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“The pumpkin party is next week, right?” Erica says.
Or at least, that’s what Chris thinks she says. Her voice sounds distorted and muffled, like he’s under water and she’s floating above. He stares at the buttons on the turbolift for a fraction too long before he hits the one for the bridge. How many more times will he get to sit in the captain’s chair?
“Captain?” Erica says.
The transfer orders had come today. I know you’re not going to like this, Chris the message had said. The Enterprise is due for a retrofit, and we’d like you to teach at the Academy while that happens. Actually, we’d like you to consider a long term posting at the Academy.
There had been more, about how the Klingon War had depleted Starfleet’s ranks, but Chris hadn’t read it. He knows he’ll accept the position, and he knows the countdown has begun. One day, in the no longer very distant future, he will surrender his body to save the lives of six Starfleet cadets. His life – at least as he knows it – is almost over.
The turbolift jerks to a stop.
“Chris? Are you alright?” Erica’s standing in front of him now, lieutenant commander’s stripes gleaming on her sleeve.
When he leaves, will she stay on the Enterprise? Or will she take some other posting?
“Hey, you can tell me.” Her touch on his sleeve is hesitant, but her voice is not. She makes a zip-my-lips gesture complete with a little sound effect. “Your secrets are safe with me.”
“No more secrets,” he says. “I’m teaching you the pumpkin recipe this year.”
Erica’s grin is radiant. “Holy shit! Can I tell everyone? Please?”
“Absolutely not,” Chris says. “You don’t get to spoil my fun.”
Her glee snaps him back to the present. He’s here now. He has his crew, and an occasion to celebrate.
With a wave of his hand, he starts the turbolift again and lets it carry him home to the bridge.
That night, he writes Bob April a message: I accept long-term positing at Starfleet Academy, in exchange for the following: four sugar pie pumpkins (not replicated), one kilo gruyere cheese, two packages of bacon, two bunches of scallions, 500 grams pecans, two Granny Smith apples, one head of garlic, assorted woody herbs. Delivery required by October 28.
April writes back all the things Chris had known he would: what the hell? What’s your grudge against the replicator? Why are you like my grandma? and finally, fine, whatever, alright.
***
“I know you hate to cook, so I’m putting you in charge of the cleaning,” Chris says.
Una eyes the four pumpkins lined up on Chris’s counter.
“Ortegas says you’re teaching us the recipe this year,” she says.
“She told you?”
Una shoots him a knowing look. “Seriously? You thought she could keep a secret?”
“For a couple days at least.”
“Well, you do like to believe the best in people.” Una’s eyes rove over the kitchen, which is spotless. “Are you sure cleanup duty is really doing my part? You tend to keep things pretty spic and span.”
“Oh, you thought I meant clean up the kitchen now?” Chris shakes his head and passes her the first pumpkin, along with a knife. “You’re cleaning these out. So we can eat them.”
Una taps it experimentally. “Why? Aren’t they already hollow?”
“Cut the top off and find out.” Chris shakes his head. “How can you know so much about so many things, and nothing about food?”
“I know what it tastes like. I know I like to eat it. And I can program the hell out of a replicator, thank you very much.” She saws the top off the pumpkin and frowns at the mass of seeds and strings inside. “Seriously, Chris? This looks like punishment for an ensign. Maybe the ones playing ding dong ditch outside your door for Enterprise bingo?”
“That’s all in good fun,” Chris says, suddenly feeling a touch wistful. He hopes the tradition will go on without him.
“Pull up a chair, buddy.” Una slides one of the pumpkins across the counter toward him. “If I’m doing this, you’re doing it too.”
He acquiesces without much fight. He’s never been the kind of captain who makes everyone else do the dirty work.
Una waits until he’s elbow deep in pumpkin innards before she says, “It’s almost time, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t have to ask what she means. Clever of her to trap him here, with his own damn pumpkin.
“Yeah.” He has to swallow hard before he can get the word out. “The transfer orders came a few days ago. They asked me to take a posting at the Academy, and I accepted.”
“That’s funny. So did I.”
He hadn’t been able to meet her eyes before, but now his head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re going to need help. You started acting weird, then Ortegas said you were teaching us the pumpkin recipe, so I figured out what was happening and I finagled myself a posting at the Academy. End of story.”
“That is not the end of the story, Una. Not for you.”
Una had eviscerated her pumpkin in record time. Now it’s sitting on the counter, and she’s cleaning her fingers with a wet wipe from her pocket. She takes her time before she looks up.
“What do you think is going to happen, Chris? You’re going to recommend me for promotion and they'll hand me the flagship?”
Chris is still infuriatingly elbow deep in his pumpkin. Completely trapped and forced to have this ridiculous discussion with his normally quite reasonable XO.
“Yes,” he says. “Obviously. You can’t put your whole life on hold for me.”
“You really do want to believe the best in people, Chris. It’s a wonderful quality, but it’s misplaced here. Starfleet isn’t going to hand the flagship to an Illyrian. They’re probably not going to hand any ship to an Illyrian, unless it’s the cargo shuttle to Deep Space One.”
“Shit.” She’s right, of course. He has to swallow around another lump in his throat, although this time, the sorrow’s not for him. “Una, I’m –”
“If ‘I’m sorry’ is the next thing that’s going to come out of your mouth, I forbid you to say it. You don’t get to be sadder about this than I am. I saw this coming the day I turned myself in, but the cause was more important than my career. I don’t regret it.”
Chris hates that he can’t hug her, but then, preventing unwanted hugs is probably half the reason Una had made sure his hands were dirty in the first place.
“Una Chin-Riley, I hope you know I will never pity you. So long as you know you can’t give up your life for me.”
Una tuts derisively. “Who said anything about giving up my life? I’m going to stay till you can look after yourself, and then I’m going off to seek my fortune.”
“Wait, seriously?” Thoughtful and incisive he is not. He just can’t square the statement with the straight-laced, duty-driven XO he’s known for the better part of twenty years.
Una nods, a hint of a smile playing around her lips. “I’m a hell of a pilot, I’m tough as nails, and everything I actually care about fits in a duffle bag. The galaxy has a place for me, and I’m going to find it.”
His heart lifts. Nothing about this situation is right or fair, but if Una says she’ll do something, she does it. Maybe he won’t be able to look out for her anymore, but when has she ever needed that? There’s a better place for her than Starfleet, and she’ll find it, with or without him.
***
“I want a job!”
Chris squints at Pelia’s mass of blond hair. It’s 05:30 and he’s a morning person, but this level of enthusiasm is tough to take this early in the morning, even for him – especially considering that he hadn’t actually invited Pelia here.
“Well, are you going to let me in?” she demands, tapping her foot impatiently at the threshold.
Chris stands aside, not precisely because he wants his chief engineer here for an ass o’clock social call, but because he can’t fathom being rude enough to refuse.
“I’m afraid you’ve caught me before my coffee,” he says. “What kind of job are you looking for? Other than engineering?”
“The pumpkin thing of course!” She waves her hand toward the line of pumpkins on the counter, now hollowed out and covered with a crackling blue stasis field. “If I didn’t get here early, I knew you’d give all the best jobs to someone else!”
“Well, you certainly got here early,” Chris says, pouring himself a bigger cup of coffee than he normally allows. He’s going to need it. “Here, you can do the scallions.”
Pelia raises a disdainful eyebrow. “Do the scallions? I get here first thing in the morning, and that’s all you have for me?”
“And the apples, of course,” Chris says gamely. That’s probably the path of least resistance.
He hands her a knife, and she stands silently at the cutting board.
He sips his coffee, deciding to enjoy the momentary reprieve. He’s close to all his crew, but Pelia a bit less so. Truth be told, she’s a bit of a command management problem, and he might be a little scared of her.
“Well,” she says finally, “what do you mean, do the scallions?”
“Cut them,” Chris says, making an unnecessary chopping motion with his hand. He’d figured her for the type of jump in and do whatever the hell she wants.
“Specifications?” she asks.
“A centimeter or so thick,” he offers with a shrug. “On a bias if you want it to look nice.”
He’s surprised how precise she is in her work, not that he should be. She’s a chaos agent, but one hell of an engineer. Precision goes with the territory. Still, he hadn’t expected her to be like this, standing as close to attention as he’s ever seen her, cutting the scallions and the apples according to his instructions.
“You’re taking this a little more seriously than I expected it,” he says when she drops the last slices into the bowl.
“I’ve been around long enough to know a once in a lifetime experience when I see it,” she says.
Chris frowns. “I didn’t figure cutting produce was a remarkable experience for a being such as yourself.”
“Of course not,” she says. “But cooking with Christopher Pike, that’s special.”
He feels his mouth open and close, but he can’t quite figure out what to say to that.
“You’ll be fine,” she adds, more softly than he expected.
“I don’t see how you could know that,” he says, more sharply than he’d intended. She’d caught him off guard. He hadn’t even told the crew he was leaving, although he supposes it’s easy enough to figure out.
“I know it because I know you.” She answers in a voice that reminds him she could’ve been a captain, if that was the adventure she’d wanted. “When you’ve been around as long as I have, you learn a thing or two about transitions. I don’t know where you’re going or what you’re doing, but accepting change is mostly about trusting yourself. And by now, I think you’ve earned your own trust.”
She holds his eyes like a captain too. Or like a wise and irrefutable grandma. Whatever the case, he believes her.
***
“Seriously, just tear it into pieces?” Christine Chapel looks at him dubiously over half a stale baguette.
“Seriously,” he confirms.
“You realize I only have two modes, right? Medical precision and total chaos. So you’d probably better tell me how big you want the pieces.”
Chris shrugs. “Nothing too big to fit in your mouth in one bite.”
“I dunno, I can put a lot in my mouth,” Christine says, then promptly flushes. “Sorry, the nonworking brain-mouth filter is –”
“Part of your charm. And this is an off-duty conversation.”
What he really means is, if this is the last time he gets to chat with her, he doesn’t want it to be full of awkwardness and protocol. He doesn’t want that for any of his crew, but particularly not for Chapel, whom he’s always been a bit sorry to keep a professional distance from. By her own admission, she tends toward chaos, and M’Benga’s already her gentle, friendly commander. That leaves the actual don’t fuck up my ship command presence for him, the captain. It’s the right chain of command, but he’s sorry he doesn’t know Chapel better. She’s one hell of a nurse, and he doesn’t doubt there’s a hell of a person behind the uniform.
“Is this a test of strength?” Chapel asks, yanking him back from his thoughts. She’s clawing at the baguette but not getting very far.
“By all means, get a knife,” he says, motioning toward the magnetic rack on the wall. “One of the serrated ones.”
“Or different bread?” she suggests, looking skeptically at the rock hard baguette on the counter.
“Absolutely not,” he says, mock wounded. “This is the stalest bread we have, and that’s what we want. It’s hard enough to absorb the liquid from the pumpkin without turning to mush. If the bread’s not stale, the recipe’s ruined.”
Chapel beams. “Wait, did you just give me the most important ingredient?”
“You know, I didn’t put them on a hierarchy, but fresh bread would absolutely ruin the recipe, so you might be right.” He drops his voice to a stage whisper. “Don’t tell the others.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.” She winces. “Shit. Sorry. I’ve been trying to quit with the accidental flirting. Ortegas said she’d make me a detox program and everything.”
“Off duty conversation,” Chris says again.
He really does appreciate how trying to keep up with Chapel keeps his mind off, well, everything.
“So you’re leaving,” she says. So much for keeping his mind occupied with other things.
“Did I make an announcement I don’t remember?” he asks. “Because Pelia was here earlier, and she seemed to think exactly the same thing.”
“Well, you’re teaching us the ancient Pike family recipe, so it seemed kind of obvious.”
“It’s not an ancient recipe. I found it on the back of a box of premade bread crumbs.” He wags a finger. “Tell anyone and I’ll deny it.”
“Your secret is absolutely not safe with me. Unless it’s confidential medical information, in which case, it’s completely safe.”
For a fleeting moment, Chris wonders if he should tell her what’s coming. Actual medical advice wouldn’t be a terrible idea. Except that she’ll tell him his case is hopeless, and since his conversation with Pelia, he’s been feeling a shred of hope. He’d rather leave it intact, even if it is a lie.
“Remember when I tried to leave?” Christine asks.
“When you got a prestigious research fellowship, won some interstellar medical awards, and could’ve had your pick of any job in the galaxy, but you came back here? Yeah, I remember.”
“You never asked why I wanted to come back and enlist for real.”
Chris shrugs. “It didn’t matter. All I knew was I wanted you on my ship. But if we’re talking about it now, why did you come back?”
Christine’s knife stops. “To find Roger Korby and bring him to justice.”
“I’ve gotta hand it to you, you always say something unexpected.”
“The investigators didn’t believe me either. He was using experimental medical techniques on sentient subjects without their knowledge. I have the data, and I’ll make him pay,” she says, voice full of steel.
“I believe you, and I believe you’ll succeed,” Chris says without hesitation. “And whatever the reason, I’m glad you’re here to stay. The Enterprise needs you.”
She smiles. “That’s the great thing about nursing. You’re needed everywhere. You can help everywhere.”
“The Enterprise certainly needs outstanding nurses,” Chris says. “But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about you. In your first year here, before you even enlisted, you fought pirates and saved Spock from the Gorn. I have never doubted that in a true crisis, you could take command of this ship and get her to safety.”
“Wait seriously?” Christine is blinking hard. “You would trust me with the ship?”
“I don’t ever lie to my crew about their abilities or their potential. If you ever want to pursue command, there’s a recommendation letter for you in my files. Una has a backup copy.”
Christine crashes into him with a hug so hard it almost knocks the wind out of him. Knowing his future has been a burden, but now it feels like a blessing too. It gives him the chance to say everything he wants to say to everyone he cares about.
***
“You know those are just going to get melted into goo, right?” Chris says.
Spock is cutting the cheese into precise two centimeter cubes. Measurements had been made.
He cocks an eyebrow. “I am aware of the recipe’s final form. I have consumed your Pumpkin Stuffed with Everything Good on six previous occasions.”
Only Spock refers to the recipe by its full, proper name, which Chris appreciates. He appreciates even more that Spock is willing to eat a pumpkin filled with melted cheese. That kind of decadence doesn’t suit the Vulcan palate, so Spock eats it exclusively as a favor to him.
He should probably let Spock enjoy his 2x2 cubes, but he’s never been able to bite his tongue on occasions like these.
“Spock, the point in cooking is that you don’t have to be precise. You can just let go and know everything is going to be alright.”
“Uniform pieces of cheese will melt more evenly, improving the texture of the final dish,” Spock informs him.
He pauses, and Chris hears the very faint sound of him swallowing. He knows it’s a prelude to saying something emotional and un-Vulcan. Over the years, Spock has leaned into his Vulcan side, and moments like these have gotten rare – and precious.
“Precision requires more time,” Spock says. “It is logical to assume you are transmitting this recipe because your accident approaches. If this is our final opportunity to cook together, I wish to prolong the process.”
Chris had been cutting cheese alongside Spock. Now he has to put down the knife because the world is suddenly blurry. He wipes his eyes with the edge of his sleeve.
Spock turns to face him, his fingers parted in the Vulcan salute. Chris clenches his jaw and tries to force himself into diplomat mode. Live long and prosper isn’t what he wants to hear right now. He can’t do either of those things. But if that’s what Spock needs to say, he should accept the gift in the spirit it’s given.
Spock says, “I have been and ever shall be your friend.”
***
Chris wakes up and reaches for his eyedrops. He may or may not have cried a lot last night after what Spock had said. His eyes feel like sandpaper now, although the swelling’s not as bad as he thought it might be. Thank god Erica is at least thirty minutes late to everything. By the time she arrives, he’ll look normal.
“You’re the secret ingredient,” he says when the door chimes at 10:37 – thirty-seven minutes later than he’d told her to come.
“I hear that surprisingly often,” she says.
She walks in without waiting for an invite. Chris appreciates that more than she probably realizes. He’s never doubted for one second that she’ll follow orders, but off duty, she treats him like a fraternity brother.
“I mean you’re in charge of the secret ingredient,” he says.
Erica’s face lights up. “You mean the thing we sat around the table for an hour last year trying to guess? And we were all wrong?”
“Here you go.” He hands her a fresh whole nutmeg and a microplane.
“Nuez moscada. Abuela would be pissed I didn’t figure it out.”
Erica had grown up in her grandma’s restaurant. She can give Chris a run for his money in the kitchen, and rumor has it, her parties are legendary. He hasn’t attended. They involve a touch more booze and gambling than the captain should witness.
He hands her a cup of cream, more than the recipe will actually require, but he likes a little flexibility.
“Put in as much as I think it needs?” Erica asks, holding the microplane over the measuring cup.
Now it’s Chris’s turn to smile. “I trust you.”
“Glad to hear it.” She turns toward him. “Look, I’m sorry I blew the pumpkin thing, but you know I keep the secrets that matter, right?”
“Without a doubt.” He doesn’t even have to think about it.
“Great. So you wanna tell me what you were so upset about on the turbolift the other day?”
Chris winces. “I guess I didn’t play that off as well as I thought I did.”
“Never take up a career in show business. You’re a shitty actor. But seriously, you know you can talk to me, right?”
Erica’s an outstanding officer because of moments like these. She jokes, but she never loses sight of what’s important, not even for a moment. He thinks about telling her. She’s wiser than her years and a great listener to boot. But he doesn’t want to give up these last few days, weeks, or months – however long he has – when the rest of the world treats him just like they always have.
“That means a lot, but I don’t think I’m ready to talk,” he says. He swallows. “But I’m coming up on something I’m not going to be able to handle on my own, and when the time comes, I may be calling you for help.”
Erica squeezes his shoulder. “Okay. You know I’ve got your back.”
He gives her a wavery smile, and she smiles back. And just like that, they’re back to cooking. Which includes Erica sticking her finger into the cream to see if she’s got the right amount of nutmeg yet.
“That would never fly in your abuela’s kitchen,” he says. He points at the very obvious jar of tasting spoons on the counter.
Erica just shrugs. “The crew’s vaccinated, and so am I.”
Chris wraps a protective hand around the cup of cream. “Can I take this away from you now?”
“Yup. I got it right the first time.” She spins toward the stove, where the package of bacon awaits. “Who gets to cook this?”
She’s already reaching over to ignite the burner, but he bats her hand away.
“That’s my job,” he says.
Actually, it was supposed to be M’Benga’s job, but he’d messaged half an hour ago to say that he couldn’t make it because sickbay had just received an exciting piece of equipment. Chris had swallowed back his disappointment. Of course, he couldn’t write back and say this might be the last time we can ever cook together, not without a whole lot of explaining. That’s the downside to not telling all your friends exactly what you’re facing.
Erica elbows him. “You sure you don’t want to talk?”
Chris shakes his head to clear his mind. “Very.”
“Are you sure I can’t cook the bacon?”
He flicks on the burner. “I’m certain. But feel free to stick around and watch the master.”
Erica sits down on the counter because she knows it drives him crazy – and because she’d never leave him alone when he’s feeling down.
“Hey, this is for you,” he says, and he presents her with the first slice of perfectly crisp bacon. “Thanks for being a friend.”
***
Uhura arrives in his quarters with her uniform top half unzipped, singing a jazz tune under her breath. It’s a far cry from her first visit, stiff in her dress uniform and terrified of doing something wrong.
“So what are we doing tonight?” she asks, clapping her hands.
“I’m doing nothing,” Chris answers. “You’re stuffing the pumpkins.”
“Hell yes I am.”
Nyota doesn’t have his years of experience or Erica’s technical skill, but she makes up for it with sheer willingness to experiment. She pulls the pumpkins out of the stasis field and looks inside with a critical eye.
“This needs salt and pepper, obviously, but I think some sage maybe? Or some thyme?”
He slides a tray of herbs toward her and watches with an approving eye as she seasons the pumpkins’ flesh.
“Now just fill it up with the rest of this?” she asks, gesturing at Pelia’s neatly sliced apples and onions, Spock’s even neater cheese cubes, and Christine’s haphazardly torn bread.
Chris pulls a plate of bacon out of the cupboard, and Uhura frowns.
“I had to hide it from Ortegas,” he says, and she nods.
“That girl is a bacon thief. Then again, who am I to judge?” She seizes one of the pieces and shoves it in her mouth.
Chris takes a piece for himself. “Always cook twice as much bacon as you think you need.”
“That is some wisdom,” Uhura agrees.
He watches while she fills up the pumpkins with alternating layers of bread and cheese, dancing to some song that only she can hear. She’s a fine officer, but the most amazing thing about her is the way that her mere presence lifts the mood of everyone else in the room. Himself included.
He probably ought to tell her that, but he’s tired. Tired of trying to make every second count, tired of trying to come up with the right goodbye, tired of trying to say it without making his crew unnecessarily concerned.
“You have a knack for bringing people together. When I’m gone, I hope you’ll consider hosting dinners for the crew,” he says. It’s not quite everything he needs to say, but it’s a decent start.
Uhura looks at him dubiously. “You think I can compete with Ortegas and her parties?”
“I think you can fill a niche that’s more about camaraderie and less about bacchanalia.”
She taps her long fingernails against the countertop, and Chris can’t help but smile. She and Una have clearly been having manicure sessions.
“You know, I think I could do that if I got some of Captain Pike’s legendary recipe book.”
“Done.”
“Then it’s a deal.” She drops the last piece of cheese into the last pumpkin, and Chris nods his approval. She’d made sure the cheese cubes were the last layer, which he hadn’t thought to do before. He’ll run the broiler at the end of the cooking time to make sure they get brown and bubbly.
She squeezes his arm. “We’re going to miss you, Captain, but I want you to know, we’ll be okay without you.”
Something loosens in his chest. She’s right, obviously. He’s not exactly ready to leave, but his work here is done.
***
The door chimes just before he gives up and completes the last step himself.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. I could barely get away from the Farragut,” a familiar voice says, and La’an bursts through the door and flings her arms around him.
It’s not the first time she’s hugged him. It’s probably well over a hundred now. He still can’t get over the difference: her unbound hair, the faint scent of her perfume, the easy way she smiles. Of everything he’s done in his career, this might be his biggest success. And Una’s.
“What needs done?” she asks, looking around the kitchen. “Am I too late?”
“I saved the last step for you.”
He hands her the cup of cream seasoned with Erica’s nutmeg. “Add however much you think is right.”
The first time he’d cooked with La’an, she’d demanded precise measurements for everything. She valued rules and order above all else.
Now she accepts the cup with a smile and pours a dash of cream over each of the stuffed pumpkins. No questions, no pauses, no hesitations, no fear about taking on the vital last step of a long-awaited project. It’s the behavior of an excellent XO, which he knows she is.
No, it’s the behavior of a captain.
Una would make fun of him for claiming he can identify captain potential in the way somebody finishes a recipe, but Chris thinks you can tell a lot about someone from how they behave in the kitchen. And anyway, it’s not really about the cooking. It’s about the way La’an moves through the world now. She’s not looking over her shoulder for danger. She doesn’t have to. She already knows she’s equal to the challenge. That would be visible no matter what she’s doing, whether it’s cooking dinner or weeding the garden or a dozen other quotidien tasks. Una would agree with that.
A lightbulb illuminates in his brain. He flips open his comm.
“Commander Chin-Riley, come to my quarters at your convenience. There’s a visitor who’d like to see you.”
***
The pumpkins are in the oven, and the crew will be here in another hour or so. He and La’an and Una have just enough time for a drink together – and he has just enough time to chat with Una while La’an’s busy setting the table.
“Kirk’s getting the Enterprise, isn’t he?”
Una raises her eyebrows. “You’re a little slow on the uptake for someone who’s been mentoring him in command for how many years? Eight at least?”
“I’ve been mentoring him to be a captain. You’ve been mentoring him to take the flagship.”
Una nods. She doesn’t look sad. She looks pleased. “And you’re looking at the next captain of the Farragut.”
She inclines her head toward La’an, who’s arranging the candlesticks on the table just so.
“And you’re sure you’re okay with this?” If Una wanted to fight for it, he’d throw his weight behind it. He’s got a long list of favors to call in at Starfleet command.
“I could fight. I probably wouldn’t win, and I’d get beaten up in the process. And if I did win, she doesn’t get her ship.” Una shrugs. “Besides, take a look at this and tell me it doesn’t look more fun than fighting Starfleet for a promotion they don’t want to give me.”
She holds out her padd, and it takes Chris a minute to process what he’s looking at. It’s a color coded spreadsheet that looks like the career pathways they’d plotted for her years ago, but this one is for travel. Six possible routes across the galaxy, warp shuttle times, major landmarks, and notations about places with unusual jobs for pilots. As usual, Una had thought of everything.
“This does look pretty amazing,” he concedes, not without a pang of envy.
“I’ve been working on it for years. I’ve seen the writing on the wall for a long time, Chris. I was sad about it for a while, but I decided to find something to be happy about instead. I’m okay, really.”
“I believe you,” he says.
“You’re not the only one with goodbyes to say tonight, Chris.” Una keeps her voice low. “If you don’t mind, I’d like a moment with La’an.”
Chris nods. When Una leaves for the Academy, she’s not going to run into La’an in the stars anymore. And when she leaves Starfleet, she’ll see La’an even less.
“I’m going to go see if Chapel and M’Benga are still locked in sickbay with whatever the hell arrived today. You two don’t drink all the good booze while I’m gone.”
“Alright, we’ll only have half,” La’an calls, and Chris feels another surge of hope.
If La’an Noonien-Singh can learn how to tell a joke, there’s no limit to the number of possibilities in the universe.
***
“Are M’Benga and Chapel around here somewhere?” Chris asks the new doctor on duty.
McCoy, Chris thinks. He’d just come aboard a few days ago for a fellowship in xenobiology and interstellar medicine.
“In the back,” McCoy says with an awfully long-suffering attitude for someone who looks relatively young. “Putting together the new toys.”
“Why aren't you back there too?” Chris asks, mostly because he imagines McCoy’s answer will be entertaining.
He’s not disappointed.
McCoy’s scowl darkens. “Because I’m a doctor, not a damn engineer.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” Chris says, feeling positively joyful that this man’s attitude will be someone else’s command management problem.
He knows where Chapel and M’Benga will be. Sickbay has three small cargo holds: one for spare organs, which gives him the creeps, one for temperature-controlled medicines, and one for the serious hardware. That’s where he’ll find them.
The door swooshes open with his command code, and he strolls in.
He says, “I came to make sure you two don’t miss the –”
He sees what they’re working on, and then he can’t speak. The chair is here, exactly as he’d seen it in his vision.
The future isn’t waiting for him. It’s arrived already. He doesn’t have years or months or even weeks left; it’s days.
M’Benga meets his eyes and smiles, and Chris stumbles backward.
M’Benga’s mouth is moving, but Chris is too far underwater to understand what he’s saying. The sound of his own ragged breathing fills his ears. His chest hurts, worse pain than he’s ever experienced. It’s happening now. Before he even gets to save anyone.
M’Benga and Chapel are running toward him now, but he keeps stumbling backward. He can’t let them put him in the chair. Better just to die.
But he can’t do even that. He trips over something and now he’s crashing to the ground. The door is sealed behind him, some kind of medical override, and he can’t get away.
A hypospray jams into his neck.
“Captain, you are having a panic attack.” M’Benga’s voice is clear and firm.
That’s not right. They’re trying to trick him. He needs to get up now and run, but his legs are shaking too hard for that.
Now his body is going numb. His heart rate is slowing down. So is his breathing. Is this what dying feels like?
No, supplies a rational voice in the back of his mind. This is what the end of a panic attack feels like. Is it possible to die of embarrassment? He thinks it might be.
“We gave you a drug to dissolve the stress hormones,” Chapel says. Her voice is perfectly level, like she sees starship captains wet themselves with fear everyday. “Some people experience numbness afterward. Stay down for a few minutes, okay?”
“Do you know what triggered the attack?” M’Benga asks gently.
He doesn’t want to talk about it. He definitely doesn’t want to hear cold medical facts about his soon-to-be-dire medical condition. But if it’s coming now, he probably needs to. Without meeting Chapel or M’Benga’s eyes, he forces himself to talk.
Stunned silence fills the room when he’s finished.
Then M’Benga points at the chair. “Chris, this is a rehabilitation device.”
“We requested it in case of a serious injury in deep space,” Christine adds. “It provides mobility for people undergoing multiweek cellular regeneration treatment.”
“Multiweek?” Chris repeats stupidly.
“It’s not forever,” M’Benga says gently. “I won’t lie to you, Chris, you have a hard road ahead. You will not make a full recovery. But being completely immobile and unable to communicate is not a permanent condition.”
“And your face won’t melt off,” Chapel adds. “At least, it’s very unlikely to melt off.”
“You sure about that?” he asks weakly.
“Face melting sounds pretty medically impossible,” Chapel answers. “Honestly, by that point in the vision, the level of cortisol in your bloodstream probably distorted your perception.”
M’Benga shoots her a look, and she says, “Oh, sorry, you were asking about the chair.”
“Look at me, Chris,” M’Benga says, and Chris reluctantly complies. He doesn’t see pity in the doctor’s face. He probably should’ve known he wouldn’t.
“I don’t know of a single patient who lived in a chair like that for more than a few weeks. They don’t have to. It’s effective treatment,” M’Benga continues. “That was a medical opinion. Now I’m going to give you a personal one. Surviving an injury like that takes great determination.
If you saw yourself with a future, it’s because you chose to survive. Even at your worst moment, you must have known you could live a meaningful life. Knowing you, you believed that you could find a way to help someone else.”
Chris is shaking again, but this time it’s not fear. It’s relief. He’d seen the middle of his story and assumed it was the ending.
M’Benga nudges him. “Chris, you anticipated a life altering injury and you never considered asking for medical advice?”
He’d thought he knew what they would say. He’d thought he was already pushing his luck by telling Spock and Una about the vision when the monks had warned him not to. Mostly, he’d been determined to handle as much of this on his own as possible.
“I think this is yet another life lesson about the importance of asking for help early and often,” he says.
“You going to learn the lesson this time?” M’Benga holds out a hand, and Chris decides to accept his entirely unnecessary assistance getting off the floor.
“Probably not.” He smiles ruefully. “But I’ll keep trying.”
***
Two years later, Chris wakes up to a cool autumn breeze drifting through the open window. Voices filter in from the living room, and he opens his eyes with a start.
Not that it helps much. The world is blurred, like one of those Impressionist paintings he’d always hated. Radiation isn’t great for eyesight.
“Computer, what time is it?” he asks, giving up on squinting at the large clock on his nightstand.
“It is 17:07,” the automated voice supplies crisply.
Fuck. He lurches for the mechanical braces beside the bed. Walking’s getting better. Slowly. The doctors think muscle atrophy is a bigger problem than the radiation itself, which means he has a shot at walking unassisted if he’s disciplined about the physical therapy.
“What happened to my alarm?” he asks.
“Lieutenant Commander Erica Ortegas disabled it with her override code,” the computer says. “I have been programmed to remind you that you gave her the override code.”
“Right,” Chris mutters.
As if on cue, Ortegas appears in the bedroom door. He recognizes the faint pink blur of her face, but mostly, he recognizes the pattern of her footfalls.
“Hey, remember how you were just released from the hospital yesterday? Does the whole raging infection thing sound familiar?” she asks.
Chris grunts acknowledgment. Radiation poisoning was also not great for his immune system. He’d gotten released from his latest hospitalization on the condition that he’d actually go home and sleep.
He limps toward Ortegas and squints at the silver gleam around her leg. “Looks like I’m not the only one who needs help walking,” he hazards.
“Perils of being a test pilot.” Ortegas doesn’t sound too unhappy about it. “Doctors say I’ll be out of the brace in a couple weeks.”
“Let me guess, if they say warp seven in the maximum speed, you shouldn’t try for seven point one?”
“Something like that.”
Chris can picture her wry grin. His vision might not improve, but the memories of his crew’s faces are crystal clear.
More laughter erupts from the dining room.
“Who’s here?” he asks.
“Everyone except Kirk and Pelia. He couldn’t leave the Enterprise and she’s apparently in trouble with the law. Again.”
“Any big life updates for the crew?” he asks. Now that he can’t rely on visual cues as much, he likes to get the lay of the land.
Erica smiles, or at least, he imagines she does. “La’an will neither confirm nor deny that she’s involved in a relationship with James T. Kirk. So probably they’re having a lot of sex at the very least. And Una’s dressed in black leather and she has a scar on her face, so I assume she’s a pirate queen.”
“She’s not a pirate queen.”
“Democratically elected pirate leader?”
“Not a pirate.” Chris pauses. He shouldn’t be telling Ortegas this, but at some point, Una’s going to need backup and he’s definitely not cleared for flight maneuvers. “She’s running an underground network to liberate enslaved Orion women. A friend with access to high speed test vehicles would not go amiss.”
He doesn’t need to see Ortegas. He can feel her interest – and attraction – ratchet up.
“I’ll take that under advisement,” she says. By which she probably means that a daring rescue would be a perfect opportunity to make an advance. She’s not wrong.
“You ready to get out there?” she asks.
His stomach flutters. Una had spent six months with him after the accident, and he’d video chatted with the rest of his crew, but this is the first time seeing most of them in person.
“Well, if they pity me, I won’t be able to see it on their faces.”
Ortegas clucks her tongue. “Nobody pities you. You have a lot of opinions about how starships should run, so some people think you’re a gigantic pain in the ass, but nobody pities you.”
Chris is about to limp out in the hallway, but he turns to squeeze Erica’s shoulder.
“Thanks for coming,” he says. It had been hard to call her at first, but he realized that if he didn’t expand his support network, Una would never be able to live her life. And besides, it had been good for him to see how many people he could count on.
Erica snorts. “Trust me, this is a mutually beneficial arrangement. If I keep up the test pilot gig, I’ll be needing some help of my own. I know who I’m calling first.”
Chris is in no condition to take care of anyone else right now. Still, the thought that he could be some day gives him enough hope to face his crew.
***
The living room goes silent when he walks through the door. Sam Kirk is the first to speak.
“Chapel forgot to put in the pecans.”
It seems like a nonsequitur until he gets a whiff of the aroma from the kitchen: roasting pumpkin and bubbling cheese. They’re making the pumpkin stuffed with everything good.
“You hush, Sam Kirk,” Uhura says sharply, but there’s a smile in her voice. “You weren’t even part of the original recipe team.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” La’an says. “We’re going to toast them and put them on the table for garnish.”
“With some parsley and pickled onions,” Erica adds. “My innovation, but I think it’s going to work.”
“Pelia wants you to know she used her one phone call to tell us about the apples and the onions,” Chapel says. “She also says it’s not really stealing if you plan to put it back later, and it’s not her fault the police don’t understand that.”
“I’m so glad it’s not my job to explain the problem with that reasoning,” Chris says and everyone laughs.
Maybe that wasn’t the first thing he should’ve said to his crew, but it doesn’t feel like he needs some overwrought, ceremonial greeting anymore. It feels like old times, like he’d seen them all just yesterday. Una pulls out a chair for him, and he sinks into it gratefully, not really caring if they see he doesn’t like standing up for too long.
“Your plan worked really well by the way,” Ortegas says.
Chris turns toward her questioningly. “What plan?”
“The one where you told everyone one part of the recipe so we couldn’t make it unless we all kept in touch,” Una says.
“Ortegas made a badass version with chorizo and queso asadero when we got together on Starbase One,” Uhura adds.
“Uhura arranged it because you said it was her job to keep people connected,” Chapel chimes in.
“And because I promised you we’d be okay without you, even if we missed you,” Uhura says.
Chris swallows hard. He’d like to say something, but it’s difficult to speak around the lump suddenly forming in his throat. This is exactly what he’d hoped for when he left: his crew is still a team, even though half of them had taken different assignments and one of them had left the fleet altogether. And they’re not just hanging out, they’re cooking, learning the ways that food can bring people together.
“I believe congratulations are in order,” Spock says.
Even though Chris can’t see well, he can feel the way all the attention in the room swivels toward the Enterprise’s new XO. Spock wears the authority well.
“Who’s got the good news?” he asks. If there’s an occasion to celebrate, maybe he can knock together something in the kitchen, visual impairment notwithstanding.
“You, Chris,” Una says. She doesn’t add you idiot at the end, but he can hear it in her voice. “You didn’t think we’d find out you were nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize?”
“I don’t think making peace should be a competition,” Chris says.
“Negotiating phase two of the Klingon Accords is a big accomplishment,” M’Benga says. “Ending the territorial disputes on the neutral zone will save lives.”
“So will the nonaggression pact with the Gorn,” La’an says. “No one else could have found a way to communicate with them.”
Ortegas slaps him on the back. “Keep this up and your birthday’s going to be a holiday.”
Chris inhales sharply. Suddenly he’s back in his quarters on the Enterprise, talking to an annoying yet oddly perceptive ensign from the future. In my time, your birthday is a holiday, Boimler had said. Chris had imagined he would be celebrated for his sacrifice and his suffering. He’d never even considered that he would be honored for a new accomplishment, one he couldn’t have achieved if he was still zipping around the galaxy on exploratory missions.
The room’s gone quiet again, and Chris can see just enough to tell everyone is holding up a glass.
“To Admiral Pike,” La’an says. “Bringing peace by seeing the galaxy through other people’s eyes.”
Glasses clink, and Spock steps closer so Chris can see the Vulcan salute.
“Live long and prosper,” he says.
For the first time in a long time, Chris believes that he will.