2258.42
A/N: Disclaimer: I am a deep disappointment to my Ferengi friends.
New Sacramento High School, Federation Mars Colony
The presentation slide reads "test procedure," and is followed by four brief bullet points of instruction. At the head of the classroom, Benjamin Song is beginning to think he shouldn't have left the header in red; a good third of the class is looking seriously alarmed. On the right side of the room near the window, seventeen-year-old Matilda Tourkow seems ready to bolt. Time to diffuse the situation.
"If you've studied your notes from this month's unit there's no need to worry," Ben says, with a conciliatory smile. "I have faith; you guys are gonna be fine."
Normally he doesn't have to fake a good mood. He's always loved teaching, this year more than ever since making the switch from ninth grade social studies to junior year Earth history. The kids are quick, and he does his best to make the material interesting. But Hikaru's subspace message from two hours ago—hastily written—sits uneasily at the back of his mind:
May not make it out Sat.—cadet class ordered to help w/problem on Vulcan. Prob sounds worse than is, will text when I know more. Don't worry. Love you. -H
It came in at the start of first period, just as Ben was putting his phone in his bag. He never looks at his phone while he's in class—a personal policy as much as a way to teach by example. He doesn't need to be any more distracted from the lesson than his students do. And as much as he wants to text back, to press for clarification or even to check the news, he knows Hikaru is probably out of reach by now, hurtling through the Alpha Quadrant at maximum warp.
Lunch—he can answer at lunch, in another hour and a half. At least then Hikaru will have a response waiting for him the next time he sees his inbox.
Ben queues up the essay prompts on his school-issued datapad as his students clear their desks of belongings and tap into their still-gleaming desk consoles. He has mixed feelings about the new technology. On one hand, it makes plagiarism damn near impossible without an external device, the consoles locking down everything but the test files and blank scratch paper. On the other, plagiarism only happens when students think they can get away with it. Before the consoles were installed over the summer, students took their exams on their school datapads, then turned them in via plagiarism software, simply having to resist temptation. Ben isn't quite sure how the anti-cheating principles he's attempting to instill in them will hold up two years from now, when they're writing university papers from the comfort and privacy of their own dorm rooms.
"Good luck," he says as he releases the prompts, and a copy of test file pops up on every desk console screen. And, even though it's a bit of a moot point: "Remember your honor code pledge."
He darts a glance at Matilda Tourkow as he says this, briefly catching her eye. Back in October, after she turned in a shoddy and obviously half-copied essay on the history of terraforming, Ben sat her down in his office to ask if she had anything to say for herself. She didn't offer up a sob story, though Ben has a strong feeling she could if she wanted to. He's heard through the grapevine that she's a year behind the other kids due to mental health difficulties in her freshman year. That and her near-terror at his intention to notify her parents makes him think she has high expectations riding on her at home. One of his colleagues mentioned a high-achieving older sibling in the mix somewhere. Doing what, Ben can't remember.
He sits at the table in the front corner of the room, sorting through the exam essays from first period. He'll have a small mountain of grading by the end of the day. Earlier that week, he made a commitment to bust his ass getting through it by Friday evening, so he could have the rest of the weekend to spend with Hikaru. Now, of course, it's not so clear that'll be happening, but Ben can't help but hold out hope. He starts reading through the first of the first period essays.
Arguable thesis statement, check.
Topic sentences, check.
Decent supporting evidence…check.
Ten minutes tick by, then twenty, then thirty…
A sudden knock makes Ben—and the entire class—look up. Through the glass window set into the top half of the classroom door he can see Jaime, one of his colleagues, motioning urgently at him.
Ben's eyes sweep over to the classroom. The kids are staring at him now.
He stands, his chair scraping on the floor. "I'll be right back," he assures them as he steps out into the hall.
The door slides shut behind him with a pneumatic hiss.
Jaime is older than he is: a short, heavyset woman with graying reddish curls and adult children, and close to thirty years of teaching under her belt. Since his arrival at NSHS last year, they've become fast friends, though it's been clear from the beginning that Jaime is a gifted mentor. Friendly, optimistic, unflappable. But upon seeing her in the hall, Ben's stomach does a backflip. She looks stricken, half in tears. Ben has never seen her like this.
Jaime takes him by the arm and pulls him a few meters down the hall, out of his students' sight.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"It's Vulcan," Jaime says, sotto voce. "It's gone."
Ben stares at her, unsure he's heard her right. "What?"
"The planet, it's just—gone. There was some kind of attack. It's all over the news." She slips her phone out of her pocket and shows him the news feed on her phone, the headlines, the video looping over and over of Vulcan collapsing in on itself, so fast and efficient it almost looks fake.
It's as if he's been plunged into ice. "What about the fleet?" he hears himself ask, his voice sounding far away. He feels lightheaded. Jaime is shaking her head in disbelief.
"They lost six ships, all cadets. Seven went out, only one came back. There was apparently a massive battle. It's awful."
Ben forces himself to take a deep breath. "Which ship?" he asks. Some rational part of him knows he'll need this information later—even if it does nothing for him now.
Jaime glances up at him. "Sorry?"
"The ship that made it out, what was the name of it?"
A look of horrified realization dawns on Jaime's face. "Oh god, Ben." She scrolls down her news feed again, muttering to herself, "Hood, Antares, Farragut, Truman, no, no—ah! The Enterprise. That's the one." She looks back at him, now with a mother's concern. "Was he definitely deployed? Do you know for sure…?"
Ben's throat is so tight he doesn't trust himself to speak. He nods instead.
Jaime pulls him into a tight hug. When she speaks next, there's conviction behind her words: "Don't assume the worst."
Ben can't assume the worst. He can barely begin to fathom it.
"What are we gonna tell the kids?" he asks, when he gets his voice back.
Jaime pulls back, now with a grimace. "If they don't know already, they'll know by the end of class. I think we owe them the truth."
Ben nods again. "Right."
Jaime reaches up to put a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes—full of concern and care—are almost too painful to meet. "I'm right down the hall if you need anything."
She hugs him again, and they walk away in opposite directions, back to their respective classrooms. In the four meters between him and the door, Ben resolves to let the kids finish their essays before he says anything. He'll end class five minutes early, give everyone a couple of bonus points to make up for the lost time. Figure out what the hell to say to them. Part of him is sickened by this plan. It seems cruel, cowardly, to sit on this information while the kids scribble frantically about the social effects of the Romulan Wars. But somewhere underneath his racing, fevered worry there's the unshakable notion that things have now been irreparably changed, that this day is going to be the division between a before and an after.
Let them have some semblance of normalcy, at least for the next forty minutes.
The classroom door slides open again and there are thirty sets of eyes on him again. He gives them all another brief, utterly false smile—don't worry; finish your test—and starts making his way over to his desk. Heads start to drop back down to their consoles, the kids' attention turning back to their essays.
Halfway across the room, his eyes fall on Matilda.
She's the only student in the room whose attention is not on her desk console. She's frozen in place, her phone clutched in her hand beneath the desk, halfway to her backpack. She isn't bothering to hide it. She's staring at him, her eyes wide and horrified and full of tears.
All at once, Ben remembers in sharp detail what his colleague told him about Matilda back in October. There is a high-achieving sibling: an up-and-coming Starfleet communications officer, stationed on the USS Farragut.