Have the courage to trust love one more time and always one more time. – Maya Angelou

Prologue

"Are you out of mind?"

Admiral Pike raised an eyebrow at Enterprise's CMO.

"I'm a doctor, not a poster boy for the press."

The flag officer nailed McCoy with a stare mixing amusement, leniency, and patience. Pike inhaled, preparing to speak. Spock interjected, "A moment Admiral, the good doctor's tirades are generally in triplicate."

"I can see the headlines now … Enterprise the Expose … Taxes for Tribbles … This season the well-dressed officer is uniformed in gold, red, or blue."

"Finished Bones?" Kirk asked McCoy.

The response was clipped. "For. The. Moment."

Pike looked at Kirk who said, "You've already heard my doubts, multiple times. A civilian residing on board a deep space vessel sets up a web of complications."

Spock said, "Admiral while I am confident you have chosen a journalist with more literary skill than our resident physician, I too, and with reluctance, must agree with McCoy. The idea is laudable; its implementation is not practical."

Reaching for his cane, Pike stood and paced, limping around the small conference room. He stopped in front of the viewpoint and stared out of it. Silence reigned for several minutes. With a sigh he turned back to the ship's officers. "Yes, this is a favored project of mine. Perhaps even an indulgence. Vulcan's destruction morphed a personal inclination into a goal. Spock, your home world will be remembered due to its outsized presence in this quadrant. But what of the species without warp capability whose planet's environment turns hostile? We cannot intervene but they should not pass from our galaxy unknown. What of the stellar nursery, the Nye-Rogers pulsar in the Ps3i nebula, the vibrantly colored cloud ringing Omni-Centi X? What of the fledging applicants striving for membership in the Federation? What of the people crewing our ships, quietly exploring as well as aiding those never before encountered, those so different in mores and culture from their own? They should be witnessed as well."

"But …" Spock started.

Pike waved him off. "They should be remembered not only through statistics and scientific analysis. Their stories also should be framed by poets and in prose. As well as Startfleet's. By one as skilled in narratives as each of you are in your own disciplines of leadership, science, and the healing arts. That is the role of an embedded reporter. Not tattling your every move or mistake."

A pause. The Admiral added, "You have fifteen minutes for arguing your case against my plan."

McCoy spoke first. "A spaceship is no place for the untrained."

"The proposed embed completed our Academy's six-week basic training course, beginning and intermediate seminars in first contact procedures, as well as the training course for new diplomatic support staff, and passed detailed vetting," Pike answered.

"How will classified information be safeguarded?" Spock asked.

"Each of you, as well as I, can embargo an article or redact passages." Pike then warned, "I will expect thorough justification for any such actions."

Kirk argued as Pike resumed his seat at the table. "Reporters embedded with the military fell out of fashion during the various skirmishes leading to Earth's third world war."

"That's right," McCoy interrupted. "The casualty counts for those civilians were high despite all the precautions.

"And their work was viewed as government propaganda," Spock finished.

"Is he a hotshot looking to make his career on our backs?" McCoy added with a snort.

"No. A freelancer with no corporate or editorial board mandating content." Pike pointed to Kirk. "Who has resisted demands from those more stubborn than you."

McCoy chuckled.

"Captain, Commanders, I am not dissuaded. Enterprise remains my preference for this pilot program. Please finish preparations. You are dismissed."

ooooo

The Next Morning

"I appreciate you taking on this assignment," Pike said to his companion as they exited the turbolift.

"I did owe you a favor. Thanks by the way for sending your less than reputable friend to help me with that minor disagreement on the rim," she replied with a grin.

Pike raised his voice catching the attention of several passing crew members. "Minor? Disagreement?" He shook his head. "You were moments away from either execution or marriage."

Cara wrinkled her nose, "Not sure which would have been worse, probably the marriage. Though being wife number six must leave a lot of time on your hands," she mused.

"I should have put a subcutaneous subspace tracker on you years ago," Pike muttered.

"My uncle often says the same. And it's good to see you well."

Pike answered with a warm familiar smile and then gestured to the left. They halted in front of the doors to Medbay.

"I appreciate the escort and know you are needed at headquarters. I've got it from here," Cara said. She held out her hand. "I assume this is more appropriate in the halls of your previous command than my usual kiss on the cheek farewell?"

Clasping her hand in his Pike replied, "Perhaps, and it's a loss for me." She watched fondly as Pike retraced their path until he was out of her sight.

A nurse approached as Cara entered Medbay. "Can I help?"

"I'm here for my mandated physical. Cara Aguirre." She smiled. "I'm the journalist."

"Oh right, of course. I'm new here too. Our CMO performs all on boarding exams, which is rare, but he's very particular about a lot of things. Rumor is he's memorized the medical files of our entire crew." The nurse's hand flew to her mouth, covering it. "Oh, I talk too much when I'm nervous. I didn't mean to spill secrets … no one's told me … I'm not sure how much I'm supposed to say to you …"

"It's ok," Cara reassured. "I'm not working at the moment and we're off the record." At the confused expression she added, "That means I can't repeat nor write about anything you tell me. In here I'm just another patient."

"That's a relief. This is a plum assignment, and I don't want to mess up. Our CMO is a bit cranky at times, but he's one of the best."

ooooo

Enterprise's CMO opened his eyes, swung his long legs over the bed's side and stretched his back. He grumbled aloud, "I hate waking up alone."

Leonard McCoy yearned for family.

One that didn't, like ephemera, slip through his fingers.

Like his birth family sundered by tragedy.

Like his marriage purposefully erased.

Like the beloved daughter now out of reach.

This need informed his every choice, including joining Starfleet. Where he cobbled together a surrogate clan which he protected with the fierceness of a lioness safeguarding her cubs.

Along the way McCoy accepted the unexpected barreled into life when least anticipated, altering it forever; shoving you onto a different path, one filled with pain and loss. Along the way he purposefully stopped believing that the unexpected may be a gift.

His sarcastic persona masked a tender heart, one refusing to harden despite the harshness of his profession, in spite of its losses. This armor securely in place, he left his quarters and started his day.

Medbay, as usual, was like a very busy well-choreographed hive of technicians, nurses, physicians, and other scientists from various disciplines. Before McCoy reached his office the newest staff member waved him over. "Doctor, your first appointment is waiting, exam 1. The journalist." He nodded his thanks as she handed him a PADD.

Entering the small room, his first words to the patient sitting on the biobed were delivered in a tone of voice slightly louder and higher than his usual baritone and with a baffled expression, "But you're a girl."