Against the Dying of the Light
Montgomery Scott, the unflappable Chief Engineer of the Starship Enterprise, reclined in his chair, staring at a package before him on his desk. He didn't want to open the package, couldn't bring himself to admit that he had it, that he was, indeed, the last one of a group of people who would ever hold this particular package in his hands. He knew what that meant, both for him and for the others, and he couldn't afford to think too much about it. Not today, anyway.
Staring at the package brought images he couldn't keep away…sharp eyes black and shiny against a blurred gray background…white skin, standing out in stark relief…black curls floating wild. Boys, following a bonny lass, sharing a funny joke, throwing arms around each other in a playful tackle, wrestling by the side of the creek until one rolled over into the water and got up laughing and splashing until they were both soaked through. Boys, raising some harmless nighttime hell. Those images almost overwhelmed him, and he fought to squelch the tears. Young men in uniform, sneaking silently through the forest, trying to reach the safety of an outpost, trying to slip away without any trouble, trying to meet a ship that would see them safe away. Home. Young men in uniform raising a different kind of Hell. The memories came faster now, piling up one atop the other. Those same young men asleep in a burned out, bombed out husk of a barn, hiding and hoping that lighting never strikes twice in the same place. Commotion and confusion. Something sailing inside, someone scrambling out. Stumbling sleepily, fumbling for a match. A sharp scratch, the flare of a lamp, then a shocked and sudden silence. The tears flowed freely now, and Scott welcomed the release they brought.
He already knew what the package contained, or he thought he did. Opening this package signified the end of a friendship that had spanned most of his adult life, and he knew it was irrational, but if he didn't open the package, then maybe that meant that he could pretend, for awhile longer anyway, that it hadn't really ended. He took a long pull on his Scotch, but it didn't help. He couldn't drink enough to take away the hurt, and wouldn't, in any event, get so drunk that he couldn't go on duty in a few hours. He wasn't a kid anymore, he had grown up responsibilities, and he would see them through like the man he was. He owed that much to his remaining friends, including the one who captained this vessel.
He thought of Jim and smiled sadly. He knew the Captain was curious when he saw his Chief Engineer come back aboard with a box. Jim might have asked, had Scott's demeanor not been so forbidding. Scott just needed to do this alone. Some things were like that. With a sigh, he opened the box, and drew out the bottle he was expecting to find, and a book, which he wasn't expecting. As he picked up the book, an old, brittle paper fell out of the inside front cover. When he turned it over, he saw it was an old world style photograph, complete with the decorative edges so distinct to black and white photos. He was afraid to touch it, afraid it would crumble away in his hands. He remembered when it was taken, and where. They had all gone to an old style carnival on some world or another, and there was a booth there selling old style photos. All the half grown boys in their group had thought it would be fun to make one. So, they had all squeezed into the booth together. There was a number written in the margin at the bottom of the picture in a shaky scrawl. 51.
He sat up a little straighter, pouring some of the contents of the bottle into a glass he drew out of his desk drawer. Then, he turned to page 51 in the book, and started reading.
"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray."
As he read, one last memory came into his mind. Those same eyes he had seen before, that same white skin, and those same black curls. Connor. His best friend, scrambling outside with the bomb that would have killed them all. Covered in blood. Those intense eyes spearing him as he stepped close, losing their intensity only to the glassiness of death. A friendship even death could not end.
Smiling a tired, sad smile, he raised his glass and said, "Aye, Connor. Rest well, my friend."
Then he read Connor's last bit of advice to all of them. Words that had been passed through all of them now, read many times, and saved for the best friend last of all. Precious words. Words that were his now. Words that seemed to be written just for him.
"Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."