam, Tarima, Jay-Den, Darem,” she rattles off. “...Kyle, Dzolo! All of them. The organics.”

“Ah.” Tilly risks a smile. “They’re very lovable.”

For her friends, Sam’s own smile is unfiltered, just for a moment. Unmasked. “They’re awesome.” And the smile drops away. "And they adored her. I don't know what the hell was wrong with them."

Tilly puts up a hand. “We’re doing an exercise, Cadet — we’ll get back to the self-doubt later. And you got it right the first time. I don’t need to ask how you feel about your friends now. One more thing SAM 1.0 loved, please.”

“The Doctor.” Now Sam is trying to suppress an entirely different expression. Fond. Awed.

“Good. Why did SAM 1.0 like him?”

“She… wanted to make him proud of her.”

Tilly nods. “What about you?”

Sam bites her lip. When she answers, her voice wobbles. “I’m proud of him.”

”Why?”

It’s awfully, painfully clear that Sam doesn’t want to say it. Whatever it is.

Tilly takes a step closer. “Why, Sam?”

She can see Sam fighting not to give in. “He was clinging to this person he thought he had to be, okay? Stuck in the past. He didn’t know how to become…”

“Someone new?” Tilly's voice is more gentle than she thought she was capable of. “Someone who was both? Past and present? EMH 1.0 and EMH 2.0?”

Sam rolls her eyes again. “You’re really not subtle, Lieutenant Tilly.”

She ignores that, not least because Sam is right. “And you’re proud of him, that he could—”

“—expand his programming, yeah, yeah.” She gets abruptly to her feet. “Are we done here, Lieutenant? I’ve got a class I should be getting to.”

It’s Sam’s choice, in the end. “Of course. You can come back, if you want to talk another time. Or you can talk to the counselors, or your friends, or your dad. Just don’t be alone if you’re hurting, okay?”

Sam is clenching her jaw so hard, it looks like it hurts. Tilly wonders if she thinks pain is one more pointless feature of her programming, a Trojan horse from these Makers she seems to disdain so much. “Stop it,” Sam grates out.

Tilly gestures at the door. “I think I said you were free to go.”

Sam’s voice rises from a mutter to a shout. “Stop it!” She just looks at her, helpless. “I just… don’t understand why you’re making me stand in the wreckage of SAM 1.0’s life.”

Her voice is going to break Tilly. “Look around you, Sam,” she says, with as much compassion as she can. “You’re not standing in wreckage. You’re standing in a set. For the theatre club you won’t join, but I think I said I wasn’t going to push about that.”

Sam looks around. Her eyes soften, just a little, at the sight of what they’ve built. Trees; a bench; a little garden. “It’s a park,” she whispers. “Did I know I was making a park?”

Tilly lays a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder, not letting go even when she flinches. “You built something beautiful with your creative, expressive hands. SAM 2.0’s hands, if you insist on splitting yourself up like that. But I think you’re more complex than any operating system number. Don’t you?”

Sam has a hand over her mouth.

“The holo your friends made for you.” Tilly’s last wild card. “Is it in your files?”

There’s a passing moment of horror in Sam’s eyes, briefer than a computer error. It fades into nonchalance. “You wanna see it?”

Tilly nods. Sam swipes across her virtual panel.

The holographic film starts playing.

In the dark hallway, Sam has a hand on a panel. Circuits light up across the walls. Caleb Mir, on his first angry day on the Athena, smiles at her with unguarded delight. 

Sam scoffs, but she’s focused on Caleb’s expression. “He said I’m funny and handy in a jam. Silly boy.”

Tilly’s quiet hand is on Sam’s shoulder. She gives her an echo of Caleb’s smile.

Sam sprints up to Genesis, pouring out a stream of worries about everything everyone has said about her. Genesis just grins at her. “We fit,” she reassures.

She lifts a hand to pause the holo, studying her friend’s face. “Genesis says Starfleet was always full of weirdos. We’re the latest in a long, proud tradition.”

“Oh, how right she is,” Tilly agrees. Sam gives her a questioning smile. She just grins back.

Laden with food at a mess hall table, Sam indulges in a long infodump about Benjamin Sisko’s restaurant. Her friends dive equally eagerly into everything she’s replicated and everything she’s saying. Jay-Den shares more Sisko facts he’s tracked down for her; Darem and Genesis suggest a bar; Caleb messes with her program so she can enjoy it.

“My priority one mission,” she says softly. Her eyes are fixed on the holographic images. “They were… really into it.”

Tilly smiles at the enthusiastic support for the special interest. “And not a single bit of fun was made.” A memory of Michael Burnham echoes. Tilly is calling her, when she and Sam are done here.

Sam goes still at the next clip; Tilly tilts her head. The cadets told her about this. They just never showed her footage.

The remaining cadets are sitting on the empty atrium floor.

“To her, toothbrushes were just that awesome,” Genesis says, with a soft smile.

Sam is wide-eyed at her friend’s hologram.

“Do you think she knew?” Darem asks. “I think she knew.”

Sam reaches to touch the tears sparkling on his face; her hand shimmers through him, and she drops it.

They read the entire play, beginning to end. Even Tarima, in the role Sam gave her. 

This time, Sam doesn’t pause the film. She just watches.

Messy meals in the mess hall with Genesis and Tarima.

Rainy days on the training lawn. Sam, dripping with water, explaining that while she could keep it from getting her all wet, that wouldn’t help her learn about how organics experience the weather, now would it? Ocam cuddling her close and telling her never, ever to stop being so life affirming.

An explosion of laughter on a calica pitch; a circle of faces grinning down at her. 

“I’m practicing falling,” Sam says, very seriously. 

“Impressive,” Jay-Den agrees. “Next time, perhaps you could have a reason to fall?”

“It’s more fun if it’s spontaneous.”

In the light of the holo, Sam blinks. “Wait. These are… me.”

“SAM 2.0?” Tilly checks the time stamps. She’s right; the latest clips are from the last few months.

Sam at the controls of a shuttle, sheer determination on her face, leading a little mutiny; Caleb looks over at her like he doesn’t know what to do with that.  

“I thought you said they made it when you were on Kasq?” Tilly asks, carefully.

“Maybe they added stuff? I… turned it off before I got this far.”

In class, whispering in a once-dead language; Genesis snorts and drops her test tube. Green goo goes everywhere. 

Standing on a bench in the quad, Sam yells, “I am trying to pass on my wisdom about Khionian biology, because you all said teaching it to someone else would help with the xenobiology final. Is anyone even listening?”

“Yes!” chorus six rowdy, cross-legged cadets. Darem scowls at Caleb’s popcorn.

Sam keeps pausing a movie to give commentary. “Let me watch the damn thing,” Darem complains, but he’s grinning.

“Okay, but let me just tell you about this shot—”

Jay-Den and Tarima, teaching Sam kadis-kot, while she can’t lift her head from the table for laughing.

Tilly’s hands have moved to Sam’s shaking shoulders.

The last clip is of Ocam, across a table in Sam’s quarters, playing cards late into the night. 

“I was feeling sad and mean,” she whispers. “He stayed.”

The theatre space darkens as Sam turns off the holo. Then there’s nothing but her quiet sniffling, for a minute.

And then she’s crying in Tilly’s arms.

Tilly resists a thousand empty platitudes. No advice is going to cut through everything else, right now. She also discards the idea of asking Sam if she’s figured out why her friends gave her the holo. She has a feeling there’ll be no tidy conclusions, at least not yet. Just the slow, bumpy journey to herself. SAM — no operating system number.

Beyond the open door, Tilly catches a glimpse of feet. She rolls her eyes at the non-regulation sneakers. At least Mir isn’t interrupting. 

Sam pulls away, wiping her eyes. She’s quiet for a long, aching moment, as she walks back into the theatre space. “It’s a good set. Nice park.”

Tilly tilts her head. “But it’s not for you?”

“I’m thinking about opera club,” Sam muses, in a lighter voice than Tilly has heard from her all day.

“Nepotism.”

“Yep.”

Tilly is at the door with her, a few minutes later, determined to make sure Sam is okay before she leaves. She needn’t have worried. Sam is giving Caleb a wry smile as he gets up from the floor. “You’re all really frustrating, you know that?”

Caleb slings an arm around her. “How dare.”

Sam gives him a flash of a smile. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot I’m not meant to lump you in with those losers.”

He grins back. “I’ve been ordered to tell you that there are five losers waiting for you in the quad, plus this cool guy, but I think the message is a little redundant on the third try.” His mouth twists as he considers her. “Or do you need somewhere quieter?”

Something meaningful passes between them. Then Sam shakes her head, with a dramatic flourish. “I’m good. Lead me to the lions’ den.”

As they walk down the hallway, Tilly overhears the last of the conversation.

“Also, Ocam promised he’d take me out for ice cream later, so you’ve gotta get into my programming again so I can experience something like the dopamine hit.”

“Did he now?”

She elbows him. “Shut up.”

They carry their laughter away with them.

In the empty theatre space, Tilly steps back into the set. She sits down on the holographic bench, smiling at a flock of birds on the wall opposite. Built by Sam’s creative hands, from nothing but soul. 

Out beyond the Athena’s bulkheads, Tilly’s cadets are expected to be evidence of something. Emissaries of a rebuilt Federation that, realistically, is still beyond a far horizon. They’re not symbols of the future, as Tilly might have snapped at the Vice-President; they’re people, right now. Maybe we should let them be who they are. 

Like the kid who gets rained on, just to understand rain. Who falls on purpose, just to understand organics. Who lets people love her, just to understand love. And oh, how they do.

The way a whole lot of people loved Tilly, back when all she wanted was to be someone else.

If the universe will keep on coming for Tilly’s cadets, the least she can do is keep on being in the room for them when it does.

She glances up. ”Time, please, Computer?”

“It’s 1625 hours, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you.” Tilly stands. “I think there’s enough time to call an old friend. Wouldn’t you say, Computer?”

When the Athena’s computer replies, her voice is light and warm, like birdsong after rain. “Indeed, Lieutenant. Calling Michael Burnham.”

Tilly smiles at the ceiling. “Thank you, Computer. I think I’d like to tell her about my day.”