Fallen Heroes - Book 2 of 2 - Chapter 13b (final chapter)
USS Achilles, Nedron System – June 15, 2386 – Stardate 63452.8
Hurrying through the corridors, Commander Tony Blue wrings his hands to stop them from tingling and wishes he’d accepted the mild calming agent Doctor Kingsley prescribed him earlier today.
Stephan Rinckes tries to keep up, wearing his dusted-off captain’s attire without rank insignia, making him the only person aboard this vessel to wear the defunct black-and-gray variant of the Starfleet uniform. “Fifteen minutes to go. No need to rush.”
“Tell it to the butterflies attacking my insides with plasma torches.”
“Everything has been readied and set in motion, and I trust you haven’t forgotten these people are among the best in the fleet.”
Tony slows down a little. “You’re right. They are pretty awesome.”
“If it’s any consolation, I’m nervous too. Not being captain anymore allows me to admit that.”
“I hear you.”
Rinckes scoffs at the intact wall panels and lighting fixtures. “These corridors have never been this pristine. Silly as it sounds, somehow this makes the fruit of our labors more tangible. We really did make a difference, didn’t we? I should’ve done this sooner.”
“Being back here, it’s as if we never left.”
“We got to stay; the war had to go.”
“Did you bring a few of those beers? I’ll drink to such wisdom.”
Rinckes points to the turbolift entrance at the end of the hallway. “Our ride to the bridge.”
As they approach the entrance, Tony realizes how this brief journey is a strange reversal of their desperate run for the shuttle bay when the Achilles was about to auto-destruct. Then the doors open to reveal Ensign Josh Donahue, looking considerably healthier without a S’Prenn controlling him from the neck.
“Josh!” Tony says, suppressing the urge to hug the ensign.
Donahue’s mouth falls open. “Captain Rinckes, Commander Blue! You… you recognize me?”
“Uh, yeah?”
The ensign grabs the sides of his head. “Amazing! Do you have any idea how famous you both are? We even named our main lounges after you. You saved the Federation on this very same vessel, and you’re telling me we knew each other personally?”
Despite the starstruck ensign’s reaction, Tony maintains a solemn tone. “Josh, we went through hell and back together and became friends.”
“My colleagues are going to be so jealous.”
Rinckes has already stepped into the turbolift.
“How’s your piano playing going?” Tony asks.
Donahue’s eyes widen. “You did know me! This is too much!”
“We should go,” Rinckes says.
Tony decides to postpone regaling the ensign with tales of his valor and support and enters the turbolift. “You heard the man. I promise I’ll be in touch. All the best, Josh.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m honored.” As the doors slide shut, the ensign salutes them.
“Bridge,” Rinckes says.
A lengthy awkward silence in the ascending lift ensues until Tony coughs and says, “At least he’s doing better in this timeline.”
An annoyed grunt is Rinckes’ sole reply.
* * *
The turbolift doors part in front of Commander Tony Blue and Stephan Rinckes, treating them to the Garcon Nebula’s blue-and-lilac glow lighting the Achilles’ bridge via the viewscreen. Though Tony has visited this bridge thrice in the past week, a wave of nostalgia washes over him, and he has to dismiss the impulse to step up to a tactical station that’s no longer his.
Captain Keith Harriman swivels in his captain’s chair as soon as they’ve stepped on deck. “Welcome, gentlemen. The nebula remains a beauty, doesn’t it?”
“Stunning as ever, despite the battles and losses it hosted,” Tony says.
Harriman grants him a pensive nod. “Both on galactic and personal scales.”
Rinckes gazes at the colossal nebula. “Incredible how this whole region of space belongs to the Federation, how nothing is left of the forty-two vessels lost here.”
Indeed, the graveyard of ships has been dismantled and removed, all bodies recovered for the grieving families, leaving the true monument to their sacrifice to be found in Scotland.
“It’s easy travelling when you don’t have to sneak around,” Tony says to Rinckes, adding in sotto voce, “Should I ask them to engage cloak just to see their perplexed faces and have them lecture us on the Treaty of Algeron?”
“Better not.”
Conversation alleviates some of the rising stress clawing at him. Friendly looks from Commander Erin Crow help too. Rinckes and Tony’s absence in this particular grand scheme of things meant Captain Harriman was able to decline a promotion to admiral and let Erin become first officer in 2383. She’s standing next to her husband, Arthur Crow, a sympathetic Korean lieutenant commander in his late thirties, whose knowledge of the Achilles is encyclopedic, and who’s more than happy to share his insights on an impressive number of ship-related subjects. Great strategist too, which suits his function as chief tactical officer.
Seated in the second officer’s chair, Doctor Chris Kingsley deigns the visitors a condescending frown. “If you manage to pull this off, I’m going to rank today as our craziest.” Before any of them can retort, he pivots back to face the viewscreen.
“Don’t mind him,” the Andorian Lieutenant Kels says from her science station. “His bedside manner is diametrically opposed to his skills as a physician.”
Tony shrugs. “It’s okay. We got used to it eventually.”
“That’s a relief,” Harriman says. “We haven’t quite reached that stage yet.”
Restrained laughter fills the bridge. Kingsley can’t resist commenting, “And you never will with such an attitude.”
Tony snickers nervously at the repartee and whispers to Rinckes, “What do you think of seeing these folks at work, alive and kicking, on our bridge?”
He contemplates his answer, then curves his mouth into a half-smile. “Feels good.”
While Harriman continues prepping his crew, Arthur Crow beckons Tony nearer. “Commander Blue, you can monitor our progress from my station.”
Trying not to shake like a cold puppy, Tony heads over to the left half of the tactical station and refamiliarizes himself with the interface. In the top-left corner, a timer counts down to their frighteningly short operating window. Ten minutes to go.
Hovering by the tactical console, Erin Crow has mustered the courage to say in a hushed tone, “Turns out the shuttle allocated to taking Arthur and his six colleagues to the training colony had developed a catastrophic dilithium intermix chamber malfunction.”
“Routine maintenance checks missed the issue,” Arthur says, “but we certainly remembered your warning and insisted on performing a level 1 diagnostic.” He leans in closer as if spilling a secret. “It confirmed the shuttle would’ve blown up in mid-transit.”
“You risked disciplinary action telling us,” Erin says, “and saved my husband’s life. I don’t want to imagine having to live without him.”
“Words cannot begin to express our gratitude.”
Tony attempts to formulate a response, but all he can do is attach these overwhelming emotions to the tangle of jittery apprehension his brain has become.
Arthur pats him on the shoulder. “Now it’s your turn to reclaim a loved one. We’re with you every step of the way.”
Erin gives them a warm smile, then raises her voice to address her colleagues. “What we’re about to do has never been done before. If there are questions, this is your last chance to ask.”
Surrounded by the murmur of the crew’s final preparations and deliberations, Tony tries to control his breathing. “So much can go wrong,” he mutters, loud enough to be overheard by the chief tactical officer.
“It won’t,” Arthur reassures him. “We’re fairly decent at our jobs.”
Minutes pass by with Tony watching the timer as if it will vanish the instant he blinks. Meanwhile, Rinckes, seated at a wall-mounted terminal to follow the mission from there, throws him the occasional glance conveying a healthy mix of concern and encouragement.
And just like that, the timer hits five minutes. Tony coughs the dryness from his throat and wheezes, “Five minutes—mark.”
Captain Harriman springs up from his chair. “Let’s get this show on the road.” The bridge starts buzzing with activity as it shifts from anticipatory banter to laser-focused efficiency.
“Stations, report,” Erin says.
Chief Engineer Jon Terrell goes first. “Upgrades and modifications to deflector and sensor arrays are functioning as simulations predicted. Applying sensor power boost to compensate for the nebula’s interference and Nedron Eight’s volatile atmosphere.”
Lieutenant Ernest Baxter is next. “Achieving low orbit around Nedron Eight, on schedule to coincide with optimum Z-axis coordinate above target.”
Dr. Kingsley, two of his nurses, and Security Chief Lieutenant Jeremy Gibbs take up position in the center of the bridge. “Medical team standing by,” Kingsley says, “plus a beefy guy who insists on joining us.”
The security chief harrumphs and says, “Standard precaution when beaming someone from hostile territory.”
“I’d appreciate it if you could refrain from shooting my—”
“Science, report,” Erin interjects.
“Sensor upgrades effective and primed to latch onto chronitons,” Kels says. “Parallel timeline Attack-class Altonoid wreckage not found. Approximating location based on available data.”
“Transporters ready,” the Vulcan Ops Officer Lieutenant Surtak says, “configured for activation within projected time window.”
Erin turns to the captain. “All stations ready, sir.”
Radiating calmness, Harriman clasps his hands behind his back. “Now we wait.”
The most excruciating part. The timer keeps counting down, but it’s not an exact science from here on out. Tony sure hopes Q holds up his end of the bargain. Even the self-proclaimed deity wouldn’t be so cruel as to joke about this. His farewell gift, the PADD he described as “valuable intel,” contained the instruction to be at the Nedron system at the exact date and time Emily had originally been shot by the leader of the Altonoid group investigating the wreck.
By altering events at Station A-12, Tony had created a new timeline in which he and all the people around him have been living for the past six years. According to Q, the original timeline persists as a parallel universe, which will last at least until December 22, 2387, the day Tony and Rinckes used the decrepit time machine they’d uncovered, if only to keep the multiverse from imploding or exploding or whichever it fancies upon reaching an irreconcilable paradox. Their alterations have not only prevented war, they’ve also prevented desperate versions of themselves from traveling back to 2380 in the wake of the Achilles’ destruction—the perfect recipe for a hefty paradox.
This defense mechanism demands that in one branch of the timestream, their adventures in an Alpha and Beta Quadrant dictated by the unholy Altonoid-S’Prenn alliance are happening concurrently, including Emily’s death, which is destined to take place minutes from now.
All other aspects of this multiverse-spanning rescue operation are for Tony to figure out and arrange, except for the most vital one: Q will briefly open a miniscule portal between both universes, just big enough for squeezing through a compressed transporter matter stream. If Tony and his friends nail the timing, and the adjustments to the Achilles’ sensors and transporters have been successful, and everyone has done their homework, and nothing goes wrong, they could beam her out of the cargo bay she’s in milliseconds before her killer vaporizes her.
That’s a big if, not to mention the ethical can of worms this opens regarding Ensign Ted Barton’s death in the same cargo bay moments earlier. The brevity of the window Q opens doesn’t allow for his rescue. Of course, the ensign is perfectly fine in this timeline; he is in fact on duty in sickbay. It doesn’t quite sit well with Tony, but his former mentor made it clear “alternate universe Ted” isn’t coming back.
This elaborate favor isn’t without personal risk to Q, who had already explained the Q Continuum won’t sanction outright saving Emily, and this convoluted plan is his official workaround for their merciless stance. As a joke, he tacked a special provision onto his intel: Should this gift result in his expulsion from the Continuum, he is entitled to crash on Tony’s couch for as long as needed. Dwelling on this bit of selfless humor serves as a welcome distraction from the mounting tension, although Tony realizes it’s up to him to benefit from this gift and do right by Emily.
He notices Harriman has sidled over to Rinckes to ask, “How confident are you of your feedback?”
“Very. Timestamp of her death has been integrated into the operation’s parameters.”
“So your work is done?”
Rinckes hesitates. “In a sense, yes.”
“And you are fully briefed in the proceedings of this mission?”
“Absolutely.”
Harriman motions at the vacant captain’s chair. “Would you do the honors?”
Rinckes needs a handful of seconds to grasp this request. With stilted movements, he gets up and follows the Achilles’ true captain to the chair he hasn’t sat in for years. In passing, he makes eye contact with Tony to share the significance of this moment. When they rode a shuttle to Spacedock prior to boarding the Achilles, Rinckes had confessed how he, ridden with guilt, had viewed the video of Emily’s demise often before destroying the only copy. The video had made an indelible impression on him. He bore responsibility for his crew, for her death. Her bravery as she stood to confront her executioner forever stayed in his thoughts. So did the timestamp.
Tony is grateful his ex-captain has volunteered this information. It’s helped their preparation a great deal, and by beaming Emily out of her EV suit at the instant of her being fired at, the video itself does not change in the parallel timeline, preventing the potential rise of another paradox. In a strange twist of irony, Rinckes would’ve merely seen her empty suit vaporize. That is, if they succeed.
Rinckes lowers himself into the chair and grabs the armrests. In his old uniform, he’s an oddly fitting anachronism, as if he has always been here, as if he never had to activate this vessel’s auto-destruct sequence, as if the intervening years never occurred. His wariness subsides, yielding to confidence. With a straightened posture and renewed resolve, he once again seeks eye contact with Tony and says in his authoritative baritone, “We got this, Commander,” stirring memories of days past.
For the first time since reading Q’s instructions, Tony allows himself to believe. It sends out a jolt through his nervous system, covering anxiety with a layer of excitement wherever it travels, and he wants to say something inspiring, but Kels beats him to the punch.
“Massive chroniton surge in targeted location.”
His heart starts drumming a wild rhythm.
Rinckes leans forward. “Kels, scan for life signs within the designated area. Surtak, acquire transporter lock.”
“One life sign found—human!”
“Transporter locked on.”
“When’s our T-minus zero?” Rinckes asks.
Tony finds himself utterly tongue-tied, so Arthur answers, “Seven seconds.”
Rinckes steeples his fingers and says in a voice thick with emotion, “Lieutenant Surtak, bring her home.”
“Initializing transport.”
“T-minus zero—mark,” Arthur says.
An alarm starts beeping on the tactical station, threatening to invert Tony’s stomach, and a warning message pops into view: Phaser fire detected by transporter. The whirr of an active transporter heralds a cobalt pillar of bright particles appearing in the center of the bridge, materializing Lieutenant Emily Blue into being. Her excursion uniform is torn and sooty, minor lacerations and bruises cover her skin, and Kingsley and Gibbs have to catch her to keep her upright, but it’s really her!
Invigorated by this impossible sight, Tony leaps over the tactical console, rushes over to his wife, and hugs her so tightly the doctor and security chief can let go of her. To hold her close again, her soft hair pressed against his cheek, to smell the comforting scent that faded from her clothes and pillow much too soon—it obliterates the intricate webs that sadness and yearning have spun in a soul besieged by grief.
“Um, ouch,” she says, prompting Tony to downgrade his professional wrestling move to a firm embrace. Through tears of happiness, he kisses her with the force of a hurricane. Aware of her spectators, she resists this whopping kiss at first, but when the bridge crew breaks out in applause, she shrugs and counters Tony’s sudden outburst of affection with full zeal.
An eternity later, they relinquish their kiss. Emily smiles her incomparable smile at him, her brown eyes gleaming with reciprocal tears. “You came back for me.”
“I missed you so much.”
“Don’t be silly. We spoke two hours ago.”
A sad chuckle from Tony. “I had to take the long way round.”
She wrinkles her brow. “What do you—?” Still leaning against him, she withdraws slightly to study his redesigned uniform. “What are you wearing?” She looks around, her expression growing increasingly puzzled. She spots Captain Harriman and lets out a shocked gasp. “You’re supposed to be dead. Tony, what’s going on? Am I dreaming?”
“This must be so confusing. Let me assure you, this is very real.” He holds her nearer. “I have so much to tell you. Harriman’s alive because Rinckes and I changed the past. We went back to where it all began, the Station A-12 Debacle, and fought off the Altonoids.” A heaviness in his chest urges him to admit, “I failed to protect you… twice. Had to live without you for years. You’re safe now.”
She blinks at him, absorbing this synopsis of the extraordinary, then sniffs and says in a voice gone a tad hoarse, “You took no half measures, did you?”
“Not my style.” He gestures at the Achilles’ delighted staff. “They were of tremendous help. I couldn’t have done it alone.”
“Happy to assist,” Kingsley says, examining her with his medical tricorder. “It’s not often we get to reclaim a lost crewmember we didn’t even know existed.”
Incredulous and relieved at once, Emily starts laughing in spite of her aches and bruises.
Kingsley tosses his tricorder to a nurse. “Minor spinal injury detected. Let’s wrap up the waterworks and transfer you to sickbay.”
While the medics ready an anti-grav stretcher, she cradles Tony’s face in her hands. “Earth?”
“Peaceful.”
“Your… your father?”
“Waiting for us in San Francisco.”
She sags against Tony, shaking her head. “The war?”
“Is over. We won, Emily.”
Trembling, she kisses him again. She looks over to Rinckes and taps a loose fist against her heart. “Thank you, Captain.”
Eyes going moist, Rinckes signals his appreciation with a nod and says, “You’re quite welcome, Lieutenant.” He rises to his feet and gives the captain’s chair a final glance before stepping aside. “Captain Harriman, I entrust this vessel and her future entirely to you.” The captains of the Achilles shake hands.
Kingsley and Gibbs gingerly place Emily on the stretcher. Tony stays with her, unable to tear his gaze from the woman he thought forever lost, while the bridge crew gathers to form a corridor to the aft turbolift. Overflowing with gratitude, he holds his wife’s hand and passes these amazing individuals. There’s Arthur and Erin Crow, clasping on to each other, unsuccessfully restraining tears. There’s Terrell, sticking up his thumb in admiration, and Surtak, bowing his head in polite collegiality. There’s Kels, her blue antennae curved to communicate love and kindness. Standing near her, Baxter punches the air in triumph and says, “Good for you, sir.”
Last but not least is Captain Harriman, who has walked up to the turbolift entrance. “Welcome back aboard the Achilles, Lieutenant Emily Blue. I wish you two a fantastic life together.”
Speechless, Tony follows the joyful procession into the turbolift, which is a tight fit for the stretcher, the doctor and his nurses, the security chief, and himself. The closing turbolift doors allow him to catch one last glimpse of the Achilles’ bridge, and he concludes one thing is for absolute certain: He’ll miss these wonderful people more than they’ll ever know.
As the turbolift hums into action, he looks at Emily, who eradicates his oldest pain with her dazzling smile and says, “It’s time to go home.”
USS Achilles, Nedron System – June 15, 2386 – Stardate 63452.8
Hurrying through the corridors, Commander Tony Blue wrings his hands to stop them from tingling and wishes he’d accepted the mild calming agent Doctor Kingsley prescribed him earlier today.
Stephan Rinckes tries to keep up, wearing his dusted-off captain’s attire without rank insignia, making him the only person aboard this vessel to wear the defunct black-and-gray variant of the Starfleet uniform. “Fifteen minutes to go. No need to rush.”
“Tell it to the butterflies attacking my insides with plasma torches.”
“Everything has been readied and set in motion, and I trust you haven’t forgotten these people are among the best in the fleet.”
Tony slows down a little. “You’re right. They are pretty awesome.”
“If it’s any consolation, I’m nervous too. Not being captain anymore allows me to admit that.”
“I hear you.”
Rinckes scoffs at the intact wall panels and lighting fixtures. “These corridors have never been this pristine. Silly as it sounds, somehow this makes the fruit of our labors more tangible. We really did make a difference, didn’t we? I should’ve done this sooner.”
“Being back here, it’s as if we never left.”
“We got to stay; the war had to go.”
“Did you bring a few of those beers? I’ll drink to such wisdom.”
Rinckes points to the turbolift entrance at the end of the hallway. “Our ride to the bridge.”
As they approach the entrance, Tony realizes how this brief journey is a strange reversal of their desperate run for the shuttle bay when the Achilles was about to auto-destruct. Then the doors open to reveal Ensign Josh Donahue, looking considerably healthier without a S’Prenn controlling him from the neck.
“Josh!” Tony says, suppressing the urge to hug the ensign.
Donahue’s mouth falls open. “Captain Rinckes, Commander Blue! You… you recognize me?”
“Uh, yeah?”
The ensign grabs the sides of his head. “Amazing! Do you have any idea how famous you both are? We even named our main lounges after you. You saved the Federation on this very same vessel, and you’re telling me we knew each other personally?”
Despite the starstruck ensign’s reaction, Tony maintains a solemn tone. “Josh, we went through hell and back together and became friends.”
“My colleagues are going to be so jealous.”
Rinckes has already stepped into the turbolift.
“How’s your piano playing going?” Tony asks.
Donahue’s eyes widen. “You did know me! This is too much!”
“We should go,” Rinckes says.
Tony decides to postpone regaling the ensign with tales of his valor and support and enters the turbolift. “You heard the man. I promise I’ll be in touch. All the best, Josh.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m honored.” As the doors slide shut, the ensign salutes them.
“Bridge,” Rinckes says.
A lengthy awkward silence in the ascending lift ensues until Tony coughs and says, “At least he’s doing better in this timeline.”
An annoyed grunt is Rinckes’ sole reply.
* * *
The turbolift doors part in front of Commander Tony Blue and Stephan Rinckes, treating them to the Garcon Nebula’s blue-and-lilac glow lighting the Achilles’ bridge via the viewscreen. Though Tony has visited this bridge thrice in the past week, a wave of nostalgia washes over him, and he has to dismiss the impulse to step up to a tactical station that’s no longer his.
Captain Keith Harriman swivels in his captain’s chair as soon as they’ve stepped on deck. “Welcome, gentlemen. The nebula remains a beauty, doesn’t it?”
“Stunning as ever, despite the battles and losses it hosted,” Tony says.
Harriman grants him a pensive nod. “Both on galactic and personal scales.”
Rinckes gazes at the colossal nebula. “Incredible how this whole region of space belongs to the Federation, how nothing is left of the forty-two vessels lost here.”
Indeed, the graveyard of ships has been dismantled and removed, all bodies recovered for the grieving families, leaving the true monument to their sacrifice to be found in Scotland.
“It’s easy travelling when you don’t have to sneak around,” Tony says to Rinckes, adding in sotto voce, “Should I ask them to engage cloak just to see their perplexed faces and have them lecture us on the Treaty of Algeron?”
“Better not.”
Conversation alleviates some of the rising stress clawing at him. Friendly looks from Commander Erin Crow help too. Rinckes and Tony’s absence in this particular grand scheme of things meant Captain Harriman was able to decline a promotion to admiral and let Erin become first officer in 2383. She’s standing next to her husband, Arthur Crow, a sympathetic Korean lieutenant commander in his late thirties, whose knowledge of the Achilles is encyclopedic, and who’s more than happy to share his insights on an impressive number of ship-related subjects. Great strategist too, which suits his function as chief tactical officer.
Seated in the second officer’s chair, Doctor Chris Kingsley deigns the visitors a condescending frown. “If you manage to pull this off, I’m going to rank today as our craziest.” Before any of them can retort, he pivots back to face the viewscreen.
“Don’t mind him,” the Andorian Lieutenant Kels says from her science station. “His bedside manner is diametrically opposed to his skills as a physician.”
Tony shrugs. “It’s okay. We got used to it eventually.”
“That’s a relief,” Harriman says. “We haven’t quite reached that stage yet.”
Restrained laughter fills the bridge. Kingsley can’t resist commenting, “And you never will with such an attitude.”
Tony snickers nervously at the repartee and whispers to Rinckes, “What do you think of seeing these folks at work, alive and kicking, on our bridge?”
He contemplates his answer, then curves his mouth into a half-smile. “Feels good.”
While Harriman continues prepping his crew, Arthur Crow beckons Tony nearer. “Commander Blue, you can monitor our progress from my station.”
Trying not to shake like a cold puppy, Tony heads over to the left half of the tactical station and refamiliarizes himself with the interface. In the top-left corner, a timer counts down to their frighteningly short operating window. Ten minutes to go.
Hovering by the tactical console, Erin Crow has mustered the courage to say in a hushed tone, “Turns out the shuttle allocated to taking Arthur and his six colleagues to the training colony had developed a catastrophic dilithium intermix chamber malfunction.”
“Routine maintenance checks missed the issue,” Arthur says, “but we certainly remembered your warning and insisted on performing a level 1 diagnostic.” He leans in closer as if spilling a secret. “It confirmed the shuttle would’ve blown up in mid-transit.”
“You risked disciplinary action telling us,” Erin says, “and saved my husband’s life. I don’t want to imagine having to live without him.”
“Words cannot begin to express our gratitude.”
Tony attempts to formulate a response, but all he can do is attach these overwhelming emotions to the tangle of jittery apprehension his brain has become.
Arthur pats him on the shoulder. “Now it’s your turn to reclaim a loved one. We’re with you every step of the way.”
Erin gives them a warm smile, then raises her voice to address her colleagues. “What we’re about to do has never been done before. If there are questions, this is your last chance to ask.”
Surrounded by the murmur of the crew’s final preparations and deliberations, Tony tries to control his breathing. “So much can go wrong,” he mutters, loud enough to be overheard by the chief tactical officer.
“It won’t,” Arthur reassures him. “We’re fairly decent at our jobs.”
Minutes pass by with Tony watching the timer as if it will vanish the instant he blinks. Meanwhile, Rinckes, seated at a wall-mounted terminal to follow the mission from there, throws him the occasional glance conveying a healthy mix of concern and encouragement.
And just like that, the timer hits five minutes. Tony coughs the dryness from his throat and wheezes, “Five minutes—mark.”
Captain Harriman springs up from his chair. “Let’s get this show on the road.” The bridge starts buzzing with activity as it shifts from anticipatory banter to laser-focused efficiency.
“Stations, report,” Erin says.
Chief Engineer Jon Terrell goes first. “Upgrades and modifications to deflector and sensor arrays are functioning as simulations predicted. Applying sensor power boost to compensate for the nebula’s interference and Nedron Eight’s volatile atmosphere.”
Lieutenant Ernest Baxter is next. “Achieving low orbit around Nedron Eight, on schedule to coincide with optimum Z-axis coordinate above target.”
Dr. Kingsley, two of his nurses, and Security Chief Lieutenant Jeremy Gibbs take up position in the center of the bridge. “Medical team standing by,” Kingsley says, “plus a beefy guy who insists on joining us.”
The security chief harrumphs and says, “Standard precaution when beaming someone from hostile territory.”
“I’d appreciate it if you could refrain from shooting my—”
“Science, report,” Erin interjects.
“Sensor upgrades effective and primed to latch onto chronitons,” Kels says. “Parallel timeline Attack-class Altonoid wreckage not found. Approximating location based on available data.”
“Transporters ready,” the Vulcan Ops Officer Lieutenant Surtak says, “configured for activation within projected time window.”
Erin turns to the captain. “All stations ready, sir.”
Radiating calmness, Harriman clasps his hands behind his back. “Now we wait.”
The most excruciating part. The timer keeps counting down, but it’s not an exact science from here on out. Tony sure hopes Q holds up his end of the bargain. Even the self-proclaimed deity wouldn’t be so cruel as to joke about this. His farewell gift, the PADD he described as “valuable intel,” contained the instruction to be at the Nedron system at the exact date and time Emily had originally been shot by the leader of the Altonoid group investigating the wreck.
By altering events at Station A-12, Tony had created a new timeline in which he and all the people around him have been living for the past six years. According to Q, the original timeline persists as a parallel universe, which will last at least until December 22, 2387, the day Tony and Rinckes used the decrepit time machine they’d uncovered, if only to keep the multiverse from imploding or exploding or whichever it fancies upon reaching an irreconcilable paradox. Their alterations have not only prevented war, they’ve also prevented desperate versions of themselves from traveling back to 2380 in the wake of the Achilles’ destruction—the perfect recipe for a hefty paradox.
This defense mechanism demands that in one branch of the timestream, their adventures in an Alpha and Beta Quadrant dictated by the unholy Altonoid-S’Prenn alliance are happening concurrently, including Emily’s death, which is destined to take place minutes from now.
All other aspects of this multiverse-spanning rescue operation are for Tony to figure out and arrange, except for the most vital one: Q will briefly open a miniscule portal between both universes, just big enough for squeezing through a compressed transporter matter stream. If Tony and his friends nail the timing, and the adjustments to the Achilles’ sensors and transporters have been successful, and everyone has done their homework, and nothing goes wrong, they could beam her out of the cargo bay she’s in milliseconds before her killer vaporizes her.
That’s a big if, not to mention the ethical can of worms this opens regarding Ensign Ted Barton’s death in the same cargo bay moments earlier. The brevity of the window Q opens doesn’t allow for his rescue. Of course, the ensign is perfectly fine in this timeline; he is in fact on duty in sickbay. It doesn’t quite sit well with Tony, but his former mentor made it clear “alternate universe Ted” isn’t coming back.
This elaborate favor isn’t without personal risk to Q, who had already explained the Q Continuum won’t sanction outright saving Emily, and this convoluted plan is his official workaround for their merciless stance. As a joke, he tacked a special provision onto his intel: Should this gift result in his expulsion from the Continuum, he is entitled to crash on Tony’s couch for as long as needed. Dwelling on this bit of selfless humor serves as a welcome distraction from the mounting tension, although Tony realizes it’s up to him to benefit from this gift and do right by Emily.
He notices Harriman has sidled over to Rinckes to ask, “How confident are you of your feedback?”
“Very. Timestamp of her death has been integrated into the operation’s parameters.”
“So your work is done?”
Rinckes hesitates. “In a sense, yes.”
“And you are fully briefed in the proceedings of this mission?”
“Absolutely.”
Harriman motions at the vacant captain’s chair. “Would you do the honors?”
Rinckes needs a handful of seconds to grasp this request. With stilted movements, he gets up and follows the Achilles’ true captain to the chair he hasn’t sat in for years. In passing, he makes eye contact with Tony to share the significance of this moment. When they rode a shuttle to Spacedock prior to boarding the Achilles, Rinckes had confessed how he, ridden with guilt, had viewed the video of Emily’s demise often before destroying the only copy. The video had made an indelible impression on him. He bore responsibility for his crew, for her death. Her bravery as she stood to confront her executioner forever stayed in his thoughts. So did the timestamp.
Tony is grateful his ex-captain has volunteered this information. It’s helped their preparation a great deal, and by beaming Emily out of her EV suit at the instant of her being fired at, the video itself does not change in the parallel timeline, preventing the potential rise of another paradox. In a strange twist of irony, Rinckes would’ve merely seen her empty suit vaporize. That is, if they succeed.
Rinckes lowers himself into the chair and grabs the armrests. In his old uniform, he’s an oddly fitting anachronism, as if he has always been here, as if he never had to activate this vessel’s auto-destruct sequence, as if the intervening years never occurred. His wariness subsides, yielding to confidence. With a straightened posture and renewed resolve, he once again seeks eye contact with Tony and says in his authoritative baritone, “We got this, Commander,” stirring memories of days past.
For the first time since reading Q’s instructions, Tony allows himself to believe. It sends out a jolt through his nervous system, covering anxiety with a layer of excitement wherever it travels, and he wants to say something inspiring, but Kels beats him to the punch.
“Massive chroniton surge in targeted location.”
His heart starts drumming a wild rhythm.
Rinckes leans forward. “Kels, scan for life signs within the designated area. Surtak, acquire transporter lock.”
“One life sign found—human!”
“Transporter locked on.”
“When’s our T-minus zero?” Rinckes asks.
Tony finds himself utterly tongue-tied, so Arthur answers, “Seven seconds.”
Rinckes steeples his fingers and says in a voice thick with emotion, “Lieutenant Surtak, bring her home.”
“Initializing transport.”
“T-minus zero—mark,” Arthur says.
An alarm starts beeping on the tactical station, threatening to invert Tony’s stomach, and a warning message pops into view: Phaser fire detected by transporter. The whirr of an active transporter heralds a cobalt pillar of bright particles appearing in the center of the bridge, materializing Lieutenant Emily Blue into being. Her excursion uniform is torn and sooty, minor lacerations and bruises cover her skin, and Kingsley and Gibbs have to catch her to keep her upright, but it’s really her!
Invigorated by this impossible sight, Tony leaps over the tactical console, rushes over to his wife, and hugs her so tightly the doctor and security chief can let go of her. To hold her close again, her soft hair pressed against his cheek, to smell the comforting scent that faded from her clothes and pillow much too soon—it obliterates the intricate webs that sadness and yearning have spun in a soul besieged by grief.
“Um, ouch,” she says, prompting Tony to downgrade his professional wrestling move to a firm embrace. Through tears of happiness, he kisses her with the force of a hurricane. Aware of her spectators, she resists this whopping kiss at first, but when the bridge crew breaks out in applause, she shrugs and counters Tony’s sudden outburst of affection with full zeal.
An eternity later, they relinquish their kiss. Emily smiles her incomparable smile at him, her brown eyes gleaming with reciprocal tears. “You came back for me.”
“I missed you so much.”
“Don’t be silly. We spoke two hours ago.”
A sad chuckle from Tony. “I had to take the long way round.”
She wrinkles her brow. “What do you—?” Still leaning against him, she withdraws slightly to study his redesigned uniform. “What are you wearing?” She looks around, her expression growing increasingly puzzled. She spots Captain Harriman and lets out a shocked gasp. “You’re supposed to be dead. Tony, what’s going on? Am I dreaming?”
“This must be so confusing. Let me assure you, this is very real.” He holds her nearer. “I have so much to tell you. Harriman’s alive because Rinckes and I changed the past. We went back to where it all began, the Station A-12 Debacle, and fought off the Altonoids.” A heaviness in his chest urges him to admit, “I failed to protect you… twice. Had to live without you for years. You’re safe now.”
She blinks at him, absorbing this synopsis of the extraordinary, then sniffs and says in a voice gone a tad hoarse, “You took no half measures, did you?”
“Not my style.” He gestures at the Achilles’ delighted staff. “They were of tremendous help. I couldn’t have done it alone.”
“Happy to assist,” Kingsley says, examining her with his medical tricorder. “It’s not often we get to reclaim a lost crewmember we didn’t even know existed.”
Incredulous and relieved at once, Emily starts laughing in spite of her aches and bruises.
Kingsley tosses his tricorder to a nurse. “Minor spinal injury detected. Let’s wrap up the waterworks and transfer you to sickbay.”
While the medics ready an anti-grav stretcher, she cradles Tony’s face in her hands. “Earth?”
“Peaceful.”
“Your… your father?”
“Waiting for us in San Francisco.”
She sags against Tony, shaking her head. “The war?”
“Is over. We won, Emily.”
Trembling, she kisses him again. She looks over to Rinckes and taps a loose fist against her heart. “Thank you, Captain.”
Eyes going moist, Rinckes signals his appreciation with a nod and says, “You’re quite welcome, Lieutenant.” He rises to his feet and gives the captain’s chair a final glance before stepping aside. “Captain Harriman, I entrust this vessel and her future entirely to you.” The captains of the Achilles shake hands.
Kingsley and Gibbs gingerly place Emily on the stretcher. Tony stays with her, unable to tear his gaze from the woman he thought forever lost, while the bridge crew gathers to form a corridor to the aft turbolift. Overflowing with gratitude, he holds his wife’s hand and passes these amazing individuals. There’s Arthur and Erin Crow, clasping on to each other, unsuccessfully restraining tears. There’s Terrell, sticking up his thumb in admiration, and Surtak, bowing his head in polite collegiality. There’s Kels, her blue antennae curved to communicate love and kindness. Standing near her, Baxter punches the air in triumph and says, “Good for you, sir.”
Last but not least is Captain Harriman, who has walked up to the turbolift entrance. “Welcome back aboard the Achilles, Lieutenant Emily Blue. I wish you two a fantastic life together.”
Speechless, Tony follows the joyful procession into the turbolift, which is a tight fit for the stretcher, the doctor and his nurses, the security chief, and himself. The closing turbolift doors allow him to catch one last glimpse of the Achilles’ bridge, and he concludes one thing is for absolute certain: He’ll miss these wonderful people more than they’ll ever know.
As the turbolift hums into action, he looks at Emily, who eradicates his oldest pain with her dazzling smile and says, “It’s time to go home.”
