After everything they had been through, the Battle of Cardassia was almost an afterthought.
It wasn't, of course. Kira – bless the woman! - had joined up with her hereditary enemies – how she stomached working with Cardassians, Barbara would never know, but apparently her views had changed somewhat – and had so thoroughly disrupted Dominion communications that Admiral Ross and Captain Sisko decided to invade Cardassia Prime itself.
By this point, the numb fear was nothing new. She'd been existing in that state for the last four years.
When she remembered that battle, years later, she'd remember it in snatches: Lynley barking orders, her fingers and Shannon's flying over tactical, T'Maya's cool voice calling reports, Carly cursing over the intercom, Woodrow with his dark head bent over his console.
Fire bloomed, sirens wailed, people screamed. They lost almost as many crew as they had at Tyra, and two weapons bays to enemy fire in the first hour. Barbara thought, every second, This is it. We're done for. The Alliance line nearly crumbled under the Dominion onslaught, and ships around them broke apart with all too horrible frequency.
But then the Cardassians revolted, and everything changed.
They were gearing up for one last, suicidal onslaught when the Founders' leader declared the Dominion surrender.
"It's over," whispered Shannon, and she burst into tears.
Barbara held her friend as best she could until Carly arrived – then she fell into Lynley's arms and surrendered to her own tears as they crumpled to the floor and cried.
They cried for Nkata, who had never seen this victory, and for the hundreds of their own who had joined him in death. They cried for the millions of Cardassian civilians killed in the bombing on Lakarian City, and for the Romulan and Klingon forces that had perished in the war; and they cried for Starfleet, which had lost nearly forty percent of its ships and crew. The years they would spend rebuilding would cost them all, and cost them dearly.
But, in the end, they had done it.
The Alpha Quadrant was safe.
Woodrow had buried his face against Jackie Kelley's shoulder. Lafferty fussed over Carly, who had second-degree burns from a console explosion in Engineering. Shannon held onto her partner and thanked God they had both survived, and T'Maya was far away, deep in a meld with Sonak.
Barbara Havers and Thomas Lynley held on to each other, and dared to believe they had survived.
The aftermath felt unreal.
Shannon and Carly announced their decision to leave deep space for posts at Research & Development. They were sick of war and death, they said; they just wanted to go home and do what they loved. Woodrow accepted a promotion to first officer on one of the as-yet-unnamed Steamrunner-class ships being built to replace those lost during the war; he would ship out within six months. T'Maya and Sonak returned to the Vulcan Science Academy. Lafferty would stay, as would Kimura Hana, but Jackie Kelley would follow Stephen, earning a well-deserved promotion to CMO on the same ship.
She'd miss them, Barbara thought. She'd miss girls' nights and joking with Woodrow and chats with Jackie. But Nkata's death had left a gaping wound in the senior staff, and they all agreed that moving on would help to lessen the pain, in time.
And so, it was goodbye.
"This was said, before, by a far better captain, to a more experienced, exceptionally skilled, and now legendary crew. We are not legends, or even heroes; nor, I think, do we wish to be. But I defy even the USS Enterprise to surpass the dedication and courage you have displayed these past five years against overwhelming odds and overwhelming force. As far as Commander Havers and I are concerned, you are, as you will always be, the finest in the fleet. Well fought, Providence, and well won."
He looked out on his crew – the senior staff gathered in the briefing room, the rest watching on consoles all around the ship. He looked at Shannon and Carly, unabashedly wrapped in each other's arms; he looked at T'Maya and Sonak, always unflappable, touching fingertips; he looked at Woodrow and Jackie, undoubtedly holding hands under the table; he looked at Stuart Lafferty and Kimura Hana, his valiant medical command team.
They were, and would always be, his family.
And then he looked at Barbara. His right hand, his other half, his love, his strength, his heart.
We did good, her eyes glowed, plain as day.
Yes, we did, he thought, and raised his glass.
"'To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the Devil his due,'" he quoted, low and clear. "To those we have lost, and to those we were fortunate enough not to lose. And to the journey. Many of us are moving on, to well-deserved promotions, to other ships, other facilities, other friends and other lives. Change is hard, and yet, often necessary. But I know, as surely as the stars burn bright, that a part of you will always sail on the 67237, because you sail, always, in the Commander's heart and in mine. Godspeed, Providence."
"To absent friends," chorused the crew in reply, Barbara's voice resounding above them all, "and Godspeed, Providence!"
They drank in unison.