Nicknames
By Westel
The young midshipman sat rigidly at table, awaiting permission to pick up his fork and eat, and let his mind wander.
"Damn stiff-necked Academy rules!" His great-grandfather had fussed during a recent visit home. Well, he couldn't very well blame Papa Len for a long-cultivated dislike of the military – the man had spent a lifetime serving in it.
So what was he doing here at the Academy, 19 years old, grass green as the rest of the midshipmen who sat at his table? It wasn't the first time he had asked himself that question, as he endured the rigorous and often humiliating training of a Federation Starfleet Academy plebe.
The answer was simple – the wanderlust. His great-grandmother, who had raised him from childhood, had groaned over the recognized trait. Said she'd seen it before and what it did to people who suffered from it. There was only one cure – deep space. Reluctantly, proudly, and with a little fear, she had let him go. Grandma Jo knew it would have done the boy no good to try to hold him back, to dissuade him from his calling, even though she had secretly hoped he would follow in the footsteps of his ancestors and become a doctor.
Once during a visit to the seaside where her dad now resided, she had expressed her wish that the youth had chosen a medical career rather than that of command. The old gentleman told her in no uncertain terms that the boy had to make his own way. "God knows I certainly took a sharp turn or two in my career. All I wanted to be was a country doctor…"
"And now you're a retired Admiral, the most revered of the medical prototypes, the most-read in the journals, the most…"
"Puffed-up, egotistical old coot on Terra, if you keep that up," he quipped, never comfortable with high praise, not even from his own daughter. "Now, you let that boy alone, Joanna. It'll break his heart if he thinks you disapprove."
"I don't disapprove, exactly," she murmured, gazing out over a calm sea. "I just know what's to come."
McCoy squeezed her hand affectionately. "And so do I, Joanna girl. I spent half my career running after one just like him, trying to keep him physically and emotionally healthy. I pity his chief medical officer."
"Oh, Dad, you silly! You don't even know who he may be," Joanna laughed, patting her father's cheek.
"True, but he's out there, somewhere, perhaps even now in the throes of medical training. If he thinks he's having a hard time now, just wait until he finds himself in the service!"
"Or she," teased Joanna. The old gentleman and his near-centenarian daughter laughed softly together, the shared memories of two lifetimes a gentle reassurance that though things changed in the course of time, in many ways they remained comfortingly the same.
ooOOoo
"Man, of all the rotten luck!" exclaimed Clave Zanders, one of JT's three roommates and fellow lackey. He lay a sympathetic hand on his young friend's shoulder as they reviewed that week's roster of various cleaning assignments, KP duty, upper-classmen attendance, and other Academy kiss-me-quick tradition which must be juggled with a full class load and drill time. Papa Len had been lucky to avoid all this, but he was cast in a different mold, after all. His service in the Fleet was a strange marriage indeed, but even so, command was a separate road altogether. And if it was one of obstacles and irrationalities which must be overcome, the Academy was certainly the place for it.
"What's wrong, Clave? You get to polish Sebastian's boots for him this week?" The malodorous condition of the upper-classman's boot-wear was the source of many an off-color joke in midshipmen's quarters.
"Look again, JT. You've got diplomatic duty in the front offices all week," smirked the red-haired plebe, his freckles a riot across his nose and cheeks. "And with exams coming up, too."
JT swore, evincing knowing smiles from his roommate. Diplomatic duty simply meant standing at attention for hours at a time at the main doors of the Academy, serving as guide, information assistant, and busboy to anyone who might require assistance in the vast complex. Since no but Academy professors, auxiliary personnel and sometimes, rarely, a representative from Starfleet or diplomat on an official visit came through those doors, diplomatic duty meant keeping one's feet planted firmly on the floor, hands planted equally firmly behind one's back, and yawns clandestinely stifled. It also meant that it was impossible to sneak in any study time. Unexcused absence from duty meant immediate expulsion from the Academy and, like duty in any naval force since the beginning of time, there was no such thing as excused absences.
The dark-haired plebe sighed fatalistically. "Guess that means I won't be going home next weekend." He would have to use the free hours of an off-duty weekend to study for the upcoming exams. It meant missing a long-anticipated visit with his great-great-grandfather, but Papa Len of all people would understand. He wouldn't like it, but he would understand. JT chuckled to himself as he strode back to his room, his freckled friend staring after him in silent sympathy.
ooOOoo
"McCoy, JT, reporting for duty, Ma'am."
Retired navigator Alvea Curoe glanced up, barely able to suppress a smile, at the young midshipman who stood at attention before her desk. These kids were so stiff! But then, so had she been a half-century ago. "You're twenty seconds late, McCoy. I won't report it this time, but don't let it happen again. Assume your duties, Midshipman."
"Yes, Ma'am." The blue-eyed plebe marched stiffly to his post at the entrance. Although Curoe attended to her own duties, she kept watch on the fellow. In her eyes, all plebes at this post were her responsibility, in every way conceivable. As they came to know her over their sojourn at the Academy, she became mentor, confidante, even mother, to many of them. She ruled them with an iron hand, but she commanded their respect and love, as well.
This one would have his hands full tomorrow. The captain of the newly commissioned Enterprise was to visit the Academy as part of a publicity/public awareness hoopla which would be going on all week and the poor plebe would be required to escort him.
Just plain stupid, if you ask me, she fumed, knowing exams were coming up. Well, there's no accounting for propaganda. She had served in the Fleet in one capacity or another for may years, but it didn't mean she had to pretend she always understood it.
ooOOoo
Damned waste of time, brooded Captain Jean-Luc Picard, mirroring Starfleet Academy Chief Secretary Curoe's private opinion of the matter. Without enthusiasm, he watched the Academy complex loom before the aircar as they approached the landing pad. The captain, though used to the often unnecessary glitz and dreariness of diplomacy and PR, had never grown to like it. Unfortunately, those powers in high places deemed it a necessary duty of command personnel holding rank of captain or above, so he must resign himself to this stopover before he could assume his new command. Nothing could have pleased him less.
It was with some disgruntlement, therefore, that Picard approached the entrance of Starfleet Academy and found himself attended by a dark-haired, blue-eyed wonder who swallowed so hard it was audible. Picard could feel the man's anxiety, and it only served to irritate him even further. He barely spoke to the youth when Secretary Curoe introduced them, and started off at a brisk pace, the young man hurrying to match his stride.
ooOOoo
For two days, McCoy was Picard's escort, accompanying him to training exhibitions, lectures, and small gatherings such as this one they were currently attending of upperclassmen and new graduates, decked out in the regalia of ensign for the first time. JT eyed the uniforms hungrily for, though they were without any insignia of rank, they were Starfleet uniforms – not Academy jumpsuits – in the burgundy, golds, and blues of various fields of service. Of particular interest to him was the burgundy of command.
Picard, though outwardly suave and the epitome of protocol, endured the hours with gritted teeth. He should be on board the Enterprise, supervising final preparations for he maiden flight. Commander Riker, his second-in-command, would not report for duty until the ship left space dock, so the captain could not count on his expertise. Without the luxury of a first officer on board, he felt his absence from the bridge nothing short of dereliction of duty. This did nothing to lighten Picard's mood.
"Mr. McCoy." The young man stood at his elbow, admiring the new ensigns who crowded the room, and did not hear Picard. "Midshipman!"
"Aye, Sir!" JT turned quickly, startled at the captain's tone, and knocked the drink from the older man's hand as cleanly as a golf swing. It sailed in a perfect arc before gravity pulled it from its flight and deposited it neatly in the lap of a visiting dignitary, a parent of one of the graduates. She welcomed its landing with a healthy yelp of anger, glaring furiously at Picard, who stood with his mouth open and his hand clutching empty air.
JT blushed hotly, embarrassment and anger battling for control, but he stood his ground, waiting for a rebuke.
Instead, Picard walked over to the woman and apologized eloquently with a formal bow, handing her a clean napkin from a nearby serving cart. Then he walked back to the youth and said, sotto voce, "Let's make a break for it." The midshipman nodded the affirmative and followed Picard out of the room, all too aware of the splattered diplomat who was shooting eye-darts at their wake.
Once out in the hall, the captain hesitated for a moment, as if uncertain where to go. On impulse, JT spoke up, the first time he had attempted to initiate any conversation with his important charge. "Captain Picard, would you like to really get out of here?"
To his amazement, the captain's face brightened. "Is that possible?"
Having found his tongue again, McCoy felt less intimidated. He motioned down the west corridor. "Yes, Sir. There is a place 20 kilometers down the beach. Nothing fancy, but quiet and off-limits to Academy students." Picard stopped and scowled at him before JT reassured him. "It's permissible if I'm attended by a Starfleet officer, Sir."
"Oh, that's how it works, is it? How long…"
"You don't have another appointment for one hour, thirty-five minutes, Captain," interjected the young man, quickly checking the schedule.
"Well, in that case, I am in your hands."
"Aye, Sir."
ooOOoo
The room was dark, lighting at a minimum: conducive to conversation, retrospection, or just plain silence. Picard cradled his nonalcoholic drink between his hands, deeming it inadvisable to consume ethanol before the next lecture. The mock sauvignon did nothing to satisfy his palate; if anything, it was giving him a dry mouth. He elected to leave it on the table before him so the waiter wouldn't inquire if wanted another. He noticed the midshipman's drink was also untouched.
The young man had seemed to lose his awkwardness briefly back there in the corridor, but it had returned as Picard watched him from across the table. Away from the hustle and irritation of his Academy regimen, Jean-Luc realized that the young man had something on his mind and perhaps thought it a breach of etiquette to bother him with it. He remembered his own Academy days and the naked intimidation that came with confronting a person of rank.
"I see you are a first year plebe, Mr. McCoy," he began. "Final exams for this term should be coming up soon, if memory serves."
"Yes, Sir. Next week."
"No doubt they are as difficult now as they were when I attended the Academy, probably more so."
"Yes, Sir."
Picard, realizing the conversation was going nowhere, cleared his parched throat and stared with dismay at his glass. "What I'd give for a real sauvignon right now," he muttered. To his surprise, the youth's face was transformed with a grin.
"Have I just said something amusing, Mister?" growled Picard, but humour was in his eyes.
"Yes, Sir. Forgive me, but you reminded me of a close relative just now. He was a connoisseur of alcoholic beverages – made the old way – and of a harder nature." McCoy chuckled. "He doesn't partake now – says he's outgrown such foolishness – but the way you complained about your drink reminded me sharply of him." JT's face sobered. "I was supposed to visit him this weekend, and I guess I've been thinking about him a lot."
Picard raised his eyebrows in understanding. "Ah, and your tryst with me has interfered with those plans, I take it. You'll have precious little time to study for finals playing tour guide to a pompous dignitary." He raised his hand to silence the protesting youth. "Believe me, I remember the frustrations of the first year quite well." The captain studied the table for awhile, his finger playing absently across his lip. "Perhaps something could be arranged so you can devote more time to your studies, Mr. McCoy."
"No, Sir."
Picard glanced up sharply, astonished at the young man's answer. McCoy's blue eyes flashed, his jaw set stubbornly.
"With all due respect, Captain Picard, I cannot accept deference of any kind. I have been assigned to attend you during the course of your schedule this week, and to neglect such a duty, especially when…"
"Who said anything about deference? You forget to whom you are speaking, McCoy. I will make allowances because you cannot be expected to understand my motives, our acquaintance being limited, but you will hold your tongue and hear me out."
Properly rebuked, JT sat straight in his chair and listened as the captain explained he would prefer to have a graduate aide for the rest of the tour, someone with whom Picard could discuss the more intricate details of Academy-trained personnel making the transition from school to service. This could only be possible through having a graduated ensign attend him. Surely the Academy would see the logic of such an arrangement, especially when he told them he had given McCoy an assignment – no matter that said assignment would restrict the youth to his room for the next several days. He had a few strings to pull to make them see his way, after all. "Besides," he finished, having checked his chronometer and discovered it was time to return to the Academy, "with a brand new ensign in tow, I have good reason to give him a grand tour of the Enterprise."
And see if she's as ready for flight as you are, thought McCoy, as they moved out into the bright sunlight. This man, though different in many ways from himself, was driven by the same force – the common chord had been struck between them. JT wished there may have been more opportunity for him to get to know the officer, but realized that was impossible. He had two more years of training after this one, and many subsequent years of accumulated experience to tuck under his belt before he would be ready for command. Picard would be hundreds of light years away, on a ten-year mission.
Impulsively, realizing he may never have the chance again, JT stuck out his hand. "Thank you, Sir. I've… It's been a pleasure to attend you, even for a short while."
Picard took the young man's hand. "McCoy. What's your full name, Midshipman?"
"James T. McCoy, Sir. But my friends call me JT."
"Nicknames are usually dropped by those in command, Mr. McCoy."
The young man's only answer was an enigmatic smile as they climbed into the aircar, and Picard's attention was diverted to his lecture notes, wanting to go over them again as they made the short trip back to the Academy.
JT did not attempt further conversation. He recognized he preoccupation of the captain and its larger meaning: little time for friendships. Picard was not the first captain to be so isolated, and he would not be the last. Perhaps one day JT would find himself in such a situation.
But for now…
He guided the aircar expertly toward the north, keeping the ride smooth for Picard. He was a good pilot – a good student. And some day he hoped he'd make a good officer, too.
But for now he was content to safely transport his passenger, and to keep his nickname. Besides, not all nicknames were bad or unprofessional.
Ones like "Bones".
Ones like "Jim".
End