"Enough for Now"
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“More coffee, sir?”
“Only if it has whiskey in it this time.”
“Ah, I’m afraid not, sir. I have sugar and cream, and…”
“Black will do,” growled Captain Sam Saberhagen. The steward on the executive shuttle squeaked an ‘aye, sir’ and disappeared into the aft compartment. The Tellarite came back with a steaming mug that he nervously placed on the small table next to Sam before promptly vanishing again.
Sam took a sip, grimaced, then took another. The warm mug felt good in his hands; the coffee… Well, the opaque liquid in the mug had more in common with impulse manifold lubricant than any sort of actual coffee, but it was strong. Sam could feel his headache abating, just a little, though his head still throbbed. He suspected that someone would find an odd amusement in the fact that the cadence of said throb matched the persistent knock at his door that had woken him up just a couple of hours ago.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Considering how badly his head hurt, it was a miracle Sam managed to walk rather than fall down the staircase. It was going on ten AM (Eastern Standard Time, Earth), but a sky full of thick, charcoal grey clouds kept the sun hidden.
Which, thought Sam, was just fine. He’d taken the day off, planning to sleep through most of it before meeting an old friend for dinner. The persistent knocking on his door put paid to the first part of his plans, and likely, he feared, the second. Sam yanked the door open so hard the person knocking fell forward, catching herself on the doorframe just in time to avoid plowing into Sam.
“Captain Saberhagen,” she said, once she’d recovered her footing, “I’m Lieutenant Sethra sh'Trel, Bunker Hill’s navigator. “There is an issue that requires your attention.”
“You couldn’t have called?” Sam groused, pulling his robe tight against an errant draft.
“We’ve been trying for the last three hours, sir. The one time we managed to get through, we were told very politely to go to Hell, followed by what sounded like a phaser shot.”
Sam groaned. I guess that wasn’t a dream. Considering his home – the historic Spellman House – had survived World War III, a stray phaser blast was unlikely to have done any real damage.
“Let me get dressed, lieutenant, and I’ll beam to the ship.”
“Apologies, Captain, but the global transporter net is experiencing, um, issues.” She indicated an older-model executive shuttle, deftly landed in a nearby baseball field. Sam sighed.
Everything around me is old.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
It had been three weeks since Sam had met with Admiral Sterling and accepted command of the USS Bunker Hill; she was due to break orbit in one more week, bound for the mysterious Palatine Sound. Sam knew he’d be reporting directly to the brusque, two-star admiral, but he didn’t expect that Adm. Sterling would be planting his flag at Station J-2, nor that he would have to ferry the admiral and his staff there. It was six weeks hard travel from Earth to the Sound. When he’d gotten that bit of news dropped on him, Sam responded by going into Boston and getting thoroughly soused.
Station J-2 was an old Watchtower-class space station, anchored near the entrance to the Palatine Sound, the so-called Ianus Gate. There were no nearby planets, moons, or other celestial bodies, so J-2 maintained position by the use of gravitic anchors. J-2 had two starships permanently based there: USS Three Forks, a Soyuz-class patrol cruiser, and USS Ibn al-Haitam, a vintage Hermes-class scout that hadn’t flown for nearly two years. Not that it needed to; the whole subsector was ridiculously lightly travelled. Even the hardened pirates that nuisanced the next subsector over gave the Palatine Sound and surrounding space a wide berth.
And we’re going to be operating in the heart of that space, thought Sam darkly. What could go wrong?
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“S’bad ‘nuff Adm. Pucker-up wants me ta do t’ree munthsa refitt’n in four weeks, now some clown from SCE drops dis Klingon garbage in my lap an’ wants me t’install it.”
“Klingon?” said Sam incredulously.
Simon ‘Dodger’ Freleng shrugged. “Guy went on like th’ world depended on me installin’ th’ t’ing, den he’s all quiet an’ says, ‘but Cap’n Saberhagen has’ta decide’. An’ off he goes.” Dodger gestured at a massive tarp-covered something that took up most of Loading Bay Two.
“So what is it?”
“Unafficially, itsa ‘sperimental high-gain astrametric sensor’,” said Dodger. He had the thickest Brooklyn accent Sam had ever heard; considering how many summers Sam had spent in Brooklyn with his friends Chuck and Carl ‘The String’ Holland, that was saying something.
“But really, itsa dreadnought-grade disruptor cannon. Must be a prototype or somethin’. It’s Klingon tech fer sure, but ain’t like no Klingon tech I’ve seen. I ran some simulations on my poysonal mainframe… Hook ‘er up to a Starfleet warp core, hooo doggie.”
Sam thought for a moment. “So, useful. But what’s the catch?”
“Useful? Hooo. Puncha hole through just about anythin’. Tradeoff is, we lose th’ ventral saucer phasers.” He shrugged again. “S’ your call, Cap’n. We can go with or without it. Don’t make no nevermind to me.”
“Can it get done, ah, quietly? I know relations with the Klingons are… Well, we may not be at each other’s throats right now, but we’re not exactly boon companions either.”
“Sure t’ing, Cap’n. Lucky fer us ta be here at th’ Southern Cross yards. Deese boys, dey like it quiet. We’ll get ta workin’ on it post-haste.”
“Thank you, Dodger.” Sam glanced at a wall-mounted chronometer. There might be just enough time… “Keep me posted, please.”
“Eeh, since you’re here, Cap’n, dere’s a few t’ings what could use yer attention…”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sam sat down heavily at the desk, closing his eyes and sighing. His quarters were Spartan, almost sterile. Sam had never had much by way of ‘stuff’; aside from the cruiserful of emotional baggage, he’d always travelled light. Sure, he had a few treasured possessions, the odd tchotchke from worlds he’d visited or been stationed on. His quarters aboard the Bunker Hill were practically factory-fresh, however. Sam had brought barely anything to the ship, almost as if he felt doing so would commit him irrevocably to whatever lay ahead.
The stateroom Sam had taken was technically junior officer’s quarters, but Sam didn’t need much more space than what these quarters provided. Besides which, he’d given up the captain’s rooms so Aztol, Bunker Hill’s Zaranite helmsman, could have a small airlock installed, allowing his quarters to maintain the fluorine gas atmosphere of his homeworld.
Sam prodded the desk’s integrated computer to life and accessed the global communications network. The screen flickered once before a face appeared.
“Unca Sallyman!” said the woman, using her childhood endearment for Sam. She got a good look at Sam’s face and frowned. “Please tell me you’re not calling to cancel.”
“I’m sorry, Beanie Boo,” Sam replied, smiling weakly. “You and your aunts will have to celebrate your new job without me. But I’m so proud of you! Chief of biomechanics at the Banzai Institute? I’m so happy to see you’ve made your dreams come true.”
“And you, finally a starship captain!” She blushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” There was an awkward moment of uncomfortable silence.
“It’s OK, Sabrina. I’m still not sure I really belong here. Guess we’ll see how it goes, eh?” Sam’s door chime sounded. “No rest for the wicked, Beanie Boo. I’ll visit you at the Banzai Institute when I get back. You’ll be running the place in no time!” He smiled again, warmly this time. “Give my love to your aunts.”
“Love you, Unca Sallyman. Talk to you soon, and be safe.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The next week passed by in a blur. Sam knew that Dodger and the dockhands at Southern Cross had done all they could, though he was certain that some things had been overlooked in the rush to get the Bunker Hill ‘out the door’. Sam hoped fervently that anything missed wouldn’t come back to haunt them.
The turbolift doors slid open with their typical squeak-hiss, revealing a darkened and empty bridge. A few computer monitors, displaying inconsequential information, provided the only light. Sam found the quiet stillness soothing.
The bridge module had been installed about halfway through the refit; something had tweaked when the ship’s computer core was updated, and whatever it was, the bridge refused to initialize. The engineering teams couldn’t figure it out, so the bridge module was swapped with one from an older Constitution refit, and that seemed to solve the problem. Sam couldn’t remember which Connie the bridge had come from, but for some reason there was a lingering aroma – barely noticeable – of carbon-scored hull plating and onions.
Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Sam wondered why in the Hell he’d said yes to Adm. Sterling. He had no business being here! It would be beyond generous to call his command skills rusty… fossilized would be a much more apt description.
Why not ask why you didn’t leave Starfleet after the Otorem Incident? said a voice in his head. It was a voice, achingly intimate, that Sam was all-too-familiar with. It was her voice.
“If I’d had nothing to do but putter around that house by myself,” said Sam quietly, “I’d have soon died of boredom and booze.”
So you remained in Starfleet. What were you hoping would happen? A shot at redemption, a chance to change things?
“I’m not looking for absolution. I made my peace with damnation a long time ago."
Then why? For that, Sam had no answer. He’d had this conversation many, many times before. And this was the point where it always came to a stop. But the echo of the echo of her voice remained, lingering longer than before.
Then why?
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Engineerin’ ta bridge, we are ready ta fly.”
“Good work, Dodger. Drinks are on me tonight.” Sam turned towards Ensign Lovacelli at communications. “Contact the harbormaster for departure clearance, please. Helm, clear all moorings, and thrusters to stationkeeping.” Each officer replied with a crisp ‘aye, sir’ and set to their assigned tasks. Shortly:
Comm: “Dockmaster has granted clearance. Departure vector is seven-alpha-seven-nine.”
Helm: “All moorings retracted. Thrusters and impulse drive at your command.”
“Very well,” Sam said. “Thrusters ahead on departure vector. Set course for Orbital Office Annex Ajax Delta Niner, 1/8 impulse when we’ve cleared the shipyard perimeter.”
“Aye, sir,” replied Helm and Nav in chorus. Her thrusters flared, and the USS Bunker Hill slid forward, trading the confines of the skeletal drydock for open space. A couple of minutes later, her impulse engines lit up.
“ETA Ajax Delta Niner, five minutes,“ said Helm.
“Tactical," said Sam, “assemble an honor guard detail in transporter room two. We’ll be receiving Admiral Sterling. I’ll join them shortly.”
“Aye, sir,” replied LtJG Hxar. His voice had an odd timbre, almost a crystalline echo. Sam was unfamiliar with Hxar’s race; they were called Kyourne, he’d been told, as if that explained everything. He’d have to talk to Hxar later, probably during transit to the Sound. Sam had a feeling the crew would get to know each other really well during those six weeks.
Too bad we can’t do it without the admiral…
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
~kanryou~
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Author's note: this story follows directly from "Maybe, Again", my August/September challenge entry.
https://www.trekbbs.com/threads/august-september-challenge-maybe-again.305495/
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“More coffee, sir?”
“Only if it has whiskey in it this time.”
“Ah, I’m afraid not, sir. I have sugar and cream, and…”
“Black will do,” growled Captain Sam Saberhagen. The steward on the executive shuttle squeaked an ‘aye, sir’ and disappeared into the aft compartment. The Tellarite came back with a steaming mug that he nervously placed on the small table next to Sam before promptly vanishing again.
Sam took a sip, grimaced, then took another. The warm mug felt good in his hands; the coffee… Well, the opaque liquid in the mug had more in common with impulse manifold lubricant than any sort of actual coffee, but it was strong. Sam could feel his headache abating, just a little, though his head still throbbed. He suspected that someone would find an odd amusement in the fact that the cadence of said throb matched the persistent knock at his door that had woken him up just a couple of hours ago.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Considering how badly his head hurt, it was a miracle Sam managed to walk rather than fall down the staircase. It was going on ten AM (Eastern Standard Time, Earth), but a sky full of thick, charcoal grey clouds kept the sun hidden.
Which, thought Sam, was just fine. He’d taken the day off, planning to sleep through most of it before meeting an old friend for dinner. The persistent knocking on his door put paid to the first part of his plans, and likely, he feared, the second. Sam yanked the door open so hard the person knocking fell forward, catching herself on the doorframe just in time to avoid plowing into Sam.
“Captain Saberhagen,” she said, once she’d recovered her footing, “I’m Lieutenant Sethra sh'Trel, Bunker Hill’s navigator. “There is an issue that requires your attention.”
“You couldn’t have called?” Sam groused, pulling his robe tight against an errant draft.
“We’ve been trying for the last three hours, sir. The one time we managed to get through, we were told very politely to go to Hell, followed by what sounded like a phaser shot.”
Sam groaned. I guess that wasn’t a dream. Considering his home – the historic Spellman House – had survived World War III, a stray phaser blast was unlikely to have done any real damage.
“Let me get dressed, lieutenant, and I’ll beam to the ship.”
“Apologies, Captain, but the global transporter net is experiencing, um, issues.” She indicated an older-model executive shuttle, deftly landed in a nearby baseball field. Sam sighed.
Everything around me is old.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
It had been three weeks since Sam had met with Admiral Sterling and accepted command of the USS Bunker Hill; she was due to break orbit in one more week, bound for the mysterious Palatine Sound. Sam knew he’d be reporting directly to the brusque, two-star admiral, but he didn’t expect that Adm. Sterling would be planting his flag at Station J-2, nor that he would have to ferry the admiral and his staff there. It was six weeks hard travel from Earth to the Sound. When he’d gotten that bit of news dropped on him, Sam responded by going into Boston and getting thoroughly soused.
Station J-2 was an old Watchtower-class space station, anchored near the entrance to the Palatine Sound, the so-called Ianus Gate. There were no nearby planets, moons, or other celestial bodies, so J-2 maintained position by the use of gravitic anchors. J-2 had two starships permanently based there: USS Three Forks, a Soyuz-class patrol cruiser, and USS Ibn al-Haitam, a vintage Hermes-class scout that hadn’t flown for nearly two years. Not that it needed to; the whole subsector was ridiculously lightly travelled. Even the hardened pirates that nuisanced the next subsector over gave the Palatine Sound and surrounding space a wide berth.
And we’re going to be operating in the heart of that space, thought Sam darkly. What could go wrong?
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“S’bad ‘nuff Adm. Pucker-up wants me ta do t’ree munthsa refitt’n in four weeks, now some clown from SCE drops dis Klingon garbage in my lap an’ wants me t’install it.”
“Klingon?” said Sam incredulously.
Simon ‘Dodger’ Freleng shrugged. “Guy went on like th’ world depended on me installin’ th’ t’ing, den he’s all quiet an’ says, ‘but Cap’n Saberhagen has’ta decide’. An’ off he goes.” Dodger gestured at a massive tarp-covered something that took up most of Loading Bay Two.
“So what is it?”
“Unafficially, itsa ‘sperimental high-gain astrametric sensor’,” said Dodger. He had the thickest Brooklyn accent Sam had ever heard; considering how many summers Sam had spent in Brooklyn with his friends Chuck and Carl ‘The String’ Holland, that was saying something.
“But really, itsa dreadnought-grade disruptor cannon. Must be a prototype or somethin’. It’s Klingon tech fer sure, but ain’t like no Klingon tech I’ve seen. I ran some simulations on my poysonal mainframe… Hook ‘er up to a Starfleet warp core, hooo doggie.”
Sam thought for a moment. “So, useful. But what’s the catch?”
“Useful? Hooo. Puncha hole through just about anythin’. Tradeoff is, we lose th’ ventral saucer phasers.” He shrugged again. “S’ your call, Cap’n. We can go with or without it. Don’t make no nevermind to me.”
“Can it get done, ah, quietly? I know relations with the Klingons are… Well, we may not be at each other’s throats right now, but we’re not exactly boon companions either.”
“Sure t’ing, Cap’n. Lucky fer us ta be here at th’ Southern Cross yards. Deese boys, dey like it quiet. We’ll get ta workin’ on it post-haste.”
“Thank you, Dodger.” Sam glanced at a wall-mounted chronometer. There might be just enough time… “Keep me posted, please.”
“Eeh, since you’re here, Cap’n, dere’s a few t’ings what could use yer attention…”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sam sat down heavily at the desk, closing his eyes and sighing. His quarters were Spartan, almost sterile. Sam had never had much by way of ‘stuff’; aside from the cruiserful of emotional baggage, he’d always travelled light. Sure, he had a few treasured possessions, the odd tchotchke from worlds he’d visited or been stationed on. His quarters aboard the Bunker Hill were practically factory-fresh, however. Sam had brought barely anything to the ship, almost as if he felt doing so would commit him irrevocably to whatever lay ahead.
The stateroom Sam had taken was technically junior officer’s quarters, but Sam didn’t need much more space than what these quarters provided. Besides which, he’d given up the captain’s rooms so Aztol, Bunker Hill’s Zaranite helmsman, could have a small airlock installed, allowing his quarters to maintain the fluorine gas atmosphere of his homeworld.
Sam prodded the desk’s integrated computer to life and accessed the global communications network. The screen flickered once before a face appeared.
“Unca Sallyman!” said the woman, using her childhood endearment for Sam. She got a good look at Sam’s face and frowned. “Please tell me you’re not calling to cancel.”
“I’m sorry, Beanie Boo,” Sam replied, smiling weakly. “You and your aunts will have to celebrate your new job without me. But I’m so proud of you! Chief of biomechanics at the Banzai Institute? I’m so happy to see you’ve made your dreams come true.”
“And you, finally a starship captain!” She blushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” There was an awkward moment of uncomfortable silence.
“It’s OK, Sabrina. I’m still not sure I really belong here. Guess we’ll see how it goes, eh?” Sam’s door chime sounded. “No rest for the wicked, Beanie Boo. I’ll visit you at the Banzai Institute when I get back. You’ll be running the place in no time!” He smiled again, warmly this time. “Give my love to your aunts.”
“Love you, Unca Sallyman. Talk to you soon, and be safe.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The next week passed by in a blur. Sam knew that Dodger and the dockhands at Southern Cross had done all they could, though he was certain that some things had been overlooked in the rush to get the Bunker Hill ‘out the door’. Sam hoped fervently that anything missed wouldn’t come back to haunt them.
The turbolift doors slid open with their typical squeak-hiss, revealing a darkened and empty bridge. A few computer monitors, displaying inconsequential information, provided the only light. Sam found the quiet stillness soothing.
The bridge module had been installed about halfway through the refit; something had tweaked when the ship’s computer core was updated, and whatever it was, the bridge refused to initialize. The engineering teams couldn’t figure it out, so the bridge module was swapped with one from an older Constitution refit, and that seemed to solve the problem. Sam couldn’t remember which Connie the bridge had come from, but for some reason there was a lingering aroma – barely noticeable – of carbon-scored hull plating and onions.
Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Sam wondered why in the Hell he’d said yes to Adm. Sterling. He had no business being here! It would be beyond generous to call his command skills rusty… fossilized would be a much more apt description.
Why not ask why you didn’t leave Starfleet after the Otorem Incident? said a voice in his head. It was a voice, achingly intimate, that Sam was all-too-familiar with. It was her voice.
“If I’d had nothing to do but putter around that house by myself,” said Sam quietly, “I’d have soon died of boredom and booze.”
So you remained in Starfleet. What were you hoping would happen? A shot at redemption, a chance to change things?
“I’m not looking for absolution. I made my peace with damnation a long time ago."
Then why? For that, Sam had no answer. He’d had this conversation many, many times before. And this was the point where it always came to a stop. But the echo of the echo of her voice remained, lingering longer than before.
Then why?
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Engineerin’ ta bridge, we are ready ta fly.”
“Good work, Dodger. Drinks are on me tonight.” Sam turned towards Ensign Lovacelli at communications. “Contact the harbormaster for departure clearance, please. Helm, clear all moorings, and thrusters to stationkeeping.” Each officer replied with a crisp ‘aye, sir’ and set to their assigned tasks. Shortly:
Comm: “Dockmaster has granted clearance. Departure vector is seven-alpha-seven-nine.”
Helm: “All moorings retracted. Thrusters and impulse drive at your command.”
“Very well,” Sam said. “Thrusters ahead on departure vector. Set course for Orbital Office Annex Ajax Delta Niner, 1/8 impulse when we’ve cleared the shipyard perimeter.”
“Aye, sir,” replied Helm and Nav in chorus. Her thrusters flared, and the USS Bunker Hill slid forward, trading the confines of the skeletal drydock for open space. A couple of minutes later, her impulse engines lit up.
“ETA Ajax Delta Niner, five minutes,“ said Helm.
“Tactical," said Sam, “assemble an honor guard detail in transporter room two. We’ll be receiving Admiral Sterling. I’ll join them shortly.”
“Aye, sir,” replied LtJG Hxar. His voice had an odd timbre, almost a crystalline echo. Sam was unfamiliar with Hxar’s race; they were called Kyourne, he’d been told, as if that explained everything. He’d have to talk to Hxar later, probably during transit to the Sound. Sam had a feeling the crew would get to know each other really well during those six weeks.
Too bad we can’t do it without the admiral…
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
~kanryou~
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Author's note: this story follows directly from "Maybe, Again", my August/September challenge entry.
https://www.trekbbs.com/threads/august-september-challenge-maybe-again.305495/
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