Chapter 9 - 2371
Shaw heard them before he reached the garage bay. "What the fuck is this mess?"
"Thought I'd seen everything," another man answered, "but I'll be damned if I know how they did this."
He squared his shoulders and walked into the bay. "I hit a tree branch," he admitted. "It was under some snow."
The two men turned to look at him. They were quite old and identical in build, though one had much broader facial features.
The entire snow skimmer was held upside down by two mobile clamps in the middle of the bay. In the bright lights, with the everything exposed, Shaw could see how mangled the metal of the skid was.
"Figured that much. How'd you straighten it out? And get all this crap stuck in it? What is that, tree bark?"
"I, uh, heated it up with the mini torch and then used a piece of the branch to pull it straight." They both stared at him. Shaw's face felt warm. "They said it was trash anyhow, I figured that'd let us baby her back to the shed."
"Well, yeah, I can see that."
"So what brings you down here so early?"
He gestured to the skimmer. "I broke it, I thought I should help fix it. If I can."
One of the men cocked his head. "Aren't you one of those Academy kids?"
They were both easily three times his age, so while Shaw winced at being called a kid, he didn't argue. "Shaw. Liam Shaw. I'm prior service."
"Oh, a mustang." Both men immediately relaxed. "Why didn't you say so?"
Shaw got it. These were old grease monkeys. They didn't have much use for clean-handed officers. "I thought it would be obvious."
They both laughed at that. "Well, you're right that this is trash," one told him. "But no worries, it's an easy fix. Grab that pry bar there."
He picked up the indicated tool. It was a pry bar at one end, but had a little curved tip at the other. The old men showed him how to use the curve to pry open the clips that held the skid to the skimmer. There were seven on each of three legs. Once all of the clips were opened, the broken skid slid off easily. Shaw carried it over to the scrap pile. It was heavy and the old men knew it. Shaw didn't mind. Youngest members of any repair crew did the heavy lifting.
They cleaned off each of the leg ends and greased them before they installed the new skid. The old guys helped with that part, because it took all three of them to get it lined up. Then Shaw used the flat end of the bar to lock all the clips.
The old men maneuvered the clamps to set the skimmer upright. Then they plugged it into a diagnostic computer. "Might as well check her out while she's here, see if you broke anything else."
"Seems like a good idea," Shaw admitted.
"Now me," the other man said, fiddling with the controls, "I always like to nudge the power feed up just a little bit. Gives you a little extra speed -"
"—and a lot less control," his counterpart argued. "Soon as he leaves I set it back to default."
"You old so and so …"
A third old man, much smaller and visibly older, wandered into the bay. "You get it fixed?"
"Just arguing about tune ups," Shaw answered. "I'm Liam."
"Mel. That's Jalen and Bek. I know they didn't say, they got the manners of billy goats."
"He's a mustang," Jalen said. "He actually helped."
"You ever run a real forklift, Liam?" Mel asked.
"Uh … I've run a tractor lift, a little."
"Nah, a proper old-fashioned forklift. C'mon, I'll show you."
Mel started out, and Shaw followed.
"Hey, come back when you're done, I'll show you how to tune this thing up."
"And I'll show you how to fix it when he's done."
Shaw laughed and went to learn about forklifts.
As promised, Matt and a handful of others took the little kids for rides on the snow skimmers later in the morning. Shaw helped. He rode slowly around the Camp Central road with very small children in front of him on the skimmer, and with larger children behind him. Matt handled the larger-still children who were big enough to ride on their own, riding beside them and calling instructions. It was chaotic and the kids loved it, until they got cold and went inside.
Shaw got a much better sense of the camp in the process. The big house and a dozen or so smaller houses were enclosed by a tall stone wall. The gate currently stood open, but signs on both sides read: CAMP STAFF ONLY. A road circled outside the wall and connected some of the outer buildings – Dining Hall, Medical/Recreation, Transporter, and Gander Lodge. Smaller side roads had signs that said they went to the stables, the pool, the hiking trails. It was a perfectly fine lay-out, but on about his fourth time around the circle Shaw realized what bothered him about it: Aside from the big house, literally none of the buildings squarely faced the road.
The Med/Rec building sat at about thirty-degree angle. The Transporter Station was even further off kilter, and a good ten meters further back than Med/Rec. Gander Lodge was built so close to the wall that only a child could shimmy between them. It looked as if someone had given Harald a pile of blocks and let him decide where the buildings would go. It irritated his engineering soul.
They were putting the skimmers away when a mid-sized boy and girl approached Shaw. "What's your name?" the girl asked.
"Uh … Liam."
"Uncle Liam, will you build the skate rink?"
"The … what?"
"The skate rink," Matt said, joining them. "I suppose you want two again this year?"
"Yeah!" the girl said. "For hockey!"
Matt turned to Shaw. "You ever drive a snowplow?"
"Not yet."
"You'll like it. Don't drive it over the tunnels."
Shaw had not given much thought to why Otto's tunnels weren't entirely below the surface, but now he saw it. They stuck up enough that they left mound tracks, like a giant mole had been through. They were covered with dirt and moss grew over them, but they were clearly visible. The small vehicles could drive over their slopes, and people and animals could walk over them, but any of the large vehicles would crush the underlying pipes. If they'd been entirely buried, they'd be easily forgotten and frequently damaged. "Got it."
They made the kids measure and stake the skate rinks in the middle of the camp circle. Then he and Matt plowed the thin snow into berms at the markers, so that there was a shallow depression inside. It was delicate work, in the big snowplow, but Shaw got the knack pretty readily. They watered the berms and left them to freeze. The kids laid out the rink lines for the hockey rink and painted them with supervision.
"We'll flood it tonight," Matt said, "and by tomorrow it'll be ready to skate."
"Why don't they just skate on the pond?"
Matt shook his head. "Pond's over a burn bomb crater. It goes all the way down to the bedrock."
"Which gets warm because of the magma vein."
"Well, the vein runs that way, nearer the cottage, but the rock conducts heat well. So the bottom of the pond gets a little warm …"
"...the warm water rises, and the ice isn't solid," Shaw finished.
"Solid, but not reliable. And the water's still cold enough to kill you, and it's deep as hell, so the drones struggle to get you out."
"Got it."
"Plus the kids run in and out of the house a thousand times, so it's easier to have it here."
"Ahhh."
"Let's get lunch."
Mid-afternoon, Becca caught him in a quiet moment and said, "I'm going back to the cottage for a bit."
It didn't sound like inuendo, exactly, but Shaw wasn't sure. "You want me to come with you?"
"If you want, but you don't have to. I'm just over-peopled, need a little break. But I didn't want to think I was ditching you, either."
"I appreciate that."
"I'll be back in an hour or so."
As she left, Evie came by, wearing a full white chef's apron. "She ducking out?" she asked casually.
"Yeah," Shaw answered. "Said she was over-peopled."
The girl nodded. "She always does that. We're making stuffed cabbage. Wanna help?"
"Umm … sure?" He followed her into the kitchen, where six people were around the kitchen island scooping little handfuls of meat stuffing out of a communal bowl. "Can I help?"
"Oh, honey, you can't be in here," Maureen said, bending down to open a drawer.
Shaw's heart fell. It was like being a kid again. His mother making cookies with her friends in the church basement, but he wasn't allowed to help or even to watch because he was too little. It wasn't until years later, when he was damn well big enough to fix their broken oven for them, that he realized they'd kept the kids out so they could gossip without fear of the kids repeating their stories.
" - without an apron." Maureen straightened and tossed him a folded apron. "You'll get all a mess." She gestured to her own rather dirty apron. "Wash your hands and roll up your sleeves. Oh, and give the sauce a good stir before you get in here."
He did as he was told, and everyone moved over to make space for him next to Maureen. "Now the key is to make them all nice and uniform," she instructed, "so we'll give you a scoop to start with, until you get the feel for it." She showed him how to lay out the hot cabbage leaf, how to fill it, how to roll it tightly, but not too tightly, because that made all the stuffing squirt out. It took him a few tries, but she was a patient teacher.
"I'm slowing you down," he apologized, when he finally placed his first mostly-perfect roll into the pan next to dozens of others.
"Oh, I'm in no hurry. I love to cook big meals like this, and I only ever get to at winter break." She swayed a little to bump his arm. "And I especially love teaching new folk my recipes. Ah, there, you've got it. You're a natural!"
Shaw grinned and placed his next roll in the pan.
"I suppose Becca's gone off to the cottage," Maureen said.
He nodded. "Evie says she always does that."
"Since she was a tot. It zig-zags through the family tree. My mother was the same way. Loved her people, but just needed to get away from them for a bit every so often."
"Is that where Harald gets it?" one of the other rollers asked.
"Oh, I'm sure it is. Where is Harald, anyhow?"
"Behind the couch," Evie assured them, "with a big pile of books."
"Oh, yes, that's definitely from his Aunt Becca." There were knowing nods around the table.
"Otto was like that, too, as I recall," an older man said.
"No," Maureen answered, "he'd sit down for a bit because of his injuries, he got tired, but he'd make sure he was still right in the middle of everything."
"I forgot to tell you," Evie said, "they made us read his accident report at the Academy."
"They're still doing that?"
"It still holds up," Shaw said. "Still a great example of how not following the regs led to a whole lot of bad things."
They were off then, talking about the Academy, about Otto, about other family members. They talked and they rolled cabbages, and Liam Shaw felt absolutely welcome.
Camp Gander on Winter Break was like living at a carnival in the off-season. There was always something to do and always someone to do it with. There were horses to ride in the indoor arena. Becca rode; Shaw declined, on the grounds that he had nearly died once already, but he helped lift children onto and off of the horses with the adult riders. There was ice skating and hockey. Shaw observed one intensely competitive hockey game and denied that he knew how to skate. It wasn't true. He'd played hockey as a kid, and once fallen on his friend's skate blade and cracked a rib. He did, however, pull green rubber footies onto the soles of his boots and help small children make their way around the ice. He hiked in the woods with the adults, saw deer and a fox and possibly a bear. He tried cross-country skiing and hated it, until Matt brought out a snow skimmer and a tow line. Shaw loved that, until he woke up with every muscle in his calves, thighs, and shoulders absolutely knotted in cramps.
There was singing every night. The kids put on skits some nights, and the adults did as well. There was endless talking. There were stories. There were pranks.
Shaw felt welcome to join in any of it. But if he declined, no one made a fuss about it. If he and Becca wandered away to the cottage together, no one noticed. If they didn't come to breakfast, no one commented. If he went off and did something without her, Becca didn't object; he'd come back to find her doing something else, or curled in a chair in the corner with a book – of course she could work on her thesis in a bar, she'd been doing the equivalent her whole life - or most often, lost in intense conversation with someone.
After a few days, the chaos settled into more of a pattern, with regular meals and children going to bed at reasonable hours, though they did still tend to sleep in puppy piles rather than their own beds. Noisy crowded breakfasts at the big house, followed by a multitude of activities, most of them outdoors. Lunch and then a quieter afternoon, with everyone a little tired from the morning cold. Becca usually went off to the cottage, while Liam slipped down to the maintenance shop. He listened to the old engineers and mechanics talk, and he helped them with whatever projects they had going on.
"You don't have to, you know," Mel told him one day, when they were both elbow-deep in the same grimy motor. "Work for your keep here. You're welcome to just play."
Shaw nodded. "I know. But this is – ow, shit!" He snatched his hand back as something in the motor sparked.
"Did it getcha?"
"Little bit." He shook his hand to get the feeling back in his fingertips. "I don't want to say this isn't work, but … "
"It's enjoyable work," Mel suggested.
"Exactly."
"I guessed as much. That's why we're all here. We're all retired, one place and another. But we can't get away from the urge to putter. Guessed you were the same. But I figured I should say."
"And besides," Shaw said, "you let me drive the forklift."
Mel chuckled. "My wife used to say, some kids never outgrown wanting to play with trucks." He tightened one last bolt, flipped a switch, and the motor promptly purred like a kitten. "You ever operate a backhoe?"
"I have not."
"You want to?"
"Yes I do."
"We might be able to find a couple culverts that could use some clearing."
They shut down the motor, washed their hands, and went out to play with trucks.
Mid-way through the break, Liam and Becca woke up to the sound of ice rain clattering on the rood. They skipped the Soak and stayed in bed. Later in the morning, while they were cleaning up from breakfast, Matt buzzed in. "The kids are bored. They wanna go to the museum."
Liam raised an eyebrow at Becca. She shrugged. "Tell him to fire it up and come get us."
He did, and by the time they were dressed the camp bus was waiting outside the front door. They clambered on and dropped into the front seat, which had clearly been saved for them. The rest of the bus was stuffed with both kids and adults.
"They're singing," Matt said sadly as he shoved the bus into gear.
It was a slow drive; the road and the windows were both icy. The children were indeed singing, camp songs, and Shaw had ample time to reflect that life at Camp Gander was not always as rosy as he'd come to think. At last they arrived at a huge metal-walled building that looked like a cargo port. There was a long green awning over the door, with benches lining the walkway. Shaw imagined that in the summer campers waited here for their buses.
Above the door, the sign read Camp Gander Museum of Early Flight.
The other bus was already there, and its passengers were piling toward the door, which was propped open. Shaw climbed down and waited at the bottom of the steps to help the others. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Evie Radford and her cadet friends were on the bus. "Have you seen it before?" she asked. "The museum?"
"No."
"You'll love it."
They went inside. Shaw paused and took it in. The kids were swarming everywhere, and the adults were following according to their ages: helping the toddlers up and down steps, carrying babies, letting the bigger kids run.
To the right of the door was the body of an old atmospheric plane. It rested on its rounded belly, with chocking to keep it steady. There were a dozen stairs up to the open door just behind the cockpit. At the back of the place there was another door with steps down. A fraction of the wing stuck out over the floor, its edge jagged where it had been torn off. Against the fuselage were rows of chairs, presumably from an actual aircraft, that the kids bounced in and out of. There were wide, comfortable-looking seats with a sign that said FIRST CLASS above them, and much smaller, narrower seats with an ECONOMY CLASS sign.
To the right was a huge view board with a map on it. The map was in motion, and at a glance Shaw saw an island, its coastline disappearing into the ocean. Beyond it was a tiny propeller aircraft, made as far as he could tell of sticks and brown paper, with one tiny seat for the pilot. It was behind a clear aluminum wall; it looked like it would crumble if anyone touched it.
Beyond there were dozens of other aircraft, or parts of them. But what captured Shaw's eye wasn't a plane. It was a simple clear box, waist-high, the size of an equipment locker, and it contained an internal combustion engine from one of the early planes.
It was the same engine he'd seen all those years ago when his mother had tried to send him to Camp Gander. The single thing he'd found interesting about the camp at the time.
He wondered if he might have gotten his first kiss here if he'd come.
He imagined that when campers came here, they were given a guided educational tour of some kind. Every display had an informative placard and most had a visual display of the artifact in action. But on winter break, the family simply ran wild.
Shaw also imagined that every single thing in this museum was either unbreakable, easily repaired, or easily replaced, and if it wasn't it was meticulously secured to protect it.
"Wait," he heard one of Evie's friends say, "can you start it over?"
He joined them at the map board. Becca tapped it, and the view changed to a full island, jaggedly round, with the Canadian mainland on the west side and the Atlantic Ocean on the east. There was a quick timelapse and the ocean began to encroach on the east side of the island. The view narrowed down to an odd ground structure, long straight lines centered on long low buildings –
"It's an airport," Shaw realized. "The camp used to be an airport."
Becca nodded. "Uh-huh."
"Is that where all these planes came from?" one of the cadets asked.
"Some of them. Some were left here when the family moved back. Others have been donated over the years. Oh, and one we dragged out of the pond. Same with some of the other displays."
"And those long road things are where the runways were."
"Mmm-hmm. For a while, in the twentieth century, it was the biggest and busiest airport in the world. Almost any plane crossing the Atlantic had to stop here to refuel. Then they invented jet technology and they didn't have to stop any more, so it became a small airport on a whole lot of land. During the Eugenics War it became a major military base – and then it got bombed flat."
The view on the screen changed. Suddenly everything was gone - trees, grass, buildings, everything. Only smoldering gray earth remained, pock-marked by massive deep bomb craters.
"Did anyone survive?" Shaw asked quietly.
"Not many. They were all evacuated, and the island was empty for decades. Then the family came and started building the camp."
"Wait." He pointed to the biggest crater on the map. "This is where the big house is."
"Yes."
One of the cadets pointed. "Med Rec is here."
"Uh-huh."
"And this one is the pond."
"And the pool."
"They just constructed the buildings over the bomb craters," Shaw realized. "That's why nothing is square."
"Correct."
He looked, without gesturing, to where the cottage now stood. There was a bomb crater just where the Soak was now. The bomb had hit the edge of the cliff and burrowed straight down until it hit water. A three-quarter round, with just the one wall open to the sea. Otto Radford must have seen the possibilities right away.
The map of devastation faded and the time lapse showed first new low ground cover sprouting, turning it all green, and then trees beginning to grow, and then buildings began to appear. That ended, and the map re-started from the whole island again.
"Go, explore," Becca said. "There's lots to see."
"Can we go sit on the plane?"
"Absolutely."
"There is like no leg room," Evie told them. "You won't believe how cramped it is."
The teens moved off. "Me, too?" Shaw asked.
"Of course."
He went and explored. The first thing he stopped at was the engine. It was elevated enough that the engine was at eye level. He laid his palms flat on the clear case and let the tutorial run on the little screen. He felt like he was ten years old all over again, gazing at it. Longing to touch it.
Harald pushed between him and the display and put his sticky hands on the case. "What this?"
"This is a Pratt and Whitney R-985 Wasp Junior aircraft engine."
The boy squinted up at him.
"I assume it's a replica, since the last originals were built in 1953. But she's still a beauty. Nine cylinders, air-cooled, radial piston. Maximum output of 450 horse power."
Harald took Shaw's hand and led him all the way around the engine, looking at it intently. When they reached their starting point, he said, "No horseys."
"Oh. No. Sorry. It's a figure of speech."
"No horseys?"
"No. Sorry, kid."
Harald huffed and ran off.
Shaw walked the length of the hangar and looked at everything. There were small planes and gliders, primitive drones, hover craft, three different helicopters, and two bigger planes. There was a jet engine so large that a grown man, or a handful of children, could stand in its mouth. There were demilitarized bombs, half of a bomber airplane, and two anti-aircraft guns. There was a large climbing gym for the kids, concealed under soft screen of camouflage material.
To hide your children from bombs under a piece of fabric painted to look like grass …
He could have spent the rest of the day there, but within two hours the kids had done everything they wanted to do – including cramming all of them into the economy seats on the jet - and were clamoring back toward the entrance. Shaw joined them, ready to board the bus, but Becca took his arm. "Wait."
When the buses pulled away, the building vibrated in the quiet. "Museum," Becca called, "how many life forms are in the museum now?"
"There are fifty-seven life forms currently in the museum."
She ran her hand over her face. "Museum, how many humanoid life forms are in the museum now?"
"There are two humanoid life forms currently in the museum."
"What are the rest of them?" Shaw wondered.
"Mice. Mostly. Museum, please lock the doors."
"All entrances secured."
He slid his arms around her. "Now what?"
"Got something to show you."
"Right here in the museum? I'm shocked." He kissed her deeply.
"We would not be the first," Becca said when they surfaced, "but I had something else in mind."
"Oh. Okay."
"First, at least." She took his hand and led him back to the case that held the engine. "You got your camp key?"
Shaw took it out of his pocket. "Yeah?"
"Put the flat side into that spot there."
He had to crouch to see it. He'd assumed it was just a little indent for the bolt that held the top of the case on. He put the key in.
"Now turn it until it clicks."
He turned the key with his thumb, and the sides smoothly descended into the base of the display. The engine was exposed, naked to the air. He looked at Becca. "Are you kidding?"
She handed him a pair of thin gloves. "Don't get your greasy fingers all over it. There's a step ladder over there."
"Becca …"
"And don't tell the kids, obviously."
"Obviously."
She kissed his cheek. "I'm gonna go check for damages. Enjoy."
"Thank you." He set up the ladder, slipped the gloves on, re-started the tutorial display, and finally laid his hands on the engine of his childhood dreams.
He wasn't sure how long he'd stood there. Long enough that his feet hurt. He looked around the silent museum. Becca must be bored out of her mind by now …
He figured out how to lock the case and slipped his gloves off. Then he turned to look for her. She was sitting in one of the sample airline seats – the comfortable first-class ones – with a tablet in her lap. It was active, but she wasn't looking at it. She was staring at nothing.
Shaw dropped into the chair next to her, took her hand, and kissed it. "That was amazing. Thank you."
She smiled warmly. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. I'm not even going to ask why."
"It's a grease monkey thing."
"I guessed as much."
"How did you know?"
"I'm working on my mother's talent. Find out what they want, give it to them if you can."
"And you knew I wanted to get my hands on that particular engine?"
"The way you lit up when you saw it? Yeah, it was pretty obvious."
Shaw felt his cheeks go warm, but he didn't care. He kissed her hand again. "Thank you. And I'm sorry I abandoned you for so long."
"It's okay." She gestured to the tablet. "I had some things to … do anyhow."
"Problem?"
"No. Yes. No."
"Well that's perfectly clear."
She went quiet, and Shaw took a chance. "Is this about what happened at the funeral?"
After a long moment she nodded. "How'd you know?"
"The mashed potatoes and moonshine were kind of a clue."
"My standard winter break dinner."
"Okay. You don't have to tell me. But I'm here if you want to talk about it."
She considered, then sighed. "I was stair-tending, stage left. That's, um … you tell the speakers when they're going on, help them up or down the stairs if necessary, you keep water and handkerchiefs and copies of their speech notes in case something happens. Just generally … assistance as needed."
Shaw nodded that he understood.
"G'lel's great-granddaughter wanted to speak. She's young. Seventeen, eighteen, maybe twenty. Her turn comes, I walk her to the top of the steps, she goes out to the podium. She starts crying. She looks out at this crowd, probably a thousand people, ambassadors and presidents and admirals and basically every bigwig in the Federation who could wrangle a seat. And she just loses it. Can't stop crying, can't get a single word out, just freezes.
"I look across the stage and I see Ambassador Sovek come up the stairs stage right. He's next on the program, so I think he's going up to speak. I go out to get the girl, to escort her off stage. We all converge at the podium. I have a handkerchief out. Sovek takes it, takes the girl's arm, looks dead at me and says, 'Why don't you say a few words?' And then he walks the girl off the stage."
"Wait. He expected you to speak on literally zero notice?"
"Yup."
"At this big important funeral."
"Yup."
"Where's he live? I'll go punch him in the mouth for you. Twice, if you want."
Becca chuckled. "Well, there's an idea."
"So, did you speak?"
"I did. I, uh, I took a deep breath, I counted to five and then I …" She waved her hand. "I told them my name. I told them that I hadn't expected to speak, and that Ambassador Sovek had just then asked me to, and that that was precisely the sort of test of self-confidence and grace under pressure that Ambassador G'lel had loved to administer to her young diplomats. And they all nodded and chuckled knowingly." Becca paused. "I don't even remember exactly what I said after that. But I assume it was okay, because after the service everybody wanted to talk to me. Everybody. And I was so over-peopled by then, and I just –"
"Wanted to come home."
"Yes."
"But you stuck it out."
"Yes."
Shaw nodded. "Good girl. But then you came here and I latched onto you like a barnacle and you didn't tell me you needed some time alone, even though you clearly did."
"You're not people."
"I'm … going to take that as a compliment, I guess."
"You know what I mean. You're not those people, you're … you're Liam. You don't irritate me with your presence."
"Right. Definitely a compliment."
"I mean you don't usually irritate me with your presence."
Shaw leaned and kissed her gently. "I am genuinely flattered to be not people. Thank you."
Her hand fell on the tablet again.
"So what's bugging you?"
"I just got a message from Ambassador Sovek."
"It better be a heart-felt apology for putting you on the spot like that."
Becca shook her head. "He commended me on a well-delivered speech, and on my display of self-confidence and grace under pressure."
Shaw growled softly.
"He hopes that my time with my family will prove restful and restorative."
"He's clearly never been to winter break. Restful is not on the menu."
"We stayed in bed late this morning."
"Yes, but we weren't resting."
"If you wanted to rest you should have said so."
"I was not complaining," Shaw assured her, "merely stating the facts."
"Fair enough."
She went silent again, staring into the middle distance, her fingertips tapping very lightly on the tablet screen.
"What else?" Shaw finally prompted.
"He offered me a job. A position with his delegation."
Shaw squinted, trying to remember exactly what position Sovek held. He didn't know; he'd never paid much attention to politicians. But ambassadors as a group were a big deal. "Is that a promotion?"
"Yes."
"A big one?"
She nodded. "It's a three- to five-year line jump, basically."
"That's terrific. Congratulations."
She simply nodded again.
"That is terrific, isn't it? I mean, I can still track him down and punch him for you, he doesn't know who I am."
She didn't answer.
"Becca? What is it?"
"It's just … it's unexpected. And I just … I don't deserve it …"
"Don't you dare. You did a hard thing and it sounds like you did it very well. You deserve it. G'lel would be proud of you."
"I wonder if she put him up to it."
Shaw considered. "It does seem like something she'd do."
"One last boot in the ass on her way out the door."
"If she did, it's because she wanted you on his team. She wanted what was best for you."
"What she decided was best for me."
"Same thing, in her mind."
"Yeah."
"Okay, maybe she did. But the Vulcans I've known, it's almost impossible to talk them into doing something unless they think it's a good idea. You know for damn sure this Sovek isn't doing it because he feels sorry for you. If he's offering you this position, it's because he sees for himself what G'lel saw in you, and he thinks you'll be good at it. Right?"
"I guess."
"Becca."
She finally looked at him, smiled ruefully. "You're making perfect sense. I just – maybe I just need a minute to get used to the idea."
"Well, yeah, you don't want to be answering that right away, you've got to let it simmer, be casual. Oh, hey, just saw your message."
"Of course."
"Becca. Let me pass on some advice I got a while ago from a really smart woman. Don't sell yourself short just because they let you bypass some hoops. You could get there on your own. And you deserve to be there."
"I think that giving a speech at a funeral is a little different from surviving a massacre."
"Granted. But my point is, we take the breaks when they fall to us. Because sure as hell sometimes they won't. So. Take some time to get used to the idea. Make up your mind that you deserve this, because you do – and G'lel probably said so – and then take the job."
She took a deep breath. "Okay."
"Good." He stood, pulled her to her feet, and wrapped her in a tight hug. "And since G'lel's not here to say it, I am really proud of you."
"Thank you." She snuggled against him, in no hurry to move, and he held her gladly.
It occurred to him then that if G'lel hadn't given him a shove when she did, Becca's promotion would almost certainly been the end of their relationship. It wasn't that she would have minded still dating a grease monkey; she'd made it clear that it didn't matter. But it mattered to him. Deeply. If he hadn't already been firmly planted in the Academy and half-way to his first pips, he wouldn't have seen her again. The distance would have been too great, and he would have seen it widening for the rest of their lives.
She didn't care. He cared enough for both of them. But because Ambassador G'lel had kicked him in the ass, he was on his way, too.
He sent good wishes to the cantankerous old woman, in whatever afterlife she might be in.
