What's Past_ The Future Begins (Book 2) - Michael Schuster [16]
After a number of failed attempts, he’d tuned the replicator in his apartment the way he needed it to be to produce an acceptable Forfar Bridie. Now, however, he wanted something simple and sweet, like a piece of Dundee cake or a Caledonian cream.
It was remarkable. The older he got, the more he longed for traditional dishes, the ones he’d grown up with. His mother, despite her Danish ancestry (or perhaps because of it), had been the best cook in Aberdeen—and indeed in Scotland.
And then he joined the Fleet and discovered all the splendid cooking that was done on other planets. The unimaginable, the impossible happened: he liked it better!
Perhaps it had something to do with changes of ingredients and different preparation methods. Perhaps it was the fascination of the unknown. Possible…but perhaps it was simply the joy of finally getting away from all the history and tradition and cultural background that threatened to crush him like a bug whenever he was in Aberdeen.
At least, that was how he’d felt as a teenager, when he hadn’t known that there really was no place like home.
Now, however, he was on Risa, on the paved road leading to his fake Aztec bungalow. When he arrived at the front door, he keyed in his security code, and the door swished open.
He flicked on the lights, replicated himself a double-sized piece of Dundee cake, and sat down at his computer terminal. He was greeted by the blinking words: You have twenty-three new messages.
A sigh was followed by acceptance of the unavoidable.
He quickly scanned the message titles and their senders, and eliminated seventeen of them by way of being unknown and/or clearly identifiable as tribble-coms. That left six messages that got a second chance.
A couple were business-related—one from Theodore Quincy, Scotty’s manager, about a meeting and another from the head waiter about a contingent of Withiki visiting tonight—and these he quickly read and digested. Three others he eliminated mere moments after opening them, realizing they were tribblecoms more cleverly disguised than most.
The sixth message was the one he’d expected, but not in a positive sense. Still, he had to listen to what it said.
The visage of Admiral Ross, formerly of Starbase 375, Kalandra Sector, now attached to Starfleet Headquarters, Earth, filled the terminal screen. He seemed calm and relaxed, and yet his messages always had a touch of desperation to them.
“Good day, Captain Scott.” He still called him “Captain,” despite the fact that Scotty was supposedly out of the Fleet. Scott guessed it had something to do with respect, or maybe Ross just didn’t know better. He didn’t really care either way.
“I know it’s quite likely you haven’t changed your mind in the last nine days, but nevertheless I want to ask you to reconsider. Starfleet needs you, now more than ever. The Corps needs you. I need you.
“Commander Lynch has now officially submitted his resignation as Corps liaison; his position will be vacant a month from now. Last week, all I could tell you was speculation and rumors, but now it is official. We need a replacement, and I can’t think of anybody better suited for this task than you—considering that you worked closely with him until recently.”
While it was surprising that Lynch had now actually resigned, the rest of the message wasn’t all that different from what Ross had said in last week’s message, or in the one from the week before, or the one before that. Are there no other engineers who could sit behind a desk at HQ instead of me? Starfleet must really be desperate if they can’t think of anybody else. Me, a retired, slightly overweight, gray-haired man with a bad case of nostalgia! What bloody times are we living in?
Unaware of Scotty’s thoughts, the recorded Admiral Ross continued. “On behalf of Captains Xentalir and Gold, I have to thank you for your recommendations