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“Star Trek: Birthright"
Rating: PG-13 UES Palmyra Sector 014 1 April 2151 17:58 UTC
When he had confirmed the ship's spatial coordinates, the Captain took a moment and scrutinized its bridge crew. Their faces, or in the case of the helm officer the back of his head, brought to mind their individual strengths and weaknesses. They were not UESPA's best, nor did this mission require them to be. At just after 18:00 hours the ship would deploy the last of eight subspace amplifiers designed to extend Earth's effective communications range well into the region of space the Vulcans called the Beta Quadrant. Soon after, the Captain's words would be piped into every home, every classroom, every public address system on Earth seconds after he spoke them. No more seventeen minute delays as compressed data streams raced across the light years. For two minutes, he would communicate near instantly at a distance farther from home than any human ever had. Were he an optimist, he might have been tempted to believe those two minutes would secure his place in history, that his remarks would make the documentaries alongside the footage from Apollo 11, NASA's Enterprise rolling onto the tarmac at Cape Kennedy, and Cochrane's speech at the groundbreaking of the Warp Five Complex. But Captain Dominic Gardner was not an optimist. Barring unforeseen damage to Palmyra's warp three engines, its crew could expect to return to Earth in just under a year; and Gardner knew the planet would forget his words long before it welcomed him home. Yet his superiors at United Earth Space Probe Agency still expected a speech worthy of the history books, or at least one that would play well to the press. Try as he might, though, he could think of nothing fitting to say. The mission had been thoroughly and unremarkably routine. No major complications, no system malfunctions, no harrowing near misses to inspire the masses. Nothing for Gardner to rely on save his own thoughts. He almost sighed. History's most famous astronaut had captured the mood of his mission in a single quotable sentence. Gardner's own words were often terse, but seldom quotable. Neil Armstrong, he was not. That's one small step... Deploying this last amplifier was indeed a small step. The giant leap would come in six months' time, and would be taken by another ship, another crew. The launch of Archer's Enterprise would outshine every one of the NX program's previous achievements. Frankly, it should. Enterprise would top out at just over warp five if the gents at Warp Development weren't exaggerating. The distance Palmyra had taken a year to travel, Enterprise could cover in seventy days. Gardner was only laying the road; Archer would travel it. Gardner was, he reflected in a sudden burst of Sunday-school-fueled insight, John the Baptist to Archer's Jesus Christ. And like the Baptist, he would fade willingly into the limelight once his task was complete. He only hoped he'd get to keep his head. The voice of his science officer broke in on his brooding. "Captain, we have arrived." Gardner did not bother with eye contact, only bobbed his head in the direction of the science station. He spoke rapidly, not specifying to which station he was directing each order. The crew knew their jobs. "Full stop. Scan the system for hostiles. Prepare for deployment." Unspoken were his standing orders whenever coming out of warp: Polarize the hull plating and bring weapons on line. Just in case. "Sir," Commander Hernandez said, "I have a Denobulan light cruiser on long range sensors. Vulcan database lists the race as 'gregarious.'" "Could've just called them 'friendly,'" the science officer muttered. Gardner noted the outburst and filed it away for mention on the lieutenant's next performance evaluation. Engaged in idle talk while on duty. Returning his attention to Hernandez, he said, "Are they heading our way?" "No, sir," she said. "The Denobulans have not altered course since our arrival. They will exit sensor range in three...two...I've lost them, sir." "So much for 'friendly.'" The science officer muttered again. "Culture isn't your department, Lieutenant," Gardner said. "Keep the comments to yourself." He interrupted the lieutenant's hasty apology. "Anything else in range?" "Nothing, sir." "Weapons on standby, then. Depolarize hull plating." Gardner let his gaze linger on the Commander. Erika Hernandez was tactical officer on a ship that seldom needed one. She was also Palmyra's XO, and the lightened tactical duties allowed plenty of time to focus on learning the rigors of command. Though not a listed mission objective, Gardner knew grooming Hernandez for the captaincy was nearly as important to his superiors as setting up the subspace communications system. He could not foresee a future in which she would not soon exchange the red piping of ship's services for the gold of command. "Subspace amplifier is ready, sir," came the shaky voice of the lieutenant. "Deploy when ready." Automatically, the image on the forward view screen dissolved to be replaced by the camera feed from the depressurized cargo bay. A crane arm grasped the cylindrical amplifier, and when the magnetic catches mooring it to the floor released, the arm lifted it slowly, almost hesitantly through the open bay doors. Its cargo away, the arm retracted. The amplifier drifted, and just before the bay doors resealed, blocking it from view, fired its stabilizer jets for the first time. The next few minutes were spent on final preparation: gauging signal strength, testing security protocols, and for the Captain, composing a short, rousing, cliché-ridden speech. When all stations reported ready, Gardner took a breath and ordered a connection to be established. For a moment just long enough to wonder whether something had gone wrong, the screen remained black. Then Admiral Forrest's smiling face appeared on screen. "Greetings from home, Palmyra. I trust the connection is holding steady." Receiving confirmation, he continued, "Good, good. The people of Earth are eager to hear from you. Are you ready, Dominic?" Gardner's jaw twitched at the breach of decorum, and Forrest had the good grace to look abashed. The two had served together long enough for Forrest to become aware of Gardner's zealous adherence to protocol. First names were fine for private channels, but as far as Gardner was concerned, once he stepped on the bridge he had no first name. Still, it wouldn't do to correct a superior officer. He nodded, before remembering to reply verbally. "Yes, sir." The colleagues exchanged pleasantries, or what passed for pleasantries for the Captain a few moments longer while the Palmyra's feed was routed to Earth's news networks. "All right, Captain," he said at last, emphasizing the rank more heavily than necessary, and if Gardner knew the Admiral as well as he thought he did more heavily than intended, "You're on." "Greetings, people of Earth, and our distinguished non-Terran guests. Today is a momentous day for us all as we take one more small step on our tentative trek into the stars." So far, so good, Gardner realized. Sure, the phrase "momentous day" was overused in speeches like this, but he doubted anyone would call him on it. Today might turn out well after all. He almost allowed himself to be an optimist as he continued his speech. He got out all of five words before he lost his footing and struck his head against the arm of his command chair. Blood clouded his vision. He dimly registered Hernandez shouting a warning before explosive sparks lit up the bridge. Too bright. He closed his eyes. Fire-suppression systems activated, and the water felt cool on his cheek. Duty demanded he open his eyes. Protocol demanded, and briefly he obeyed. But they fluttered closed again. He mentally shrugged. At least he had tried. Now sleep. His last thought before succumbing to the blackness was that he'd not need to mention the science officer's bad behavior on his next evaluation. The lieutenant was already dead. Lieutenant...Lieutenant... Maybe it was his blood loss or the concussion he must surely have, but for the life of him he couldn't recall the lieutenant's name. And that made him unbearably sad.
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UESPA Command San Francisco, California 18:16 UTC / 11:16 AM Local
His hands were in motion before his mind could process what he had seen. On his screen, Rear Admiral Maxwell Forrest minimized Palmyra's dead subspace feed and called up the fleet deployment maps. Gardner's deep space mission had been projected as low risk: no away missions, no contact with non-Terran vessels, and a flight plan Ambassador Soval claimed intersected no inhabited systems. The politician in Forrest wondered if the destruction of Palmyra--for there could be no doubt that was what he had witnessed--would convince United Earth to approve the funding necessary to construct a larger fleet. Had UESPA possessed more than eight warp four capable vessels, this low-risk mission might have rated a better ship. Low risk, ha! Forrest could well imagine his father's ire at hearing any space mission referred to that way. To hear the old man tell it, the stars had lured both his siblings to their deaths. Forrest had learned early on to keep his developing interest in space exploration to himself. He'd finally come clean the summer after his sophomore year in college. Not coincidentally that was the year Earth Gov had approved free higher education for all citizens. The fleet maps told Forrest little that he did not already know. Of the two warp four vessels in the Beta Quadrant, the closest was five months from Palmyra. Hindsight made clear what should have been from the beginning. Those sectors Gardner had seeded with subspace amplifiers, UESPA had reserved for Enterprise to explore, and in so doing, made Palmyra's captain an easy target. With no backup, he'd fallen prey to an unknown danger. Under his breath, Forrest cursed himself. Then he activated his intercom. "Onafowokan." His aide entered the office without acknowledging the summons. The Nigerian lieutenant knew his boss's preference for face-to-face communication. "Sir?" he said. "You saw the transmission?" Forrest genuinely could not tell as Onafowokan's expression betrayed no reaction. Many a face crumbled under stress, lip quivering, brows raised, eyes looking to you as if you could make it all better; others were too intentionally solemn with deep frown lines and eyes unfocused as if contact would reveal the grief their owners thought they were hiding. Not his. It was a good expression, a command expression. Hmm. Erika's death must have hit Forrest harder than he realized if he was already looking to replace her as his protégé. "Aye, sir," Onafowokan said. "Forward it to Sciences. I want to know what happened on that ship to the last detail. And I want a secure line--no, an appointment with Soval within the hour." Onafowokan acknowledged his orders and departed. Alone, Forrest buried his face in his hands. For three minutes, he allowed grief and loathing to flood over him. Grief for friends and promising young officers and loathing for the public relations nightmare ahead. He indulged in a moment of self-loathing for that consideration, then plowed ahead. The head of the NX Program did have an obligation to concern himself with such things. Citizens across the globe--worse, children across the globe, had witnessed the possible slaughter of up to twenty-seven of Earth's finest on live television. It was then that he faced up to what his frantic hands and obvious orders had attempted to forestall his admitting, that most of the crew was indeed already dead, and that unless he could convince the Vulcans to send a rescue ship, the rest would soon follow. Lifepods had limited life support capability. Two weeks of air and perhaps that much food and water. If they weren't scooped up by a passing ship, they would float indefinitely in space while their passengers slowly suffocated to death. Assuming the worst case scenario, that the closest Vulcan ships were those in orbit around their homeworld, a warp six ship could make it to the pods just within the window of opportunity. This assumed of course that any of the crew made it to lifepods. Other thoughts tickling the back of his mind he would not consider until after he spoke with Soval. If it turned out Palmyra had in fact been attacked by another ship, would Earth Gov consider it an act of war? Had its unknown attacker believed Earth to have committed an act of war? Erika's final words still echoed in his ears: "Two off port. They came out of nowhere." Something a little less than a premonition and a little more than nerves prompted his next action. He removed his personal communicator from its pouch at his belt and verbally directed the device to contact its intended target. A chirp indicated a connection, and the target acknowledged he was online. No time for pleasantries. "Jon," Forrest said, "We need you back in San Francisco. Double quick."
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Warp Five Complex Bozeman, Montana 18:18 UTC / 12:16 PM Local
In the six years since his promotion to Captain, Jonathan Archer had contrived a dozen and a half ways to avoid deep space assignments. He took frequent family leaves--"my father's illness, you understand"--called in old favors or begged new ones, and whenever he caught wind of a plot to send him any great distance from Earth, used up just enough of his accumulated vacation leave to throw his reliability into doubt. This behavior left him with the reputation of a prima donna in some circles; in others, rumors persisted that he had lost the nerve for exploration. Were he any other man with any other last name, his closet reputation would have concerned him. But no one would challenge an Archer's character in public. And public perception was everything. Besides, Archer hadn't shirked the responsibilities of his rank. He had captained no less than four exploratory missions, one of which took him away from Earth for more than a year. He always returned from those missions, or from his tours as a diplomatic escort, more in love with the stars than ever before. The days immediately following his homecoming were the toughest. It was then that he gave serious thought to accepting one or another of those long-term assignments or applying for another not offered him. Only his great fear stopped him. As soon as he committed himself to Tacoma or Exultant or Dorchester--all fine ships--Enterprise's mission would be green-lit. With someone else in his chair. Call it nepotism, call it favoritism. Enterprise was his father's ship, and he belonged on it. As a boy, Archer dreamed of captaining the then unnamed NX-101. As a more realistic ensign, later a lieutenant, he ached to pilot it, to feel it buck and shudder beneath his fingers as he gently urged it past the second star to the right and straight on till morning. Then warp development stalled out at four point two, and he had to resign himself to spending his time as a lieutenant commander and commander on ships that traveled at only 64 times the speed of light. The mild depression he had been nursing flared in 2143 when his father contacted him with news of a significant breakthrough that put the 101 on the fast track to completion. Being nine months from Earth in a region with limited subspace amplification, his ship could stay in touch only through bimonthly data bursts. Enterprise, Archer concluded, might leave spacedock at any time without him knowing. Worst yet, it might have left already. Hell was the two month wait before the next data burst. The elation he felt upon receipt of Henry Archer's "we've hit a snag" message still filled him with shame today. His father's illness had already progressed to the point where Henry would be unable to accompany Enterprise on its maiden voyage. Unless he lightened his workload, he might not even live to see the launch. All his son could do back then was bemoan missing out on a plum assignment. No matter. Jonathan Archer was on Earth now, the assigned CO of Enterprise, and Henry...had been seized with a wracking cough. "Dad." Archer wrapped an arm around Henry's shoulders and steadied the man while he recovered his breath. A hyper spanner clattered to the floor, bending beyond usefulness. Henry should not have been out of bed, let alone working. "Don't," Henry wheezed. Archer frowned. "Don't what?" "Give me that look. I had a theory. I had to test it." "I'm sure Trip would have--" "Commander Tucker has more important things to worry over than minor systems adjustments." Henry thrust a finger into the air. "And don't you forget that. Your chief engineer belongs with his engine, not dashing about the ship spot-welding tiny problems." Archer tilted his head. "So, tiny problems are under the Head of Warp Development's purview." "Why not? I can't handle much of anything else these days." Neither said anything for a moment after that. They had had this conversation before. It never ended well. At last, Henry spoke, "He shouldn't be first officer either. Splits his focus too much." They had had this conversation too, but the territory was more comfortable. Each was too bullheaded to consider the other's position, and each knew it. "Trip deserves the job," Archer said. "He took a bullet for me." "This is how you repay him? By turning him from a perfectly good engineer into a pogue." Pogue: Personnel Other than Grunts. Archer grinned at the Marine invective meant as an insult against administrators. His father had mispronounced it and probably misused it too. But Henry smiled as he said it, and the smile did Archer's heart good. "I suppose that would make me a pogue as well." "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Officers shouldn't use such language. I thought I raised you better." The opening of a heavy door atop a staircase cut off Archer's reply, and the man whose fate he and his father had been discussing tromped down the stairs. "Been looking all over for you fellows," he said, his words tinged with a gentle Southern cadence. When he reached the pair, his eyes shifted to the panel Henry had opened earlier. His knees bent as if he meant to kneel and check over Henry's modifications. Only a dark look from the elder Archer stopped him. "The broadcast is about to start if y'all are interested," Trip said. He checked the clock on his communicator. "Actually, it's probably started already." Henry shook his head. "We'll catch one of the replays." He clapped a hand on Trip's shoulder, said "Come, take a look at this," and led him across the room to a bank of monitors. Archer tuned out his father's careful explanation of some modification or another he wished Trip to consider. Archer had not inherited Henry's easy familiarity with warp physics, and he had no problem admitting to himself the discussion was over his head. Few minds could function on Henry's level where warp was concerned. Trip's could, and a small part of Archer begrudged him this connection with Henry which he could not duplicate. An insistent chirping sounded forth, and Archer dug into his jacket pocket for his communicator. He flipped the cover open and answered the call. "Jon, we need you back in San Francisco. Double Quick." "Acknowledged, sir." He ended the call. "Trip, mind keeping the old man company? I've got to go."
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Vulcan Complex San Francisco 11:36 UTC / 11:36 AM Local
Xoss of Vulcan did not jog down the hall, never would he jog in a municipal building, but he did quicken his pace. Three full minutes had passed since his summons, and having been across the complex when he received it would not excuse his tardiness. Newly arrived on Earth, Xoss had begun training for the position of Second Secretary to the Vulcan Ambassador. The current officeholder, T'Kin would soon step into the First Secretary's position when it was vacated by T'Pol. She, after much personal campaigning it was rumored, had been reassigned as Vulcan's diplomatic liaison to the soon-to-be-launched human ship NX-101. Xoss was uncertain whether to believe these rumors, as he could not see the logic in actively seeking such an assignment. True, T'Pol would be unsupervised, and this was almost unprecedented for one of her youth. But it was still a less prestigious assignment than her current. In addition, the latest negotiations with UESPA had pared down her on-board staff from two to one to none. The prospect of being alone on a ship of humans made the posting, if possible, even less desirable. Might it be a punishment then? Unlikely. The portion of T'Pol's service record Xoss's security clearance allowed him to access revealed a competent diplomat with perhaps an ambassadorship in her future. He cleared his mind of these thoughts and slowed his steps outside Ambassador Soval's office. Xoss opened the door and strode to T'Kin's side. He had hoped to find her standing apart from the main crowd. Instead, along with T'Pol, she flanked the Ambassador to either side. Xoss's presence meant the Vulcans outnumbered the humans in the room--Admiral Forrest and Lieutenant Onafowokan--two to one. According to T'Kin, humans would often get the impression you were "ganging up on them" if you outnumbered them too greatly. Indeed, both Forrest and his aide briefly glanced Xoss's way when he stepped up. To Forrest's unasked question, Soval replied, "My new secretary. as you are taking away one of my current. May he fetch you refreshment? I am told it is human custom to consume refreshments when discussing business." "No, thank you, Ambassador," Forrest said. "Not while my people are dying in space." "The position of my government is clear--" "You told us the flight plan was safe." "I merely said it was reasonably safe. Space exploration comes with myriad dangers for which even the most advanced of races cannot plan. If the risks distress you so, perhaps you should reassess your involvement with it." "Lives are at stake," Forrest growled. "Could be at stake." Soval said. Neither the Vulcan homeworld nor any Vulcan ship has received a distress call. Until a call is received, it is against policy to initiate a rescue. Forrest's hands tightened into fists. "I'm just asking you to send a ship and investigate. A few weeks' inconvenience on the chance that some of my people are still alive. Surely there's some spatial anomaly or star cluster nearby that you could study if it turns out I'm wrong." "I was under the impression your people had staked some claim to that area of space," Soval said, an eyebrow raised. "Soval, please..." Forrest faltered, and then his eyes lit up at the contents of a padd his aide handed him. "Palmyra was attacked less than nine light years from Vulcan. If someone's attacking ships that close to you, you need to know." The ambassador shook his head. "We cannot be certain your vessel was attacked. Did not your tactical officer report the area clear? A natural phenomenon could easily have caused the damage." "You've seen the footage," Forrest insisted. "Erika said there were ships." "And earlier she said there were none. How competent is your officer?" Forrest ignored the jibe, and turned to T'Pol. "What about you? You're to be posted on Enterprise. Human emotions are powerful after the loss of life. All that grief and anger will be downright..." His eyes shifted back to Soval for a moment. "...distressing. Convince him and it'll be easier on you." Xoss raised his brow in shock at the admiral's audacity. Trying to subvert the ambassador through a subordinate. T'Pol would not rise to the bait, would she? As Xoss watched, a flicker of emotion passed over her face. It was too brief and too subtle for any but a Vulcan to recognize. He scanned the faces of the other Vulcans, and neither gave indication they had seen anything amiss. Had Earth postings dulled their senses or worse accustomed them enough to emotional displays that they tolerated them even among Surak's children? He decided then to increase his nightly meditation time by fifteen percent and schedule extra time to maintain his Kolinahr disciplines for the duration of his stay. "It is not my place," T'Pol said, "to question Ambassador Soval's decisions or those of my government." Her voice was flat and emotionless, but her words suggested much to the trained listener. Either she disagreed with the ambassador's decision or she wanted it to sound that way. Interesting. Suggesting that she was on the side of the humans while officially maintaining the ambassador's position was smart. It was not exactly lying, but it was closer to it than any non-diplomat would allow. Diplomacy was among the most deceptive Vulcan occupations, second only to intelligence. Xoss experienced a flash of disappointment he quickly suppressed that he would not have further opportunity to study under T'Pol. He raised his opinion of her from competent to skilled. Forrest muttered under his breath, and the Vulcans heard him plainly. Xoss recognized two of the words from a list of human expletives in his Earth orientation packet. Forrest gritted his teeth and raised his hands in the traditional Vulcan salute. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Ambassador. Live long and prosper." "Peace and long life," Soval said and returned the salute. Forrest turned toward the door and motioned for his aide to follow. Pausing before T'Pol, he said, "Get your affairs in order. Your services may be called upon sooner than planned." When the door had closed, Xoss prepared to apologize for his tardiness. Though not strictly necessary, it was protocol. He did not get the opportunity. Soval seated himself behind his desk and massaged his temples. "Speak your mind, T'Pol," he said. She nodded and absently smoothed the folds of her robe. "The humans' request is not unreasonable, sir," she said. "We would take such precautions if Palmyra were our vessel. "If it were our vessel. It is not." "We initiated first contact with the humans; it is our responsibility to guide their development." "'To uplift them to the stars,'" Soval said. She quirked an eyebrow. "I read your mother's paper," he said. "They are not children, T'Pol. They must be allowed to make their own mistakes and progress at their own rate." "And if that rate surpasses our own?" Was that hope in her voice? Soval took a breath. "So be it." T'Pol rested a hand on the desk. "We could petition the High Command." "I did as soon as I saw the footage. The petition was denied." "By whom?" she said. "By Dradox." T'Pol staggered back as if she had been physically struck. Her next words were barely above a whisper, "My father?"
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UESPA Command San Francisco 3 April 22:16 UTC / 3:16 PM Local
"But, Greg, Haley hasn't taken her first steps yet. You promised you'd be here for Haley's first steps." Greg Matthews lowered the volume on his vidcomm application. His wife was beautiful. He loved her. But damn, could she scream when she was ticked. "I know, Sweetie, but it's not like I have a choice." "You always say that." Being a Lieutenant Commander in UESPA meant extended assignments far from home, but this was his first such assignment as a married man. That it wasn't supposed to start for months was a fact that Katie would not let him forget. "And I always mean it. I can't help that Enterprise is shipping out early." "What about Justin's play?" "Tape it. Send it to me over subspace." "It isn't the same. The kids need their dad here, and I need my husband." "Katie, please." "Please what?" He took a breath. "I don't want to spend our last week together fighting. Listen, I'll take off early tonight. We'll have a romantic dinner, just you and me." Her face softened. "Guillermo's." "You got it, babe." "You won't cancel on me last minute, will you?" "Cross my heart." At her expectant look, he swallowed his dignity and made the motion. "All right," she said. "I love you, science boy." "That's science officer, babe, and I love you too." Ending the call, he brought up his departmental roster. He still had three positions to fill. Two would have been filled by officers currently serving on ships that would not now reach Earth in time for the rescheduled deployment. A third had opened up last week when a brilliant young woman resigned her commission without warning for a civilian job and its sizable pay increase. When Katie found out, she became incensed that Greg too hadn't taken a civilian job. One thing about his wife--she hadn't a manipulative bone in her body. She out and out told him what she wanted every time. He opened the file that listed replacement candidates and mentally narrowed it down to the best prospects. An hour of calls further narrowed the list until he had four meetings scheduled. As his last call ended, he groaned aloud. One of the four had but a single opening in his schedule. Tonight. Not wanting to see her reaction, he forewent use of the vidcomm and instead dialed his wife's personal communicator. If he were lucky, she'd have it switched off, and he wouldn't have to speak with her. Lady Luck was a bitch. "Katie, hon, bad news..."
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602 Club San Francisco 4 April 06:23 UTC / 11:23 PM, 3 April Local
Beer flowed, and inhibitions flowed away. Though a fine naval tradition and an enjoyable one, this pre-deployment party left Malcolm Reed a bit uneasy. Surrendering control to anything, be it wine, women, or whatever, sent a tremor of apprehension racing along his nerves that stayed with him long after he'd recovered his full faculties. This apprehension, mind you, was not enough to keep the rum from Reed's lips or his eyes off the backside of that delectable blonde waitress, but it did diminish his enjoyment of both. Seated at a small table at the edge of the dance floor, he watched the dancers carefully. Normally the 602 Club catered almost exclusively to UESPA personnel, but tonight the Marines were out in full force. A few he recognized as members of Hayes's famous Maco squad. Reed had been pleased and slightly intimidated when he learned the Macos were assigned to Enterprise. For a time, Reed had considered enlisting in the Marines himself, following in Mum's footsteps rather than Dad's. But Mum had quashed that notion. You're a big picture bloke, she said, a private who thinks like a general. Ship tactics is the path for you. That path had brought him far. He was chief tactical officer and fourth in command of the best ship in the fleet, and all that while still only a lieutenant. Yet a part of him would always wonder what-if. Reed kept an eye out for Hayes, planning to buy the man a drink if he were to show up. Judging by the behavior of his troops, though, it seemed unlikely he or any Marine officer was on site. His eyes fell on two troops in particular--Tudyk and Cole, a gunnery sergeant and a corporal, respectively. People who were just colleagues did not dance that closely. Shameful, utterly shameful. With that thought, he turned away and set his mind to enjoying the so-called "end of the world" party. It was based on an ancient tradition, this getting stone dead drunk and rabble-rousing before a long deployment since you might never return, traceable all the way back to the Vikings. He'd actually looked up the Scandinavian word before his first one, and he and his mates shouted it at the top of their lungs before every shot. He tried to remember the word, but either the rum or the years had taken it away. "Here's to tradition," he murmured and drained the last bit of alcohol from his glass. Damn. The thought of tradition brought to mind another obligation. He checked his wristwatch; he always wore one, finding it more convenient than his communicator's digital readout. Local time was 23:28 Saturday. The mental calculation to universal time came automatically: 06:28 Sunday. He had well over an hour to pilot his requisitioned shuttle pod to Manchester. He'd missed yesterday's memorial service at the Anglican Cathedral his parents attended but promised he'd attend Morning Prayer as an apology. His family home was in Malaysia, but in this age of speed, merry old England was always a hop and a skip away--never mind the jump. It was pretty close to San Francisco too. Time enough for one more drink. He tipped the bottle over his glass, and to his disappointment only a few drops came out. He'd let the evening get away from him. Might he be too buzzed to pilot? No sense risking it. His tactician's mind went to work as his eyes roved over the room. Ah, perfect! A few tables over sat the solution to his problem: a pilot so enthralled by the female attention he was getting that he was still nursing his first beer. Travis, my lad, you've just become my designated pilot. No need to embarrass him, though. He retrieved his communicator from his pocket and prepared to page the Ensign he'd mentally ensnared and ask if he'd ever been to England when three things happened: First, he realized how eerily similar that question sounded to a pickup line he once used. Second, he remembered that Europe was on Summer Time; it was actually 7:28 in Manchester. Third, a tall redhead he knew oh so well sauntered his way. A sly smile crossed her face as she set two glasses and a freshly uncorked bottle on the table. "My shift's over, Tiger, and the world's coming to an end. Got time to celebrate with me?" Reed checked his watch. Could he reach the shuttle depot, fly to England, and hoof it to the Cathedral in less than seventeen minutes? Possibly, depending on how much convincing Travis required. Might be quite the challenge. He looked back at the redhead, noticed the delicate swell of her breast and the hint of cleavage peeking out of her shirt. Ah, well. There was always Evensong. Grinning, Reed said, "For you, Ruby, I have all the time in the world."
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São Paulo, Brazil 5 April 21:12 UTC / 7:12 PM Local
Sato Hoshi, Adjutant Professor of Sociolinguistics and UESPA Lieutenant, could parse "I am happy" in forty-seven languages, twelve of them non-Terran, but she could not honestly say it today. "I hate to do this to you, Hoshi..." Hate? She was fairly certain she hated Jonathan Archer and began calculating how many languages she could parse that in. "...but I need you." She'd had the resignation letter saved on a padd for months. That same padd currently rested powered down on the table between her and Jonathan--no, Captain Archer. Her plan had been to hand it over to him before he could speak, but he hadn't even looked at it when he arrived at her office that afternoon. Instead, he proposed an early dinner at a local café. A proposal that wasn't a proposal. An order couched in a request. Given in his captain's voice. "I started my professorship a month ago." "Teaching is important to you. I understand--" "Important? This is the William Labov Institute, the best linguistics school on the planet. I wasn't even accepted here as a student." "You have the best ear for language I've ever come across..." Acquainted with a lot of linguists, are you? "...and I'll need someone like you in the field." "I don't belong in the field," Hoshi said. "I hate flying. I barely passed survival training. Hell, sir, I only enrolled in officer candidate school to improve my chances of getting this job." Archer laid a hand over hers, and she didn't immediately pull away. "Hoshi--" "Besides, and forgive me for being blunt, but aren't you headed on a recovery mission? How does a linguist figure into this?" "I don't plan on coming back." That shocked her. Did he mean--no, that was absurd. He must have sensed her confusion, for he quickly explained. "I mean I don't plan on coming back right away. There's no reason not to continue exploring once this mission is over. If necessary, we can convert a cargo bay into a temporary morgue." "Captain, if I leave, I'll never get another chance." He squeezed her hand. "See, Lieutenant, you're already calling me Captain. Be a shame to put that practice to waste." He paused, then added. "I need you, Hoshi. Earth needs you. Help us bring our people home. Help us honor their sacrifice." Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. The moment she found his message on her terminal, she knew she'd answer his call. Not because it came from him, but because it was expected of her. It was duty, and a Sato always answered duty no matter how inconvenient. She cursed herself.
Pliable Hoshi Sato, who fears air travel, Heads now into space.
Her eagerness to please is Always her own undoing.
She powered up the padd, and felt a hint of pleasure at the distress that crossed Archer's face. It was short-lived as she changed the addressee of her resignation letter from UESPA to the Institute, let loose an angry breath, and tapped Submit. "All right, Captain. You have a sociolinguistics officer."
TBC
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