Capt. Shayne: How Do We Tell Him?
Randal Shayne
((Deck 1, Captain’s Ready Room, USS Khitomer))
Shayne: What’s our ETA?
Hobart: Eighteen hundred thirty five, sir. Just in time for supper.
Late. Gamma shift would just be getting into the rhythm of the evening, but senior officers would likely be exhausted. Shayne knew he was, though each of them had something draining their strength beyond the normal rigors of the day. He, for example, had watched his staff… not revolt, not collapse, just… stop having quite the same faith in him, in each other. Hobart, of course, was the connection between the suddenly insular Shayne and a crew in desperate need of unified leadership- the first officer was managing smoothly, but Shayne knew that no amount of apparent comfort could change the necessary energies that went into being the face of the top. Connor, Ayemet, Talia, Semara… what could be said about their horrible predicament, one that spoke of itself? So many others, so many new faces, so many old ones… it felt like an hours long explosion that had begun with the bringing aboard of the Ouachita, and rippled concussively against every bastion of strength they’d each drawn from before.
And now they were set to arrive at the scene of the first foretold events, the scene that would lead to their eventual crash landing and destruction. Even now, he didn’t understand. How could it have been allowed? Battles, malfunctions, even sabotage- they’d survived it all. What would prove too overwhelming for even their abilities?
Shayne: What’s the crew’s status?
Hobart: First, sir, you need to know I've relieved Dewitt. Connor. Just for the evening to address a personal matter.
Shayne kept staring out the window, nodding slowly in final understanding. Given that he was usually fairly flexible with people’s schedules, and given that he’d come a long way from the hard-ass he’d taken up the mantle of captain as, it oughtn’t be surprising that Hobart had given Connor some personal time to process. But a single shift wouldn’t cut through the incomprehensible awfulness, betrayal, and absurdity of learning that his progeny from the future was not shared with his current spouse. Newly wed, and new dread.
Shayne: If Ayemet asks, please relieve her as well.
Hobart: ::nodding:: And second, I owe you an apology. As XO it falls to me to keep the crew in line, and I failed you. The meeting got out of hand, and people allowed their personal feelings to override their duties as officers. You weren't able to get in a word edgewise, sir, and that's my fault. I should have put a stop to it sooner.
A single, soft scoff left Shayne’s throat, and he lowered his head so that his suddenly heavy arm didn’t need to travel far to pinch his nose.
Shayne: Nolen, you regularly astound me. On rare occasions, it’s for the wrong reason.
Finally, and suddenly, the captain turned to look his weary first officer in the eye. The intelligent, proud, playful glint in Shayne’s gaze was missing. In its place with the look of a cynic, but a cynic who understood that his cynicism needed to be held in the airlock of skepticism for the present.
Shayne: I should have known better. Should have known that bringing an impossible runabout aboard would, at first, create more questions than answers. Should have known that twenty people, a fifth of whom are apparent survivors of intergalactic war they’d lost, would not be able to share thoughts productively at once. Should have known when to stand the hell up and hammer things to a close. I froze. You took action- and if I’d not placed you in a difficult position, that action would have been just as healing as it was assertive. I pushed each of us to the thin ice. You brought skates.
…alright, the metaphor might have gone into left field there, but captains were allowed a poetic diversion every now and again. Kept them dignified, and sharp, and mildly dusty. Just like Starfleet wanted them.
Hobart: Thank you for that, sir, just the same. I would like to say we're out of the woods, but…
He scoffed again, but now he was facing his first officer, and could show him a sliver of vitality that had returned with his admission.
Shayne: Nowhere close. We have a prison to investigate, a war to win, a ship to save and a crew to lead. We’re swamped.
He knew that, below decks, his eggheads were tackling the various problems that had been introduced, attempting to knit and pick at the threads of destiny. For Hobart and Shayne, the problem was similar; what they’d allow themselves to pursue, should fate’s threads introduce themselves.
Hobart: Response
Shayne: Depending on what we find, and what our science staff discover, we’ll have choices… choices about how we proceed, knowing how the future already has turned out. For right now, we need to focus our attention strictly on the ship and crew. We don’t have enough information yet to responsibly alter our course if it affects others. But we will not let this ship crash land on some barren icy hell hole.
It occurred to Shayne that in all the conversation, no one had confirmed if he had been killed in the crash, or if he’d survived. Facing death was an often-addressed challenge at Starfleet Academy; among the best coping methods was a professor’s simple observation- you are constantly facing death. Every two minutes, you start to die of oxygen deprivation, and the breath you next take resets the clock. So he breathed, long and slow. But it was still passionately unnerving to look over a cliff he hadn’t expected to be brought to, as if he’d find his broken body laying below.
Hobart: Response
The chime rang out. Someone was trying to enter. Shayne flicked a glance to Hobart, asking if he had an objection to a third person’s presence.
Shayne: Come on in!
The captain brought himself to full height, and held his hands behind his back expectantly. Surely it was too soon for Korras and Banks, and he’d be astonished if the tangled reality of time had been unwoven so soon, which meant-
-the doors slid open, and a thoroughly unrecognized individual stepped forward. The Khitomer, being a large ship, was occasionally honored with and relieved of crew members after assignments, so it wasn’t totally unexpected for Shayne to not know who this… ensign, the single pip on his collar revealed… was. But it was still annoying, so while he didn’t hold malice towards this newcomer, Shayne appraised him sternly.
Melville-Kilpatrick: Response
Shayne cast another glance towards Hobart, asking whether he was aware of this.
Hobart: Response
Shayne: Your orders?
He held out an expectant hand for the PADD device most ensigns bore with them to their arrival meeting.
Melville-Kilpatrick/Hobart: Response
Everything appeared to be in order, but as Shayne’s eyes traced over the formatted documentation, searching now for minor discrepancies as a result of past tampering incidents, he couldn’t help but scoff mirthlessly to himself. Here they were, discussing the end of their lives, the end of the ship, the end of the Federation as they knew it… and here, at the center of it all, the very beginning of the end, was a newly assigned greenhorn fresh from the Academy. It was an unconscionable prospect, losing him and the rest of the young, optimistic officers and crew to the fast-arriving crisis they now barreled towards. Whatever came, they’d have to succeed. Even if they weren’t yet sure what success would look like… they had to succeed.
Shayne: What’s your specialty, Ensign?
Melville-Kilpatrick/Hobart: Response
Tag/TBC…
Captain Randal Shayne
Commanding Officer
USS Khitomer
NCC 62400
G239202RS0