Cressida Brennan hadn’t planned to travel with the USS Olympic, and she wasn’t exactly thrilled about it either. Even if this was a short-term arrangement.
She’d given the matter of her departure from Deep Space 17 exactly zero thought – quiet and unnoticed were her only preferences –  and she’d cursed herself for her lack of foresight when the only departure coinciding with the conclusion of her duties as task force commanding officer was the Olympic.
Sure, she could have stuck around and watched Admiral Jenson reacquainted herself with the station – but she’d tried that. To the surprise of absolutely no one, that had become very boring very quickly.
And how could she not take the opportunity that had so clearly been placed before her by universal providence and starfleet scheduling?

And now, she was here. Ready to leave.

Well, almost.

The ship was busier than it had any right to be as the crew returned from shore leave and prepared for departure. Groups of civilians were ushered towards their quarters, and the new cohort of wide-eyed cadets was asked to at least stop standing in the way.

Brennan though? She wasn’t part of the crew. And because she didn’t have anything better to do, she spent her afternoon with cocktails and crudités.

In “Cocktails and Crudités”. Since that was the name of the lounge she currently luxuriated in. It featured an open air terrace, which was, of course, not really open air, and as one of the few lounges only accessible to senior staff – she might be traveling low-profile, but not no-profile – it was quiet, basically empty. A welcome break from the inane blather and need for constant conversation  that permeated other spaces.

You’d think people would take her coming here as a hint that peace and quiet was indeed what she was looking for. But, apparently, they didn’t.

“Are you sure I can’t excite you for one of our lunches?” a waiter, who had been hovering around her for the past half hour, asked.

“Maybe later.”

“But Miss, you-…”

“I said: maybe later.” she restated with just the right level of command to have the man scurry off. Good. She needed time to be alone with her thoughts.

But, of course, this wasn’t going to happen.

“Hey Cressida.” said Captain Nassar as she uninvitedly joined her at the table.
Rude.
Then again, it was her ship. And her lounge. So not really rude, just inconvenient.

What would have been rude would be Brennan showing her irritation – so she diverted energy to maintaining a neutral expression instead.

“We are almost ready for departure.” Nassar said, to which Brennan gave a facetious “All rejoice.”

So much for not being rude.

Nassar peered at her, and gave something between a smile and a grimace.

“Glad to see you haven’t changed one bit.”

“Some things never change.” Brennan nodded. She’d known Nassar since Academy. They’d never been friends as such, but somehow had found ways to tolerate each other.

“You, however, did change,” she added.
What she had meant was Nassar’s growth from a people-avoiding engineer to a Captain who actually engaged with her crew, and enjoyed it. The Valkyrie’s crew had lavished her with praise, and grieved her departure.
It was something Brennan admired. And, perhaps, secretly aspired to attain.

Unfortunately, Nassar misjudged her sentiment. In the “you got huge and are now commanding an Olympic”-way. Her face soured.

“In a good way.” Brennan quickly clarified “And you will do great here for as long as you choose this is where you want to be.”

Phew. Crisis averted.

Hopefully.

She took a sip of her drink, letting the sweet and salt of… whatever this was… wash away the awkwardness of the moment.

Nassar’s expression softened, but didn’t seem her usual beatific self. As a matter of fact, she hadn’t since they last spoke on Casperia Prime.

“What about you?” she asked. “Are you where you want to be?”

Brennan stiffened. She sensed that there was resonance to the question, such that a simple yes or no wouldn’t suffice. She still tried.

“Yes, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

Nassar rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I meant, and you know that.”

“I do.” Brennan smirked. Then she turned serious. “I loved what I was doing, and I was content. But the flipside of contentment is stagnation. I’m moving again, that’s what matters.”

“Do you miss it yet?” Nassar asked.

Brennan gave a sigh and stared wistfully at the wall, as if she could see through the Olympic’s hull and look at Deep Space 17 one last time. Which she, of course, couldn’t. So that was a stupid thought.

“I do.” She admitted. “I miss… my office chair. My office, in general. Such a great view.”

Of course there was more she missed, but she wasn’t exactly the feelings-type. Or the sharing-type.

“It was a nice office.” Nasser offered. “But, knowing you, you didn’t join Starfleet to spend your life sitting at a desk while the others discover strange new worlds. I was wondering when you’d have enough of it.”

“What about you? Do you miss the Valkyrie?”

“More than you can possibly imagine. This-… the Olympic  is a good ship. The crew is lovely, and I never thought I’d routinely sit at dinner with a journalist. But…”

Nassar’s voice trailed off.

“It feels like a step down.” Brennan said softly, and immediately wondered if she had gone too far.

Nassar hesitated just long enough to confirm it. Then nodded once. “Yes. Do you remember, back in Academy, when we talked about who would make Admiral first?”

Brennan nodded, and hid her grin by stuffing a piece of filled beetroot into her mouth. It had been a silly little game. Embarrassing to think about, really.
But it was also a fond memory.

After a moment of silence, Nassar continued. “Not that that’s actually what I am aiming for, but… it feels like I’m losing the race.”

“But there is no race.” Brennan reminded her after swallowing both her feelings and the vegetable. “We made that up. I guess there could be a race if we all had the exact same starting circumstances and opportunities, but don’t. Besides “ she gestured to Nassar’s abdomen. “You’re growing a whole new person.”

“And I’m wearing a tent with pips to accommodate them.” Nassar groaned. Then, her eyes widened.

“Them?” Brennan asked slowly. “As in ‘we don’t know the gender yet’ or plural?”

“Plural.”

“Oh. I mean – wow.” Brennan knew – not from experience, but from dealing with her nieces and nephews – how challenging children were. Two of them at once sounded like … well, an even more challenging challenge.

“Did you mean to grow two?”

Nassar shook her head.

Brennan probed further. “Did you… mean to grow one?”

Nassar paused for a moment, and reached for a piece of cucumber – or something that might be a piece of cucumber – on Brennan’s plate. And stole it.

“I did.” she said eventually. “I always wanted to. And this seemed like the right time.”

“Will there be any other parent?” Brennan asked.

“No, just me. There wasn’t anyone else in the picture, and… well, I was confident I could manage on my own.”
Nassar lowered her gaze. It seemed like that confidence had vanished somewhere between the second and third trimester.

“You still can.” Brennan remarked with an almost dismissive gesture “And besides, you’re not alone. It takes a village, but you have one.”

“Thank you. That’s … encouraging. You’re good at this.” Nassar sighed, and decided to switch topic before Brennan could complain about the compliment. “What will you do now? And don’t give me that twaddle about ‘I’m going to find myself’. I don’t buy it. Not from you.”

Brennan made a face. “I want to see space.”

“That tells me nothing.”

“I’m going to travel. See places I didn’t get to visit, connect to people I previously didn’t have the time for.” Brennan elaborated, hoping that keeping it vague would-…

“More of nothing.”

… Well, apparently not.

“That’s not nothing. It’s just… suitably vague.” Brennan argued.
And it was better than lying. Because a half truth was better than no truth at all. If only marginally.

Nassar shook her head. “Suitably vague. Right. Next time, just say it’s classified. People will buy it.”

“Spendid idea.” Brennan smirked. “Thanks Saf.”

Sensing they had reached the apogee of their conversation, and because there was a saying about ‘leaving when its best’, Nassar got up.
“You can come with me to the bridge, if you want.”

“… Why?”

“See it one last time?” Nassar said earnestly, but Brennan shook her head.

“Unless you’re planning to blow up the station as you leave, it’s not like I won’t see it again.” she shrugged. And because she did, in fact, want to see it one last time but would never admit to it, she added “Oh wait. It’s an Olympic. You can’t.”

Nassar shot her a glare. “Nice talking to you too.”
Then, she left.

And Brennan ordered another cocktail and stared at the wall.

Still opaque.