A Time for War, a Time for Peace - Keith R. A. DeCandido [46]
Of course, it helps that I was out of commission for seventy-five years. He chuckled to himself at the memory of waking up in the transporter room of the Jenolen, seemingly moments after he and Ensign Franklin—the last survivors of the ship’s crash into a Dyson Sphere—had rigged the transporter to keep them alive in the buffer until a rescue came. That rescue did come—over seven decades later, and too late to save poor Franklin.
For Scotty, who’d been on the road to retirement, it was a new lease on life, and he’d taken it with gusto. In the decade since his “revival,” he’d traveled the galaxy from Risa to Romulus, seen things he’d never imagined possible, helped out some old friends, and even aided in Starfleet’s horrendous battle against the Dominion.
It was during the war that he became the liaison between the Starfleet Corps of Engineers and the admiralty. The job was ideally suited to Scotty, who had made a career out of navigating the dual landmines of command necessity and engineering possibility. Where once he would have considered an administrative post to be the equivalent of death, his recent years of gallivanting around the galaxy served to remind him why he thought retirement was a good idea in the first place: He wasn’t getting any younger. These days, he was content to work with the S.C.E., doling out mission assignments, and keeping the brass off their backs so they could do their jobs. Perhaps it doesn’t have the excitement of the old days, but these bones aren’t up to quite that level anymore. Let the children have their day in the sun.
“Admiring the view?” came a familiar voice from behind him.
Scotty smiled. The old engineer wasn’t at the commissary today on S.C.E. business, but rather to meet with the man who’d just entered: Admiral William Ross, the one who’d offered him the S.C.E. post in the first place.
“Aye,” Scotty said. “Never fails to take my breath away.”
Ross chuckled. “It’s funny. It wasn’t until after the Breen attack that I ever even noticed it. I saw it, of course, but never really thought anything about it. Then I saw what the Breen did to the city—to the Golden Gate
” He took a breath. “Well, let’s just say I’ve come to appreciate the reminder it provides of what we’ve got—and what we could lose.”
“I know what you mean, Admiral. I spent the Breen attack stuck with Admiral McCoy in a broken-down run-about on a Bakrii repair facility without a clue as to whether or not the bloody planet was still in one piece. Leonard and I almost went mad with the not knowin’.”
Nodding, Ross said, “I was on Deep Space 9 when the news came in. It took all my self-control not to commandeer a ship back home, believe me.” He sighed. “Well, you didn’t ask me to lunch to reminisce about the war or talk about the view. Shall we?”
“Aye, we shall.”
The two officers proceeded to the replicators, ordered their respective lunches—for Scotty, a fehrgit chop, wild rice, and Irish breakfast tea; for Ross, hasperat, a Cajun salad, and raktajino—then proceeded to an empty table. Along the way, both nodded hello to assorted officers they knew, though Ross’s salutations far outnumbered Scotty’s. That only made sense, given Ross’s position as the head of Starfleet forces during the war. He was arguably the most popular person in Starfleet, which was no doubt why he had been deemed a viable presidential candidate.
Scotty indicated the hasperat with