Fallen Heroes - Book 2 of 2 - Chapter 11c (of 12)
USS Achilles, in orbit of Station A-12 – June 28, 2380 – Stardate 57491.8
Confined to a wheelchair for the time being, Commander Tony Q gazes through the windows of his guest quarters aboard the Achilles. Memories of this beautiful vessel in prime condition resurfaced as soon as he was released from sickbay, a fresh inpour of images and scents dating from his becoming first officer in an averted future. Although these quarters don’t hold a candle to the XO’s quarters in terms of size and luxury, the mere fact that the whole thing is intact is wondrous enough, topped solely by the astonishing vista of Station A-12 being guarded by ten battle-worn but steadfast Federation starships. Shuttles and work bees swarm the wrecks of the Kennedy and Wolf to continue an ongoing and fruitful search for survivors, dismantling entire segments if need be. It’s a far cry from the horror station the portal unveiled as he and Captain Rinckes fled this very same vessel’s destruction. With each cubic inch vaporized to keep her from falling into the brainwashed S’Prenn’s—
A chime at the door chases off his thoughts. “Enter,” he says, hoping it’s not a former shipmate. Reuniting with them would be marvelous, for sure, but… he has formed these strong bonds with them over the years, while they merely see him as a celebrity affiliated with the Q Continuum, and it’s… awkward.
The doors swish open for Captain Keith Harriman, who’s projecting a pleasant demeanor. Despite himself, Tony squares his shoulders, grateful the medical staff helped him put on a clean uniform and made him presentable.
Arms clasped behind his back, Harriman walks over to join the window-staring match. “Latest reports confirm there are zero Altonoids left on the station; they’re either in custody or killed in action.”
“We did it,” Tony says flatly, still unable to believe his eyes and ears.
“You’ll be pleased to hear Captain Duvivier is doing fine, although he’s rather cross with you for beaming him off his own ship and crashing it.” A subtle curling of Harriman’s lips betrays his mild amusement. “Van Aken seems less angry, claims the ends justify the means. Quite mellow for an admiral whose ship you’ve also totaled. You had your motives, I assume?”
“I did, sir.”
“I suspected as much. Your warning to Doctor Kingsley cemented our decision to spare no expense retaking Station A-12. We beamed over every combat-ready person and recaptured what is ours.”
Ahead, three shuttles use their tractor beams to separate a bulky section of hull plating from the Kennedy’s mutilated bow. Her stardrive section has been tractored back to the scene and parked next to the saucer for easier access. Having the wretched object immobile and no longer spinning allows it to further sink in the future has been saved.
“I guess the Continuum didn’t take kindly to your helping us,” Harriman says.
“Captain, I’m as human as you are.” But I’ve gotten used to it. “Injuries are part of the game. Please extend my regards to Kingsley. He did a fine job patching me up, says I’ll get to ‘swap this ride for crutches’ tomorrow.”
“Glad to hear it.”
A series of warp flashes distracts them, heralding the arrival of eight Starfleet vessels led by the USS Oregon, a formidable Galaxy-class starship.
“I’m also glad you’re on our side,” Harriman adds.
“So are the S’Prenn.”
The captain lifts an eyebrow, then resumes his friendly poker face. A lesser man would’ve skirted the confidential subject. Harriman is no lesser man. “What do you know?”
“Without that subspace well they created to destroy the seventy Altonoid warships attacking you, we wouldn’t be standing here; nothing would have remained of the backup fleet. They came to our rescue. If we retain a strong presence around Station A-12, they will continue to support us. I can personally vouch for that.”
“Are you sure you’re not still part Q, with the knowledge you have?”
“Seriously?” Tony chuckles. “The wheelchair isn’t enough evidence for you?”
The captain’s combadge chirps. “Jennings to Harriman.”
“Go ahead.”
“Reinforcements have arrived. Achilles, Tripoli, and Praxis are to return to Starbase 9 at our earliest convenience. Give the word and we’ll be prepped to depart in three minutes.”
“Commander, the word is given. Maximum warp.”
“Aye, sir. Jennings out.”
“Jennings?” Tony muses. A memory pops up of the esteemed officer he succeeded as first officer. “I hear he’s an excellent XO.”
Harriman smirks. “Ah, his reputation precedes him. I’ll be sure to tell him the famous Tony Q thinks highly of him.”
Together, they watch the fleet led by the Oregon disperse to assist those present and defend the area—a reassuring sight. Gone are the lonely days in enemy territory.
“I hope you don’t feel too guilty about her fate,” Harriman says.
Tony’s breath hitches. Is he talking about Emily?
Unaware of his conversation partner’s reaction, Harriman continues, “She was a fine ship. I’ve always admired the Sovereign class. Van Aken said she gave her all during this battle, called it miraculous she held out as long as she did.”
Eyelids hot with restrained tears, Tony glances at the split-apart wreck and agrees wholeheartedly.
“I received confirmation before I got here,” Harriman says. “Every member of the Kennedy’s senior staff has survived. I wanted you to know that.”
A huge sigh escapes Tony’s lungs. “A relief, sir.” He bites his lower lip to avoid making a scene in front of the captain, a vain effort to keep the emotions washing over him in check. “All of them?”
“Yes, including Lieutenant Malin. She’s recovering in the station’s medbay.”
Tony tries to say something meaningful, dignified even, but he’s having a hard time as it is blinking away tears. With countless worlds saved and a bleak future evaded, why should realizing his old friends from the Kennedy are safe affect him the most? Harriman studies the view in silent camaraderie to convey his sympathy and patience.
Breaking into a quiet sob, Tony thinks of Ensign Parkin, slumped over the tactical console, one of numerous deaths he could not prevent. So many lives ended prematurely today; who got to live or die relied solely on happenstance. It is, simply put, unfair. He clears his throat. “Ensign Emily C. Murphy. She was in my security squad. We got ambushed in a storage bay on deck 56. Do you know if she made it?” The probability of this is discouragingly low, yet how could he not ask? “Is there a way to find out?”
Harriman shoots him a side-glance. “It’ll be a day or two until we have a comprehensive roster of survivors.”
“Could I please be informed as soon as possible?”
Being the gentleman he is, Harriman refrains from prying. “I’ll see to it.”
A rising hum indicates the Achilles is powering up her warp engines, and she turns about, causing the station and its defenders to roll out of view. Tony strains to catch a final glimpse of this incredible reality he brough forth.
The captain smoothens his jacket and starts for the exit. “Next stop, Starbase 9.” Before walking through the doors, he halts to offer an amiable smile. “I have a feeling the admirals are itching to debrief us. Get some rest; you’ve earned it.”
The doors close behind the Achilles’ captain, a good man who perished when the Altonoids shot Earth Spacedock from the skies. For all the people Tony couldn’t save, Harriman is one of many who did make it, who will get to live their lives in full, who will get to continue being their awesome and wonderful selves. Tony inhales deeply, letting the pain in his torso remind him this is not a dream, and permits himself to be entranced by the multicolored stripes of stardust shooting by the windows as he is taken away from Station A-12.
Far away.
* * *
USS Achilles, en route to Starbase 9 – June 29, 2380 – Stardate 57492.2
“The time is 0645 hours,” the computer’s dulcet voice announces, rousing Commander Tony Q from his sleep. The ceiling’s drab colors prove he is aboard the Achilles, and for a moment, he mentally prepares himself for another lengthy shift as chief tactical officer, the umptieth day spent behind enemy lines with the Federation driven from their home planets.
But these aren’t his usual quarters, and his limbs and torso ache as if he’s been blindsided by a train and hastily reassembled. Ridiculous as it may seem, he is perfectly safe—for the first time in ages.
Though it requires half a minute in his suboptimal form, he manages to prop himself up on his elbows and against his pillow, relishing in his unblemished surroundings. Relieved his legs are more responsive to his commands than they were yesterday, he gets into his wheelchair and heads over to the bathroom to freshen up.
Under Kingsley’s care, he’s certain the doctor’s promises of recovery are warranted, and he’d be happy to bid this wheelchair goodbye. When Tony first visited this sickbay on the heels of the Station A-12 Debacle, Kingsley had hardly taken notice of him. This time, however, the doctor has made him a pet project. Apparently, his heroics in this timeline have made an impression.
While combing his hair, brushing his teeth, and shaving his youthful face, he devotes an inordinate amount of time studying the uniform he has wriggled his way into. Alternating between staring at his red sleeve cuffs and the three rank pips on his collar, he recalls dying in a storage bay aboard Station A-12 as victim and spectator before Q intervened and merged his memories and personalities.
A cold shudder travels through his spine. His corpse is still there, either found or close to being found by rescue teams. That’s going to raise some questions. Macabre as this whole situation is, he giggles to himself envisioning a possible worst-case scenario: Maybe they’d worry the real Tony is dead and he’s an alien impostor. Stranger things have happened in the history of Starfleet. To avoid confusion, he’d better mention the issue upon reporting to sickbay.
Squeaky clean and neatly groomed, he rolls toward the exit, thinking to himself he has also averted a future where he decided a stubbly circle beard is the look to go for.
Having barely made it ten meters into the pristine corridors, he hears a woman shouting, “Commander Tony Q! Wait up!”
He coasts to a stop and swivels toward Lieutenant Commander Erin Crow marching up to him. The petite woman is sporting a delighted smile instead of a severe scowl. He has witnessed his share of craziness, from half-melted S’Prenn to planets on fire, but this incongruous picture makes him consider performing a J-turn and testing his wheelchair’s top speed.
“Commander,” she says, catching her breath. “I really wanted to say hi.”
Trying and failing to hide his befuddlement, he shakes her hand. “Um, hello.”
“I’m Erin Crow, the ship’s chief tactical officer. My husband, Arthur, is a bit of a fan. He regrets not being able to meet you in person. Conflicting duty shifts.” She sounds so kind, her body language is so open. Sure, rumor had it she was a nicer person before her husband went missing, but he didn’t expect this! “…always interested in stories about your confrontations with the Federation’s enemies. Altonoids, Borg—you fear no one. He’s sorry you were injured and wishes you a speedy recovery. So do I, of course.”
Yup, it’s still awkward, until he remembers she let her gentler nature shine through once in a blue moon, most notably when she embraced him during the S’Prenn’s invading the Achilles. He takes her hands like a religious figure pronouncing a benediction and trades his unease for the joy of seeing her alive and—of all things—happy. “I appreciate it, Erin. I really do.”
They gaze at each other for a good ten seconds, prompting Crow to tilt her head. “You know me, don’t you? How—?”
“I should get going. I have an appointment in sickbay.” He turns around but can’t bring himself to leave just yet. Although the new timeline is a significant improvement, of one amendment he cannot be sure, because this event happened shortly after the war began. He checks for eavesdroppers and motions her nearer. “Listen carefully. Don’t tell this to anyone but Arthur. This or next year, he will be asked to go to a training colony by shuttle. He will go missing, never to be found again.”
Crow gasps.
“When this request comes in, he should refuse, convince his fellow travelers—six of them—to stay put too, and thoroughly check the shuttle they were to use for malfunctions. Regardless of what they’ll find, they are not to go to that colony.”
Trembling ever so slightly, she nods.
“If he gets in trouble over this, refer those in charge to me and I’ll take care of it. Do you understand?”
Her light-brown eyes have gone moist, and she straightens up choppily. “I do.”
“Good luck, Erin. I wish you two the best.”
“Thank you, sir.”
With that infringement of temporal regulations out of the way, Tony hurries toward the nearest turbolift, leaving a grateful ex-colleague behind. Once he’s inside the turbolift, alone with his thoughts, a warmth he has rarely experienced rises in his chest, and he’s glad nobody’s around to see his lower lip wobbling up a storm. “Main sickbay. On the double.” As opposed to the clunky turbolift ride this vessel guaranteed in 2387, this ride is as smooth as can be.
Once the lift has stopped—a perturbing clunk notably absent—he recomposes himself and enters a set of corridors, where he focuses on how the light fixtures are properly installed instead of dangling from the ceiling. The bulkheads practically sparkle at him; every panel is in place, no exposed circuitry, no char stains. He is free to travel without having to circumvent barricaded sections. Crewmembers going about their business are unarmed and wear tidy uniforms. Most greet him—some in recognition, others out of politeness.
Navigating the corridors, he realizes the section he’s in was part of the expanded sickbay in the negated timeline. Rubber curtains bordered it, its floors were strewn with thick cables and medical equipment and lined with dead or twitching S’Prenn in transparent cages. The combination of traveling under cloak and S’Prenn skin photosensitivity necessitated an eerie darkness. Now, these hallways are well lit. In fact, the Achilles hasn’t been outfitted with a cloaking device yet and probably never will. He’s perfectly content with—
An Andorian science ensign walks past.
“Kels!” Tony exclaims, stopping on a dime.
“Sir?” Kels retreads her steps. When she spots his rank, the antennae protruding form her white hairdo perk up in nervousness. “Commander! What can do I for you, sir, um, Commander?”
She’s so young! Twenty-one years old, Tony calculates, fresh from the Academy. “Kels…” Her appearance dredges up the distressing memory of shooting her in the neck to prevent the S’Prenn controlling her from switching over to Rinckes. She died instantly. From one of his perspectives, this happened a mere three days ago. Now, she’s standing there, hugging herself in a telling gesture of insecurity and youth, oblivious to how Tony’s final stand aboard the Kennedy has set her on a path to a long and happy life.
“You are Commander Tony Q, right? I heard about you.”
“It’s great to see you,” he says in a shaky voice. “Let me look at you.”
“Um, sir?”
Maybe he’s treading a fine line between dealing with unexpected reunion after reunion and amassing a compendium of harassment complaints. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Oh, Kels. If only you knew.”
She gives him a shy little smile. “Knew what, sir?”
“I just…” He wants to be honest about their history as colleagues and its tragic conclusion, but he can’t go rolling around haphazardly breaching temporal regulations. Warning Crow was already over the line.
“Just what?”
He doesn’t want to lie to her either, make up some nonsense like knowing her by reputation as an up-and-coming science officer. Pretending this is simply a disastrous attempt at flirting wouldn’t work either; it’d be like betraying the Baxter he knew in 2387. “It’s nothing, Ensign. As you were.” I’m deeply sorry for shooting you. “Sorry to bother you.”
“Oh.” Her antennae droop slightly. “Well, I heard you saved us… again. I had no idea a Q could be injured. It must’ve been terrible out there.” She extends a blue-skinned hand. “Commander, it’s an honor meeting you. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”
He accepts the handshake with both hands. “You’re quite welcome, Kels.” He can’t leave it at that. “At the risk of sounding like a sleazy fortune teller, I genuinely believe you have a bright future ahead of you.”
She laughs. “I’ll try to live up to those expectations.”
“You will. Trust me, you will. Take care, Ensign.”
Waving goodbye, she walks off.
A gentle glow on his face, Tony spurs his wheelchair onward. His upper body has never felt this lightweight before, as if the gravity deck plating is malfunctioning. With his quivering grin and tears welling up, he must be quite a sight speeding past his fellow officers. He couldn’t care less. Humming an uneven tune, he rolls through sickbay’s entrance, just as Doctor Chris Kingsley emerges from his office.
Mirroring Tony’s upbeat attitude, the doctor says, “Ah, if it isn’t Commander Cordiality. Let’s get you on your feet, shall we?”
USS Achilles, in orbit of Station A-12 – June 28, 2380 – Stardate 57491.8
Confined to a wheelchair for the time being, Commander Tony Q gazes through the windows of his guest quarters aboard the Achilles. Memories of this beautiful vessel in prime condition resurfaced as soon as he was released from sickbay, a fresh inpour of images and scents dating from his becoming first officer in an averted future. Although these quarters don’t hold a candle to the XO’s quarters in terms of size and luxury, the mere fact that the whole thing is intact is wondrous enough, topped solely by the astonishing vista of Station A-12 being guarded by ten battle-worn but steadfast Federation starships. Shuttles and work bees swarm the wrecks of the Kennedy and Wolf to continue an ongoing and fruitful search for survivors, dismantling entire segments if need be. It’s a far cry from the horror station the portal unveiled as he and Captain Rinckes fled this very same vessel’s destruction. With each cubic inch vaporized to keep her from falling into the brainwashed S’Prenn’s—
A chime at the door chases off his thoughts. “Enter,” he says, hoping it’s not a former shipmate. Reuniting with them would be marvelous, for sure, but… he has formed these strong bonds with them over the years, while they merely see him as a celebrity affiliated with the Q Continuum, and it’s… awkward.
The doors swish open for Captain Keith Harriman, who’s projecting a pleasant demeanor. Despite himself, Tony squares his shoulders, grateful the medical staff helped him put on a clean uniform and made him presentable.
Arms clasped behind his back, Harriman walks over to join the window-staring match. “Latest reports confirm there are zero Altonoids left on the station; they’re either in custody or killed in action.”
“We did it,” Tony says flatly, still unable to believe his eyes and ears.
“You’ll be pleased to hear Captain Duvivier is doing fine, although he’s rather cross with you for beaming him off his own ship and crashing it.” A subtle curling of Harriman’s lips betrays his mild amusement. “Van Aken seems less angry, claims the ends justify the means. Quite mellow for an admiral whose ship you’ve also totaled. You had your motives, I assume?”
“I did, sir.”
“I suspected as much. Your warning to Doctor Kingsley cemented our decision to spare no expense retaking Station A-12. We beamed over every combat-ready person and recaptured what is ours.”
Ahead, three shuttles use their tractor beams to separate a bulky section of hull plating from the Kennedy’s mutilated bow. Her stardrive section has been tractored back to the scene and parked next to the saucer for easier access. Having the wretched object immobile and no longer spinning allows it to further sink in the future has been saved.
“I guess the Continuum didn’t take kindly to your helping us,” Harriman says.
“Captain, I’m as human as you are.” But I’ve gotten used to it. “Injuries are part of the game. Please extend my regards to Kingsley. He did a fine job patching me up, says I’ll get to ‘swap this ride for crutches’ tomorrow.”
“Glad to hear it.”
A series of warp flashes distracts them, heralding the arrival of eight Starfleet vessels led by the USS Oregon, a formidable Galaxy-class starship.
“I’m also glad you’re on our side,” Harriman adds.
“So are the S’Prenn.”
The captain lifts an eyebrow, then resumes his friendly poker face. A lesser man would’ve skirted the confidential subject. Harriman is no lesser man. “What do you know?”
“Without that subspace well they created to destroy the seventy Altonoid warships attacking you, we wouldn’t be standing here; nothing would have remained of the backup fleet. They came to our rescue. If we retain a strong presence around Station A-12, they will continue to support us. I can personally vouch for that.”
“Are you sure you’re not still part Q, with the knowledge you have?”
“Seriously?” Tony chuckles. “The wheelchair isn’t enough evidence for you?”
The captain’s combadge chirps. “Jennings to Harriman.”
“Go ahead.”
“Reinforcements have arrived. Achilles, Tripoli, and Praxis are to return to Starbase 9 at our earliest convenience. Give the word and we’ll be prepped to depart in three minutes.”
“Commander, the word is given. Maximum warp.”
“Aye, sir. Jennings out.”
“Jennings?” Tony muses. A memory pops up of the esteemed officer he succeeded as first officer. “I hear he’s an excellent XO.”
Harriman smirks. “Ah, his reputation precedes him. I’ll be sure to tell him the famous Tony Q thinks highly of him.”
Together, they watch the fleet led by the Oregon disperse to assist those present and defend the area—a reassuring sight. Gone are the lonely days in enemy territory.
“I hope you don’t feel too guilty about her fate,” Harriman says.
Tony’s breath hitches. Is he talking about Emily?
Unaware of his conversation partner’s reaction, Harriman continues, “She was a fine ship. I’ve always admired the Sovereign class. Van Aken said she gave her all during this battle, called it miraculous she held out as long as she did.”
Eyelids hot with restrained tears, Tony glances at the split-apart wreck and agrees wholeheartedly.
“I received confirmation before I got here,” Harriman says. “Every member of the Kennedy’s senior staff has survived. I wanted you to know that.”
A huge sigh escapes Tony’s lungs. “A relief, sir.” He bites his lower lip to avoid making a scene in front of the captain, a vain effort to keep the emotions washing over him in check. “All of them?”
“Yes, including Lieutenant Malin. She’s recovering in the station’s medbay.”
Tony tries to say something meaningful, dignified even, but he’s having a hard time as it is blinking away tears. With countless worlds saved and a bleak future evaded, why should realizing his old friends from the Kennedy are safe affect him the most? Harriman studies the view in silent camaraderie to convey his sympathy and patience.
Breaking into a quiet sob, Tony thinks of Ensign Parkin, slumped over the tactical console, one of numerous deaths he could not prevent. So many lives ended prematurely today; who got to live or die relied solely on happenstance. It is, simply put, unfair. He clears his throat. “Ensign Emily C. Murphy. She was in my security squad. We got ambushed in a storage bay on deck 56. Do you know if she made it?” The probability of this is discouragingly low, yet how could he not ask? “Is there a way to find out?”
Harriman shoots him a side-glance. “It’ll be a day or two until we have a comprehensive roster of survivors.”
“Could I please be informed as soon as possible?”
Being the gentleman he is, Harriman refrains from prying. “I’ll see to it.”
A rising hum indicates the Achilles is powering up her warp engines, and she turns about, causing the station and its defenders to roll out of view. Tony strains to catch a final glimpse of this incredible reality he brough forth.
The captain smoothens his jacket and starts for the exit. “Next stop, Starbase 9.” Before walking through the doors, he halts to offer an amiable smile. “I have a feeling the admirals are itching to debrief us. Get some rest; you’ve earned it.”
The doors close behind the Achilles’ captain, a good man who perished when the Altonoids shot Earth Spacedock from the skies. For all the people Tony couldn’t save, Harriman is one of many who did make it, who will get to live their lives in full, who will get to continue being their awesome and wonderful selves. Tony inhales deeply, letting the pain in his torso remind him this is not a dream, and permits himself to be entranced by the multicolored stripes of stardust shooting by the windows as he is taken away from Station A-12.
Far away.
* * *
USS Achilles, en route to Starbase 9 – June 29, 2380 – Stardate 57492.2
“The time is 0645 hours,” the computer’s dulcet voice announces, rousing Commander Tony Q from his sleep. The ceiling’s drab colors prove he is aboard the Achilles, and for a moment, he mentally prepares himself for another lengthy shift as chief tactical officer, the umptieth day spent behind enemy lines with the Federation driven from their home planets.
But these aren’t his usual quarters, and his limbs and torso ache as if he’s been blindsided by a train and hastily reassembled. Ridiculous as it may seem, he is perfectly safe—for the first time in ages.
Though it requires half a minute in his suboptimal form, he manages to prop himself up on his elbows and against his pillow, relishing in his unblemished surroundings. Relieved his legs are more responsive to his commands than they were yesterday, he gets into his wheelchair and heads over to the bathroom to freshen up.
Under Kingsley’s care, he’s certain the doctor’s promises of recovery are warranted, and he’d be happy to bid this wheelchair goodbye. When Tony first visited this sickbay on the heels of the Station A-12 Debacle, Kingsley had hardly taken notice of him. This time, however, the doctor has made him a pet project. Apparently, his heroics in this timeline have made an impression.
While combing his hair, brushing his teeth, and shaving his youthful face, he devotes an inordinate amount of time studying the uniform he has wriggled his way into. Alternating between staring at his red sleeve cuffs and the three rank pips on his collar, he recalls dying in a storage bay aboard Station A-12 as victim and spectator before Q intervened and merged his memories and personalities.
A cold shudder travels through his spine. His corpse is still there, either found or close to being found by rescue teams. That’s going to raise some questions. Macabre as this whole situation is, he giggles to himself envisioning a possible worst-case scenario: Maybe they’d worry the real Tony is dead and he’s an alien impostor. Stranger things have happened in the history of Starfleet. To avoid confusion, he’d better mention the issue upon reporting to sickbay.
Squeaky clean and neatly groomed, he rolls toward the exit, thinking to himself he has also averted a future where he decided a stubbly circle beard is the look to go for.
Having barely made it ten meters into the pristine corridors, he hears a woman shouting, “Commander Tony Q! Wait up!”
He coasts to a stop and swivels toward Lieutenant Commander Erin Crow marching up to him. The petite woman is sporting a delighted smile instead of a severe scowl. He has witnessed his share of craziness, from half-melted S’Prenn to planets on fire, but this incongruous picture makes him consider performing a J-turn and testing his wheelchair’s top speed.
“Commander,” she says, catching her breath. “I really wanted to say hi.”
Trying and failing to hide his befuddlement, he shakes her hand. “Um, hello.”
“I’m Erin Crow, the ship’s chief tactical officer. My husband, Arthur, is a bit of a fan. He regrets not being able to meet you in person. Conflicting duty shifts.” She sounds so kind, her body language is so open. Sure, rumor had it she was a nicer person before her husband went missing, but he didn’t expect this! “…always interested in stories about your confrontations with the Federation’s enemies. Altonoids, Borg—you fear no one. He’s sorry you were injured and wishes you a speedy recovery. So do I, of course.”
Yup, it’s still awkward, until he remembers she let her gentler nature shine through once in a blue moon, most notably when she embraced him during the S’Prenn’s invading the Achilles. He takes her hands like a religious figure pronouncing a benediction and trades his unease for the joy of seeing her alive and—of all things—happy. “I appreciate it, Erin. I really do.”
They gaze at each other for a good ten seconds, prompting Crow to tilt her head. “You know me, don’t you? How—?”
“I should get going. I have an appointment in sickbay.” He turns around but can’t bring himself to leave just yet. Although the new timeline is a significant improvement, of one amendment he cannot be sure, because this event happened shortly after the war began. He checks for eavesdroppers and motions her nearer. “Listen carefully. Don’t tell this to anyone but Arthur. This or next year, he will be asked to go to a training colony by shuttle. He will go missing, never to be found again.”
Crow gasps.
“When this request comes in, he should refuse, convince his fellow travelers—six of them—to stay put too, and thoroughly check the shuttle they were to use for malfunctions. Regardless of what they’ll find, they are not to go to that colony.”
Trembling ever so slightly, she nods.
“If he gets in trouble over this, refer those in charge to me and I’ll take care of it. Do you understand?”
Her light-brown eyes have gone moist, and she straightens up choppily. “I do.”
“Good luck, Erin. I wish you two the best.”
“Thank you, sir.”
With that infringement of temporal regulations out of the way, Tony hurries toward the nearest turbolift, leaving a grateful ex-colleague behind. Once he’s inside the turbolift, alone with his thoughts, a warmth he has rarely experienced rises in his chest, and he’s glad nobody’s around to see his lower lip wobbling up a storm. “Main sickbay. On the double.” As opposed to the clunky turbolift ride this vessel guaranteed in 2387, this ride is as smooth as can be.
Once the lift has stopped—a perturbing clunk notably absent—he recomposes himself and enters a set of corridors, where he focuses on how the light fixtures are properly installed instead of dangling from the ceiling. The bulkheads practically sparkle at him; every panel is in place, no exposed circuitry, no char stains. He is free to travel without having to circumvent barricaded sections. Crewmembers going about their business are unarmed and wear tidy uniforms. Most greet him—some in recognition, others out of politeness.
Navigating the corridors, he realizes the section he’s in was part of the expanded sickbay in the negated timeline. Rubber curtains bordered it, its floors were strewn with thick cables and medical equipment and lined with dead or twitching S’Prenn in transparent cages. The combination of traveling under cloak and S’Prenn skin photosensitivity necessitated an eerie darkness. Now, these hallways are well lit. In fact, the Achilles hasn’t been outfitted with a cloaking device yet and probably never will. He’s perfectly content with—
An Andorian science ensign walks past.
“Kels!” Tony exclaims, stopping on a dime.
“Sir?” Kels retreads her steps. When she spots his rank, the antennae protruding form her white hairdo perk up in nervousness. “Commander! What can do I for you, sir, um, Commander?”
She’s so young! Twenty-one years old, Tony calculates, fresh from the Academy. “Kels…” Her appearance dredges up the distressing memory of shooting her in the neck to prevent the S’Prenn controlling her from switching over to Rinckes. She died instantly. From one of his perspectives, this happened a mere three days ago. Now, she’s standing there, hugging herself in a telling gesture of insecurity and youth, oblivious to how Tony’s final stand aboard the Kennedy has set her on a path to a long and happy life.
“You are Commander Tony Q, right? I heard about you.”
“It’s great to see you,” he says in a shaky voice. “Let me look at you.”
“Um, sir?”
Maybe he’s treading a fine line between dealing with unexpected reunion after reunion and amassing a compendium of harassment complaints. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Oh, Kels. If only you knew.”
She gives him a shy little smile. “Knew what, sir?”
“I just…” He wants to be honest about their history as colleagues and its tragic conclusion, but he can’t go rolling around haphazardly breaching temporal regulations. Warning Crow was already over the line.
“Just what?”
He doesn’t want to lie to her either, make up some nonsense like knowing her by reputation as an up-and-coming science officer. Pretending this is simply a disastrous attempt at flirting wouldn’t work either; it’d be like betraying the Baxter he knew in 2387. “It’s nothing, Ensign. As you were.” I’m deeply sorry for shooting you. “Sorry to bother you.”
“Oh.” Her antennae droop slightly. “Well, I heard you saved us… again. I had no idea a Q could be injured. It must’ve been terrible out there.” She extends a blue-skinned hand. “Commander, it’s an honor meeting you. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”
He accepts the handshake with both hands. “You’re quite welcome, Kels.” He can’t leave it at that. “At the risk of sounding like a sleazy fortune teller, I genuinely believe you have a bright future ahead of you.”
She laughs. “I’ll try to live up to those expectations.”
“You will. Trust me, you will. Take care, Ensign.”
Waving goodbye, she walks off.
A gentle glow on his face, Tony spurs his wheelchair onward. His upper body has never felt this lightweight before, as if the gravity deck plating is malfunctioning. With his quivering grin and tears welling up, he must be quite a sight speeding past his fellow officers. He couldn’t care less. Humming an uneven tune, he rolls through sickbay’s entrance, just as Doctor Chris Kingsley emerges from his office.
Mirroring Tony’s upbeat attitude, the doctor says, “Ah, if it isn’t Commander Cordiality. Let’s get you on your feet, shall we?”
