Time for Time

The fists did not form.  Be calm, the voice of conscience told him.  He listened.  He had not the energy for anger, nor desire.  No use.  The surge simmered to mere annoyance and frustration.

The more things changed, the more they remained the same.  That was said of history.

It could also be said of people.  Something died inside of him.  Dying.  Always dying.  In a world of life, peace, plenty and prosperity... a world of wonder, and excitement; unknown things waiting to be known.  Paradise.  Enlightenment.  Who was he anymore?  Something died inside of him, a little, every day.  What replaced it?  Love, hate, anger... despair?  What did he ask for?  Nothing.  He was as far opposite of greedy as a man could be.  The universe owed him.  He had yet to collect.  As far as promissory notes went, he had one hell of a collection, to go with the latest.

Brenda.

Divorce.

She had kept her promise.  She was there, waiting for him when he returned.  As promised.  But the manner of their reunion...

We're through.  Those words echoed through his mind.  Twenty years ago, she said she would not stop loving him.

Could that still be true?  She loved him, but would not be married to two men?  Such an attitude seemed quaint and old-fashioned, in their day... to the point of being archaic.  But he too was old-fashioned – and a quaint attitude was partly what made her attractive to him, when they first met.  Perhaps it was delusion on his part... a fabrication – the only explanation he could allow himself to live with, a coping mechanism.  He had not asked her that most important question: Why... and was not sure now why he hadn't.

April found himself passing a fountain in the center of the avenue, shaking his head.  Alone again.  It just never ended.  The universe never stopped conspiring to rob him of lasting peace, comfort... happiness.  He would not let it get him down – but that made it hurt no less.

Why me?  He did not feel sorry for himself – he discouraged self-pity, in himself and others.  But the question bore a valid honesty.  What do I do, to deserve this?

To his surprise, a voice answered inside: ~You aren't alone, Stephen.~

April raised his head, glancing around.  It came through his complant.  An instinctive source-check revealed no location... which meant it was either blocked... or came from very far away.

"Cadie?"

No response came; no more words.

He saw Mala Hendriksson nearby, on the other side of the fountain.  His heart lifted, momentarily, at sight of a familiar face.  Two familiar faces: She was with M'D'li.  Both wore rather striking outfits, of shifting holofabrics.  Was it her?  Or even, possibly, M'D'li?  But, no, it couldn't be; neither would address him so intimately.  Neither of them seemed to notice April.

The realization, that he needed a familiar face, a friend, made it dawn on April how insecure he was.  Vulnerable.  He needed reassurance... which few could provide.

But... Cadie?  Could it be?  Did her voiceless presence somehow stay with him, from the jump?  He had thought her gone forever, after she left the Arcadia months ago – no, years ago, now.  Where she went, exactly, her and her fellow intelligences, those manifested in the ships of the Quantum-class fleet, had been a mystery.  He thought he 'heard' her, during the jump, but now he wasn't so sure.  And if it was her... he wasn't sure that he wanted to hear from her again, after sending her away, practically at gun-point in a figurative sense.  Or was it just guilt and regret talking?

~Where are you?~ April returned, as a thought.

There was no response.  April pressed a hand to his forehead, and wondered if he was losing his mind.  He wished he could have said to hell with temporal anomalies and directives – to hell with galactic stability and the fate of the universe – and stayed in 2387.  But this was where... when... he had to be.

It wasn't so bad, having to relocate twenty years into the future.  But then Brenda's proclamation cut the ground out from under him.  He was unsteady, unsure where to stand.  What made it worse was what she told him, after announcing that she had divorced him and remarried.

He sat on the edge of the fountain, made of some ceramic material, and lost himself in a momentary distraction: the fountain, intrigued by its holographic beauty – water rising in a spiral, forming clouds at the tip, lit golden by a sun that wasn't there, then falling back as rain.  As the process repeated, he activated his complant.

Another image materialized; Simone Berkowitz, sitting beside him, facing him.  April glanced down; her legs disappeared into the fountain.  She wasn't really there, either; merely her image, in his comtacts.  No one else would see her.

"I'm leaving the station for a while."  He looked past her image, into the distance... thinking again about Brenda; about what she'd told him.  It clawed at him, inside, like the pain of a sliver that couldn't be removed.  He couldn't stop thinking about it.

"Admiral?  You seem distracted.  Is everything all right?"

He eyed Berkowitz, refocusing.  "Yes.  Sorry.  You're in command until I get back.  You can handle it, can't you?"

"Of course, sir."  She hesitated.  The tone of her gaze betrayed concern for April's state.  He and Simone Berkowitz had worked together for a few years now.  She had learned to 'read' him.  After a beat she said, "If you want to talk later, sir..."

April had designated her acting XO, since Rampart left.  Even though it was a temporary role, Berkowitz felt it was part of a first officer's job, to be there for their captain if necessary.

"Thanks, Commander, but that's all right.  I'll see you soon."

April switched off and privately cursed and kicked himself.  Distracted.  What was wrong with him?  Being so... evident, like that?  Was he going senile?

He had to get his mind straight.  He needed to rid himself of this distraction.

It kept coming back to him, circling in his thoughts, over and over – a recollection: The last hour he spent with Brenda, when she was still his wife, in 2387 – twenty years ago, on the calendar... less than twenty hours ago, as he experienced it.

The distraction had a name: Stephanie.  Brenda named her after him.  Twenty years old.  His daughter.  Another choice Brenda disallowed him.  Another piece of time she had stolen; the opportunity to be part of his child's upbringing... Another example of how unfair life – and his ex-wife, it turned out – could be.

He wanted to meet her.  But did he have a right to force himself into her life, after not being there for the first twenty years?

It was, so far, history repeating itself: It was Neria, all over again.  At the tender age of sixteen, Neria, daughter of the Khalindarian princess Ilona, had met her father.

The pain and guilt over Neria's death... It was not something time, nor counselors, nor anyone or anything could ever wash away, completely and permanently.  They said it was bad for him – not a good quality to have, in a Starfleet officer; all of that emotional baggage.  But it was also partly what made April treasure life, and abhor conflict, death, and destruction as he did.

April felt guilty for what happened to Neria.  The fact was inarguable: He was partly to blame.  He had influenced her – changed the course of her life, by association with her... and it led to her death.  He had helped to kill her.

He did not mean to do it.  He never imagined or expected it to end as it did.  He loved his daughter, more than anyone.  She was the light in his life.  She became his reason for living.  All he had ever wanted was the best for her – to help her, to make her life great, rewarding and fulfilling... for her to be all she could be.  He would have given his life to save hers – yet the intricacies of temporal mechanics, and time travel, would not allow such a thing.

The guilt... the pain of hindsight, seeing where he could have said or did one little thing, which would have changed everything and allowed her to live... sometimes it was more than he could bear.  It threatened to consume him, every time he thought about it.  He had to push such thoughts out of his mind, until he virtually ignored the fact that she had existed – at which he was only marginally successful.  Yet to dwell on it would destroy him.

And then he had done it again.  Starfleet's temporal analysts claimed that by coming to this time, the Arcadia had erased the temporal anomaly caused by that alternate future version of his daughter, between 2382 and now, 2407 – erasing her, essentially, as if she never was, along with her entire timeline.  Somehow, then as now, he still remembered her... only adding to the guilt, compounding the pain of his sacrifice.  He killed her twice.  Removed her from ever possibly being.

For all of his accomplishments, a negative stigma followed the name of Stephen April.  Everything in his personal life in which he invested himself... It collapsed into ruin.

Could he do it again, to another innocent child, undeserving of such a fate?

No.  No, he would not.  He kept thinking about her.  As much as he wanted to meet her, to know her... he could not allow that to happen to her.  Not again.  Not again.  He told Brenda as much, after she unveiled the revelation of Stephanie's existence.  Don't tell her about me.  Don't tell her I'm here.  Just let her live her life, like she's been doing.

It was, however, too late.  Brenda told her, years ago, about her father... why he was not part of her life, growing up.  Then she notified Stephanie that her father was back, finally returned, in this era.

April's anger with Brenda grew.  What right did she have to do that?  She kept cutting April out of the loop, out of the decision-making... depriving him of every choice or right he had to make it.  Brenda always was stubborn, headstrong... independent.  Accustomed to making decisions on her own.  Like a captain – admiral, now... if a lousy spouse.

April didn't know what his second daughter's reaction would be.  She might want to meet him.  He couldn't let that happen.  He had to move fast, get this over with, before it did.  He rose from his perch on the fountain basin, requesting transporter use from the starbase computer.

Almost as dire as Brenda's near-death, and actual death of three on her crew... and, more dire... was what nearly killed them.  Rather than explain in detail, she merely mentioned it in the base commander's office, then commed him the incident report, while briefing.  Complants offered this manner of learning – instant information transferal.  It was 14-year-old news to her.  To her ex-husband, it was shocking, and telling.

Kahn wormholes were new in 2378... their effects on subspace not entirely known.  Federation and Starfleet science agencies conducted studies for years – studies that, when Arcadia leapt through time from 2387, continued ongoing.  Six years later, in 2393, a shocking truth became discovered, when the wormhole network ruptured, shattered by subspace abscess.  Kahn artificial wormholes damaged subspace – and Brenda's ship, Liberty, as she exited a wormhole terminus.  In time since, use of artificial wormholes subsided – replaced by, as a means of transgalactic travel, Borg transwarp conduits: the transwarp network.  The new wormhole network, some called it, though not of true wormholes.

Fortunately, they didn't disallow subspace transporters.  April followed Brenda, indirectly, back to Earth, to meet another admiral, in the fortress of Starfleet Headquarters.

Starfleet HQ hadn't changed much.  Walking through its halls, the most glaring difference was in the uniforms: Some still wore the black and purple-gray, like he and his crew wore.  But others had donned uniforms reminiscent of a preceding design, the kind April wore when he first joined Starfleet: Shoulders in different colors, red, gold or blue – and not of cloth, but of armor, with tiny blinking lights embedded in the shoulders, and beneath the neck.  The lights were repeated on metallic belts around their waists.  Some kind of special variant – for what purpose?  He hadn't seen them on Starbase 514, though he didn't see much on the starbase.

Coming to the door he sought, he checked his internal chronometer to be sure he was on time, waved his hand over the sensor, then waited.  Seconds later the door slid open.

Brenda had returned to Earth.  April left the meeting with his ex-wife more nervous than when he went in.  He didn't expect two nerve-wracking encounters with two different admirals, twice in two days.

Usually, upon meeting someone – if humanoid – for the first time, he had a sense of them within a matter of minutes.

At sight of Admiral Constantine Gunriver, he knew this wouldn't go easy.  Gunriver was a hard man.  It was plain to see, in his firm expression, broad shoulders, the way he sat ramrod straight.  Gunriver had two black jewels for eyes – a piercing stare.  It was like feeling the intensity of twin, high-powered phaser beams.  April didn't get scared or unnerved easily... but felt a flutter within, just the same.  He'd never heard of Gunriver twenty years ago.  What did he go through, to become this kind of man, in this age?

Both men were admirals, but Gunriver sat higher on the totem pole, outranking him.  After the cursory introductions, April sat down in a chair before the other man's desk, across from him.

Without preamble, he stated, "I'd like to request a demotion to Captain, and officially resume full command of Arcadia."

Gunriver didn't move – merely fixed him with that stare.  "Why?"

April ran the man's file through his complant, to see what more he could learn; what the body didn't say.  Gunriver spent time in Klingon space.  That didn't say much – until April connected it with reports of Klingon unrest, in the last twenty years... since the former Chancellor, Martok, agreed to talks of formally uniting with the Federation.  It hadn't happened yet – and it wasn't hard to guess why.  Klingon militants, extremists, had been attacking Starfleet ships and installations.  Gunriver was involved.  The file didn't specify how he was involved.

But, that wasn't why April was here.  Focusing, he continued, "I'd think it would be obvious: Coming into this era, disadvantaged, with a rank and position that I'm unqualified to occupy... I have twenty years of catching up to do."

"You can learn everything that you missed in half a second.  Is there another reason that you can't carry out the duties of the rank to which you were promoted?"

Gunriver talked to him like he already held a lower rank – two ranks lower.  Evenly, April replied, "I just don't feel qualified, or ready to accept and carry on that responsibility in this time."

"Request denied."

April's eyebrows twitched.  He was not in the mood for conflict.  "Denied."

"You're a fully capable admiral.  You may no longer lead the slipstream program, but we have other tasks and positions, to which, according to your file, you're more than suited, and for which we need admirals... now more than ever.  The Federation has expanded.  Starfleet covers a lot more territory.  We need people like you."

"Then, if I may use candor, all the more reason.  I've always been a better captain than an admiral.  I ask you to note that and reconsider."

"Noted.  Request denied."

April held his patience.

"However, to prove I'm not an unfair man, I'll do you a favor."  Gunriver brought up a holoschematic, listing various openings in and out of the Federation, positions needing to be filled, for which only an admiral would suffice.  "You can pick your next assignment.  Here's the list."

April looked it over.  "Just not the Arcadia."

"Peruse it at your leisure for the next few hours and think about it.  I expect a decision on your part by 1730 hours, Earth-time."

As Gunriver offed the holo, April started, "Sir—"

"Are you going to persist in asking for what I've already told you, the answer is no?"

A random thought popped into April's mind: Did Gunriver have a personal reason for not wanting April in command of his old ship again?  "Respectfully, sir, you don't understand my situation."

"Your situation."

"My feelings on the matter are—"

"Your feelings on the matter are irrelevant, Admiral.  Starfleet is a military organization.  You were given a job, with a rank, which you are expected to honor and fulfill."  Gunriver was letting him have it with both barrels.  "You're not an invalid – you can do the job.  We don't get to choose which orders and assignments we want and ignore the rest."

Now where have I heard that before, April thought to himself.  He recalled having said much the same thing... more than once.  In light of that, he had to agree: Gunriver was absolutely right – and justified to say so.

But April felt strongly about this.  "I can go over your head – to the president, if I have to."

Gunriver seemed unfazed by the challenge.  "The president isn't going to listen to you.  And if you go over my head – you'll be putting yourself in a situation you don't want to be in, Admiral April.  I promise you that.  Now quit questioning my decision and accept the fact: You will not be demoted, and that is final.  That's an order.  Or would you rather face a court martial and lose it all?"

April restrained an urge to sigh.  He didn't have to think long.  He looked down, then back up.  "Starfleet's the only life I've ever known."

"Then take the offer I'm giving you, and see it as the favor it is, which I don't have to do for you.  Review your options, then get back to me with your decision.  That's all.  Dismissed... Admiral."

April swallowed his feelings, stood up— "Sir." —turned, and left.

In the corridor, April contemplated.  He didn't want to do it.  Some lines weren't meant to be crossed.  But sometimes, those lines blurred.

He activated his complant, routing the signal to a specific individual.  He told himself it was a matter of convenience.  She was available... and this was important.

April stepped onto the bridge, his admiral's insignia replaced with four pips: A captain's rank.  He took a breath, and steps, circling the bridge – first to starboard, like so many times in the past, inspecting consoles with an old, familiar eye...noting glances from crew-members he knew equally well.  They, in turn, knew him.  That should have made a difference – as in no difference.  Yet he felt... smaller, somehow, with less responsibility.

But that was all right.  He was a creature of Starfleet.  He did the jobs Starfleet assigned.  He had done the job of an admiral, for a time.  Perhaps that was enough.  In his heart, this was where he belonged... always.  Though he had grown comfortable with the privileges of admiralty, he made a better captain than an admiral.  No one could debate that.  More, he had asked for it.  After ten years of personal association, no one knew this ship like he did.  After all that time, it was still true.

As he circled, Lieutenant-Commander Berkowitz entered from the starboard corridor, near the viewscreen, sporting a slight grin.

"Captain."  She stopped, straight and proud, a slight glint in her eyes.  "I'd like to thank and congratulate you."  She said it simply, in that straightforward, casual manner Simone Berkowitz had.

April liked Simone Berkowitz.  Few on this ship didn't.  She had a plain, seemingly simple and unassuming nature, instantly likable to most meeting her for the first time – but a steely, straight-to-business under-layer, just beneath.  She was the friendly face: She could be everyone's pal... or a no-nonsense command officer, when she had to be.  April had witnessed her focus and determination, on several missions, firsthand – forceful, without being pushy.

"Thank you, Simone."  He felt privately grateful to her, for taking his demotion in stride, without mention.  She knew him – what this meant to him.  Just as he knew what it meant for her.  "And likewise.  You've earned it."  He looked to the chair left-most in the command ring, near the center of the bridge.  "We need to get underway.  If you'll do the honors?"

"I'd be happy to."  She headed for the exec's chair... hers now, permanently.

There had been a cycle of rotating first officers since the departure of Jeremy Haskins.  Rampart, while in command, instituted a policy of rotating execs, like other department head positions.

He and April did things differently.  April wanted a regular, one he could count on, upon whom he depended to be there – to understand, intuit and above all trust his orders without second-guessing.

Several candidates existed.  Celina Corgan had experience – almost that of Berkowitz – but also still had a few things to learn.  She didn't... shine.  To her it was a job, no more – while it was more.  Alex Crimson, on the other hand, had problems with April – strange quality, for a diplomat (she reminded him of a Minaran named Chance) – and his decisions, on occasion, as evidenced over the Chromus fiasco.  She wanted the XO's job, once – wanted it too much.  April respected natural talent – a disposition for the career path one chose.  He was born to command, and to command starships.  He didn't trust someone who got a job simply because they wanted it.  His job chose him, not the other way around.

So it was with Berkowitz, in whom he recognized a kindred sensibility.  In the end, she was the most mature of the bunch – and indeed earned it.

As the new/old captain of the Arcadia retook his seat – for not the first time, nor the last – his first officer issued orders to Conn: Break dock; and set course for their destination – a long distance, but a short ride, with slipstream and transwarp routes.

On the main viewscreen, the gray barrier of the spacedock doors split, and parted.  Captain Stephen April watched them slide into their mounts.  Stars burned beyond, bright and distant.  He saw the winding path of his life... the path ahead – the course plotted, already, in his mind.  It was home again, to the stars.