Old Stomping Ground

April strode purposefully through the ship, his boots thumping softly on thin-carpeted deck plates.  He was getting old.  He was old by some standards, and he knew it – but nothing galvanized those old bones like being back where he belonged.  It changed everything.  It made him feel alive, made him feel young again.  When he had a job to do, he hopped to it, at a speed which put the fastest warp ships to shame.  He got to it, wasting no time, and did his damnedest to get it done as quickly and efficiently as possible.  That was how he had made captain.  That was how he had made admiral.

Except April wasn't the walker he used to be.  Age, and two months behind a desk, had bestowed upon him a bulging waistline, flab in other, unflattering areas, and a tendency towards atrophy.  It was as if all the years of physical exercise, combating nature's tendency to ruin one's physique, caught up with him in those few weeks.  But he was nothing if not one who overcame obstacles.  Getting back on track was a matter of sheer willpower and desire... and anything could be done, if one's will was strong enough.  He had crossed the universe.  He had licked problems unimaginable to most men.  He could beat this.

With that mindset he launched himself into one of his famous inspections, touring the ship at his own, brisk (if slightly more relaxed) pace, winding from deck to deck.  Whereas he once carried padds in pockets, he now wore the standard-issue, multipurpose armpadd.  He went up and started from the top: Deck one.  He could read a report anytime, with a mere thought and a wish to do so, but he wanted to see everything with his own eyes.  The difference was comparable between reading a leaf-bound book, or "experiencing" a book in the form of a holonovel.  Digesting it through either medium impacted one differently.  Absorbing it firsthand, personally, left a longer-lasting impression, and would tell him where he needed to concentrate his attention.

Although Rampart had not captained for long, he had done an admirable job of keeping everything shipshape, to his credit.  He would continue that, as XO.  April was gratified.  It was so hard to find a good first officer, who understood their place and responsibilities.  With that thought, Jeremy Haskins crossed his mind.  While Haskins was eager, he was too young in mind, and inexperienced.  He had a lot to learn.  It was only thanks to April that Starfleet didn't blackball him and wash him out, for that business with the Kazon, even if it was self-defense.  Killing, in such a barbaric, wantonly destructive fashion as blowing out their entire bridge, with them in it... when it was unnecessary... was simply manslaughter.  He was damned lucky, in fact, that he hadn't been brought up on criminal charges, or turned over to Kazon Maje Lyrian's relatives, who wanted him extradited, and wanted his head.  Life and death was a serious matter.  It was not a game.  Starfleet took its role in such matters seriously.  When someone died, or was killed or damaged irreparably, something was lost from the universe.  It could not always, or easily, be replaced.  Not everyone was as fortunate as Stephen April in beating death.  For most, death was final.  April understood that fact all too well.  Having gotten to know Rampart, he felt reassured, knowing that Rampart understood as well.

Leaving the lift on deck ten, heading for upper engineering, he remembered a report that crossed his desk back at Starfleet, shortly before he returned via subspace beaming.

"Bridge", April said – and jumped, forgetting how fast communications worked now.  A screen appeared instantly before him, moving in sync with his stride and direction, before he had finished the word – showing a view of the command ring, with the attractive Alex Crimson on duty as watch officer, in the center chair.  Crimson turned the chair as she heard and saw April, with the fluid ease of a pro born to the seat.

It made April grin.  Crimson had wanted the first officer's job while Haskins had it.  It had been a near-Herculean labor on April's part, to convince her to instill herself with some modesty, and patience – something he had failed to impart upon Haskins.  She had been guilty of the same zeal.  Apparently, with her, the lesson finally took, and now she had been rewarded.  April watched an oncoming body in the corridor – Petty Officer Drok, the Breen lookalike – pass through the moving holographic square, silently nodding towards April, and the image reformed after he walked by.  He wondered if Drok had seen it.  Holograms could be tuned to line-of-sight only.

"What's our ETA to Memiklon?" April said, throwing a glance over his shoulder.  Bright yellow lettering flashed across the back of the Breen armor: Don't Breen me down flashed on and off, a trick of holographic display imaging.

April felt an urge to say something, but resisted, and mentally sighed.  Some things would never change.

"Fourteen hours, thirty minutes at present velocity," Crimson said in her English accent, with a distinct formality, as if hoping to impress April – then added, "Admiral, you do realize, you can access that information through your armband."

"And I could have gotten it from the computer, or I could have poked my head onto the bridge with a holo-interface and looked for myself," April said.  "Yes, I know.  Indulge my old-fashionedness, Lieutenant."

"As you wish, sir."

"Alter our trajectory coreward, past Perenhutz.  There's a scheduled black hole collision in the Trias Galaxy."  April rounded a corner into a lateral corridor.  "If I know Clicker, he'll want full sensors."

"Aye sir."  Crimson signaled the helm.

April stopped.  The latent hum of the ship seemed to tremble.  He felt it more than heard it – a slight reverberation in the oscillation field of slipstream... very slight, through the deck beneath his feet.  He put a hand on the bulkhead and closed his eyes for a moment.  "Also check inertial dampeners.  The alignment's off."

Crimson tapped up the data on a chair-side monitor.  Her eyebrows jumped and she looked at him.  "Sir... how did you—"

"I've said it a million times, Lieutenant: No one knows this ship like I do.  Out."