Passing the Torch

"Admiral?"

Stephen April looked up from his desk.  Outside, in the vast window behind him, the San Francisco skyline sprawled into the distance; sunlight glittered off the waters of San Francisco bay.  Birds and shuttles could be seen flitting about, between a holo-billboard advertising important news headlines of the day – an odd contrast of the Federation's nature.

"Jordan," April said, acknowledging the man who stood inside the door to his office.  He gestured.  "Please, come in."

Jordan Rampart strode in, a little guarded and out of place in the stuffy, officious environment.  Dark-paneled bookshelves covered the walls to the right and left of April, who sat behind a desk facing a large viewscreen on the far wall.  The layout seemed reminiscent of a starship's bridge; perhaps intentional, knowing the man behind the desk.  April had not found it easy, relinquishing starship command.

April knew the feeling well: He had felt exactly the same, when he first took over the office, a month ago.  He still had trouble believing that he had finally given into pressures from Command, to accept promotion.  All of his life, he had never wanted to be Admiral.  Captains got to have the action, the thrill of exploring the final frontier.  But, it was a new day, and times were changing.  Time to turn his ship – "his" ship no longer – the UFS Arcadia, over to a younger, or at least newer, generation.

Rampart certainly wasn't younger.  The green-eyed, shaved-headed, recently promoted captain was close to April's age.  But he still had the vitality needed for the field.  "Young-ish", in both temperament and attitude.  After a stumbling block in his career, he made a comeback, got back on the horse, and displayed the qualities Command wanted in a captain of this day and age.  His slightly rough, casual nature provided a bridge between the old Starfleet and the new, something Arcadia needed, if it was to lead the way into this new frontier.

"Just wanted to check in before we leave," Rampart said, stepping up before April's desk.

April raised his head, eyeing Rampart over a pair of spectacles.  The new captain of the Arcadia regarded them curiously – why such antiques?, in a day when technology gave sight to blind men, let alone cured defective eyes – but didn't ask.  April always was a bit old-fashioned.

"You didn't have to come all the way back to Earth," April said.  "You could have used holocommunications."

"Yeah, well... after heading up the Cadre for a while, old habits die hard," Rampart quipped.  "Got used to jumping into wormholes."

April nodded.  "I understand.  Time for a seat?"  He set down a stylus; he had been working on numerous PADD reports, and indicated one of the empty chairs before his desk.

Rampart remained standing.  "Thanks sir, but... not really.  Rahn's waiting for me down there somewhere."  He looked to the window.

"Rahn," April said, then tilted his chin, understanding.  "Your wife."

"Yeah, the ol' Romulan Mata Hari herself."

The tone of the reference caused April to frown, but he didn't bother asking; it wasn't his business.  Rampart's Romulan wife, Vor'ana, had been a former agent of the Tal Shiar, before Romulus dismantled the organization.  She had absolved ties to the Tal Shiar and taken Federation citizenship, April knew that much, which gave her clearance for civilian status aboard Starfleet facilities – which was the only thing that concerned him.  She was "safe".  Most Romulans were headed in the same direction, having signed peace treaties years ago.  A new day, indeed.  An era of ever-growing peace.

"So how are you adapting to command?" April said.

"Still taking some getting used to.  Not like having only a team of a few people.  But, I was first officer on a ship before that, so... it's not too far off the beaten path."  Rampart chewed on his lip, thinking, looked at April.  "But how did you deal with all the exotics?"

A grin crossed April, remembering some of the Arcadia's more unusual crew members.  "Carefully.  They make life interesting, don't they."

"I'm still trying to figure out how you go about locating a living math problem when you need him."  Rampart paused.  "It.  Whatever."

"Well, I wish I could help you, Jordan, but... that's your job now.  Just take it one step at a time."

"Right."  And again, a pause.  "Mind if I ask how you're doing, sir?"

"If you mean, my cancer...?"  Rampart nodded again.  "Still no sign of it.  Yes, I know; it's strange being able to recall something that technically never happened.  After Wolf went back, it just... disappeared.  Like it did throughout the Federation."

Rampart shrugged.  "Temporal mechanics.  Always did wrap my brain into a pretzel."

"You aren't alone."

"If I may say, sir... if you ever get any time-travel related assignments... please give it to another ship."

"I'll try to keep that in mind."

Rampart eyed the chronometer on the wall behind April's desk.  "Well... just wanted to check in, see how you were."

"Thanks, Jordan.  I appreciate it."  April pushed his chair out and stood up, offering his hand.  "Good sailing."