Coming Home Again

April unfastened and shrugged the blue cloak from his shoulders.  He looked at it in his hands for a moment, draped it over a nearby chair.  Turning to the replicator, he started punching in instructions for a uniform.

One of the prerogatives of being captain: He had the option of wearing his own unique, variant version of Starfleet uniform.  In the past he had worn several.  There had been a flirtation with variant uniforms for the whole officers' segment in the slipstream program, switching from gray-padded shoulders on the black outfits to blue, and accenting it by making all duty undershirts white regardless of department color.  The intent had been more of an Old Earth naval scheme.  Though the Starfleet fashion police opted to resume traditional gray and individual department colors, the blue-white scheme remained popular with some COs, who shared that empathetic resonance with ancient seafarers, plying oceans of water by sail or rudder.  Though it was important to set an example, by wearing the common uniform as a model for all... emphasizing 'one crew, one Starfleet'; they were a team... he felt out of tune with the dark tones of the suit, today.  He came aboard in blue and white, so decided to stick to that, to ease his transition.  He programmed the old blue-white issue.

As the uniform materialized in the compartment, he glanced around at his new quarters: Not exactly new, but half of his old quarters.  When his daughter took command, she waived the need for spaciousness typically granted to captains, spaciousness he'd enjoyed for years, and chopped the living space in half, putting up a partition, which made his quarters half their previous size, giving the other half to some other officer.  Now that he was back, he had the choice of returning them to their former size.  But he wasn't the type for that kind of self-indulgence, anymore.  Less was more, in April's book.  He was satisfied with the small living space, on par with any common officer's quarters: One way he could set an example, for now.

The sight of the blond curls and instant smile, accompanied by her trademark little wave of the hand in greeting, almost made April turn back into the turbolift.

Yeoman Sunni Moon, the perky, carefree spirit who turned bouncing around the reaches of the ship into an art-form, came down the corridor, with a slightly exaggerated saunter, towards him... as if she somehow knew he'd be coming out of that turbolift at that very moment.  How?  Even had she checked with the computer on his whereabouts, she could not have made it to that deck, that lift junction, on time to catch him as he emerged.  Yet somehow there she was.  Unless she did a site-a-site transport, beamed to his location....

"Welcome back, Captain.  And may I say, you're looking very delicious today."  She smiled, with full teeth.

He eyed her for a second as if she was daft.  Three years away had not exactly been kind to April: He resisted health augments and cosmetic revitalization so many others took for granted, at his age – which amounted to receding hairline, deeper lines and a few wrinkles, sagging bodily frame, graying hair, a few extra pounds.  He believed in God's natural gifts.  Although not everyone did.

Moon, on the other hand, had not aged a day.  Still the same perky young woman... without a doubt, the best-looking yeoman he'd ever had, with a figure that her uniform absolutely could not hide... and obviously still as flighty as ever.

April rolled his eyes and sighed.  "You haven't changed, Yeoman."

Moon gave one of her characteristic giggles and forked over a PADD.  "The itinerary for your first day back, sir, and I think the new doc wants to see you."

"Doctor..."

"Cow?  Coon?"  She bit her lip in puzzlement, trying to peek at the PADD, now in April's hand facing him, the name there, out of her sight.  "Something like that."  Moon laughed again.

"Cao," April corrected her, scrolling quickly through the changes to the Arcs personnel roster, noting the new addition who had replaced Tabatha Brisk as CMO.  There were many familiar names, and some not so familiar.  Starfleet had honored his request for many of the old hands from the time of her semi-retirement, assigning them to his command again.  He needed people who knew how to work with Quantum-class intricacies, Arcadias in particular.  People he knew, and could trust.

Other new names and data caught his attention on the PADD: Pagliacci, from the MacKenzie, in Security.  Mala Hendriksson, the mystifying young woman he'd met, at conn.  In Sciences – a Krindorian; that was interesting.  And a... a Borg?... 'Jez', heading Engineering.  Jez?  Jallez? he thought – but no, that was another lifetime, another reality.  If he started thinking about that again, it would drive him crazy.

April lowered the PADD and opened his mouth, to Moon, then hesitated.  In the past, he'd always sent her away, wherever and whenever he justifiably could, to keep her out of his hair.  He was instinctively about to do so again.  He had been on top of things, in his heyday – always knew, at any moment, what was going on aboard his ship.  He didn't need a yeoman to facilitate what he could do himself.  But this was a new day, and he was a different man – not the same man he once was.  Though it'd been only three years since his retirement, that three years seemed a lifetime for one who spent all his life on ships before that, since he was little.  He was older now.  That was supposed to equal more mature.  ~Act your age, April.~  It was disrespectful to Moon, who for all her flightiness qualified to be there.  She held a petty officer's commission, for God's sake; she deserved to be treated with better accord.  She had, after all, somehow manipulated time and space to defy the odds, in being able to sneak up and intercept him, like she just did.  Perhaps, like Mala Hendriksson, there was more to her than met the eye.

"Yeoman, can you set up an officers' meeting?"  He handed the PADD back to her.  "I have other matters to tend right now."

Moon's eyes glimmered, thinning in the smile pressing upon her face.  "Ohhh, I'd be happy to, Captain."  She giggled.

April waited for her to go.  "See to it then, Yeoman."

"Okay!  Bye!"  She cocked another full smile, winked and waved, setting off down the corridor at a casual gait, humming.

He stood in the port-side access corridor, a short hall leading from the outer deck into the fore-section of the bridge, somewhat out of sight.  Over two dozen officers and crew roved about, manning various consoles, running diagnostics and personal checks on various systems and equipment, as if this was the first launch the ship would ever undertake.  The corner of his mouth curled in amusement, and pride.  Arcadia always did have one of the finest crews.  He turned as the door opened behind him, and a young woman walked through with grayish-white skin, black hair, slowing to give him an odd look.  He didn't recognize her, except for the fact that she was Krindorian, nor did she seem to recognize him.  Must be the owner of the name he saw on Moon's PADD – some long convoluted thing he could barely pronounce.  She wore Sciences' teal duty collar, sporting an ensign's pip and what appeared to be tattoos under the collar.

"Captain," she said with a nod, after noticing his rank pips – probably wondering why he was hanging in the access corridor, just out of sight from the bridge crew – and continued on, towards the science booth on the opposite starboard side.

Just aft of the science booth, past the turbolift doors, sat the door to the transporter room adjacent to the bridge.  Another young woman walked out – a Cardassian.  For a moment, he thought it was Tala, the Cardassian-Bajoran who held the transporter chief's job on this ship for a long time, since the date of first launch; but no, it wasn't her.  April felt saddened, that Tala had been one of the victims of their travels, a reminder that the universe held dangers as well as wonders.

Cardassia was part of the Federation now – no small wonder in itself.  Nothing drove that home like seeing a Cardassian on his ship, in Starfleet uniform – a testament to ever-advancing progress and expansion.  Something he'd have to get used to, like he would have to acclimate to all the other political changes in recent years... peace with the Romulans, non-aggression pacts with the Dominion and the Borg (in which he personally had a hand).  Still, other enemies remained, unfortunately, and for every peace made, every new ally gained, there would always be another potential enemy to take their place.  He hoped Arcadia would not find herself in such politically tinted situations, as she was first and foremost a ship of exploration.

April stepped out fully and looked around.  After three years, it felt like coming home.  No... it WAS coming home.  On a starship... on the bridge or elsewhere, it didn't matter... it had always been home to him.  For those three years, in which he thought his starfaring days were behind, he often stretched his mind – back, outwards, to those halcyon yesterdays of glory, to the memories of when he was what he'd always thought he was meant to be: a starship captain.  Of all the ships he had commanded, Arcadia was queen.  He had contemplated often on her whereabouts, what the old girl was doing, what new star system or space-lane she was off exploring.  The memories had filled him with pride.

And here he was, standing aboard her once more.  "I guess it's true what they say," he said.  "You can go home again."

Heads lifted and bodies turned, at the sound of his voice... followed by smiles on faces of recognition, those who knew him, or appraising glances from those who didn't.  Crew-members spoke out, or came forward to greet him, as he moved into their midst, before getting back to work.  April toured the bridge in a slow circle, along the outer console embankments lining the walls, in an inward spiral towards the middle.  He slid his hand along panels, backs of chairs, remembering people who sat there, moments that occurred in those spots.  It was not the same bridge from the ship's early days.  But that could not take away the memories, the spirit imbued by their predecessors.  In their place, only memories remained, and in cases, only his memories.  He imagined their residue in the walls, in the deck plating, the consoles and chairs and wiring which made up the innards of Arcadia.  One first officer had gone on to command his own ship.  Another turned care worker, married to a former chief engineer, while they raised their child.  A science officer he once respected had retired and adopted orphans.  Two decks below – where a diplomat he called friend sacrificed himself on principle – had lived, and worked, women April had loved.  Two died.  One, the last, had left Arcadia with him then requested reassignment.  They parted as friends.  April could never make a romance last, the one area of his life in which he was doomed to perpetual failure.  His work always came first.

A young woman stepped over from the Operations console.  "Captain April... welcome back.  It's been a while, sir."

April studied her, trying to remember her name.  He noted her rank pips – two full round silvers.  "Marchese, isn't it?"

She nodded.  "Kehla Marchese; yes, sir."

"You were a junior grade when I left."

Marchese made a verbal equivalent of a shrug.  "It's been a few years, Captain.  Captain Ordalani promoted me, when she was still in charge... before she left for the DeSoto."

"I see.  Well... congratulations, Lieutenant.  I have every bit of Eve's confidence in you."

"Thank you, sir."  She smiled and returned to her station.

A bittersweet sadness filtered into his mind, and he sighed.  While this ship, his beautiful ship, had always been home, it was home in the sense of its family, its crew, who lived there with him... his friends.  The people he had come to know and love... they had been his family, in this home.  But they were gone.  It felt like a house you've lived in all your life, and you come home to find it occupied by strangers.  A few familiar faces, like Marchese, remained from the time he'd left.  Few he knew well, if at all.  None represented the family, the original crew, save for Tabatha Brisk.  And no one could fill their shoes.  The ache would make his heart break, if he let it.  He would have given anything to have them around him again.  Those people, from days gone by... they had been Arcadia's soul, her beating heart.  They were gone, never to return.  And so, in a sense, he was alone.

But here was a new crew, ready, regardless, to take up the mantle.  They didn't share April's ennui.  They could only supplant it with excitement, anticipation.  Ready to be her new, beating heart.  The thought caused him to smile, as he stepped in front of The Chair... his chair, the center seat of command.  He leaned over, eyed it closely.  The upholstery was different... no, the entire chair had been replaced, damn them... but, he supposed, standing straight again, that it did not matter.  Not really.  It was the position that counted.

He could not deny the shiver of excitement, at the thrill of what was to come – the future, unfolding before him; the unseen, of what laid out there waiting to be found.  For all the Federation's advances, for all the star-systems discovered and charted in the galaxy, the vast majority still lay unexplored.  Stephen April had lived a unique life, his destiny synonymous with Starfleet.  In the whirlwind adventure of his life, he'd seen and experienced more than most could imagine.  He had lived two lifetimes, in two separate universes.  He had seen other universes and dimensions; he had touched God; and for a brief time, he had seen it all.  Loved and lost, lived and died.  He had been reborn.  But the memories of those adventures faded, as if a dream, and there was still so much that that remained, untouched.  Sometimes one did not have to go to the ends of the universe to find adventure.  Sometimes one found it in one's own back yard.  Expansion did not equal exploration.  In this galaxy, his back yard, there was still more to be learned, more to do.  And he was poised, once more at the crossroads of destiny... set to launch himself out there again, and find it.  Mission: Go.

Stephen April's senses tingled with the old, half-forgotten anticipation.  He lowered himself into his chair again, for the first time in three years, and smiled at the viewscreen.

April stepped inside the door to sickbay and looked around.  On the far side of the room, a short, thin man with dark hair hunched over a medical scanner, back turned.  Nurse Layla Roberts, passing by, stopped, a smile lighting up her familiar face, soon followed by a slew of others.  By now, he was used to it – the smiles and faces of those who knew him, pleased at seeing their old captain, back in the flesh, and in uniform, walking around again.  If a bit more weathered.

"Captain!"  "Sir!"  "Good to see you again, Captain."  "Welcome back, sir!"

Tabatha Brisk, holding a medical tricorder nearby, shot him a grin, and went back to her work, shaking her head.

He put on a smile for their benefit, nodding at the group.  "As you were."  Their gazes lingered on him for a warm moment, before they dispersed.

The commotion drew the attention of the dark-haired man, now approaching.  April's smile faded.  He knew Cao's face, from his file.  As the new CMO stepped before him, April regarded the doctor, curious, trying to draw a sense of him.  Cao seemed professional in his tasks, but never looked him in the eye for more than a fleeting second, as though his eyes were following a fly, and caught April's by passing.  The man's face was everywhere except on April's – as if he had trouble staying focused.

The truth was, he mystified April.  He felt guilty, and ashamed, for doubting him, after what he himself had been through.  If Starfleet trusted Cao, he should have been able to.  Yet he couldn't deny it – the slight feeling of discomfort and distrust prickling at the back of his mind.  This was the man to whom he had to entrust the lives of his crew, including his own.  Did Cao understand the depth of such responsibility?  Before being paralyzed from the neck down, April never thought a paraplegic could command a starship.  His estimations of handicapped personnel and their abilities changed considerably during the time he spent living in a hoverchair.  But his condition was physical.  It hadn't impaired his mental abilities.

Cao was a different matter.  Supposedly he made up for it – after all, how did he qualify for chief medical officer aboard a Quantum-class starship, after spending eight years in medical school, and attaining rank of lieutenant commander?  He had to have done something right.

After the quick size-up, April finally spoke, afraid he was making the doctor nervous: "Doctor Cao.  How do you do.  I'm Captain April."

Cao did not immediately respond.  He continued to appear distracted.  He peered at April through half-lidded eyes, and pursed his lips in a frown of concentration.

Cao had not had time to review everyone's medical records, yet.  There was a time when that would have made him feel at a disadvantage.  Earlier in his socialization process, Cao had required mental supports, routines, crutches, with which to navigate through interactions with others.  Over the decades, he had built firmer supports within himself.  Now, he simply regarded this captain of starships, and tried to get a feel for the man.  April's chi was unique.  It was also in considerable flux.  Starship captains, Cao had heard, were exceptional individuals, given to exceptional energies and forces.  April appeared, on first study, to hold to this axiom.  His light was bright, but it wavered.  No matter: Everyone's light did, from time to time.  Life was a learning process, so flickers of change were good omens.  It was the people with steady, unwavering souls who worried Cao.  In his opinion, the minute a person decided they were content with life, the concrete began to set, between their ears.  Life was energy, and the strongest lives often cast out the wildest, most uncontrolled energies.  Cao finally smiled.  April struck him as one of those people, who currently had those energies barely in check.

"Captain April," he said, bowing slightly, before extending a hand for April to shake.

When April took that hand, Cao clasped his other hand over their grip, and held that contact for several seconds.  He had learned to be brief, as prolonged handshaking tended to make people nervous.  Cao preferred nonverbal communications, however.  He trusted the flow of chi, more than the exchange of words.  His contact with April seemed to reassure him.  His smile broadened a trifle.