The turbolift rumbled open, and Captain Peter Crawford stepped through onto the newly rebuilt bridge of the USS Denver.  The layout was a classic Nebula-class design from the 2370s that Commander Miados had modernized in her own way.  Three chairs sat in the center command circle, while the tactical horseshoe shape, now with a chair, remained.  The station’s engineering team had completely refurbished the forward ops and helm consoles, and slight arms adorned the chairs, just like the others on the bridge.  While the overhead lighting was understated; blue lights cast a glow on the ground under the raised edges of the side stations.

Crawford walked from console to console, appreciating the bespoke wood floors, the improved systems, and the unique aesthetic that Commander Miados had created.  The frame of the ship remained. Her bones remained strong.  The station’s engineering teams were nearly complete with their projects, and the punch list was circulating among senior staff members as they stepped aboard the Denver for the first time in a month.

He walked to the center chair.  He had tasked Miados with keeping parts of the old chair within the new build.  There were some of the old parts that he could see.  The old scratches were still there. Peter stared at the chair, feeling uneasy.  The Denver had seen plenty of commanding officers since he had served with his former commanding officer thirty years ago.  And yet, there was this resistance in some part of his heart to sitting in the center chair.

A deep sigh reverberated within his chest, and he sat down in the executive officer’s chair to the right of the center chair.  Rebecca Talon had been working on Montana Station recently, and he’d reached out.  There was something within him that wanted closure for as many of those that had served on the Denver.  “Old ghosts,” he muttered as he waited.

Rebecca yawned and stepped away from the replicator, a cup of coffee cradled in her hands. She sipped her drink, letting the bitter black liquid wash over her tongue, and a smile crossed her lips. Shuffling across the flight deck of the runabout Serenity, the docking bay of Montana Station filled the massive windows stretching over the pilot and co-pilot stations.

With a tired sigh, she dropped into the operations station. Picking up a PADD, she began scrolling with her left thumb as it emitted a soft electronic trill. Beef futures were down on Terra Alpha again. It seemed the Ferengi markets had placed a hold on imports due to tariffs on several key worlds, including Degon VIII.

“Remind me why I do this again?”

“Do what?” Milo asked, ducking through the airlock, his Stetson in his hand.

Rebecca smirked and raised one shoulder, a slight blush rising in her cheeks. “Uh… well, this whole agricultural enterprise. It’s not like there aren’t replicators.”

Milo hung his hat on the wall peg by the entrance, over the top of his holster, which in this case held an old Dominion War surplus Type 2. “It’s not like we need the credits,” he said, grinning under his walrus mustache.

Milo was right. They didn’t need the credits. They could survive just fine off the Replicator Plaza in New Milwaukee. Of course, that meant no more real food, and the biggest sin of them all, replicated coffee. Then there were the ranch hands. Payroll was going to be tight again this month, especially if they needed to buy hay.

“Well, it depends on how you define ‘need,'” she said, turning her attention back to the PADD. “If we have to buy hay—”

“We do. The spring grass hasn’t come in yet.”

“Then yeah… we need the credits.”

Milo shrugged. “Well, it is what it is. When we get back to Terra Alpha, I’ll head over to Capital City and get a loan. I would rather not sell off steers right now with on-the-hoof prices being so low.”

“Agreed.”

The console of the Serenity buzzed. Turning her seat, she set the PADD aside with a soft clatter against the console. Entering commands into the comm system of the runabout, Rebecca raised an eyebrow. “Huh.”

“What?” Milo asked, folding his arms in front of him and shifting his weight onto his left leg.

“Did you know the Denver was in port?”

“Yeah, I saw it on the arrivals. Why?”

“Pete is in command and has invited me aboard. You coming?”

“Oh no,” Milo said with a lopsided grin, “that’s your ship. Besides, I need a shower, and I have a meeting with a Bolian about a wheat shipment in two hours. That negotiation with the Westfall Growers Association came through.”

“And when were you planning to tell me?” Rebecca demanded as she lifted her coffee to her lips.

“Now.” Milo shrugged. “I just got the final numbers a few minutes ago.”

Rebecca stood and crossed the distance between them, pecking him on the cheek. “Okay, dear, go see your Bolian, and I’ll go see Pete.”

Rebecca Talon emerged from the turbolift in blue jeans, scuffed cowboy boots, and a red-and-white plaid long-sleeve button-up, the top buttons open to reveal a simple white ribbed tank. She paused at the threshold, light catching her coppery hair streaked with gray, her green eyes missing nothing.

“You’ve changed the place.” She stood with her hand on her hip, expression giving nothing away.

Crawford stood from the executive officer’s chair and walked to his old CO, extending a hand.  “Welcome back to the Denver, Rebecca.  She was due for a refit.  Frontier Day did a number on her, and they’d kept her look from the old days.”  He faced the newly installed bridge module.  “Her bones are still there.  Kept some old pieces around.”  Peter chuckled.  “That phrasing could use some work.  My apologies.”  He shook his head.  “Still want to call you Captain Talon, even after all these years.”

“Well, I’m not a captain,” Rebecca said, moving toward the center command area, her boots making hollow thumps on the carpeted deck. “Not anymore, anyway.”

Her gaze lingered a little too long on the captain’s chair before she turned toward the main viewer, the corner of her mouth turning up just slightly. She stood there for a long breath, taking in the view.

“I haven’t—” she hesitated, turning her back to Peter as a single tear ran down her cheek. “The last time I stood here, she was on fire. Everything was dead from the Breen weapon at Chintoka. Ensign Gorgana died right there.” She pointed at a pristine section of the carpet a meter from the helm. “I’m glad there was a refit. It was time.”

Crawford felt the emotional weight walking the tightrope between them.  The Dominion War had violently reshaped them, and those scars would last the rest of their lives.  He could still feel the tug of memories, even with the bridge redesign.  “I’ve asked engineering to put up a wall of remembrance in the crew mess.  Names and dates.  Thirty years is a long time, but sometimes…it doesn’t feel that long.”  He pulled a long box out of his pocket.  “I don’t know why they kept it.”  Crawford handed it over.

Rebecca raised an eyebrow, but didn’t accept it.

“Our engineering teams found it, along with the others in a storage closet.  Every captain’s nameplate that had been on the quarters and ready room.  Somebody held onto them.”  He swallowed the emotions that bounced around at the bottom of his throat. We think whoever it was died on Frontier Day.  Probably an engineer.  I’ve found people related to the others.  Decided this one had earned a personal delivery.”

Rebecca took it and stared down at it for a long time, and again she let the silence stretch between them. After a moment of studying the plate, she started wandering the bridge, pausing at the dedication plaque. She ran a finger over the flat, horizontal surface at the top. This was space. There wasn’t much dust, unlike the ranch. If this were her home, her finger would have come away grey with filth.

With a heavy sigh, she crossed the bridge and returned the plate to her former operations officer. “I think it belongs with the ship. Too bad there’s no Captain Fitzpatrick. I sent it back to his family after his death. The set seems incomplete without Denver’s first captain.”

Crawford accepted it without argument.  He knew better than to argue with his former CO.  They had shared the Denver between them.  That was enough.  “Replicas are pretty easy to manage.  Leave it with me.  I’ll honor him – and the rest of us.”

They remained standing on the bridge for a few more moments before they shared a quiet nod.  A shared respect passed between them in that moment.  Talon walked slowly to the turbolift, giving one last glance at the bridge before vanishing behind the closing doors.

Crawford remained silent and sentinel.