Disclaimer: All characters and etc etc owned by Pararmount studios, etc, I just
play with them.
***
They call it a walkabout, a journey of spiritual enlightenment, practised on
old Earth by the Aborigines and eventually picked up by scores of outsiders,
human and alien. You walk and walk until eventually...you run into yourself.
Not always a pretty smack in the face, but usually what you need.
The problem with walkabouts these days is that for all the empty space the
stars offer, there just isn't enough...livable, that is...for everyone.
I tried my first walkabout on Deep Space Nine in 2371. It was a failure, of
course, too many comings and goings, instead of smacking into myself I earned a
broken nose for crashing into a particularily armored guest. Somehow I ended up
at Quark's, clutching my notebook and bruised pride with a death grip as Jadzia
gently and skillfully applied a bandage and patted me on the head. Her smile
was teasing, amused, conspirital as she waved to Quark. "Get Jake a milk,
Quark, we've got to rebuild bone strength over here."
"What do you think this is, Babes In Arms?" He groused, sweeping up latinum
strips and eying her balefully. "Milk...ha...don't sell it. Warriors quaff
here. Besides, its expensive to import."
Dax was called away for duty a moment later, Quark lost in the melee, and I
just gave up on warm milk or cold comfort, falling into depression in my corner
seat.
At about the time I decided to leave before Dad found me in the bar and all
hell broke loose, a woman slid into the seat beside me, pushing a tall glass of
steaming milk to me with a tired, but warm smile. "Drink up, young man, its on
Starfleet."
I did, unable to look directly at her in embarassment. The voice was familar,
but I couldn't place it...I just knew that it spelled out p-o-w-e-r in glaring
letters I really didn't want to face. So I stared into the milk glass,
twitching as she chuckled at my milk mustache. "You're...uh...visiting here?"
A chuckle. "You could say that. I ship out tomorrow, thought I'd take in the
sights a final time before charting the unknowns."
So that was it. I had heard bits and pieces about tomorrow's grand departure,
the Intrepid class Voyager. Female captain, Admiral's brat, missing
Vulcan...Maquis chase-down. It occurred to me that the unknown soldier beside
me might need the milk more than I did, so I pushed it back and saw her raise
the glass for a sip out of the corner of my eye.
"I've...uh...heard a lot about her. They say shes a beautiful ship. Dad says
shes a gem." Stupid conversation fillers.
"She is that." The womans tones had lowered to meditative. "What do they say
about her captain, young Sisko?"
It hit me. Daring a direct look for the first time, I saw that her gaze was
distant, cheeks flushed, hair flowing loose and free, hardly captainly. She
looked discomfortingly like a kid in uniform, and I wondered if that was how
she felt. I fished for a diplomatic answer. "They say that shes...charismatic.
Intelligent. A fine officer. Very trustworthy."
She laughed. "You're lying through your teeth."
"Dad told me to practise tact." I defended myself, laughing a little as well
and feeling the nervousness slip away a little.
She nodded, turning. "Good advice. Your father is a wise man, Jake. Cherish
him. But right now, I want the truth. You wouldn't send a captain into the
battlefront with a disadvantage, would you?"
Far be it. I straightened, sensing that she really needed openness.
"Well...they say that Kathryn Janeway *is* intelligent and
charismatic...rash...hot-headed...stubborn...Admiral's brat..."
"I get the point." She held up a hand, shoulders shaking with restrained
laughter. "Very well. At least I know. I want you to do something for me, Jake.
Your father has spoken to me about your interest in writing. If something
happens to hot-head Janeway, I'm leaving it to you to record my one saving
grace. If everything else about me goes badly, remember that we shared warm
milk and mustaches, young man." Smiling faintly, she stood and walked away,
winking.
The milk never did rebuild the nasal bone structure, but it did give me hope
that there were still heroes.
Voyager disappeared, and with it the child in the captain's uniform.
I continued the mental walkabout with renewed vigor, and I don't expect to stop
it until the heroes...my Dad, hot-head Janeway...return.
I'm saving replicator rations for three.
play with them.
***
They call it a walkabout, a journey of spiritual enlightenment, practised on
old Earth by the Aborigines and eventually picked up by scores of outsiders,
human and alien. You walk and walk until eventually...you run into yourself.
Not always a pretty smack in the face, but usually what you need.
The problem with walkabouts these days is that for all the empty space the
stars offer, there just isn't enough...livable, that is...for everyone.
I tried my first walkabout on Deep Space Nine in 2371. It was a failure, of
course, too many comings and goings, instead of smacking into myself I earned a
broken nose for crashing into a particularily armored guest. Somehow I ended up
at Quark's, clutching my notebook and bruised pride with a death grip as Jadzia
gently and skillfully applied a bandage and patted me on the head. Her smile
was teasing, amused, conspirital as she waved to Quark. "Get Jake a milk,
Quark, we've got to rebuild bone strength over here."
"What do you think this is, Babes In Arms?" He groused, sweeping up latinum
strips and eying her balefully. "Milk...ha...don't sell it. Warriors quaff
here. Besides, its expensive to import."
Dax was called away for duty a moment later, Quark lost in the melee, and I
just gave up on warm milk or cold comfort, falling into depression in my corner
seat.
At about the time I decided to leave before Dad found me in the bar and all
hell broke loose, a woman slid into the seat beside me, pushing a tall glass of
steaming milk to me with a tired, but warm smile. "Drink up, young man, its on
Starfleet."
I did, unable to look directly at her in embarassment. The voice was familar,
but I couldn't place it...I just knew that it spelled out p-o-w-e-r in glaring
letters I really didn't want to face. So I stared into the milk glass,
twitching as she chuckled at my milk mustache. "You're...uh...visiting here?"
A chuckle. "You could say that. I ship out tomorrow, thought I'd take in the
sights a final time before charting the unknowns."
So that was it. I had heard bits and pieces about tomorrow's grand departure,
the Intrepid class Voyager. Female captain, Admiral's brat, missing
Vulcan...Maquis chase-down. It occurred to me that the unknown soldier beside
me might need the milk more than I did, so I pushed it back and saw her raise
the glass for a sip out of the corner of my eye.
"I've...uh...heard a lot about her. They say shes a beautiful ship. Dad says
shes a gem." Stupid conversation fillers.
"She is that." The womans tones had lowered to meditative. "What do they say
about her captain, young Sisko?"
It hit me. Daring a direct look for the first time, I saw that her gaze was
distant, cheeks flushed, hair flowing loose and free, hardly captainly. She
looked discomfortingly like a kid in uniform, and I wondered if that was how
she felt. I fished for a diplomatic answer. "They say that shes...charismatic.
Intelligent. A fine officer. Very trustworthy."
She laughed. "You're lying through your teeth."
"Dad told me to practise tact." I defended myself, laughing a little as well
and feeling the nervousness slip away a little.
She nodded, turning. "Good advice. Your father is a wise man, Jake. Cherish
him. But right now, I want the truth. You wouldn't send a captain into the
battlefront with a disadvantage, would you?"
Far be it. I straightened, sensing that she really needed openness.
"Well...they say that Kathryn Janeway *is* intelligent and
charismatic...rash...hot-headed...stubborn...Admiral's brat..."
"I get the point." She held up a hand, shoulders shaking with restrained
laughter. "Very well. At least I know. I want you to do something for me, Jake.
Your father has spoken to me about your interest in writing. If something
happens to hot-head Janeway, I'm leaving it to you to record my one saving
grace. If everything else about me goes badly, remember that we shared warm
milk and mustaches, young man." Smiling faintly, she stood and walked away,
winking.
The milk never did rebuild the nasal bone structure, but it did give me hope
that there were still heroes.
Voyager disappeared, and with it the child in the captain's uniform.
I continued the mental walkabout with renewed vigor, and I don't expect to stop
it until the heroes...my Dad, hot-head Janeway...return.
I'm saving replicator rations for three.