Fic: You Birthed It, Chapter 7
Title: You Birthed It
Chapter Title: John and Scotty: What's Past is Epilogue
Author: katiemariie
Artist: azuremonkey
Mixer: jactrades
Mixer: pearlstar178
Beta: Renn
Fandom: Star Trek: TOS/Farscape
Word Count: 7199
Rating: R
Warnings: Strong language, violence, substance abuse, gore
“The best diplomat I know is a fully activated phaser bank!"
-Montgomery Scott, "A Taste of Armageddon"
-
“Canaveral, this is Farscape 1. I am free and flying. Are you with me there, Momma Bear?”
“Oh yeah, Farscape, I'm reading you loud and clear.”
“Authorizing flight computer to initiate ignition sequencing-now.”
“Roger, Farscape, you are go for insertion procedure... Farscape 1, hold a moment-”
“Hold? Canaveral, what?”
“Meteorology is picking up-”
“Jesus! Canaveral, do you see that? It looks like-Canaveral? Momma Bear? D-”
-
John Crichton is fairly certain he's died and gone to the 1960s.
“Capt'n, I've retrieved the vessel's pilot. He doesn't appear to be injured,” the man standing behind a desk-a console, maybe?-says.
“Thank you, Scotty,” a voice says over intercom. “I'll be there in a minute.”
The man behind the desk-Scotty, John supposes-walks towards the platform where John stands. “Are you alright, laddie? Your ship blasted right into ours. Awful luck, you got.”
“I'm fine.” John stumbles down the platform. “Are you... Are you an alien?”
“An alien? No. What kind of an alien speaks with a Scottish accent?”
“I don't know. What kind of an alien speaks with an American accent?”
“Mr. Spock, for one, but, you know, I think his mother might be a Canadian.”
“Spock? The pedia-” A wall to John's right swishes open, giving him a jump.
A man maybe a few years older than John enters, flanked by an older guy in a blue shirt. “I'll take it from here, Scotty.”
“Aye, sir.” Scotty nods at John. “Nice meetin' ye.”
“Yeah, nice meeting...” He trails off, watching Scotty leave through the wall. “Am I...?” John scratches the back of his head. “Am I dead?”
The two men share an amused smile. “No, you're very much alive,” the man in the blue shirt says. “And that's my professional opinion as a doctor.”
“Dr. McCoy,” the man in yellow says, “run a tricorder over our newest passenger just to make sure.” He winks at John.
Dr. McCoy pulls out a small electronic device the size of John's cell phone and runs it over John's body like a wand at airport security. “Fit as a fiddle. Heart rates a bit elevated, but that's to be expected. I'd say all things considered, you're in perfect health, Mr....?”
“Crichton. Commander Crichton. IASA. Do either of you mind tellin' me what the hell just happened?”
“Commander,” the yellow-shirted man says, “to put it plainly, your little ship hit our big ship. Before your ship was destroyed, one of our crew members managed to... what's the word?... teleport you to safety.”
“Teleport me? What, did he wave his magic wand? You got Merlin on board?”
“No, it's a scientific process using a device we call the transporter. Are you familiar Einstein's theory of relativity?”
“No, I'm just a summer intern they let fly the module.”
The man pauses for a minute like he isn't certain whether or not John is being sarcastic. “The transporter relies on that principle, converting matter into energy and then reconstituting it into matter in a different location.”
“That's impossible. Why would someone even invent that? Can't your spaceship land? What kinda aliens are you?”
“We're not aliens, Commander Crichton. We're just as Human as you are.”
“Then what's with the...” He waves his arms about. “...this. Where I come from, Humans don't have transporters or spaceships.”
“We're not from where you come from. We're from the future.”
“The mid-23rd century, to be more precise,” the doctor adds.
“Oh, well, if you're from 'the mid-23rd century,' then where's your aliens?” John asks.
“Our aliens?” The yellow shirt shakes his head. “What is with you and the aliens? Why do you keep coming back to that?”
“Because I need to know if I'm dead or not and aliens don't go to heaven.”
“Son.” The doctor places a hand on John's shoulder. “You might not want to say that too loudly round these parts.”
The other guy takes a device from his belt and flips it open like a mobile phone. “Kirk to bridge. I want all available non-Human personnel sent to the transporter room immediately.”
-
“This is Lieutenant Sun and Lieutenant Braca, two of our Sebacean crew members,” Kirk says.
“Come on! You're not even trying. Did your special effects budgets get slashed or-” The door swishes open.
“Lieutenant Scorpius reporting, sir.”
“-something... You're...” John staggers over to Scorpius, his arm reaching out to touch. “You're an alien. You're really an alien.” Close enough now, John pokes at the small amount of exposed skin on Scorpius' face. It's fiery hot, but the alien shudders at the touch. “God, you're...” John peers at the leather hood covering the alien's head. “What do you have under there?”
Scorpius leans in close. “Stay awhile and you might find out.” He strides away.
John looks to the doctor, whispering. “Did I just get hit on by an alien?”
The doctor nods. “You betcha.”
“Huh. I don't know if I should feel flattered or...”
“I'd go with flattered. It's easier that way.”
“Now,” Kirk says, “as you can see, commander, our ship is home to a variety of sentient life.”
“Hate to break it to ya, kid,” the doctor says, slapping John on the shoulder, “but you're alive.”
John shakes his head. “This is unreal. I can't... What are you even doing here? You're not gonna go all War of the Worlds on us?”
The captain smiles. “No, nothing of the sort. We're here on a historical research mission.”
“We were planning on doing a little sight-seeing,” McCoy says, “but I guess that's-” He's interrupted by an electronic chirping noise coming from his belt-one of those communication devices Kirk used earlier. “Sorry.” He picks up the device. “McCoy here.”
“Code blue,” a voice from the device says. “You're needed in sickbay immediately.”
“On my way. McCoy out.” McCoy holsters his communicator. “Emergency in sickbay.” He nods once at John before rushing out of the room.
Before he's out the door, Kirk's communicator sounds. “Kirk here.”
“Spock,” says the device. “Commander Scott is in sickbay with a critical spinal cord injury. He may not survive the hour. I thought you would want to know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Spock. I'll... Kirk out.” Kirk's jaw clenches as he walks out, seemingly operating on auto-pilot.
The three little aliens share one look before following him out, leaving John alone.
“Hey! I'm... Is anyone gonna...” he calls out to the closing door. And now he's stranded on a spaceship with not a friendly face in sight and no way to get home. Perfect. “I gotta...” He approaches the wall and pokes at it with a trembling finger. At his touch, the walls opens, sending John back with a jump, which is rather humiliating considering this is the kind of technology John interacts with every time he walks into a grocery store. “Get a grip, caveman.” With a deep breath, he steps through the door, out into a grey corridor. Looking left and right, John spots that Scorpius guy and the other two aliens, and quickly sprints after them.
-
Scotty can't feel his legs. No, no, Scotty can't feel his anything. He blinks his eyes open, not surprised to see himself in sickbay. “What...” he croaks. “What happened?”
Dr. McCoy is at his side. “You had a fall.”
“A fall? Musta been quite a fall. I cannae feel half my body.”
“You've injured your spine.”
“I guessed that much. Is this... You can fix this, right?”
“Scotty, what's the last thing you remember?”
“Going into cargo bay four. I needed to check on the...” No.
“You fell into a shipment container of pillerium.”
“Did it...?”
McCoy nods. “The radiation infected your spinal fluid on impact.”
“How... How long do I have?”
“We have drugs that can slow the spread of the radiation, but even using those... A day at the most.”
Scotty closes his eyes. “I think I'd like to be alone now.”
“Sure. I'll be back to check on you in a few minutes.”
Scotty manages to wait until he's heard the doctor leave to let the first tear slide down. This is what he wanted, isn't it? Then why is he so sad? Because he knows what awaits him on the other side? He's not a religious man by any means, but he can believe in Hell, if only for himself.
Beyond the curtains surrounding his medbed, a herd of elephants rampages into sickbay. That's what it sounds like at least-a herd of wild elephants stampeding and trumpeting at one another.
“-never would have happened in the Peacekeepers,” Lieutenant Sun mutters.
“-a soldier lives and dies at the word of their commanding officer,” Braca says.
“This is Starfleet,” the captain says.
“-you knew!”
“You knew and you didn't do anything!” the Starchild hisses.
“We all knew and none of us did anything,” Sun says.
“What was I supposed to do, Aeryn?”
“You could have done something.”
“You could have spoken to Admiral Pike,” Spock adds.
“And told him what?” Scorpius asks. “I'm not a doctor, I can't make those kind of recommendations.”
“Hold on a second,” McCoy says. “I tried. I've spent the better part of the past two years trying to get him treatment, but it's a little hard when no one will acknowledge what the hell is going on.”
“I gave him sacramental wine,” Stark states flatly.
“Are we even certain his drinking is what caused this?” Kirk asks.
“Jim, he was loaded,” McCoy responds. “I had to filter out a bottle of Scotch from his circulatory system before I could even think about fixing that spinal fracture.”
Scotty stares up at the ceiling, wishing he could cover his ears with his pillow. Pity his arms weren't working. “Won't be long now,” he mutters.
Under the cover of a now incoherent jumble of voices, a figure ducks into Scotty's room. He braces himself for more bad news, but it's just the lad he brought on board earlier-the astronaut.
“Uh, hi.” The astronaut waves. “Scotty, right?”
“Aye.”
“John. Crichton. John Crichton.” He reaches out to shake Scotty's hand before quickly sticking his hands under his armpits. “You're the one they're fighting about?”
“Aye, but I wish they wouldn't. It's bad enough I'm dyin', I'd hate to have them tearin' each other apart on my account.”
Crichton shrugs. “That's what families do. Someone gets hurt; they spend the next two years blaming each other for it. They fight because they care. About you. About each other.”
“Ye think so?”
“Yeah.” He takes a seat next to Scotty's bed. “My mom.... she died four years ago. Cancer.”
“Cancer? No one's died of cancer in two hundred years.”
Crichton points to himself. “Caveman, remember? Twentieth century boy here.”
“Sorry.”
“It's okay. It's good to know that nobody will have to go through what she went through... What we went through... It's been four years and my sister Susan still won't talk to any of us. Not me, not my dad, not my sister Olivia. I haven't seen my nephew Bobby since he was five.”
“Why not?”
“We... We said a lot of awful things to each other when my mom was sick. We blamed each other for what was happening.” Crichton smiles ruefully. “My mom-she was always the peacemaker. With her gone, we never managed to patch things up. Not with Susan. She's stubborn, like my dad.”
Scotty snorts. “I'm no peacemaker, but plenty of them folks arguing out there are stubborn.”
“Believe me, I can tell. They were fighting all the way up here. I don't think any of them remember I'm on board.”
“What happened with your sister...”
“Yeah.”
“I don't want that to happen here. When I'm gone.”
“I don't think that's up to you.”
“Then who?”
“I don't kn-”
Just then, a single voice breaks the noise outside, silencing the argument. “Bicker, bicker, bicker! 'My fault, your fault. My fault, your fault!' Do not soil the sanctity of death with your petty, worldly disagreements! Go from this place, be peaceful of heart, and meddle not with the dying while I am on board. Go. Go!”
Crichton cracks a smiles. “Apparently, it's up to that guy.”
“Stark? He couldn't tell his arse from a hole in the ground. Or a hole in his face as the matter stands.”
Crichton peeks out the curtain. “He is literally chasing them out of the room. Wow.” He settles back in his chair. “Who is that guy?”
“Honestly, I haven't the slightest.”
Stark pokes his head inside the curtained-off room. “I'm sorry about the noise.”
“'s alright.”
He glares, one eye bulging, at Crichton. “Who's he?”
“Oh,” Crichton says, “I'm just your standard well-wisher from the twentieth century.”
“Oh. I like your jumpsuit. It's very orange.”
“Thanks. I, uh, like your face. It's very... shiny.”
“Thank you.” Stark pats his mask before looking back down at Scotty. “Call me if you need anything. I will be just outside.”
“Thank you kindly,” Scotty says and Stark disappears.
Crichton leans forward, resting his hands on his knees. “You want me to get lost, too?”
“No, I-I'd prefer you to stay, if you don't mind.”
“I don't mind. You're kinda the only person I know here.” Crichton shakes his head. “You know, I probably talked to you more about my mom in five minutes that I have to my best friend in four years.”
“Sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger than to a friend.”
“Yeah? You got any deathbed confessions you wanna make?” Crichton asks playfully.
“Oh, just the usual. My name's Scotty. I'm an alcoholic. It's been about... two hours since my last drink.”
“They haven't managed to cure alcoholism by the year two-thousand-and-whatever?”
“They've got injections, pill you can take. But there's some things that can only be drowned out by a nice bottle of Scotch.”
“Like what? If you don't mind me asking.”
Scotty stares at the ceiling. “There was a war. Between the Federation and the Scarrans-and we...”
“You lost?”
“No, no. We won. The Federation called it an 'absolute victory'... but I think the Vulcans had a better word for it.”
“What was that?”
“Genocide.” Scotty swallows. “The Scarran wouldnae surrender, no matter what our terms. And we knew if they had the technology, they would come for us, so we...”
“You wiped 'em out? Nuked 'em?”
“Aye. All of 'em. Except for Mr. Scorpius. He doesn't have the-what d'ya call it?-the heat producing gland. The gland-it amplifies the charge of the anti-matter from phasers, our sidearms. Even on the lowest setting, one shot from a phaser would make a Scarran disappear. Just like that.”
“So, you made a bomb?”
“Yes. I made a bomb.” He looks at John, the tears pooling in his eyes blurring his vision. “It was just a theory. I dinna know Starfleet would actually... But they did. They built it without me knowin', they had Mr. Spock detonate it, and the first I hear of it is five minutes before the President's pinnin' a medal to my chest for... for ending the war.”
“That's why you drink.”
“That's why I drink sometimes. Other times, I dinnae know why.”
Crichton looks down at his hands. “I have friends who work for NASA-the United States' space program.”
“I know that. I may be an old drunk, but I know what NASA is.”
“Yeah, well, my friends at NASA, whatever they theorize or design becomes property of the US government. Not like with IASA where the information is shared with the UN. Anyway, some of the stuff they came up with, stupid stuff, stuff like how to dispose of lavatory waste more efficiently has been used to build bombs, sniper drones used by the military. It's killed people. But that's the risk we take as scientists whether we work with the military or not. There's always gonna be someone out there who wants to take what's in our heads and use it to kill people. And we have to live with that.”
“You don't... You don't think I'm a monster?”
“No. I don't.”
“Well, that makes one of us.”
-
Scotty dozes off about five minutes after his big confession-whether the sudden sleepiness is from his injuries or the Scotch he downed before shift, John has no idea. It's a little weird sitting at the bedside of a dying stranger as he mumbles in his sleep about “scary dinosaur men,” but no weirder than being abducted by aliens and a bunch of humans from the future. John can't even deal with that right now. He wants to go home, forget about the future, but the immediate present of a dying man needing company outweighs all that. His species may have lost their humanity three hundred years in the future, but John still holds tight to his.
John's a little surprised to see the first person to visit Scotty is an alien-the girl alien with the pretty hair. She could be a cylon for all he knows.
“Is he...?” she asks.
“No, he's just sleeping.”
“Tell him... Tell him Aeryn stopped by.” She turns to leave.
“Aeryn? That's a human name.”
“No,” she sighs, turning around. “That's a Sebacean name that sounds similar to a Human name.”
“You've been telling people that your whole life, haven't you?”
“At least once a week since I left the Peacekeepers.”
“Peacekeepers?”
“The Sebacean military. I was being trained as a Peacekeeper before the Scarran war.”
“So, it's only been a few years for you since the war ended?”
“Actually, it's been seventeen years.”
“Wow.” He peers at her face. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Then how were being trained to-”
“Peacekeepers are born and bred for duty.”
“You were a child soldier?”
“That's what people say, but most Peacekeepers don't see combat until they reach the age of majority. And since the treaty was signed with the Federation, the Peacekeepers don't start training until adulthood.”
“Well, that's one good thing that came out of the war.”
“That depends on who you ask.” Her gaze drags down his uniform. “Are you military?”
“No. No, I'm a scientist. With IASA. That's the International Aeronautics Space Administration.”
“Rank?”
“Commander.”
“How long have you been employed there?”
“Going on about five years now.”
“So you were still employed at IASA during the Eugenics Wars?”
“Yeah.”
“How could you justify your science experiments when your planet was being torn apart by war?”
“I...” John hesitates, sighing. “We believed that by working together, by trying to be better-not through selective breeding or genocide-but by cooperating as people across vast differences to reach beyond our world that we would end the war. That we would end all wars. But...” He looks up at Aeryn. “That's not what happened.”
“No. Your planet won't have world peace for another century.”
“And after that we move our wars into outer space. Great.”
“Sometimes war is necessary.”
“If this-” He gestures to Scotty. “-is what war does to a man, then I don't think it's ever necessary.”
Aeryn smirks, shaking her head. “You really know nothing of the universe, do you?”
“Not of this universe, no.” John stands. “And I don't think I want to.”
“Don't let the door hit you on the way out,” she says as he struggles to find an opening in the curtains. “Do you need help?”
“I'm fine.” But he ends up ducking under the bottom of the curtains, running right into two of the aliens, who seem to be doing some weird alien handshake with their index and middle fingers. “Hey, Stark?”
“Yes,” Metal Face says, yanking his hand away from Pointy Ears.
“Who do I talk to about getting home?”
Stark looks up at the other alien, who introduces himself, “First officer Spock. I can address your concerns while the captain is on the bridge.”
“Great. I-”
“You will have to walk with me; I am due in the lab.”
“Sure, I can West Wing it.”
Spock raises an eyebrow and takes off down the corridor at a pace John struggles to keep up with. “What did you wish to discuss?”
“I wanna know when I'm going home.”
“I believe, at this juncture, the more appropriate question is if you are going home.”
“What?” Spock steps through one of their grocery-store-automatic-doors into a grey lab. When John follows him in, he sees Scorpius and the doctor working closely at one of the stations. “What do you mean 'if'?”
“I mean-” Spock runs his hands under some kind of sanitizer beam. “-the officer assigned to the task is still considering whether you should be allowed to return to Earth in the the year 1999.”
“And which officer would that be?”
“The first officer.”
“What do you have to consider? I don't belong here!”
“Undoubtedly.” Spock joins the others at their lab table. “But the knowledge you have accrued since boarding this vessel has no place on Earth in 1999.”
“So take it outta me! Can't you-I don't know-suck it out? Put a chip in my head?”
Scorpius looks up, seeming to consider the idea momentarily before shaking his head and returning to his work.
“Presently,” Spock says, “we do not possess the technology to 'suck out' memories.”
“So, invent it! I mean, what else are you working on?”
Dr. McCoy looks up at John, glaring incredulously. “Saving Scotty's life!”
“Oh.”
“Indeed,” Spock says. “Given the knowledge you now possess, and your inconsequential stature in Terran history, my provisional determination is to keep you aboard this vessel and return with you to the 23rd century.”
“Why?”
“Simply put, you know too much, and what you know could irrevocably alter our history and your future.”
“My future? No, your future.”
“Semantics aside, the future must be protected.”
“What? No! The future is balls!”
“The future is... balls?”
“Yeah, from where I'm standing. You got genocide, people drinking themselves to death, interstellar war... Why would you want to protect that?”
“Because it is all we have.”
“But it doesn't have to be that way. You send me back to Earth and I can change things. Don't you...” John comes around the table, sidling up next to Scorpius. “Don't you want a better future, Scorpius? Scorpy? Can I call you Scorpy?”
“No.”
“Don't you of all people deserve a future where Scotty doesn't end up slaughtering your people? Don't you-oof!” John finds himself hoisted three feet in the air by his lapels.
“The Scarrans are not my people,” Scorpius growls-and truly growls like a dinosaur, albeit one with the Doctor's accent. “Braca is my people. My friends, the people on this ship are my people. Scotty is my people. So, you'd better shut up and let us work or you will find out what happens when one of my people dies.”
-
Scotty is expecting visitors, just not these visitors.
“Hello, Commander Scott.”
“Braca.”
“I've brought you my cat.” He holds out a fleshy creature that looks more like an albino lizard than a cat.
Scotty eyes it nervously. “What for?”
“I'm told intellectually inferior animals can be of great comfort to Humans during times of convalescence.”
“I'm alright, laddie. You dinna have to go through all this trouble.”
“It's no trouble.”
“I dinna really like-”
“Commander,” Braca says, his voice wavering, “I don't understand what is happening to me right now, but I think it has something to do with what is happening to you, and I think if you take the cat I will feel less the way I do.”
Scotty sighs. “Alright.”
“Thank you.” Braca sets the beast down on Scotty's collarbone. It looks up once at Braca for reassurance before curling into a ball up against Scotty's cheek. Actually feels kinda nice.
“He's warm.”
“Trait of the breed.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Harvey. After Cushing, the neurosurgeon.”
Scotty strains his eyes to look at the cat. “Harvey, you are lovely little pussy cat, aren't you?”
“He can't understand you.”
“He may not know what I'm sayin' but I bet he knows when someone's calling him a pretty kitty. Don't you, lad?”
“Yes, when that person is speaking in Sebacean. He doesn't have much talent for understanding vocal fluctuations in Standard.” Well, that's one thing he has in common with his owner. “I suppose we should have spoken to him in Standard more frequently during his formative months.”
“When he was a kitten?”
“Is that not what I said?”
-
John stares at the working group across the lab, willing them to find a cure-as much for his sake as Scotty's. He gets why he isn't exactly their number one priority right now-if DK or one of the other guys at IASA was dying right in front of him, John wouldn't be too worried about paperwork. (And that's what he amounts to here-another curiosity to be catalogued.) Even still, the novelty of being on a spaceship wore off right about the time he heard about the alien genocide enacted by his people, his species, and a program that grew right out of IASA. Right out of John's work and the work of his father. The Scarran genocide is a Crichton family legacy and one John would like to forget-even if it means giving up the wonders he's seen-the aliens, the transporter, this lab. He doesn't know what half the instruments in here do, but they look impressive. The technobabble, too, even if it's yelled and broken up every five words by what John guesses are alien curse words and racial slurs.
“Now, listen here, you hot-blooded bastard-”
“If you would abandon your Human superstition for one frelling minute, you-”
“Gentleman,” Spock admonishes.
“Can it, Spock,” McCoy snaps, “unless you plan on telling Mr. Wiz Kid here how absolutely illogical it'd be to inject nanites into the spine of a man with cerebrospinal fluid radiation poisoning.”
“Nanites?” John says somewhat proudly. “That's little robots.”
“Very good, Commander,” Spock says. “Do you want a cookie?”
John is getting a little hungry, but he suspects that was some form of pointy-eared people sarcasm. “I'm good.”
Spock nods and returns to his workmates. “With the modifications Mr. Scorpius has made to his nanite prototype, the 'little robots' should neutralize the pillerium radiation.”
“See?” Scorpius grins smugly at McCoy.
“However,” Spock continues, “anti-radiation nanites remain untested on living subjects and are therefore an inadvisable treatment.”
“See?” McCoy mugs at Scorpius.
Scorpius smiles conciliatorily before straightening up and tapping twice on his temple. A light flashes and out comes-oh my god-a purple glowstick like six inches or so long-that has to go all the way through his brain-held in there by a little hollow metal canister with little bits of like brain hanging off of it and-
“Jesus Christ on a cracker...” John gasps-louder than he means to.
“Got a problem, Crichton?” McCoy asks.
“No! No... problem.”
“Good.”
Scorpius sneers at John before bending over, bringing the do-hickey coming out of his head to McCoy's eye level. “This past month, I have been experimenting with anti-radiation nanites in my neural cavity to diffuse the trace amounts of radiation from my cooling rods. So far, the nanites have been successful.”
Spock and McCoy lean in, examining the inside of Scorpius' head, completely undaunted by the strands of grey matter dripping out.
“The nanites are fully integrated,” McCoy says. “That's...”
“Fascinating,” Spock offers.
“I was gonna say genius, but that works. Probably inflate his ego less.”
“I am still here, Dr. McCoy,” Scorpius says.
“How have you been monitoring the radiation levels?” Spock asks.
“I am having difficulty getting the nanites' internal sensors to transmit to padds, so I have been taking readings of the surrounding tissue for radiation damage.”
“That's not conclusive evidence,” McCoy says, shaking his head. “Those readings would give you false negatives with the corvinica injections you take.”
“Yes, well...” Scorpius taps the brain tube, sending it spinning back into his head. He's careful not to look at McCoy.
“Don't tell me-”
“It was necessary to discontinue the injections to determine the nanites' effectiveness.”
“You-” McCoy jabs Scorpius in the chest. “You are impossible!”
“I must caution you, Mr. Scorpius,” Spock says, “if you continue to experiment on yourself, I will be forced to report your transgressions to Admiral Pike.”
“And if you don't start takin' your medicine like we agreed,” McCoy says, getting in Scorpius' face, “I'll tell Braca.” Scorpius snickers. “Or maybe I'll tell Aeryn.”
Scorpius glares at him. “You wouldn't dare.”
“Try me, kid.”
Scorpius huffs, breaking McCoy's gaze. “The nanites work.”
“In your head, which if you haven't noticed, is more welcome to foreign objects-” He taps on Scorpius' temple. “-than the average spinal cord. We shoot these things into Scotty, his immune system will go berserk!”
“So we suppress his immune system.”
“We don't have the time!”
“Perhaps,” Spock says, “if we cannot work around Mr. Scott's immune system, then we can work with it.”
“What do ya mean?”
“We could implant the nanites into a microbe that attacks the spine. While Scotty's immune system attacks the microbes as it normally would, the nanites destroy the radiation.”
“That's the problem! In human spinal fluid, pillerium radiation is self-replicable. We'd need... we'd need a microbe that stays in the spine forever.”
“Huh,” Crichton say, thinking aloud. “Like chickenpox.”
“What did you say?”
“What you're talking about's like chickenpox. You catch it once as a kid and it stays in your body 'til you die. That's how my dad got shingles.”
“Varicella zoster virus would work,” Spock says, “as it remains dormant in the dorsal root ganglia, which are close enough to treat the affected spinal fluid.”
“One problem,” McCoy says. “We don't have VZV stored on board. Earth destroyed all it's lab samples a few decades after the disease was eradicated. Where the hell are we supposed to find any?”
Crichton raises his hand.
-
The captain's been sitting there at his bedside for five minutes quiet as a church mouse, which is odd because Kirk's usually the type to talk you to death-quite literally in the case of a few robots.
“Scotty.”
“Capt'n.”
“Scotty, I...” Kirk sighs and runs a hand through his hair-a habit he's picked up under the stress of command. If he keeps at it, he'll run out of hair soon. “I wanted to say... I've lost a lot good men on this mission-too many men-but none of them-none of them-will weigh on my conscience like losing you would.”
“Capt'n...”
“Scotty, hear me out.” He smiles. “That's an order.”
“Aye, sir.”
Kirk stares down at Scotty's blanket. “When I write letters of consolation after a crewman dies, I'm sure to tell the parents, the families that I did everything I could to preserve the life of their loved one. Not because I want to save face or spare Starfleet a wrongful death suit, but because I want them to know that their child, their sibling, their friend meant more to me as a member of my crew than they can ever imagine.” Kirk closes his eyes. “If you die from this, I can't put that in the letter to your family. Because I didn't do everything I could to save you, to help you.”
“Jim...”
“There was so much more I could have done, Scotty, but I didn't. I failed you. I was too afraid to confront what happened to me with any real insight that I couldn't even begin to consider what you went through. You know, you're a... you're a mirror, Scotty.”
“I've been called worse.”
“I'm serious. When I'd look at you, at your drinking, I'd see me, my cavorting around, never getting too close to anyone... So, I never looked too close.
“This isn't your fault, Scotty.” Kirk lays a hand on Scotty's forehead. “This isn't your fault at all. This my fault for being too cowardly to confront my demons. This-this was my Kobayashi Maru and I failed. I ran from the room.” Kirk swallows. “If you live, I promise you, I won't fail you again. We are going to be so much better than what we went through, what we had to do-the people who ordered us to do it. We're the future of Starfleet. We may not be young like those Sebacean punks, but we have an opportunity to do amazing things out here. And, by god, I want you to be there.”
Even Scotty isn't immune to the captain's impassioned monologues, finding more than a few tears trickling down his cheek. “Capt'n... I wish I could.”
“I know, Scotty, I know.”
He presses a kiss to Scotty's forehead, which turns those few tears into outright sobs, which, given the stasis medicine pressing down on Scotty's lungs, turn into a desperate search for air.
“Nurse,” Kirk calls.
Scotty's eyes are pinched close in distress, but all of a sudden he can see-he can feel-a light. And then something like a memory, coming in bits and pieces.
Sitting under the table, resting his head on Aeryn's leg, listening to them laugh, knowing he caused it and that they are not laughing at him, seeing Braca's hand rest on Scorpius' knee and slowly stroke upwards, and closing his eye in modesty.
Scotty's lungs fill deep with air and the chaplain is hovering over him, strapping on his mask. “A gift, Mr. Scott. Friendship.”
Kirk stares up at Stark in awe. “I see your value now.”
Stark blinks. “That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.”
Scotty thinks he might die in peace until he hears the Starchild growling, “Get out of the frelling way.” He's soon barreling through the curtain, flanked by Spock and Dr. McCoy.
“Scotty,” McCoy says, “we're gonna save your life.”
“How?”
“We're gonna get you sick.”
-
“Wow, look at you,” John says, smiling in earnest.
“I feel awful.” Scotty sits hunched over at the edge of his bed, scratching his belly furiously.
“Watch it, you'll scar.”
“How in the heavens did children stand this? This is the kinda torture that would make a Klingon spill state secrets!”
“I don't know what a cling-on is, but I'm pretty sure you've got a way worse case of the chickenpox than anyone I know. Of course, none of their doctors sped up the virus with a bunch of science fiction mumbo jumbo.”
“I suppose none of them were put in quarantine neither.”
“No. Actually, before the vaccine came out, if one kid got chickenpox, their parents would try get 'em to give it to all their brothers and sisters. Kids were bound to get chickenpox at some point, people figured might as well get 'em all done at once.”
Scotty shakes his head. “You come from a barbaric time, Commander Crichton.”
“Yeah, but it's my time.”
“You still hoping to go back?”
He nods. “I'm hoping now that my one-in-a-million virus saved his chief engineer, Captain Kirk'll cut me a little slack. Let me go back home.”
Scotty smiles. “I'm sure the Capt'n'll-”
The ship lurches, sending John-who doesn't quite have his sealegs yet-crashing into the transparent wall of the quarantine chamber. “What was that? Did we get hit?” But Scotty doesn't look scared or alarmed. He looks sad. “Scotty?”
“Laddie, I dinna think you'll be going home.”
“What?”
“If I know my ship-and I know my ship-we've just gone back to our time.”
“Back to the future?” John would geek out at using those words in context-if his life wasn't falling apart.
“Aye.”
“No. I... No! My family, my job, my life is on Earth! In 1999! I... I have no place here!”
With some effort, Scotty rises to his feet, shuffles over to John, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me, laddie, you will. If I have anything to say about it, you will.”
-
Some time later...
“I don't think you understand how important this is, John,” Scorpius hisses in Crichton's ear.
“Then enlighten me, Scorpy.”
“This-this is my destiny. This is what my life has been leading up to.” He sighs. “She is a sentient cybernetic being and she is a woman. She is a women and she is a sentient cybernetic being.”
“I get it, she's a fembot. You want to boink her until her batteries run out.”
“She is not a robot. She's a bioloid. And a highly accomplished scientist. A prodigy in her field. And I want nothing more than for her to sit on my face.”
“How's Braca feel about this? Wait, let me guess, he wants nothing more than for her to on your face.”
“He was the one to introduce her to me.”
“Where's Braca know a Kalish bioloid from?”
“Er... He doesn't know her in the strictest sense of the word.”
“Oh my god, have you even met her? Either of you? Wait, have you even talked to her-on subspace, email, whatever?”
Scorpius scowls down at his food tray.
“She doesn't know you exist, does she?”
“Of course she knows I exist! I'm the Starchild. I'm more famous than Jesus Christ!”
“Well, Jesus didn't have a sex tape.”
“That's why we haven't spoken to her. Do you know how difficult it is to find women when you have the fastest selling sex tape in the known galaxy? We have to wait for the right moment.”
“There's never gonna be a right moment. You just have to go for it.”
Scorpius nods towards Aeryn's table. “So why don't you?”
John sighs. “It's complicated. I'm from the past; she's from the future. I'm Human; she's Sebacean.”
“You like her; she barely acknowledges your existence.”
“Yeah, there's that.”
Scorpius drops the subject as they come closer to the table.
“-my mother calls me last night at probably 0300 hours her time to tell me that my father has found me the love of my life, who apparently is a former conscript who now works as a farmer.”
“You? With a farmer?” Kirk asks.
“Oh, it gets better. She tells me if I don't like that one, he has a younger brother named Toffee or Tauvy or something. Can you believe that?”
John and Scorpius take their place at the table between Aeryn and Braca.
“You can tell your mother,” Kirk says, “that I'm not giving up my navigator so she can live on some farm.”
“Honestly, a farm? I wouldn't last an arn. I could barely stand growing up next to that awful vineyard.” She smiles apologetically across the table. “Sorry, Scotty.”
“You can mention alcohol around me, just dinna try to give me any... And besides I was never much of a wine-drinker.” He winks.
“How long's it been?” John asks.
“Sixty-eight days.”
John raises his glass. “Here's to sixty-eight more.”
“To sixty-eight more,” the table echoes.
“We're proud of you, Scotty,” McCoy says.
“Well, you know,” Scotty mumbles, his cheeks flushed. “One day at a time and all that...”
Kirk claps him on the shoulder. “It takes fortitude to go the long haul like that. Lasting change often comes gradually, I think sometimes we forget that.” He stares at Aeryn for the end of that sentence.
“Was that directed at me?” she asks.
“Maybe. You are the only officer in the history of Starfleet to demand an immediate revision to uniform policy. And I might add, the only officer to stage a nude sit-in to get her way.”
“Wait,” John says. “What was that?”
“Aeryn didn't like the women's uniform, so she had half the crew get naked in protest,” Braca explains.
“Don't blame me for that,” Aeryn says.
“I wasn't blaming. I was merely stating the role your leadership capabilities played in revising the uniform code.”
“You are just a hopeless brownnoser, aren't you?” McCoy asks.
Braca shrugs. “I've learned to accept it.”
“So.” Crichton smiles down at Aeryn. “You were naked?”
“She was naked and I was about to have a heart attack,” Kirk says.
“That's a common reaction,” Aeryn says.
“You have no idea. I thought Mr. Spock was going to have a Vulcan conniption fit right on the bridge. You know...” Kirk lowers his voice. “I think you were the first women he'd ever seen naked.” Kirk chuckles. “Stark was certainly the first Banik any of us had seen nude. That was a learning experience.”
“Where is Stark?” Scotty asks. “Shouldn't he be gettin' underfoot right about now?”
“Stark is accompanying Mr. Spock on a vision quest on Wrigley's Pleasure Planet.”
“A vision quest? On Wrigley's?” McCoy asks.
“Apparently, it's a rare opportunity, only comes up every seven years. They'll be out for over a week doing it.”
“That's why I'm out of engineering,” John says to Scotty. “I'm helping Scorpius with the-” He taps the side of his head. “-while Stark is gone. Because, apparently, 'acting ensign' means 'do whatever the hell your superior officer tells you no matter how weird.'”
“That's actually what any rank in Starfleet means,” Aeryn says.
“Some life that we've chosen,” McCoy grumbles.
“Some like you've chosen,” John says, “I got drafted.”
“Caveman,” Scorpius starts, “if you knew the strings I had to pull to get the admiralty to even consider allowing you to stay on board, you would-” Scorpius hisses, spitting like that cat of his.
“Lieutenant Scorpius,” the Russian kid who looks a little like Davy Jones but taller says, backing away from Scorpius, “I am so sorry. I did not mean to bump into you.”
“It's quite all right, ensign. My head is just very sensitive to trauma.”
“I know. I'm so sorry. I have read your patent.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I found it very interesting.”
Scorpius nods. “Would you like a seat?”
His eyes boggle at the sheer number of senior officers sitting at the table. “I would, but I am supposed to eat with Mr. Sulu and Miss Uhura.” Both were hovering behind him, craning their necks to find any open tables in the crowded mess hall. Lunch rush could be a hazmot.
“They can come and sit here, if they'd like,” Kirk says.
“Really?”
“Sure. If that's all right with Aeryn. This is her table.”
“Of course.” She smiles down at Crichton. “The more the merrier.”
-
Coda:
“Admiral Pike?”
He turns away from his holo-document. “Yes?”
“I have someone on subspace who would like to talk to you about applying to the Academy.”
“Not my division, yeoman. Reroute their call to admissions.”
“Uh, sir, this is a very special applicant... I think you'd want to talk to them directly.”
“Alright. Put them on the viewscreen.”
“Aye, sir.” Tamura presses a few buttons and the screens pops on.
Chris' wheelchair jolts back about a half an inch, responding to his shock. (That kid is way too smart for his own good.) This is definitely not what he had been expecting. Dampening his surprise enough to select a tone of voice that sounds properly authoritarian, he says, “Admiral Pike. What can I do for you?”
He-at least, Chris thinks it's a he-blinks. “Moya and I are very interested in matriculating at Starfleet Academy next term.”
Goddamn, this really is the final frontier.
Previous Chapter
Chapter Title: John and Scotty: What's Past is Epilogue
Author: katiemariie
Artist: azuremonkey
Mixer: jactrades
Mixer: pearlstar178
Beta: Renn
Fandom: Star Trek: TOS/Farscape
Word Count: 7199
Rating: R
Warnings: Strong language, violence, substance abuse, gore
“The best diplomat I know is a fully activated phaser bank!"
-Montgomery Scott, "A Taste of Armageddon"
-
“Canaveral, this is Farscape 1. I am free and flying. Are you with me there, Momma Bear?”
“Oh yeah, Farscape, I'm reading you loud and clear.”
“Authorizing flight computer to initiate ignition sequencing-now.”
“Roger, Farscape, you are go for insertion procedure... Farscape 1, hold a moment-”
“Hold? Canaveral, what?”
“Meteorology is picking up-”
“Jesus! Canaveral, do you see that? It looks like-Canaveral? Momma Bear? D-”
-
John Crichton is fairly certain he's died and gone to the 1960s.
“Capt'n, I've retrieved the vessel's pilot. He doesn't appear to be injured,” the man standing behind a desk-a console, maybe?-says.
“Thank you, Scotty,” a voice says over intercom. “I'll be there in a minute.”
The man behind the desk-Scotty, John supposes-walks towards the platform where John stands. “Are you alright, laddie? Your ship blasted right into ours. Awful luck, you got.”
“I'm fine.” John stumbles down the platform. “Are you... Are you an alien?”
“An alien? No. What kind of an alien speaks with a Scottish accent?”
“I don't know. What kind of an alien speaks with an American accent?”
“Mr. Spock, for one, but, you know, I think his mother might be a Canadian.”
“Spock? The pedia-” A wall to John's right swishes open, giving him a jump.
A man maybe a few years older than John enters, flanked by an older guy in a blue shirt. “I'll take it from here, Scotty.”
“Aye, sir.” Scotty nods at John. “Nice meetin' ye.”
“Yeah, nice meeting...” He trails off, watching Scotty leave through the wall. “Am I...?” John scratches the back of his head. “Am I dead?”
The two men share an amused smile. “No, you're very much alive,” the man in the blue shirt says. “And that's my professional opinion as a doctor.”
“Dr. McCoy,” the man in yellow says, “run a tricorder over our newest passenger just to make sure.” He winks at John.
Dr. McCoy pulls out a small electronic device the size of John's cell phone and runs it over John's body like a wand at airport security. “Fit as a fiddle. Heart rates a bit elevated, but that's to be expected. I'd say all things considered, you're in perfect health, Mr....?”
“Crichton. Commander Crichton. IASA. Do either of you mind tellin' me what the hell just happened?”
“Commander,” the yellow-shirted man says, “to put it plainly, your little ship hit our big ship. Before your ship was destroyed, one of our crew members managed to... what's the word?... teleport you to safety.”
“Teleport me? What, did he wave his magic wand? You got Merlin on board?”
“No, it's a scientific process using a device we call the transporter. Are you familiar Einstein's theory of relativity?”
“No, I'm just a summer intern they let fly the module.”
The man pauses for a minute like he isn't certain whether or not John is being sarcastic. “The transporter relies on that principle, converting matter into energy and then reconstituting it into matter in a different location.”
“That's impossible. Why would someone even invent that? Can't your spaceship land? What kinda aliens are you?”
“We're not aliens, Commander Crichton. We're just as Human as you are.”
“Then what's with the...” He waves his arms about. “...this. Where I come from, Humans don't have transporters or spaceships.”
“We're not from where you come from. We're from the future.”
“The mid-23rd century, to be more precise,” the doctor adds.
“Oh, well, if you're from 'the mid-23rd century,' then where's your aliens?” John asks.
“Our aliens?” The yellow shirt shakes his head. “What is with you and the aliens? Why do you keep coming back to that?”
“Because I need to know if I'm dead or not and aliens don't go to heaven.”
“Son.” The doctor places a hand on John's shoulder. “You might not want to say that too loudly round these parts.”
The other guy takes a device from his belt and flips it open like a mobile phone. “Kirk to bridge. I want all available non-Human personnel sent to the transporter room immediately.”
-
“This is Lieutenant Sun and Lieutenant Braca, two of our Sebacean crew members,” Kirk says.
“Come on! You're not even trying. Did your special effects budgets get slashed or-” The door swishes open.
“Lieutenant Scorpius reporting, sir.”
“-something... You're...” John staggers over to Scorpius, his arm reaching out to touch. “You're an alien. You're really an alien.” Close enough now, John pokes at the small amount of exposed skin on Scorpius' face. It's fiery hot, but the alien shudders at the touch. “God, you're...” John peers at the leather hood covering the alien's head. “What do you have under there?”
Scorpius leans in close. “Stay awhile and you might find out.” He strides away.
John looks to the doctor, whispering. “Did I just get hit on by an alien?”
The doctor nods. “You betcha.”
“Huh. I don't know if I should feel flattered or...”
“I'd go with flattered. It's easier that way.”
“Now,” Kirk says, “as you can see, commander, our ship is home to a variety of sentient life.”
“Hate to break it to ya, kid,” the doctor says, slapping John on the shoulder, “but you're alive.”
John shakes his head. “This is unreal. I can't... What are you even doing here? You're not gonna go all War of the Worlds on us?”
The captain smiles. “No, nothing of the sort. We're here on a historical research mission.”
“We were planning on doing a little sight-seeing,” McCoy says, “but I guess that's-” He's interrupted by an electronic chirping noise coming from his belt-one of those communication devices Kirk used earlier. “Sorry.” He picks up the device. “McCoy here.”
“Code blue,” a voice from the device says. “You're needed in sickbay immediately.”
“On my way. McCoy out.” McCoy holsters his communicator. “Emergency in sickbay.” He nods once at John before rushing out of the room.
Before he's out the door, Kirk's communicator sounds. “Kirk here.”
“Spock,” says the device. “Commander Scott is in sickbay with a critical spinal cord injury. He may not survive the hour. I thought you would want to know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Spock. I'll... Kirk out.” Kirk's jaw clenches as he walks out, seemingly operating on auto-pilot.
The three little aliens share one look before following him out, leaving John alone.
“Hey! I'm... Is anyone gonna...” he calls out to the closing door. And now he's stranded on a spaceship with not a friendly face in sight and no way to get home. Perfect. “I gotta...” He approaches the wall and pokes at it with a trembling finger. At his touch, the walls opens, sending John back with a jump, which is rather humiliating considering this is the kind of technology John interacts with every time he walks into a grocery store. “Get a grip, caveman.” With a deep breath, he steps through the door, out into a grey corridor. Looking left and right, John spots that Scorpius guy and the other two aliens, and quickly sprints after them.
-
Scotty can't feel his legs. No, no, Scotty can't feel his anything. He blinks his eyes open, not surprised to see himself in sickbay. “What...” he croaks. “What happened?”
Dr. McCoy is at his side. “You had a fall.”
“A fall? Musta been quite a fall. I cannae feel half my body.”
“You've injured your spine.”
“I guessed that much. Is this... You can fix this, right?”
“Scotty, what's the last thing you remember?”
“Going into cargo bay four. I needed to check on the...” No.
“You fell into a shipment container of pillerium.”
“Did it...?”
McCoy nods. “The radiation infected your spinal fluid on impact.”
“How... How long do I have?”
“We have drugs that can slow the spread of the radiation, but even using those... A day at the most.”
Scotty closes his eyes. “I think I'd like to be alone now.”
“Sure. I'll be back to check on you in a few minutes.”
Scotty manages to wait until he's heard the doctor leave to let the first tear slide down. This is what he wanted, isn't it? Then why is he so sad? Because he knows what awaits him on the other side? He's not a religious man by any means, but he can believe in Hell, if only for himself.
Beyond the curtains surrounding his medbed, a herd of elephants rampages into sickbay. That's what it sounds like at least-a herd of wild elephants stampeding and trumpeting at one another.
“-never would have happened in the Peacekeepers,” Lieutenant Sun mutters.
“-a soldier lives and dies at the word of their commanding officer,” Braca says.
“This is Starfleet,” the captain says.
“-you knew!”
“You knew and you didn't do anything!” the Starchild hisses.
“We all knew and none of us did anything,” Sun says.
“What was I supposed to do, Aeryn?”
“You could have done something.”
“You could have spoken to Admiral Pike,” Spock adds.
“And told him what?” Scorpius asks. “I'm not a doctor, I can't make those kind of recommendations.”
“Hold on a second,” McCoy says. “I tried. I've spent the better part of the past two years trying to get him treatment, but it's a little hard when no one will acknowledge what the hell is going on.”
“I gave him sacramental wine,” Stark states flatly.
“Are we even certain his drinking is what caused this?” Kirk asks.
“Jim, he was loaded,” McCoy responds. “I had to filter out a bottle of Scotch from his circulatory system before I could even think about fixing that spinal fracture.”
Scotty stares up at the ceiling, wishing he could cover his ears with his pillow. Pity his arms weren't working. “Won't be long now,” he mutters.
Under the cover of a now incoherent jumble of voices, a figure ducks into Scotty's room. He braces himself for more bad news, but it's just the lad he brought on board earlier-the astronaut.
“Uh, hi.” The astronaut waves. “Scotty, right?”
“Aye.”
“John. Crichton. John Crichton.” He reaches out to shake Scotty's hand before quickly sticking his hands under his armpits. “You're the one they're fighting about?”
“Aye, but I wish they wouldn't. It's bad enough I'm dyin', I'd hate to have them tearin' each other apart on my account.”
Crichton shrugs. “That's what families do. Someone gets hurt; they spend the next two years blaming each other for it. They fight because they care. About you. About each other.”
“Ye think so?”
“Yeah.” He takes a seat next to Scotty's bed. “My mom.... she died four years ago. Cancer.”
“Cancer? No one's died of cancer in two hundred years.”
Crichton points to himself. “Caveman, remember? Twentieth century boy here.”
“Sorry.”
“It's okay. It's good to know that nobody will have to go through what she went through... What we went through... It's been four years and my sister Susan still won't talk to any of us. Not me, not my dad, not my sister Olivia. I haven't seen my nephew Bobby since he was five.”
“Why not?”
“We... We said a lot of awful things to each other when my mom was sick. We blamed each other for what was happening.” Crichton smiles ruefully. “My mom-she was always the peacemaker. With her gone, we never managed to patch things up. Not with Susan. She's stubborn, like my dad.”
Scotty snorts. “I'm no peacemaker, but plenty of them folks arguing out there are stubborn.”
“Believe me, I can tell. They were fighting all the way up here. I don't think any of them remember I'm on board.”
“What happened with your sister...”
“Yeah.”
“I don't want that to happen here. When I'm gone.”
“I don't think that's up to you.”
“Then who?”
“I don't kn-”
Just then, a single voice breaks the noise outside, silencing the argument. “Bicker, bicker, bicker! 'My fault, your fault. My fault, your fault!' Do not soil the sanctity of death with your petty, worldly disagreements! Go from this place, be peaceful of heart, and meddle not with the dying while I am on board. Go. Go!”
Crichton cracks a smiles. “Apparently, it's up to that guy.”
“Stark? He couldn't tell his arse from a hole in the ground. Or a hole in his face as the matter stands.”
Crichton peeks out the curtain. “He is literally chasing them out of the room. Wow.” He settles back in his chair. “Who is that guy?”
“Honestly, I haven't the slightest.”
Stark pokes his head inside the curtained-off room. “I'm sorry about the noise.”
“'s alright.”
He glares, one eye bulging, at Crichton. “Who's he?”
“Oh,” Crichton says, “I'm just your standard well-wisher from the twentieth century.”
“Oh. I like your jumpsuit. It's very orange.”
“Thanks. I, uh, like your face. It's very... shiny.”
“Thank you.” Stark pats his mask before looking back down at Scotty. “Call me if you need anything. I will be just outside.”
“Thank you kindly,” Scotty says and Stark disappears.
Crichton leans forward, resting his hands on his knees. “You want me to get lost, too?”
“No, I-I'd prefer you to stay, if you don't mind.”
“I don't mind. You're kinda the only person I know here.” Crichton shakes his head. “You know, I probably talked to you more about my mom in five minutes that I have to my best friend in four years.”
“Sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger than to a friend.”
“Yeah? You got any deathbed confessions you wanna make?” Crichton asks playfully.
“Oh, just the usual. My name's Scotty. I'm an alcoholic. It's been about... two hours since my last drink.”
“They haven't managed to cure alcoholism by the year two-thousand-and-whatever?”
“They've got injections, pill you can take. But there's some things that can only be drowned out by a nice bottle of Scotch.”
“Like what? If you don't mind me asking.”
Scotty stares at the ceiling. “There was a war. Between the Federation and the Scarrans-and we...”
“You lost?”
“No, no. We won. The Federation called it an 'absolute victory'... but I think the Vulcans had a better word for it.”
“What was that?”
“Genocide.” Scotty swallows. “The Scarran wouldnae surrender, no matter what our terms. And we knew if they had the technology, they would come for us, so we...”
“You wiped 'em out? Nuked 'em?”
“Aye. All of 'em. Except for Mr. Scorpius. He doesn't have the-what d'ya call it?-the heat producing gland. The gland-it amplifies the charge of the anti-matter from phasers, our sidearms. Even on the lowest setting, one shot from a phaser would make a Scarran disappear. Just like that.”
“So, you made a bomb?”
“Yes. I made a bomb.” He looks at John, the tears pooling in his eyes blurring his vision. “It was just a theory. I dinna know Starfleet would actually... But they did. They built it without me knowin', they had Mr. Spock detonate it, and the first I hear of it is five minutes before the President's pinnin' a medal to my chest for... for ending the war.”
“That's why you drink.”
“That's why I drink sometimes. Other times, I dinnae know why.”
Crichton looks down at his hands. “I have friends who work for NASA-the United States' space program.”
“I know that. I may be an old drunk, but I know what NASA is.”
“Yeah, well, my friends at NASA, whatever they theorize or design becomes property of the US government. Not like with IASA where the information is shared with the UN. Anyway, some of the stuff they came up with, stupid stuff, stuff like how to dispose of lavatory waste more efficiently has been used to build bombs, sniper drones used by the military. It's killed people. But that's the risk we take as scientists whether we work with the military or not. There's always gonna be someone out there who wants to take what's in our heads and use it to kill people. And we have to live with that.”
“You don't... You don't think I'm a monster?”
“No. I don't.”
“Well, that makes one of us.”
-
Scotty dozes off about five minutes after his big confession-whether the sudden sleepiness is from his injuries or the Scotch he downed before shift, John has no idea. It's a little weird sitting at the bedside of a dying stranger as he mumbles in his sleep about “scary dinosaur men,” but no weirder than being abducted by aliens and a bunch of humans from the future. John can't even deal with that right now. He wants to go home, forget about the future, but the immediate present of a dying man needing company outweighs all that. His species may have lost their humanity three hundred years in the future, but John still holds tight to his.
John's a little surprised to see the first person to visit Scotty is an alien-the girl alien with the pretty hair. She could be a cylon for all he knows.
“Is he...?” she asks.
“No, he's just sleeping.”
“Tell him... Tell him Aeryn stopped by.” She turns to leave.
“Aeryn? That's a human name.”
“No,” she sighs, turning around. “That's a Sebacean name that sounds similar to a Human name.”
“You've been telling people that your whole life, haven't you?”
“At least once a week since I left the Peacekeepers.”
“Peacekeepers?”
“The Sebacean military. I was being trained as a Peacekeeper before the Scarran war.”
“So, it's only been a few years for you since the war ended?”
“Actually, it's been seventeen years.”
“Wow.” He peers at her face. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Then how were being trained to-”
“Peacekeepers are born and bred for duty.”
“You were a child soldier?”
“That's what people say, but most Peacekeepers don't see combat until they reach the age of majority. And since the treaty was signed with the Federation, the Peacekeepers don't start training until adulthood.”
“Well, that's one good thing that came out of the war.”
“That depends on who you ask.” Her gaze drags down his uniform. “Are you military?”
“No. No, I'm a scientist. With IASA. That's the International Aeronautics Space Administration.”
“Rank?”
“Commander.”
“How long have you been employed there?”
“Going on about five years now.”
“So you were still employed at IASA during the Eugenics Wars?”
“Yeah.”
“How could you justify your science experiments when your planet was being torn apart by war?”
“I...” John hesitates, sighing. “We believed that by working together, by trying to be better-not through selective breeding or genocide-but by cooperating as people across vast differences to reach beyond our world that we would end the war. That we would end all wars. But...” He looks up at Aeryn. “That's not what happened.”
“No. Your planet won't have world peace for another century.”
“And after that we move our wars into outer space. Great.”
“Sometimes war is necessary.”
“If this-” He gestures to Scotty. “-is what war does to a man, then I don't think it's ever necessary.”
Aeryn smirks, shaking her head. “You really know nothing of the universe, do you?”
“Not of this universe, no.” John stands. “And I don't think I want to.”
“Don't let the door hit you on the way out,” she says as he struggles to find an opening in the curtains. “Do you need help?”
“I'm fine.” But he ends up ducking under the bottom of the curtains, running right into two of the aliens, who seem to be doing some weird alien handshake with their index and middle fingers. “Hey, Stark?”
“Yes,” Metal Face says, yanking his hand away from Pointy Ears.
“Who do I talk to about getting home?”
Stark looks up at the other alien, who introduces himself, “First officer Spock. I can address your concerns while the captain is on the bridge.”
“Great. I-”
“You will have to walk with me; I am due in the lab.”
“Sure, I can West Wing it.”
Spock raises an eyebrow and takes off down the corridor at a pace John struggles to keep up with. “What did you wish to discuss?”
“I wanna know when I'm going home.”
“I believe, at this juncture, the more appropriate question is if you are going home.”
“What?” Spock steps through one of their grocery-store-automatic-doors into a grey lab. When John follows him in, he sees Scorpius and the doctor working closely at one of the stations. “What do you mean 'if'?”
“I mean-” Spock runs his hands under some kind of sanitizer beam. “-the officer assigned to the task is still considering whether you should be allowed to return to Earth in the the year 1999.”
“And which officer would that be?”
“The first officer.”
“What do you have to consider? I don't belong here!”
“Undoubtedly.” Spock joins the others at their lab table. “But the knowledge you have accrued since boarding this vessel has no place on Earth in 1999.”
“So take it outta me! Can't you-I don't know-suck it out? Put a chip in my head?”
Scorpius looks up, seeming to consider the idea momentarily before shaking his head and returning to his work.
“Presently,” Spock says, “we do not possess the technology to 'suck out' memories.”
“So, invent it! I mean, what else are you working on?”
Dr. McCoy looks up at John, glaring incredulously. “Saving Scotty's life!”
“Oh.”
“Indeed,” Spock says. “Given the knowledge you now possess, and your inconsequential stature in Terran history, my provisional determination is to keep you aboard this vessel and return with you to the 23rd century.”
“Why?”
“Simply put, you know too much, and what you know could irrevocably alter our history and your future.”
“My future? No, your future.”
“Semantics aside, the future must be protected.”
“What? No! The future is balls!”
“The future is... balls?”
“Yeah, from where I'm standing. You got genocide, people drinking themselves to death, interstellar war... Why would you want to protect that?”
“Because it is all we have.”
“But it doesn't have to be that way. You send me back to Earth and I can change things. Don't you...” John comes around the table, sidling up next to Scorpius. “Don't you want a better future, Scorpius? Scorpy? Can I call you Scorpy?”
“No.”
“Don't you of all people deserve a future where Scotty doesn't end up slaughtering your people? Don't you-oof!” John finds himself hoisted three feet in the air by his lapels.
“The Scarrans are not my people,” Scorpius growls-and truly growls like a dinosaur, albeit one with the Doctor's accent. “Braca is my people. My friends, the people on this ship are my people. Scotty is my people. So, you'd better shut up and let us work or you will find out what happens when one of my people dies.”
-
Scotty is expecting visitors, just not these visitors.
“Hello, Commander Scott.”
“Braca.”
“I've brought you my cat.” He holds out a fleshy creature that looks more like an albino lizard than a cat.
Scotty eyes it nervously. “What for?”
“I'm told intellectually inferior animals can be of great comfort to Humans during times of convalescence.”
“I'm alright, laddie. You dinna have to go through all this trouble.”
“It's no trouble.”
“I dinna really like-”
“Commander,” Braca says, his voice wavering, “I don't understand what is happening to me right now, but I think it has something to do with what is happening to you, and I think if you take the cat I will feel less the way I do.”
Scotty sighs. “Alright.”
“Thank you.” Braca sets the beast down on Scotty's collarbone. It looks up once at Braca for reassurance before curling into a ball up against Scotty's cheek. Actually feels kinda nice.
“He's warm.”
“Trait of the breed.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Harvey. After Cushing, the neurosurgeon.”
Scotty strains his eyes to look at the cat. “Harvey, you are lovely little pussy cat, aren't you?”
“He can't understand you.”
“He may not know what I'm sayin' but I bet he knows when someone's calling him a pretty kitty. Don't you, lad?”
“Yes, when that person is speaking in Sebacean. He doesn't have much talent for understanding vocal fluctuations in Standard.” Well, that's one thing he has in common with his owner. “I suppose we should have spoken to him in Standard more frequently during his formative months.”
“When he was a kitten?”
“Is that not what I said?”
-
John stares at the working group across the lab, willing them to find a cure-as much for his sake as Scotty's. He gets why he isn't exactly their number one priority right now-if DK or one of the other guys at IASA was dying right in front of him, John wouldn't be too worried about paperwork. (And that's what he amounts to here-another curiosity to be catalogued.) Even still, the novelty of being on a spaceship wore off right about the time he heard about the alien genocide enacted by his people, his species, and a program that grew right out of IASA. Right out of John's work and the work of his father. The Scarran genocide is a Crichton family legacy and one John would like to forget-even if it means giving up the wonders he's seen-the aliens, the transporter, this lab. He doesn't know what half the instruments in here do, but they look impressive. The technobabble, too, even if it's yelled and broken up every five words by what John guesses are alien curse words and racial slurs.
“Now, listen here, you hot-blooded bastard-”
“If you would abandon your Human superstition for one frelling minute, you-”
“Gentleman,” Spock admonishes.
“Can it, Spock,” McCoy snaps, “unless you plan on telling Mr. Wiz Kid here how absolutely illogical it'd be to inject nanites into the spine of a man with cerebrospinal fluid radiation poisoning.”
“Nanites?” John says somewhat proudly. “That's little robots.”
“Very good, Commander,” Spock says. “Do you want a cookie?”
John is getting a little hungry, but he suspects that was some form of pointy-eared people sarcasm. “I'm good.”
Spock nods and returns to his workmates. “With the modifications Mr. Scorpius has made to his nanite prototype, the 'little robots' should neutralize the pillerium radiation.”
“See?” Scorpius grins smugly at McCoy.
“However,” Spock continues, “anti-radiation nanites remain untested on living subjects and are therefore an inadvisable treatment.”
“See?” McCoy mugs at Scorpius.
Scorpius smiles conciliatorily before straightening up and tapping twice on his temple. A light flashes and out comes-oh my god-a purple glowstick like six inches or so long-that has to go all the way through his brain-held in there by a little hollow metal canister with little bits of like brain hanging off of it and-
“Jesus Christ on a cracker...” John gasps-louder than he means to.
“Got a problem, Crichton?” McCoy asks.
“No! No... problem.”
“Good.”
Scorpius sneers at John before bending over, bringing the do-hickey coming out of his head to McCoy's eye level. “This past month, I have been experimenting with anti-radiation nanites in my neural cavity to diffuse the trace amounts of radiation from my cooling rods. So far, the nanites have been successful.”
Spock and McCoy lean in, examining the inside of Scorpius' head, completely undaunted by the strands of grey matter dripping out.
“The nanites are fully integrated,” McCoy says. “That's...”
“Fascinating,” Spock offers.
“I was gonna say genius, but that works. Probably inflate his ego less.”
“I am still here, Dr. McCoy,” Scorpius says.
“How have you been monitoring the radiation levels?” Spock asks.
“I am having difficulty getting the nanites' internal sensors to transmit to padds, so I have been taking readings of the surrounding tissue for radiation damage.”
“That's not conclusive evidence,” McCoy says, shaking his head. “Those readings would give you false negatives with the corvinica injections you take.”
“Yes, well...” Scorpius taps the brain tube, sending it spinning back into his head. He's careful not to look at McCoy.
“Don't tell me-”
“It was necessary to discontinue the injections to determine the nanites' effectiveness.”
“You-” McCoy jabs Scorpius in the chest. “You are impossible!”
“I must caution you, Mr. Scorpius,” Spock says, “if you continue to experiment on yourself, I will be forced to report your transgressions to Admiral Pike.”
“And if you don't start takin' your medicine like we agreed,” McCoy says, getting in Scorpius' face, “I'll tell Braca.” Scorpius snickers. “Or maybe I'll tell Aeryn.”
Scorpius glares at him. “You wouldn't dare.”
“Try me, kid.”
Scorpius huffs, breaking McCoy's gaze. “The nanites work.”
“In your head, which if you haven't noticed, is more welcome to foreign objects-” He taps on Scorpius' temple. “-than the average spinal cord. We shoot these things into Scotty, his immune system will go berserk!”
“So we suppress his immune system.”
“We don't have the time!”
“Perhaps,” Spock says, “if we cannot work around Mr. Scott's immune system, then we can work with it.”
“What do ya mean?”
“We could implant the nanites into a microbe that attacks the spine. While Scotty's immune system attacks the microbes as it normally would, the nanites destroy the radiation.”
“That's the problem! In human spinal fluid, pillerium radiation is self-replicable. We'd need... we'd need a microbe that stays in the spine forever.”
“Huh,” Crichton say, thinking aloud. “Like chickenpox.”
“What did you say?”
“What you're talking about's like chickenpox. You catch it once as a kid and it stays in your body 'til you die. That's how my dad got shingles.”
“Varicella zoster virus would work,” Spock says, “as it remains dormant in the dorsal root ganglia, which are close enough to treat the affected spinal fluid.”
“One problem,” McCoy says. “We don't have VZV stored on board. Earth destroyed all it's lab samples a few decades after the disease was eradicated. Where the hell are we supposed to find any?”
Crichton raises his hand.
-
The captain's been sitting there at his bedside for five minutes quiet as a church mouse, which is odd because Kirk's usually the type to talk you to death-quite literally in the case of a few robots.
“Scotty.”
“Capt'n.”
“Scotty, I...” Kirk sighs and runs a hand through his hair-a habit he's picked up under the stress of command. If he keeps at it, he'll run out of hair soon. “I wanted to say... I've lost a lot good men on this mission-too many men-but none of them-none of them-will weigh on my conscience like losing you would.”
“Capt'n...”
“Scotty, hear me out.” He smiles. “That's an order.”
“Aye, sir.”
Kirk stares down at Scotty's blanket. “When I write letters of consolation after a crewman dies, I'm sure to tell the parents, the families that I did everything I could to preserve the life of their loved one. Not because I want to save face or spare Starfleet a wrongful death suit, but because I want them to know that their child, their sibling, their friend meant more to me as a member of my crew than they can ever imagine.” Kirk closes his eyes. “If you die from this, I can't put that in the letter to your family. Because I didn't do everything I could to save you, to help you.”
“Jim...”
“There was so much more I could have done, Scotty, but I didn't. I failed you. I was too afraid to confront what happened to me with any real insight that I couldn't even begin to consider what you went through. You know, you're a... you're a mirror, Scotty.”
“I've been called worse.”
“I'm serious. When I'd look at you, at your drinking, I'd see me, my cavorting around, never getting too close to anyone... So, I never looked too close.
“This isn't your fault, Scotty.” Kirk lays a hand on Scotty's forehead. “This isn't your fault at all. This my fault for being too cowardly to confront my demons. This-this was my Kobayashi Maru and I failed. I ran from the room.” Kirk swallows. “If you live, I promise you, I won't fail you again. We are going to be so much better than what we went through, what we had to do-the people who ordered us to do it. We're the future of Starfleet. We may not be young like those Sebacean punks, but we have an opportunity to do amazing things out here. And, by god, I want you to be there.”
Even Scotty isn't immune to the captain's impassioned monologues, finding more than a few tears trickling down his cheek. “Capt'n... I wish I could.”
“I know, Scotty, I know.”
He presses a kiss to Scotty's forehead, which turns those few tears into outright sobs, which, given the stasis medicine pressing down on Scotty's lungs, turn into a desperate search for air.
“Nurse,” Kirk calls.
Scotty's eyes are pinched close in distress, but all of a sudden he can see-he can feel-a light. And then something like a memory, coming in bits and pieces.
Sitting under the table, resting his head on Aeryn's leg, listening to them laugh, knowing he caused it and that they are not laughing at him, seeing Braca's hand rest on Scorpius' knee and slowly stroke upwards, and closing his eye in modesty.
Scotty's lungs fill deep with air and the chaplain is hovering over him, strapping on his mask. “A gift, Mr. Scott. Friendship.”
Kirk stares up at Stark in awe. “I see your value now.”
Stark blinks. “That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.”
Scotty thinks he might die in peace until he hears the Starchild growling, “Get out of the frelling way.” He's soon barreling through the curtain, flanked by Spock and Dr. McCoy.
“Scotty,” McCoy says, “we're gonna save your life.”
“How?”
“We're gonna get you sick.”
-
“Wow, look at you,” John says, smiling in earnest.
“I feel awful.” Scotty sits hunched over at the edge of his bed, scratching his belly furiously.
“Watch it, you'll scar.”
“How in the heavens did children stand this? This is the kinda torture that would make a Klingon spill state secrets!”
“I don't know what a cling-on is, but I'm pretty sure you've got a way worse case of the chickenpox than anyone I know. Of course, none of their doctors sped up the virus with a bunch of science fiction mumbo jumbo.”
“I suppose none of them were put in quarantine neither.”
“No. Actually, before the vaccine came out, if one kid got chickenpox, their parents would try get 'em to give it to all their brothers and sisters. Kids were bound to get chickenpox at some point, people figured might as well get 'em all done at once.”
Scotty shakes his head. “You come from a barbaric time, Commander Crichton.”
“Yeah, but it's my time.”
“You still hoping to go back?”
He nods. “I'm hoping now that my one-in-a-million virus saved his chief engineer, Captain Kirk'll cut me a little slack. Let me go back home.”
Scotty smiles. “I'm sure the Capt'n'll-”
The ship lurches, sending John-who doesn't quite have his sealegs yet-crashing into the transparent wall of the quarantine chamber. “What was that? Did we get hit?” But Scotty doesn't look scared or alarmed. He looks sad. “Scotty?”
“Laddie, I dinna think you'll be going home.”
“What?”
“If I know my ship-and I know my ship-we've just gone back to our time.”
“Back to the future?” John would geek out at using those words in context-if his life wasn't falling apart.
“Aye.”
“No. I... No! My family, my job, my life is on Earth! In 1999! I... I have no place here!”
With some effort, Scotty rises to his feet, shuffles over to John, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me, laddie, you will. If I have anything to say about it, you will.”
-
Some time later...
“I don't think you understand how important this is, John,” Scorpius hisses in Crichton's ear.
“Then enlighten me, Scorpy.”
“This-this is my destiny. This is what my life has been leading up to.” He sighs. “She is a sentient cybernetic being and she is a woman. She is a women and she is a sentient cybernetic being.”
“I get it, she's a fembot. You want to boink her until her batteries run out.”
“She is not a robot. She's a bioloid. And a highly accomplished scientist. A prodigy in her field. And I want nothing more than for her to sit on my face.”
“How's Braca feel about this? Wait, let me guess, he wants nothing more than for her to on your face.”
“He was the one to introduce her to me.”
“Where's Braca know a Kalish bioloid from?”
“Er... He doesn't know her in the strictest sense of the word.”
“Oh my god, have you even met her? Either of you? Wait, have you even talked to her-on subspace, email, whatever?”
Scorpius scowls down at his food tray.
“She doesn't know you exist, does she?”
“Of course she knows I exist! I'm the Starchild. I'm more famous than Jesus Christ!”
“Well, Jesus didn't have a sex tape.”
“That's why we haven't spoken to her. Do you know how difficult it is to find women when you have the fastest selling sex tape in the known galaxy? We have to wait for the right moment.”
“There's never gonna be a right moment. You just have to go for it.”
Scorpius nods towards Aeryn's table. “So why don't you?”
John sighs. “It's complicated. I'm from the past; she's from the future. I'm Human; she's Sebacean.”
“You like her; she barely acknowledges your existence.”
“Yeah, there's that.”
Scorpius drops the subject as they come closer to the table.
“-my mother calls me last night at probably 0300 hours her time to tell me that my father has found me the love of my life, who apparently is a former conscript who now works as a farmer.”
“You? With a farmer?” Kirk asks.
“Oh, it gets better. She tells me if I don't like that one, he has a younger brother named Toffee or Tauvy or something. Can you believe that?”
John and Scorpius take their place at the table between Aeryn and Braca.
“You can tell your mother,” Kirk says, “that I'm not giving up my navigator so she can live on some farm.”
“Honestly, a farm? I wouldn't last an arn. I could barely stand growing up next to that awful vineyard.” She smiles apologetically across the table. “Sorry, Scotty.”
“You can mention alcohol around me, just dinna try to give me any... And besides I was never much of a wine-drinker.” He winks.
“How long's it been?” John asks.
“Sixty-eight days.”
John raises his glass. “Here's to sixty-eight more.”
“To sixty-eight more,” the table echoes.
“We're proud of you, Scotty,” McCoy says.
“Well, you know,” Scotty mumbles, his cheeks flushed. “One day at a time and all that...”
Kirk claps him on the shoulder. “It takes fortitude to go the long haul like that. Lasting change often comes gradually, I think sometimes we forget that.” He stares at Aeryn for the end of that sentence.
“Was that directed at me?” she asks.
“Maybe. You are the only officer in the history of Starfleet to demand an immediate revision to uniform policy. And I might add, the only officer to stage a nude sit-in to get her way.”
“Wait,” John says. “What was that?”
“Aeryn didn't like the women's uniform, so she had half the crew get naked in protest,” Braca explains.
“Don't blame me for that,” Aeryn says.
“I wasn't blaming. I was merely stating the role your leadership capabilities played in revising the uniform code.”
“You are just a hopeless brownnoser, aren't you?” McCoy asks.
Braca shrugs. “I've learned to accept it.”
“So.” Crichton smiles down at Aeryn. “You were naked?”
“She was naked and I was about to have a heart attack,” Kirk says.
“That's a common reaction,” Aeryn says.
“You have no idea. I thought Mr. Spock was going to have a Vulcan conniption fit right on the bridge. You know...” Kirk lowers his voice. “I think you were the first women he'd ever seen naked.” Kirk chuckles. “Stark was certainly the first Banik any of us had seen nude. That was a learning experience.”
“Where is Stark?” Scotty asks. “Shouldn't he be gettin' underfoot right about now?”
“Stark is accompanying Mr. Spock on a vision quest on Wrigley's Pleasure Planet.”
“A vision quest? On Wrigley's?” McCoy asks.
“Apparently, it's a rare opportunity, only comes up every seven years. They'll be out for over a week doing it.”
“That's why I'm out of engineering,” John says to Scotty. “I'm helping Scorpius with the-” He taps the side of his head. “-while Stark is gone. Because, apparently, 'acting ensign' means 'do whatever the hell your superior officer tells you no matter how weird.'”
“That's actually what any rank in Starfleet means,” Aeryn says.
“Some life that we've chosen,” McCoy grumbles.
“Some like you've chosen,” John says, “I got drafted.”
“Caveman,” Scorpius starts, “if you knew the strings I had to pull to get the admiralty to even consider allowing you to stay on board, you would-” Scorpius hisses, spitting like that cat of his.
“Lieutenant Scorpius,” the Russian kid who looks a little like Davy Jones but taller says, backing away from Scorpius, “I am so sorry. I did not mean to bump into you.”
“It's quite all right, ensign. My head is just very sensitive to trauma.”
“I know. I'm so sorry. I have read your patent.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I found it very interesting.”
Scorpius nods. “Would you like a seat?”
His eyes boggle at the sheer number of senior officers sitting at the table. “I would, but I am supposed to eat with Mr. Sulu and Miss Uhura.” Both were hovering behind him, craning their necks to find any open tables in the crowded mess hall. Lunch rush could be a hazmot.
“They can come and sit here, if they'd like,” Kirk says.
“Really?”
“Sure. If that's all right with Aeryn. This is her table.”
“Of course.” She smiles down at Crichton. “The more the merrier.”
-
Coda:
“Admiral Pike?”
He turns away from his holo-document. “Yes?”
“I have someone on subspace who would like to talk to you about applying to the Academy.”
“Not my division, yeoman. Reroute their call to admissions.”
“Uh, sir, this is a very special applicant... I think you'd want to talk to them directly.”
“Alright. Put them on the viewscreen.”
“Aye, sir.” Tamura presses a few buttons and the screens pops on.
Chris' wheelchair jolts back about a half an inch, responding to his shock. (That kid is way too smart for his own good.) This is definitely not what he had been expecting. Dampening his surprise enough to select a tone of voice that sounds properly authoritarian, he says, “Admiral Pike. What can I do for you?”
He-at least, Chris thinks it's a he-blinks. “Moya and I are very interested in matriculating at Starfleet Academy next term.”
Goddamn, this really is the final frontier.
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