Captain Jonathan Archer, Commander T’Pol and Commander Charles Tucker III – Tripp to his friends – emerged from the captain’s Ready Room. Jonathan was smiling. Tripp was grinning from ear to ear. T’Pol, a Vulcan, was, as usual, impassive, but darting eyes betrayed a smidgen of something, perhaps it was happiness.
“Hoshi, I’d like the intercom,” the captain requested.
“Right away, sir,” she pressed a few switches, “Ready.”
“All hands, this is the captain. As you are all well aware, today marks exactly six months since we began counting our days in the new calendar. It’s October twentieth of 2037, and it seems; in some ways, only yesterday that it was April twentieth of 2037. And of course we all know, not too long before that, it was January of 2154. But our particle wake in a subspace corridor, after escaping some Kovaalan ships, well, it changed all that. And so here we are, over a century earlier than we are supposed to be.”
He coughed a little. “But I am not contacting you in order to dwell on that. We all know that these circumstances can, at times, bring out the worst in people. But today I’d like to announce that they can also bring out our best. As you all know, I’ve only conducted one wedding since we got into our current predicament and became a generational ship. And now, I am announcing, I am going to be conducting another one.”
Hoshi looked up and smiled at Tripp. Silently, she mouthed congratulations. He nodded his acknowledgment.
“The kicker here is that things are going to be a bit different this time around. For not only have I never conducted a Vulcan wedding before, but I have never even attended one. So the bride – Commander T’Pol – should be obvious. The groom, of course, is Commander Tucker. The wedding will be in a week, and will take place on the ship, so everyone can attend, either in person or virtually if you’re on duty. Please join me in congratulating the happ – the couple.” He smiled. “Thank you, Archer out.”
Hoshi got up from her station and walked over to T’Pol, “Congratulations,” she said.
“Thank you,” replied the Vulcan.
Malcolm Reed, the Tactical officer, walked over to Tripp’s station, “I suppose we’ll have to get Jennifer Crossman to cover for you in Engineering. Best of luck to you, Commander.” He shook Tripp’s hand.
Tripp just looked at him. “My, aren’t we formal? Malcolm, I, uh, I was wonderin’, would you be my Best Man? I mean, I dunno if Vulcan weddings even do that. But, well, just in case they do.”
“I, I don’t know what to say. This is rather unexpected.”
“C’mon, I’d do the same for you.”
“I’ll, I shall keep that in mind, in case the occasion arises.” He swallowed hard, for there was such an imbalance of the genders that there was every possibility that the occasion would never arise, he would never wed, and would never have anyone to love.
=/=
Malcolm wasn’t the only person with such reservations and fears. Even women felt that way, even though the ratio favored them dramatically.
Sure there were couples. Jenny Crossman, the second in command in Engineering, was already living with Aidan MacKenzie, who was second in Tactical. Judy Kelly and Michael Rostov, both of Engineering, had even gotten married – the captain’s first-ever wedding. Plus there were dating couples who weren’t quite as committed, like Karin Bernstein of Tactical and Josh Rosen from Engineering, or Tracey Carter from Engineering and Oscar Tiburón of the MACOs.
Still others were circling each other, trying to figure out when to make a move. Walter Woods of the MACOs had his eye on Diana Jones, from Science. Hoshi had her eye on Andrew Miller, of the Bio Lab. José Torres of Engineering was interested in Hoshi.
And then there were gay crew members, of course, who were even more tentative, like Frank Todd of the MACOs. There was even at least one gay woman, so the presence of gay men didn’t completely even out the bumpily uneven ratio of the genders.
Then there were also those who felt bereft, or scared, or heartbroken, or nervous, or shy or just not too certain of their choices. Jay Hayes, the MACO’s CO, fell within this category, for he was emerging from an old heartache that was finally healing. The captain, too, was hesitant, not wanting to step on toes or unfairly pull rank. Sous-chef Lili O’Day figured that the men would all find her to be too old, although she was only forty-five. Malcolm was in this bucket, too, for he was not only nervous about his appearance and his age, but he had also been badly insulted by a nasty woman who had sought to out him. She – Sandra Sloane – had nastily and loudly and rather publicly proclaimed him to be closeted, even though he was nothing of the sort. She was misreading his natural reserve, but it hardly seemed to matter. The captain had made the crew go through sexual harassment retraining in order to try to squelch rumors and get everyone back on track in terms of how to treat one another. But the training did little to give Malcolm back his confidence, so he, too, sat on the sidelines.
The ship’s physician, a Denobulan named Phlox, had what to do in order to contend with the growing ranks among the crew of people who were – there was no other word for it – depressed.
“Hoshi, I’d like to send a message to all,” Jonathan stated, “It’ll be audio only.”
“Yes, sir.”
“To the crew – despite what your own personal schedules may be, Doctor Phlox has asked that everyone make appointments for complete physicals. There are no exceptions. Please act quickly so that we can finish this as soon as possible. Thank you.”
“Sent,” she reported.
“Thanks. I’ll be in my Ready Room.”
T’Pol looked around, realizing she was, yet again, being placed in charge. She walked into the Ready Room behind him.
“Yes?” he asked. Porthos, his pet beagle, looked up from his nap.
“Sir, you need to be out there, for the crew.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he sighed, “but give me just a moment. Maybe five minutes alone, all right?”
“By all means.” She took her leave.
He sat there, in the tiny office, and sniffed a few times, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. “Porthos,” he whispered, “I should be happy for them. I know that. I know it intellectually. And it’s not like I love her or anything. It’s just,” he couldn’t continue. The dog came over and placed his chin on his master’s knee. Jonathan sat there and stroked the dog’s head a few times before continuing, “I, I just want, I want someone. There has got to be someone. Right? I have what to offer. And I don’t mean rank or anything like that. I treat women well. I can be romantic. I like to think I’m a decent lover. I like to think I’m an acceptable-looking guy. But I can’t just go out there, yanno? I can’t just hit on one of the women. It’s, it’s not right. It’ll skew everything. Do I wait for someone to come to me? I don’t know. I just – I don’t know. I’m scared of being alone. Forever.”
=/=
In the galley, Lili read her PADD. She clicked on one of the earliest choices for appointments. “Might as well get it over with,” she murmured to herself. A young Engineering crewman, Craig Willets, was sitting near her.
“Get what over?” he asked.
“We’re all supposed to get physicals.”
“Oh. I hate being poked and prodded like that,” he commiserated, “Ready to start on trying to replicate carrots again?”
“Actually,” she stated, “I was thinking of something else. We have four kinds of fish – salmon, tuna, shrimp and cod. We’ve already been successful at replicating shrimp.”
“I still can’t get the texture right,” Craig admitted, “It still looks and feels like a lot of chopped up bits.”
“Well, that’s okay for now. I mean, when Chef and I made egg rolls the other day, it was perfect.”
“Really?” he asked. He was just over half her age, and her statement was making him beam. “I just, I wanna get this all right. This is our survival.”
“It’s also our sanity,” interjected Chef Will Slocum, coming over to check on them, “If we start to run out of too many things, and the food loses its variety and its appeal, we may find ourselves with a riot on our hands.”
“Or people will just take over the ship and try to go to Earth,” Craig mused.
“A mutiny in order to get Chinese takeout?” Lili joked, “Actually, truly, it is almost as serious as all that. We all know how important morale is. Anyway, the fish – I was thinking – we might be able to get carrots and whatnot grown on that more temperate planet.”
“Ah, yes, the as-yet-unnamed place,” Will confirmed.
“Right,” she agreed, “but we can’t do that with fish. We’d better start trying to replicate it. I’d say to start with cod, as it has the mildest flavor.”
“Plus any mistakes we can probably just bread and fry and serve as fish and chips,” Will added.
“Oh, I like those,” Craig stated, “I’ll get right on it, sir.”
“I see,” Will murmured to Lili, “you picked the twenty-first for your physical.”
“Is that okay? You can spare me for, I dunno, forty-five minutes or whatever it takes, right?”
“I can,” he confirmed, “is uh, is anything troubling you? I don’t mean physically. I mean emotionally. ‘Cause I suspect that these physicals are a front for Phlox to check us all out, see if we’re going loony.”
“Will,” she looked at him, “you have seen these people, now, haven’t you? There are people on board who I think are depressed.”
“Maybe,” he allowed, “I just, I want you to know that you can always talk to me.” He came a bit closer to her, and she stepped back involuntarily. “I, I only want you to be happy.”
She stared past him, unsure of what to say. Craig called out, “I’ve got a first draft. You wanna taste it?”
“Sure,” she called, “coming, Craig.”
=/=
The first physical was the captain. Phlox had insisted, and by telling Jonathan that it would set a good example, that had sealed the deal. “Well?” Jonathan asked after several minutes.
“You’re in perfect physical health.”
“So I’m free to go?”
“Not exactly,” the Denobulan looked concerned. “Captain, I’d like to talk to you a bit about your mental state.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We have been over this a bit already. You are showing signs of depression. And you are not the only crew member who is, you know. I already have sixteen crew members under some degree of care or another. Some are receiving medication and others are talking. But there are at least another seven or eight who are showing symptoms but are not receiving any treatment whatsoever. And you are one of those seven.”
The captain thought for a moment. “I, this morning, I had to announce the T’Pol-Tucker wedding. I’m happy for them, Doc, I really am! But I couldn’t help feeling odd about it, like I was being left out of things. And I realized, as I was walking here, that my announcement of their upcoming wedding was barely about them. I spent a lot more time talking about myself. And that’s completely wrong.”
“It is a bit of a sign. Depression can often take the form of too much self-reflection. It is a lot easier to dwell on one’s own personal problems when there are no other outlets. Tell me, have you pursued any of the women yet?”
Jonathan looked queasy. “I have not,” he finally said, “it hardly seems fair. What if I had made a play for T’Pol? Not only would that have trashed my friendship with Tripp, it also would have kept them apart. And as for T’Pol, would she have been truly interested in me as a man, or simply obeying me as her superior officer?”
“I am sure that T’Pol knows the difference,” replied the doctor.
“I know she does,” Jonathan stated, “but she is also a Vulcan and she is second in command. What if I were to go after one of the really low-ranking women on the ship like, I dunno, Deborah Haddon in Security, or someone like Kate Shelton in Engineering? Would they respond with real affection, or with pleasure at being paid attention to by the captain of the ship?”
“These women are not foolish. None of the women on board are.”
“I, I, know, but I feel like I would just be in the way of everyone else. I, I feel like the herd has to thin out a lot more, I think.”
“Captain, as you are well aware, there are fifty-eight men on the Enterprise, and thirty-four women, and those numbers include T’Pol and myself. This is not a terribly large herd to begin with.”
“I know.” He thought for a moment. “I need to concentrate on running the ship. I can’t do a talking cure; it’s too slow. Just, if you could give me something to help with that, uh, that would be, er, helpful.” He smiled weakly.
“I can give you something,” Phlox allowed, “But I want you to consider, perhaps, going public with your diagnosis and treatment.”
“Public?”
“Yes. As I mentioned before, there are at least a good half a dozen other crewmen who are not coming forward, and who could use treatment. I believe that they would benefit from you showing them that there is no stigma to having a few mental issues and taking the proper steps to resolve them.”
“Forget it.”
“Captain, your crew needs you.”
“I said, ‘Forget it’!” Jonathan realized his voice was a lot sharper than he had intended. He swallowed a little. “You need to understand something. The morale around here, it’s like it’s being held together with chewing gum and duct tape half the time. If the captain ever looks weak or vulnerable, others will try to step in. This is a unique situation, and I have no one over me. I cannot create a situation where an ambitious person rolls the idea of mutiny around in his or her head.”
“I had not thought of that,” Phlox admitted. “Still, it should be of concern. After all, what if a pilot becomes so depressed that that person seeks solace in alcohol, and comes to shift either drunk or hung over? Or a Tactical crewman is so distracted by his or her feelings that they don’t align the targeting array properly, and a battle is lost, and the ship damaged? Or an Engineering crewman is so down that he or she fails to show up for shift, and the warp containment field isn’t properly monitored? We could end up with a core breach, yes?”
“Doctor, enough,” Jonathan protested wearily, “Please, do you think I don’t already have the weight of the world on my shoulders? I have to be perfect. And I mean perfect! I can’t show sorrow, sickness or loneliness. I don’t need to be a laughing boy, but I do have to appear dependable to all. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself with a lot more than a couple of dozen depressed crewmen – you might find yourself having to handle over ninety depressed folks.”
Phlox rolled that over in his head. “I could, perhaps, approach a member of the senior staff. There may be someone who would agree to go public. That way, the crew would be shown an example of someone agreeing to treatment and showing their vulnerability, and you would not be exposed.”
“Huh. That’s a good idea. I’m all for it, as long as that person isn’t pressured into going public. You may find that they want their medical privacy, too. They are entitled to it, of course.”
“Of course,” replied the doctor, “I am merely considering all of the options. You’re free to go.”
=/=
Jonathan Archer’s Personal log, October twentieth, 2037
I don’t know if I should’ve said as much as I did to Phlox today. It was under the guise of a physical, but he approached me about depression. He said I was. I suppose it’s a bit to my credit that I didn’t deny it.
I am a little afraid that I admitted too much, though. It’s a difficult balance. I need to remain professional. I need to be reliable and strong and, like I said to him – perfect. And that part ain’t easy.
My life is conflicting these days. I need to be strong, but I am hurting. I need to appear perfect, yet I am vulnerable. I need to open up to someone before I explode, but there is no one. After all, Phlox is under an obligation to recommend I be relieved of command if he thinks I can no longer hack it.
So I need to play it cool. Today, he gave me an injection, and he gave me some pills, too, which I will take every morning before breakfast, starting tomorrow. Then I’ll be back in Sick Bay once they’re done – there are seven pills, so that’ll be a week from tomorrow – and he’ll reassess. I guess I’ll get another shot then, as well.
I can do this. I can get my focus back.
=/=
Charlotte Lilienne O’Day’s Personal log, October twentieth, 2037
When we were talking about the physicals, Will said to me that he hoped I would open up to him. Of course I am not feeling great about things, but I do not wish to open up to him. He’s my boss!
I wonder if he was hitting on me.
It’s all a bit confusing. I mean, the ratio is bad, and it’s not getting any better. There are still a good fifty or so unattached guys out there, something like that. I walk through the halls and, while I know they’re not staring at me, they are definitely staring at the other women.
But they aren’t staring at me. Except for T’Pol, I am the oldest woman on the ship, the senior sister, at forty-five. I have parentheses lines around my mouth, my lower teeth are crooked and my right breast is slightly larger than my left. I have a few kilos on me that I can never seem to lose. I am an Ensign, but only because there are only two people in Food Service. By all rights, I should be a lowly crewman.
In short, on the surface, I have little to recommend me to the men. They are all thinking of Hoshi, or Amanda Cole, or even my new roommate, Sophie Creighton. I am sure that I, Lili O’Day, do not haunt anyone’s dreams.
=/=
Malcolm Reed’s Personal log, October twentieth, 2037
So Tripp and T’Pol are getting married. That is wonderful for them. Tripp even asked me to be his Best Man. and I have to admit that the prospect has made some mixed feelings bubble up to the surface.
I wish them well, of course. There is a bit of regret on my part, but it was more because I never acted. I have always found T’Pol to be immensely attractive. But I have not done anything about it, so it comes as no surprise that I am left as the Best Man as opposed to being the groom.
As for the other women aboard, I have mixed feelings there as well. We’re not supposed to outwardly and openly compare, and I agree with that rule. After all, it would be the height of vulgarity to compare women’s looks and other attributes in the open. I do not wish to hurt anyone, of course. But I can’t help thinking of the thirty-four women on the ship.
Judy Kelly is married, and now T’Pol will be as well. Jennifer Crossman is living with my second at Tactical, Aidan MacKenzie. Tracey Carter from Engineering is probably going to be the next to live with her beau, who is one of the MACOs. They are all, clearly, off the table. So is Maryam Haroun, the only Muslim woman on the ship, unless I was to convert, and right now that’s not bloody likely. Karin Bernstein would, I am certain, require a conversion to Judaism. But it doesn’t matter; she’s got a boyfriend in Engineering, Josh Rosen.
So that leaves another twenty-eight. I haven’t totted up my own personal, private tote board lately, so now’s about as good a time as any, I’d say.
I would rather stay away from women under the age of thirty as I believe that is not only wrong – I am, after, all forty-two years of age myself – but it also feels like we’d have nothing to talk about. In that group are Hoshi Sato – a pity, as she is rather lovely – Sophie Creighton, Ingrid Nyqvist, Kate Shelton, Emily Andreiou and I think also Colleen Romanov. Oh, and Diana Jones is too young, as well.
In their thirties are, let’s see, Sandra Sloane – and she is completely and utterly out! Telling everyone that I was closeted! The nerve! It was hurtful, and nasty, and thoroughly untrue. And so I wonder about my chances with any of them. It is a pity that her actions color so much of this. I should ignore how it all makes me feel. I should not give her that much power. Other women in their thirties are Bree Tanner, Cecily Romano, Mara Brodsky, Victoria Dietrich, Tara Balcescu – at least, I think that’s how you pronounce her name – it’s a Romanian name, I believe, er, Shari Jeffers, Stephanie Ayers, Nyota Warren, Deborah Haddon, Felicity Reese, Cassandra Lester and I believe that’s it.
The ones over forty are Meredith Porter, Patti Socorro and the sous-chef, Lili O’Day.
But that’s not everyone, as there are also MACOs. There’s Julie McKenzie – she’s actually a cousin to an old girlfriend from way, way back when. I can’t see that. Besides, I believe she’s in the under-thirty camp. There’s Susie Money – she’s over thirty and may even be over forty. There’s Amanda Cole. I think she might be thirty, although I’m not certain. There’s Nan Myers and Christina Parsons.
Dammit, who am I missing?
Wait a tick. Shelby Pike, the Botanist, who I believe may be in her early thirties. That’s everyone. In any event, I prefer blondes. I suppose that’s a silly thing, but I do. And so the remaining blondes in the mix are Diana Jones, Lili O’Day, Julie McKenzie and Ingrid Nyqvist. Oh, and there’s also Deborah Haddon and Patti Socorro. I think that Jones, Nyqvist and McKenzie are too young.
And then there were three, eh?
=/=
Craig Willets’s Personal log, October twentieth, 2037
Lili’s always been nice to me. But I’ve got no chance. Why should she want someone as young as me? I’ll keep programming the replicator like I’m supposed to, and feeding her replicated cod or whatever, and I’ll try not to look in her eyes ‘cause I think I’ll get lost in there.