A/N. Hello, lovely people! I was hoping to get this chapter finished and posted long, long ago. But writer's block and then hectic real life happened. If you are still with me, thank you kindly for your patience. And thank you to everyone who's left me words of support and encouragement! I read (reread) and appreciate them very much!
Stardate 2261.18 — U.S.S. Enterprise, Alpha Quadrant
Harry felt like he could sleep for days. He began to doze off as he sat on the biobed, waiting for a nurse to take his vitals and run some scans. On the next biobed over, Raix was conversing with Krell and Shev.
Raix, still not fully recovered from the injuries he'd sustained after he'd fled the cadetship in the escape pod, looked a little worse for wear. Krell and Shev had been given the clear to leave the medbay but decided to stay a little longer and keep Raix and Harry company.
Harry leaned his head back and closed his eyes. They'd been told it had been a little over a month since they'd departed for their exam. It certainly felt much, much longer. Not surprising. Being stuck inside a temporal anomaly would do a number on one's perception of time.
Thankfully, it was all over. And thankfully, everyone was alive to tell the tale.
Or listen to it, in Raix's case.
By the order of Starfleet Command, neither the cadets nor the crew of the Hercules were allowed to say much about what had happened until the formal debriefing on Earth. But Harry knew that not knowing was eating Raix up. So, he cast a discreet Muffliato around the three cadets to allow them to talk freely.
It was such a relief to see Raix sitting there, various expressions passing over his face as he listened to Krell and Shev enthusiastically recount the series of events that, fortunately, led them all back home.
Home.
Harry took a moment to marvel at how, given his luck, they hadn't ended up in a different century upon exiting the anomaly.
Or another universe.
Or hadn't gotten blown up.
All things considered, they'd gotten off pretty easily. The universe, it seemed, was merciful this time around. Losing his home once had been painful enough . . .
He'd discussed it briefly with Hermione. She'd seemed to think that Amerisis might have had something to do with it. Especially given their ship's appearances in random parts of the quadrant (which was just one more thing in a string of odd, baffling events), it seemed like a plausible explanation. But they might never find out what had really happened and why. (Those immortal, omnipotent beings seemed to do weird things for reasons best known to themselves).
At the moment, Harry found he didn't care. He was just happy to be back.
He stifled a yawn as he took in the medbay full of people. Some wore the colourful uniforms of the Enterprise crew, but most were in blue jumpsuits with coloured piping around the shoulders—the crew of the Hercules.
Harry hadn't expected to see their friends so soon after the Bradbury had found them, but apparently, the Enterprise (and a few other ships) had been nearby. She'd been tasked with giving the Hercules a tow back to Starbase 1. Harry had a sneaking suspicion Pike had something to do with this assignment, but he wasn't about to call him out on it or complain.
Around him, people were smiling, laughing, hugging, crying even. The injured crew members of the Hercules had been transferred to the Enterprise's better-equipped medical bay, and the doctors and nurses were busy treating and comforting the time-displaced crew.
Sadness and relief mixed into a disorienting stew in Harry's stomach. He concentrated on his breathing. His gaze shifted to the back of the ward, where Hermione sat on one of the biobeds. Leonard had some kind of halo contraption over her head (which Harry surmised was the device for treating head injuries), and he was analyzing the data on the screen above the bed with a slight frown on his face.
The buzz of the busy medbay was lulling Harry into sleep. His eyes slowly began to close and his head tipped forward. He jolted awake and blinked the sleep from his eyes. He found Nurse Chapel smiling at him.
"Well," he said, watching Chapel run the scanner up and down slowly, "what's the diagnosis?"
"Sleep," she said. "You need to get some sleep."
She put her instruments away and came back with a glass of what looked like water.
"Electrolytes," she said, handing the glass to him. "You're also dehydrated."
Not surprising. They'd been so busy trying to get out of the anomaly that they'd sometimes forgotten to eat and drink.
"Small sips," she instructed, "keep it under your tongue."
Harry took a sip. It tasted of salt and fake oranges. Unpleasant. But not as unpleasant as some of the potions he'd had in the past.
"Say, Nurse Chapel," Harry said as he watched her type something on a PADD, "how long does it take to treat a subdural hematoma?"
The question seemed to amuse her.
She glanced at the back of the ward and shrugged her shoulders. "It depends. Can be fairly quick, and can take a bit longer." She flashed him another smile. "But don't worry. Your friend is in good hands."
"I know. I'm not worried."
She gave him a sceptical look. "I've spent enough time around patients and their worried loved ones to know that you are, in fact, worried."
"Well, maybe a bit." He ran a hand through his hair and shrugged. "Hermione does tell me now and again that I worry too much."
"Must be something they teach you at Starfleet Academy's Security division."
At Harry's questioning gaze, Chapel continued, "Lieutenant Hendorrf, our Chief of Security, likes to say, 'Being worried is my job description'."
Her impersonation of Hendorff was so good that Harry had to chuckle. "Paranoid. I believe I heard him say, 'Being paranoid is my job description'."
She merely shrugged and continued typing.
"And he is responsible for the safety of everyone on this ship, so maybe a bit of paranoia is in order."
"Maybe."
She nodded in Hermione's direction. "And I get it, the being worried part. You two are like siblings. I've got an older brother, too."
"Technically, Hermione is older than me."
"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to."
Harry grinned. "What's he like? Your brother?"
"He's a musician. Talented. Quirky. A little mad, like me."
"I don't think you're mad."
"That's because you haven't seen me go all mad scientist yet."
"Noted. Remind me to keep my wand handy."
"I'll try to send a memo ahead of time."
Despite himself, Harry laughed again.
"And they say it's hard to get you to laugh."
"Who's 'they'?"
Chapel shrugged, noncommittally. "A couple of friends I have at the Academy."
She set her PADD down and began pressing buttons to clear the readings on the biobed. "As I understand it, you don't just specialize in security?"
"Erm, yes. Engineering is my sub-speciality. Your friends at the Academy told you?"
"Mr. Scott. He talks about you a lot. You'd be surprised how often he comes here. Usually with small things: burns and bruises and such. He said you've been working on a new subspace transmitter with a better range. He's quite proud of you, you know."
Harry knew. Scotty had never explicitly said so, but Harry knew. The same way he knew Scotty had considered him a good friend, maybe even something of a younger brother. Scotty was a firm believer that actions spoke louder than words. So, instead of talking about his feelings, he preferred to show his care by doing things: checking in on him via subspace messages, offering help and insight on an assignment, celebrating his accomplishments.
The medbay doors swooshed open, and Scotty walked in. He grinned widely upon seeing Harry.
"Ah, the man himself," Chapel said with a chuckle.
"How'd it go, laddie?" asked Scotty. "Are you cleared to leave the sickbay?"
"He is," said Chapel.
Her face turned serious. "I wasn't kidding about sleep. Get some rest before you collapse from exhaustion."
"I will," Harry promised.
Chapel picked up her PADD and left.
"Excellent," said Scotty. "How d'ya feel about grabbing a bite to eat? Before you head off for your nap?"
As if on cue, Harry's stomach grumbled.
"I know yer can't talk much about what happened, but we can surely find lots of other things to talk about!"
Harry hopped off the biobed and clapped Scotty's shoulder. "Lead the way."
"Well, Freckles," said Leonard, after running one last scan, "your brain's as good as new."
Hermione pushed back strands of her hair that had escaped from her braid. She needed to retie the whole thing. "Thank you, Leonard."
He looked up from his tricorder to give her a nod when he spotted something over her shoulder.
"Jim. What kinda blast wave brought you here?" He waved a dismissive hand. "Don't answer that. I think I know."
Hermione felt her lips curl into a smile. "James. Miss me already?"
He grinned back. "Always."
Leonard rolled his eyes as he stood.
"Well," he said, collecting his PADD, "my work here is done."
His customary frown deepened as his eyes scanned the medbay. At the far side of the ward, a nurse was showing a bone knitter and a dermal regenerator to a couple of Hercules' nurses. On several biobeds, the now-healthy crew members conversed with the still-recovering ones.
"And my sickbay is more crowded than a tribble's family reunion. Apparently, this is a great place to socialize and catch up on things."
"That's 'cause everyone knows you have a big heart," said James.
"And a short temper," countered Leonard. "I'm gonna have to start kicking healthy people outta here."
"Hint taken, Bones," said James, helping Hermione off the biobed. "We are leaving."
Hermione swayed a little as he let go of her hand, but James was quick to steady her.
"Dizzy?" Leonard whipped out his medical tricorder in a second and began running it over her. "Blurry vision? Ears ringing?"
"No, nothing like that," she assured him. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"That, you are." Leonard switched off the tricorder and gave her a stern look. "Next up is your appointment with a bed. I don't wanna see you till tomorrow."
"Love you too, Leonard."
The corner of Leonard's mouth lifted into an almost smile, and he picked up his PADD once more and excused himself, leaving Hermione and James alone.
"You know," James said, staring at his retreating friend's back, "you are one of the few people who can make him smile."
"Alston!" Leonard called out across the room. "Where d'ya think ya goin'? Get back on that biobed!"
The poor man in question attempted to argue with the doctor but lost miserably.
James and Hermione exchanged an amused look and began making their way out of the medbay.
"I'll walk you to your temporary quarters," James said.
The trip back to Earth was supposed to take at least two days, so the cadets and the onboard Hercules crew had been assigned quarters for the duration.
"You don't have to do that, you know. I'm sure I can find them on my own."
"Oh, but I want to."
"Being escorted by the captain himself?" she teased, rolling her eyes. "I must be special."
He gave her a disarming smile. "You are."
Her heart seemed to flip in her chest. She'd known him for nearly three years, and she still occasionally had trouble telling when he was joking, flirting, or being serious. Like now.
"How are you feeling?" James asked quietly, his smile fading.
She shrugged. "I'm alright. Or will be. Now that I'm here."
She smiled at her fellow cadets as they passed Raix's biobed. Krell smiled back; Shev frowned. Raix gave a quick nod.
"He's not still bothering you, is he?" James asked once they stepped inside the turbolift, and the door slid shut behind them.
There was no need to elaborate on who he was referring to.
"Not at all. Shev and I have … an understanding. I suppose after everything we've been through together, we've learned to respect one another."
James reached around her to press a button, and the turbolift halted.
She leaned against the railing of the turbolift and studied him.
"You look exhausted," she said. "Are you alright?"
"Me?" He chuckled and brushed the hair from her forehead. "After everything you've been through this past month, you're worried about me?"
He shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Of course, you're worried about me."
"Always."
"I've been … with you missing … I've been worried sick. I didn't know where you were and how to get you back and …"
She looked at him questioningly as the silence stretched on.
"I … "
"What's this? James Kirk, suddenly speechless? Have pigs learned to fly?"
"They have. On Taliphus IV."
"That explains it then."
"Those damn pigs. How dare they make me speechless."
"Indeed. How rude of them."
"So rude."
They shared a laugh. The lights in the lift flickered for a moment, and Hermione felt a brief wave of anxiety. But it passed easily.
I'm not on the Hercules anymore, she reminded herself.
"What's wrong?"
Little escaped James' attention. And Hermione didn't want to sugar-coat anything.
"The lights." She waved her hand at the ceiling. "Their flickering brings back memories of being inside the anomaly. It's alright, though. I'll get over it."
James leaned against the railing beside her, keeping his arms against hers. Somehow, the casual physical contact helped ground her in the present and prevented her mind from reliving the past.
He put his arm around her shoulders, gathering her to his side. "I . . . I'm really happy you're here."
Feeling weary to her bones, Hermione nestled into him with a sigh. "Me too."
She closed her eyes, and a few seconds—or maybe minutes—ticked by in silence.
"You know," she began, "I tried not to think about it inside the anomaly; tried to stay busy to avoid thinking about it. But I'm not sure I'd be able to handle it if we lost our home and the people we've grown to care about for a second time."
James, usually quick with some kind of comeback, was uncharacteristically silent.
"We never lost hope," he finally said, hugging her closer. "Somehow, we all knew we'd see you guys again."
He said it casually, matter-of-factly, but Hermione could detect an undercurrent of something that he wasn't letting on.
The quiet settled between them, neither of them needing to fill it, but rather opting to enjoy the comfortable silence and each other's company.
Hermione began dozing off in his arms.
She gently disentangled herself and restarted the lift. "As much as I enjoy spending time with you, James, I also don't want to be responsible for the ship's captain neglecting his duties."
He chuckled. "Spock's got me covered. But we should probably get you to that appointment with your bed, or Bones will have my head."
The lift door slid open, and a startled crew member, with his nose in his PADD, straightened himself up and stood at attention upon seeing the captain.
"Sir!"
"At ease, Mr. Ocampo."
As they headed down the corridor, Hermione whispered, "Ocampo? He wouldn't, by chance, be related to the Hercules' first officer, would he?"
"No. Uhura verified it already. She's been trying to locate and contact any surviving family members of the Hercules crew. She did find something interesting: apparently, the grandson of the Chief Comms Officer is serving on the Enterprise."
"Nowak?"
James nodded. "It's going to be one hell of a reunion once we get back to Earth."
Apart from the injured crew members and the captain, the rest of the Hercules' crew remained on their ship, as per Starfleet Command's orders.
"From what Uhura told me, Nowak's grandson is older than him."
"That's —"
"—pretty crazy? Yeah, it is. Damn temporal anomalies."
They reached the assigned quarters, and Hermione entered the code. As soon as they walked in, a faint smell of food hit her, and she realized she was hungry.
The door slid shut behind them, but James lingered by the exit.
"I, uh, figured you'd be hungry and took the liberty of getting you something to eat." He gestured to the small bedside table that contained a large tray with a silver dome. "The chef made chicken noodle soup. I thought you might like that, after all those days on resequensed food. There's also some chocolate cake. Not cherry pie, I know, but—"
"James," she interrupted his rambling. "It's wonderful. Thank you."
"You're welcome," he replied, his face breaking into an easy smile.
He shifted from foot to foot, suddenly nervous. He looked as if he was about to say something when his communicator chirped.
"Kirk here."
"Captain," Spock said, "I apologize, but your presence is requested on the Bridge."
"I'm on my way, Mr. Spock."
James slid the communicator into his pocket and cleared his throat. "Well, I'll leave you to it, then. Contact me if you need me . . . Uh, if you need anything. Sleep well."
He flashed her another smile and left.
Hermione stared tiredly at the spot where James had been only moments ago. Then she shook herself out of a sudden stupor and collapsed on the bed, exhausted.
She couldn't help the smile spreading across her face.
It was good to finally be home.
Stardate 2261.22 — coordinates 23-17-46-11, Section 31's Io Facility
John Harrison had a headache. Again. Lately, it seemed to be his constant companion, and the meds Dr. Vyas gave him did very little.
He sat listlessly picking at his lunch and watching the newsfeed on the oversized monitors mounted on one of the walls of the base's mess hall. For months, he felt like a fish out of water. He couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness about where he was, what he was doing, and the people around him.
At first, he thought that, perhaps, the feeling was caused by his injury. That it was normal to feel this way after the loss of memory. But as time passed, he became more doubtful and impatient—despite all Marcus' efforts to make John feel at home. Brief, meaningful glances exchanged between Marcus and Dr. Vyas only added to John's growing uneasiness. He felt he was being lied to.
And now this headache that no one seemed to be able to do anything about. John could tell that the matter concerned—and even alarmed—Marcus and Dr. Vyas. But why? What was so alarming about a headache? John was no doctor, so he could have been oversimplifying this. But his intuition told him that there was more to it. Something to do with his memory loss, perhaps? Maybe there was something that they didn't want him to remember. If that was the case, then it was imperative John remembered. But how?
A figure halted by his table and continued standing there until John looked up. He saw a woman in her late twenties/early thirties, of medium height and athletic build. Her dark eyes sparkled with unshed tears.
"Hi, John," said the woman shakily, an uncertain smile on her lips, and adjusted her grip on her tray of food. "Mind if I sit with you?"
Seconds ticked by, and John merely stared at her, waiting for her image to trigger something—a memory of how they might know each other.
There was nothing.
She nodded once, as if answering some unspoken question, and took a shuddering breath. Setting her tray down, she slid into a chair across from John.
"I'm Naomi," she said, holding out a hand.
He shook it.
"I take it you don't remember me?" She chuckled nervously, smoothing down her dark hair. "I heard about your injury and amnesia, but I was hoping that . . ." She trailed off and searched his face for any sign of recognition on his part.
Having found none, she took another shaky breath and continued, her voice thick with emotion, "We've known each other for so long, and I—"
"How long?" John interrupted.
"As long as I can remember. We grew up together."
"Tell me more."
She nodded and gave him a small smile. "We were both born in Dover, Great Britain. Only a year apart. Our mothers were best friends. When you were four and I was three, our families moved to Tarsus IV. At the time, the colony flourished as one of the most successful examples of human achievement in the galaxy. You know its history, right?"
John nodded. "I read about it after . . . my injury."
According to history books, humans settled Tarsus IV in the 22nd century after the Romulan War. Most of the settlers were veterans of the conflict who, with their families, purposely chose a planet on the other side of the galaxy from the Romulans and the Klingons. Their goal was a society devoted to peace. And the settlers more than achieved that goal—which made what happened there later that much more tragic.
"You and I grew up there," she said. "Shared many happy memories. Until the tragedy."
Naomi was silent for a time, lost in some terrible memories, if the pained expression on her face was anything to go by.
"We had to watch as our parents were murdered," she finally said, "and I'd be dead too if it weren't for you. You saved me, as well as seven other children, from certain death."
She took a moment to collect herself and swiped at a tear, her gaze cast down.
"You've always been my best friend." She paused, a small blush appearing on her cheeks as she kept her gaze firmly down. "At one point, you did become a lot more than that. But in the end, we both agreed that we're better off as friends."
There was a lengthy pause as John contemplated her words. Although most of the information on Tarsus IV was publicly available, the identities of the nine surviving eyewitnesses to the massacre were kept out of all official records for their protection. Marcus had provided John with that information, though. To help him regain his memories, Marcus had claimed. John knew that one of the eyewitnesses was Naomi Nishimura. She could be telling the truth.
Or not.
More questions were in order.
"Do I . . . Did I have a nickname?"
"Butternut," Naomi replied without missing a beat.
"Favourite colour?"
"Green."
"Favourite food?"
"Sushi."
"Did I have a pet?"
"A couple. Your first dog was a beagle, whom you named Sir Barks-a-Lot. He got attacked by a wolf-like creature on Tarsus IV, and got badly injured. Your parents had to put him down. You cried for a week. Your second dog was a German Shepherd named Lucy, after Lucy Pevensie from the Chronicles of Narnia—your favourite books at the time."
"Any quirks?"
"Plenty. One that immediately comes to mind is this: you claimed your sandwiches tasted better when they were cut diagonally."
He asked her question after question—about his family, his childhood, his personality—but none of the answers gave him any satisfaction, and his mood grew only darker. It was as if they were talking about someone else, someone else's life.
Naomi, on the other hand, grew more excited with every question, and she seemed eager for more. She answered every single one of his questions swiftly, without the slightest hesitation. She was obviously enjoying this. If they truly were good friends, as she claimed, he could understand how this conversation, this attempt to reconnect and reestablish their relationship would make her happy. So, she might have been telling the truth.
Or she could be just an excellent liar. A quick-thinking and a very convincing liar. Although the answers she provided matched what Marcus had told him about himself. Naomi, as his oldest friend, just knew more.
But if she truly was his oldest friend—and more—then why wasn't she there when he had first woken up from his surgeries? Where had she been all this time? And why was she here now, two years after his accident?
As if reading his mind, Naomi turned serious and hesitantly reached across the table to place one hand on top of his.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be here sooner," she said. "I was on an undercover mission for the past three years. You know how it is. Can't just up and leave when you're in the middle of it. Duties to perform, threats to assess . . ."
"No, I don't know how it is," he said sharply, extricating his hand from underneath hers.
Apart from a few simple missions, John hadn't left the base much. And when he did, it was always with a chaperone.
Slightly startled, she rubbed at her hand as if it had been hurt.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "It must be very hard for you—"
John scoffed. "Everyone, everyone keeps saying that!"
He was losing his cool and attracting the attention of those in the mess hall. One of their coworkers even stopped by to inquire if everything was alright. Naomi quickly dispatched him with a bright smile and a lie, and John had to take a moment to admire how smoothly she lied and how quickly her expression changed from sorrowful to cheerful.
"You know, I asked Marcus," John said, once the nosy coworker had left. "I asked him about my friends. And he said that most of them were dead."
"He told you the truth."
"But why didn't he tell me about you?" he insisted. "You are still alive."
"I was on a dangerous mission, John. There was a good chance I wouldn't return." She paused, sniffling. "I almost didn't a couple of times."
A long silence settled between them, while both of them refused to meet each other's eyes.
John was furious. He wanted—needed—answers, and no one seemed able or willing to give them to him. And the ones he got from the woman sitting in front of him weren't satisfying. They felt wrong, as if they were discussing someone else. Not him.
Elevated noise levels in the mess hall drew John's attention. Several of his colleagues were pointing at something on the newsfeed monitors and discussing what they saw.
"That must be the cadets who got lost in a spacial anomaly," said Naomi, her gaze also zeroing in on monitors, "and found a way out, rescuing the crew of the Hercules in the process. You might have heard. The ship disappeared over a hundred years ago . . ."
Naomi kept talking, but John tuned her out as he watched the news: an Andorian, a Caitian, a Bolian, and two humans stood in front of Starfleet Academy's famous elm tree, the Golden Gate Bridge in the background. They were smiling and waving at the cameras. While the three non-humans were completely unfamiliar, the same couldn't be said about the humans. John recognized them: the man, in a way he'd recognize someone he'd had small dealings with, and the woman . . . She was familiar in a more substantial way.
The image of the group was shoved to the corner of the monitor to make room for the picture of the crew of the Hercules, as well as the anchor's smiling face as he prattled on with fake, over-the-top enthusiasm about 'the best present for Starfleet Academy's centennial anniversary.' John caught a close-up image of the cadets on another channel, with another perfectly manicured, obnoxious anchor giddily informing the audience of the events of 'the miraculous discovery of a hundred-year-old ship.'
"John?"
He looked down to see Naomi's concerned face staring up at him. He was standing in front of one of the monitors, fingers outstretched towards the photo of the female cadet.
He blinked. He had no memory of getting up from his seat and making his way over to the monitor. The dull headache he'd been feeling for weeks turned into a stabbing pain behind his eyes.
"Are you alright?" Naomi asked. "Would you like me to take you to the doctor?"
He slowly shook his head and rubbed a hand over his face.
"Who is she?" he asked, nodding at the picture.
"That's Hermione Granger," replied Naomi. "Why?"
"I know her. I don't remember how, but I know her."
"Um . . . Okay."
"How do I know her?" he demanded.
"I don't know," said Naomi, eyeing him with concern. "Maybe . . . Maybe you remember her from that time when the Curie got caught up in a neutronic storm? She built a device that allowed the ship to survive the storm pretty much unscathed. Made the news then, too. I even heard that some of the scientists on this base requested that Admiral Marcus bring her to work here after graduation."
Naomi's words began to sound distant, and John had trouble making them out. It was difficult to focus.
She gave him a long look. "Is it possible you remember her from a previous newsfeed?"
John bit on the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood in an attempt to ground himself. He took a few deep breaths and considered Naomi's words. He couldn't recall any previous mentions of Hermione Granger, or the Curie. If he had, he was sure he'd remember.
He'd remember her.
No, it wasn't the previous news feed.
"I know her," he insisted, his body beginning to shake as he struggled to maintain control.
In a flash, he was on his knees on the floor, both hands flying to his head. The sound of rushing water filled his ears, and his headache intensified, taking his breath away.
A series of disjointed images flashed through his mind with lightning speed; none of them made any sense:
A group of people, all dressed in red, facing him and holding archaic projectile weapons in their hands.
A pile of dead bodies.
A heated kiss shared with a woman whose features were a blur, but her scent was as clear as if she were next to him right now.
Being stabbed in the shoulder by some sort of ornamental dagger.
A pair of dark hands wrapping around someone's head and squeezing, squeezing until—
A scream tore through him.
He vaguely heard Naomi calling for help; felt her presence beside him on the floor.
All the images and sensations . . . It was all too much, too sudden.
Overwhelming.
Hands still firmly clutching his pounding head, John felt himself sway on his knees. The floor rushed up to meet him.
Then the darkness claimed him.
