Fallen Heroes Part II Chapter IV
Posted: Fri Jun 22, 2018 6:20 pm
Hi everyone. We're past the halfway point for Part II with its total of six chapters. As always, I post a new quarter of a chapter each Friday. I hope you'll enjoy reading the continuation of Tony Q's story as much as I did writing it.
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Fallen Heroes Part II Chapter IVa
Soothing tremors of a spacecraft in flight wake Commander Tony Q from a dreamless sleep, and he finds himself sitting in the back of a large shuttlecraft intended for public transportation. Its many seats are empty, however.
Despite grogginess clouding his vision, he sees the shuttle hasn’t escaped Earth’s atmosphere yet. It has levelled off, flying ten thousand feet in the air while broad daylight shines in through its portholes. The countless cities below resemble collapsing volcanoes, yet there’s no indication of suffering anymore. It’s unlikely anyone is left to suffer; if there is, their hardship will be over soon, swallowed whole by eternal oblivion.
As if in a reflex, his subconscious presents him with the sight of his dead father lying buried in the rubble, every bone in his body shattered. Through sheer force of will, he shoves aside the jarring memory and rises from his seat. His muscles object to being molded into any other shape than cramped misery, and even the slightest movement causes cold sweats. The metal scent of blood clings to his tattered dress uniform. He has almost gotten used to pain and filth covering his mortal shell. Almost.
Up in front, a middle-aged Starfleet officer is piloting the shuttlecraft. That must be the man who carried him to safety. With a considerable degree of effort, Tony shambles toward him, leaving a trail of muddy footprints on the otherwise pristine center-aisle carpet.
Once Tony is about halfway, the pilot says, “I hope you’re going to clean that up, because I know I won’t.”
Tony instantly recognizes the master of sarcastic delivery. “Q?”
It is indeed Q. He pivots in his chair and meets Tony’s tired gaze with a jovial smile, which quickly turns into a huge frown. “My goodness, you’re a mess! Didn’t your father ever tell you not to go playing outside in your clean uniform?”
Tony opens and closes his mouth several times in a row before gathering the coherence to say, “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”
“There, there,” Q says, patronizing him. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be busy burning to a crisp on Geary Street. Don’t humans often show their saviors a little more gratitude?”
“You son of a bitch!”
“See, how hard was that?” Q swivels back to the shuttle controls.
“After all this time,” Tony says, inching forward, searching for words, “hoping you were out there, somehow, watching over me. You were never there. And now, while I’m at my weakest, you show up to laugh at me?”
“Yes, that about covers it,” Q says cheerfully while flailing at the controls, pretending to use the interface instead of his powers to steer the ship.
Tony halts next to his former mentor. “You have no idea what I’ve been through.”
“Oh no, that’s not true,” Q says in an indignant tone. “You were throwing the biggest barbecue party in human history when I plucked you off the planet.” He smirks at his own joke.
“You refuse to understand why I rebelled.” Tony’s voice gains strength, whereas his body has none. “I couldn’t sit by and watch those Altonoids destroy all I hold dear. What choice did I have?”
“Oh, there’s always a choice,” Q says, not as upbeat as he was moments ago. “What person in his right mind would prefer being trapped inside a weak collection of biological matter over an immortal life as a supreme being?”
“A human would, out of compassion. That’s why the Continuum appointed me as one of their members in the first place, to study the qualities they lacked.”
“Yeah, but look at you! You’re an absolute embarrassment. You’re wounded, broken, bent, a limping animal. You had such potential.”
“I know,” Tony says with more sadness than they both expected. “But I gave it up. You want to know why?”
“Well, yes,” Q says, unable to resist answering rhetorical questions.
“It’s called friendship. It’s called loyalty. It’s called love. Concepts beyond the Continuum’s grasp.”
Q scoffs. “Blasphemy.” The ensuing awkward pause demonstrates Tony has made a valid point. To prevent him from scoring valid three-pointers, Q asks, “Are you familiar with another concept ‘beyond the Continuum’s grasp’?”
“I don’t—“
“It’s called failure.”
“What?”
“Look around you.”
Reluctantly, Tony complies. The shuttle has gained enough altitude to enter orbit around the scorched planet. Not far ahead, a swarm of Altonoid warships besets Earth Spacedock, and battling starships take up the rest of the view. The majority of the intact ones belong to the Altonoids.
“Earth’s final stand,” Q says, nodding at the carnage. “Pitiful, pitiful. Behold their mighty, cardboard war machines, exchanging glorified laser fire and puny projectiles. Waste of ammo, I’d say. The spacedock is already lost.”
Tony hates to admit it, but Earth Spacedock is coming apart, sending red-hot chunks of hull the size of skyscrapers toward the planet it’s already orbiting dangerously low.
Q spares the starbase a tiny double-handed wave. “Bye-bye, Admiral Harriman and the poor souls who trusted him with their lives. This, Tony, my dear friend, is failure at its finest, at its purest.”
Together, they watch the starbase spiraling to its doom in slow motion.
“Sucks, doesn’t it?” Q says.
Tony has no defense to offer. Fatigue and dizziness take hold, and he silently curses his feeble condition.
“Aw, don’t feel bad about it,” Q says without making any attempt to hide his menacing tone. “Here, I know what. Why don’t I show you the state the of universe had you chosen to stay with us?”
Before Tony can protest, Q snaps his fingers and summons a universe-altering flash. Prominently in view, Earth Spacedock is still falling from the sky, Altonoid warships are still swarming all over, and Starfleet vessels are either significantly damaged or adrift like the dead bulks they are.
“Would you look at that!” Q says with faked amazement. “Nothing has changed!” Without touching the controls, he projects the astern view onto the front window. “Earth is still burning.”
Tony flinches at Earth’s image, the flames of crumpling nations too bright for his tired eyes.
“People in the back!” Q shouts.
Lifelike facsimiles of Tony’s dead friends materialize out of thin air, enough to fill nearly every seat. The senior staff of the Kennedy, his colleagues at Starfleet Headquarters, his father—they all shout “Failure!” in angry unison before vaporizing on the spot.
Q gives him a surprisingly fierce glare. “Failure,” Q says, emphasizing each syllable. He snaps his fingers and restores the original universe in a white flash, which, painfully enough, means everything stays the same.
Without breaking off his unforgiving stare, Q commands the shuttle to evade the one-sided battle and engage warp engines. The falling spacedock, the fighting starships, and the burning planet fade into a series of long streaks of iridescent light as the shuttle hits warp speed. Finally, after too long a time, Q breaks eye contact, takes a deep breath, and leans back in his pilot’s chair.
Tony wipes away the tears that have formed despite his best efforts to mask his sorrow and asks, “So why didn’t you?”
“Why didn’t I what?”
“End my miserable existence. Get it over with. I’ve become an insect to you, haven’t I? What makes me any different from those who were killed? Why should I live and my father die?”
“Oh please, don’t give me that.”
“Perhaps I should rephrase.” There’s a subtle edge to his voice. “Why didn’t you leave me to die?”
Q crosses his arms. “Like you said, your life has become unimportant, nothing but a trivial matter. I’m free to do with it as I please. The Continuum doesn’t care anymore.”
“But do you?”
Q lets out an annoyed sigh. Instead of answering the question, he points at Tony’s bloody torso and sneers, “Maybe you should have that looked at. You only live once, you know.” Q snaps his fingers and vanishes in a flash of light, leaving Tony in a transport shuttle full of empty seats.
* * *
Starbase 43 – April 22, 2382 – Stardate 59303.3
Exhausting doesn’t begin to describe living on this starbase for the past week. The Altonoids’ sudden takeover of the Sol system has dampened everyone’s spirits. Virtually every person aboard Starbase 43 has reason to mourn. Relatives, loved ones, friends—none were spared in this horrifying attack, as survival became a matter of random luck.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Ernest Baxter dares not imagine what the incalculable refugees on this starbase are going through. He wasn’t born in the Sol system, so he cannot begin to comprehend the full scope of their trauma, but the loss of Earth and the surrounding colonies is devastating at best.
This starbase, one of the bases nearest to Earth that haven’t been attacked by Altonoids yet, has been a complete chaos ever since the invasion started. A constant flow of docking spacecraft brings in hordes of the confused and wounded. Every part of the starbase is crowded: crew and civilian quarters, passenger decks, waiting rooms, sickbays… morgues.
Baxter is on his way to a far-off section of airlocks to serve as a welcoming party of one for the occupant of an arriving shuttlecraft. The transporters are constantly in use and the turbolifts are packed, forcing him to traverse congested promenades and hallways. Wherever he goes, he gets a firsthand experience of chaos, unease, and fear… mostly fear. Nobody speaks of it, but an undeniable sense of dread fills up every room, a buildup of apprehension choking any budding sign of relief. Nobody knows what’s next. Nobody wants to know, including Baxter, so he does what everyone else does: finding some way to cope, even if that coping mechanism merely consists of keeping oneself busy.
As he reaches the correct airlock, he opens his medkit for a quick inspection. From a medical tricorder to a compact trauma kit, everything appears to be present. Here’s hoping he recalls the few superficial medical trainings every officer is obligated to partake in. By the looks of it, the spacecraft has already connected itself to the airlock. However, its pilot makes no attempt to make an entrance just yet.
* * *
An opened medkit and a bloodstained dress uniform lie in a corner of the transport shuttle that brought Commander Tony Q to Starbase 43. Using the vessel’s scarce facilities, he has patched up the more severe injuries, cleaned himself up, and replicated a fresh standard-issue uniform. He may look better, but he doesn’t feel it, sitting hunched over the helm station, watching the pilot screen.
“Logging into Starfleet network,” the onboard computer says.
He has been postponing this long enough. “Access Starfleet’s personnel database. Display Lieutenant Commander Ralph Blue’s file.”
The computer shows a recent photograph of his dad, accompanied by a summarized biography and other relevant information.
Tony blocks out the image of his father happy and alive the same way he blocks out the memory of his demise—unsuccessfully. “Process the following update.” Difficult as it may be, he is the one who should do this. These words, though hard to utter, must be spoken. “Date of death: April 17, 2382. Time: unknown. Killed in the line of duty. End of update.”
“Authorization required.”
“Authorization Tango Alpha Eight Five, as reported by Commander Tony…” He hesitates, as if repulsed by his full name. “Commander Tony ‘Q’ Blue.”
“Personnel file updated and closed.”
He ruminates for a handful of seconds, then nods to himself and says, “Display Commander Tony ‘Q’ Blue’s file.”
Tony stares at his picture, taken the day he became first officer of the USS Kennedy. Hard to believe he was once the dapper young man on the screen. That version of him doesn’t exist anymore. That… boy was a fool, his abundant naivety rivaled only by his arrogance. “Process the following update: change subject’s full name to Tony Blue.”
“Authorization required.”
“Authorization Tango Alpha Eight Five, as reported by Commander Tony ‘Q’ Blue. End of update.” The last time he’ll have to refer to himself by that name.
“Personnel file updated and closed.”
Commander Tony Blue allows himself a short-lived smile.
* * *
To Lieutenant Baxter’s relief, the airlock opens, and none other than Commander Tony Q comes stumbling out. Baxter sizes up the surprisingly young commander. Granted, with twenty-six years of age, the lieutenant isn’t exactly a hoary war veteran either—his sharp but friendly features and cropped, auburn hair help maintain his youthful appearance—but somehow he’d expected the famous officer to be older. He pushes these inconsequential thoughts aside and salutes the commander. “Welcome aboard Starbase 43, Commander Tony ‘Q’ Blue. I am Lieutenant Ernest Baxter.”
For reasons that elude Baxter entirely, Tony grunts at the “Q” part. “At ease, Lieutenant,” he says, eyeing Baxter’s attire—a command uniform instead of a medical one. “This is going to be quite a spectacle,” he mutters beneath his breath, loud enough for Baxter to hear.
Missing his cue, Baxter opens his medkit and takes out its medical tricorder with the finesse of a drunken Klingon, spilling an assortment of medical equipment onto the floor before apologetically putting them back in.
Tony arches an eyebrow. “May I ask what your function is?”
“Uh… yes, sir. I’m the chief helmsman of the Achilles,” Baxter says while waving his medical tricorder in the general vicinity of the commander.
“I requested medical attention, not a pilot with a medkit.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Wounded survivors have flooded the starbase, the sickbays are crammed, and the entire medical staff is swamped. All available personnel have been asked to assist in tending to the injured.”
Tony raises the palms of his hands. “Listen, this can wait. I’ve already stopped the internal bleeding and treated the serious wounds on the way here, and—”
“According to my readings you still have a few severe bruises and other physical trauma requiring examination.”
“Yes, and according to those readings I’m currently standing on my head! You’re holding the bloody thing upside down.”
Flustered, Baxter turns his tricorder around and reinterprets its data. Tony, unwilling to tolerate any further delay, limps past. “Hey, where are you going?” Baxter asks, going after him.
“I have to find Emily,” Tony says. “My wife,” he adds in response to Baxter’s puzzled expression. “If she’s even here. Most shuttles were shot down. She probably didn’t make it, but if she did…”
A vague recollection of Tony marrying a fellow Starfleet officer surfaces in Baxter’s mind. “What’s her full name and rank?”
“Huh? Oh. Ensign Emily Christina Blue.”
Baxter presses his combadge. “Computer, locate Ensign Emily Christina Blue.”
Tony grimaces. “We don’t even know if she’s—”
The starbase computer interrupts him. “Ensign Emily Blue is located on deck 814, promenade 14-Alpha.”
Tony’s aspect turns on a dime from sullen to elated. “She made it!” He hugs Baxter, who is a bit uncertain how to react to this mood swing.
“Congratulations, sir,” Baxter says while trying to escape the unexpected embrace as courteously as possible.
Tony lets go and—with newfound energy—begins searching for the nearest turbolift.
“Perhaps you should take it easy, Commander,” Baxter says, hurrying after the limping commander once again. “Your medical condition isn’t… Oh, what the heck.”
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Fallen Heroes Part II Chapter IVa
Soothing tremors of a spacecraft in flight wake Commander Tony Q from a dreamless sleep, and he finds himself sitting in the back of a large shuttlecraft intended for public transportation. Its many seats are empty, however.
Despite grogginess clouding his vision, he sees the shuttle hasn’t escaped Earth’s atmosphere yet. It has levelled off, flying ten thousand feet in the air while broad daylight shines in through its portholes. The countless cities below resemble collapsing volcanoes, yet there’s no indication of suffering anymore. It’s unlikely anyone is left to suffer; if there is, their hardship will be over soon, swallowed whole by eternal oblivion.
As if in a reflex, his subconscious presents him with the sight of his dead father lying buried in the rubble, every bone in his body shattered. Through sheer force of will, he shoves aside the jarring memory and rises from his seat. His muscles object to being molded into any other shape than cramped misery, and even the slightest movement causes cold sweats. The metal scent of blood clings to his tattered dress uniform. He has almost gotten used to pain and filth covering his mortal shell. Almost.
Up in front, a middle-aged Starfleet officer is piloting the shuttlecraft. That must be the man who carried him to safety. With a considerable degree of effort, Tony shambles toward him, leaving a trail of muddy footprints on the otherwise pristine center-aisle carpet.
Once Tony is about halfway, the pilot says, “I hope you’re going to clean that up, because I know I won’t.”
Tony instantly recognizes the master of sarcastic delivery. “Q?”
It is indeed Q. He pivots in his chair and meets Tony’s tired gaze with a jovial smile, which quickly turns into a huge frown. “My goodness, you’re a mess! Didn’t your father ever tell you not to go playing outside in your clean uniform?”
Tony opens and closes his mouth several times in a row before gathering the coherence to say, “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”
“There, there,” Q says, patronizing him. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be busy burning to a crisp on Geary Street. Don’t humans often show their saviors a little more gratitude?”
“You son of a bitch!”
“See, how hard was that?” Q swivels back to the shuttle controls.
“After all this time,” Tony says, inching forward, searching for words, “hoping you were out there, somehow, watching over me. You were never there. And now, while I’m at my weakest, you show up to laugh at me?”
“Yes, that about covers it,” Q says cheerfully while flailing at the controls, pretending to use the interface instead of his powers to steer the ship.
Tony halts next to his former mentor. “You have no idea what I’ve been through.”
“Oh no, that’s not true,” Q says in an indignant tone. “You were throwing the biggest barbecue party in human history when I plucked you off the planet.” He smirks at his own joke.
“You refuse to understand why I rebelled.” Tony’s voice gains strength, whereas his body has none. “I couldn’t sit by and watch those Altonoids destroy all I hold dear. What choice did I have?”
“Oh, there’s always a choice,” Q says, not as upbeat as he was moments ago. “What person in his right mind would prefer being trapped inside a weak collection of biological matter over an immortal life as a supreme being?”
“A human would, out of compassion. That’s why the Continuum appointed me as one of their members in the first place, to study the qualities they lacked.”
“Yeah, but look at you! You’re an absolute embarrassment. You’re wounded, broken, bent, a limping animal. You had such potential.”
“I know,” Tony says with more sadness than they both expected. “But I gave it up. You want to know why?”
“Well, yes,” Q says, unable to resist answering rhetorical questions.
“It’s called friendship. It’s called loyalty. It’s called love. Concepts beyond the Continuum’s grasp.”
Q scoffs. “Blasphemy.” The ensuing awkward pause demonstrates Tony has made a valid point. To prevent him from scoring valid three-pointers, Q asks, “Are you familiar with another concept ‘beyond the Continuum’s grasp’?”
“I don’t—“
“It’s called failure.”
“What?”
“Look around you.”
Reluctantly, Tony complies. The shuttle has gained enough altitude to enter orbit around the scorched planet. Not far ahead, a swarm of Altonoid warships besets Earth Spacedock, and battling starships take up the rest of the view. The majority of the intact ones belong to the Altonoids.
“Earth’s final stand,” Q says, nodding at the carnage. “Pitiful, pitiful. Behold their mighty, cardboard war machines, exchanging glorified laser fire and puny projectiles. Waste of ammo, I’d say. The spacedock is already lost.”
Tony hates to admit it, but Earth Spacedock is coming apart, sending red-hot chunks of hull the size of skyscrapers toward the planet it’s already orbiting dangerously low.
Q spares the starbase a tiny double-handed wave. “Bye-bye, Admiral Harriman and the poor souls who trusted him with their lives. This, Tony, my dear friend, is failure at its finest, at its purest.”
Together, they watch the starbase spiraling to its doom in slow motion.
“Sucks, doesn’t it?” Q says.
Tony has no defense to offer. Fatigue and dizziness take hold, and he silently curses his feeble condition.
“Aw, don’t feel bad about it,” Q says without making any attempt to hide his menacing tone. “Here, I know what. Why don’t I show you the state the of universe had you chosen to stay with us?”
Before Tony can protest, Q snaps his fingers and summons a universe-altering flash. Prominently in view, Earth Spacedock is still falling from the sky, Altonoid warships are still swarming all over, and Starfleet vessels are either significantly damaged or adrift like the dead bulks they are.
“Would you look at that!” Q says with faked amazement. “Nothing has changed!” Without touching the controls, he projects the astern view onto the front window. “Earth is still burning.”
Tony flinches at Earth’s image, the flames of crumpling nations too bright for his tired eyes.
“People in the back!” Q shouts.
Lifelike facsimiles of Tony’s dead friends materialize out of thin air, enough to fill nearly every seat. The senior staff of the Kennedy, his colleagues at Starfleet Headquarters, his father—they all shout “Failure!” in angry unison before vaporizing on the spot.
Q gives him a surprisingly fierce glare. “Failure,” Q says, emphasizing each syllable. He snaps his fingers and restores the original universe in a white flash, which, painfully enough, means everything stays the same.
Without breaking off his unforgiving stare, Q commands the shuttle to evade the one-sided battle and engage warp engines. The falling spacedock, the fighting starships, and the burning planet fade into a series of long streaks of iridescent light as the shuttle hits warp speed. Finally, after too long a time, Q breaks eye contact, takes a deep breath, and leans back in his pilot’s chair.
Tony wipes away the tears that have formed despite his best efforts to mask his sorrow and asks, “So why didn’t you?”
“Why didn’t I what?”
“End my miserable existence. Get it over with. I’ve become an insect to you, haven’t I? What makes me any different from those who were killed? Why should I live and my father die?”
“Oh please, don’t give me that.”
“Perhaps I should rephrase.” There’s a subtle edge to his voice. “Why didn’t you leave me to die?”
Q crosses his arms. “Like you said, your life has become unimportant, nothing but a trivial matter. I’m free to do with it as I please. The Continuum doesn’t care anymore.”
“But do you?”
Q lets out an annoyed sigh. Instead of answering the question, he points at Tony’s bloody torso and sneers, “Maybe you should have that looked at. You only live once, you know.” Q snaps his fingers and vanishes in a flash of light, leaving Tony in a transport shuttle full of empty seats.
* * *
Starbase 43 – April 22, 2382 – Stardate 59303.3
Exhausting doesn’t begin to describe living on this starbase for the past week. The Altonoids’ sudden takeover of the Sol system has dampened everyone’s spirits. Virtually every person aboard Starbase 43 has reason to mourn. Relatives, loved ones, friends—none were spared in this horrifying attack, as survival became a matter of random luck.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Ernest Baxter dares not imagine what the incalculable refugees on this starbase are going through. He wasn’t born in the Sol system, so he cannot begin to comprehend the full scope of their trauma, but the loss of Earth and the surrounding colonies is devastating at best.
This starbase, one of the bases nearest to Earth that haven’t been attacked by Altonoids yet, has been a complete chaos ever since the invasion started. A constant flow of docking spacecraft brings in hordes of the confused and wounded. Every part of the starbase is crowded: crew and civilian quarters, passenger decks, waiting rooms, sickbays… morgues.
Baxter is on his way to a far-off section of airlocks to serve as a welcoming party of one for the occupant of an arriving shuttlecraft. The transporters are constantly in use and the turbolifts are packed, forcing him to traverse congested promenades and hallways. Wherever he goes, he gets a firsthand experience of chaos, unease, and fear… mostly fear. Nobody speaks of it, but an undeniable sense of dread fills up every room, a buildup of apprehension choking any budding sign of relief. Nobody knows what’s next. Nobody wants to know, including Baxter, so he does what everyone else does: finding some way to cope, even if that coping mechanism merely consists of keeping oneself busy.
As he reaches the correct airlock, he opens his medkit for a quick inspection. From a medical tricorder to a compact trauma kit, everything appears to be present. Here’s hoping he recalls the few superficial medical trainings every officer is obligated to partake in. By the looks of it, the spacecraft has already connected itself to the airlock. However, its pilot makes no attempt to make an entrance just yet.
* * *
An opened medkit and a bloodstained dress uniform lie in a corner of the transport shuttle that brought Commander Tony Q to Starbase 43. Using the vessel’s scarce facilities, he has patched up the more severe injuries, cleaned himself up, and replicated a fresh standard-issue uniform. He may look better, but he doesn’t feel it, sitting hunched over the helm station, watching the pilot screen.
“Logging into Starfleet network,” the onboard computer says.
He has been postponing this long enough. “Access Starfleet’s personnel database. Display Lieutenant Commander Ralph Blue’s file.”
The computer shows a recent photograph of his dad, accompanied by a summarized biography and other relevant information.
Tony blocks out the image of his father happy and alive the same way he blocks out the memory of his demise—unsuccessfully. “Process the following update.” Difficult as it may be, he is the one who should do this. These words, though hard to utter, must be spoken. “Date of death: April 17, 2382. Time: unknown. Killed in the line of duty. End of update.”
“Authorization required.”
“Authorization Tango Alpha Eight Five, as reported by Commander Tony…” He hesitates, as if repulsed by his full name. “Commander Tony ‘Q’ Blue.”
“Personnel file updated and closed.”
He ruminates for a handful of seconds, then nods to himself and says, “Display Commander Tony ‘Q’ Blue’s file.”
Tony stares at his picture, taken the day he became first officer of the USS Kennedy. Hard to believe he was once the dapper young man on the screen. That version of him doesn’t exist anymore. That… boy was a fool, his abundant naivety rivaled only by his arrogance. “Process the following update: change subject’s full name to Tony Blue.”
“Authorization required.”
“Authorization Tango Alpha Eight Five, as reported by Commander Tony ‘Q’ Blue. End of update.” The last time he’ll have to refer to himself by that name.
“Personnel file updated and closed.”
Commander Tony Blue allows himself a short-lived smile.
* * *
To Lieutenant Baxter’s relief, the airlock opens, and none other than Commander Tony Q comes stumbling out. Baxter sizes up the surprisingly young commander. Granted, with twenty-six years of age, the lieutenant isn’t exactly a hoary war veteran either—his sharp but friendly features and cropped, auburn hair help maintain his youthful appearance—but somehow he’d expected the famous officer to be older. He pushes these inconsequential thoughts aside and salutes the commander. “Welcome aboard Starbase 43, Commander Tony ‘Q’ Blue. I am Lieutenant Ernest Baxter.”
For reasons that elude Baxter entirely, Tony grunts at the “Q” part. “At ease, Lieutenant,” he says, eyeing Baxter’s attire—a command uniform instead of a medical one. “This is going to be quite a spectacle,” he mutters beneath his breath, loud enough for Baxter to hear.
Missing his cue, Baxter opens his medkit and takes out its medical tricorder with the finesse of a drunken Klingon, spilling an assortment of medical equipment onto the floor before apologetically putting them back in.
Tony arches an eyebrow. “May I ask what your function is?”
“Uh… yes, sir. I’m the chief helmsman of the Achilles,” Baxter says while waving his medical tricorder in the general vicinity of the commander.
“I requested medical attention, not a pilot with a medkit.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Wounded survivors have flooded the starbase, the sickbays are crammed, and the entire medical staff is swamped. All available personnel have been asked to assist in tending to the injured.”
Tony raises the palms of his hands. “Listen, this can wait. I’ve already stopped the internal bleeding and treated the serious wounds on the way here, and—”
“According to my readings you still have a few severe bruises and other physical trauma requiring examination.”
“Yes, and according to those readings I’m currently standing on my head! You’re holding the bloody thing upside down.”
Flustered, Baxter turns his tricorder around and reinterprets its data. Tony, unwilling to tolerate any further delay, limps past. “Hey, where are you going?” Baxter asks, going after him.
“I have to find Emily,” Tony says. “My wife,” he adds in response to Baxter’s puzzled expression. “If she’s even here. Most shuttles were shot down. She probably didn’t make it, but if she did…”
A vague recollection of Tony marrying a fellow Starfleet officer surfaces in Baxter’s mind. “What’s her full name and rank?”
“Huh? Oh. Ensign Emily Christina Blue.”
Baxter presses his combadge. “Computer, locate Ensign Emily Christina Blue.”
Tony grimaces. “We don’t even know if she’s—”
The starbase computer interrupts him. “Ensign Emily Blue is located on deck 814, promenade 14-Alpha.”
Tony’s aspect turns on a dime from sullen to elated. “She made it!” He hugs Baxter, who is a bit uncertain how to react to this mood swing.
“Congratulations, sir,” Baxter says while trying to escape the unexpected embrace as courteously as possible.
Tony lets go and—with newfound energy—begins searching for the nearest turbolift.
“Perhaps you should take it easy, Commander,” Baxter says, hurrying after the limping commander once again. “Your medical condition isn’t… Oh, what the heck.”