It was his third day aboard, and Willburg was settling in well. As it turned out he would have a staff of five bartenders and three chefs under him as the manager of ships eclectic boutique lounge on Deck Five. In reality it was alot like a few postings he had had while serving in Starfleet, only this time instead of being in charge of a small team of Quartermasters distributing parts and equipment across a fleet or a sector, he was in charge of a small staff responsible for delivering food and drinks across the room.
As he was wiping some water streaks off of a row of thick glass beer mugs, his old friend Captain Hardy came walking in.
“Well if it isn’t the failed Professor come chivalrous Captain himself. Nice ship ya got here, how you been Oddie?” Willburg exclaimed from behind the bar.
Hardy looked at him for a moment, at the beer mugs, at the bar cloth, at the man behind it who had apparently decided that retirement from Starfleet meant early mornings and clean glassware. He felt something in him that had been held at a particular tension for several days release, very slightly, in the way of things that had been waiting for permission.
“Theo,” he said. “You look exactly the same.”
“I look considerably worse and we both know it.” Willburg set down the mug with care and came around the bar with the particular gait of someone whose knees had formed opinions about Starfleet-issue deck plating over nearly three decades. He shook Hardy’s hand: the grip held a moment longer than the greeting required. “You, on the other hand, look like a man who has recently had an experience he’s not going to put in his log.”
Hardy sat down at the bar. “How long have you been here?”
“A few days. I assume the security officer who let me aboard didn’t bother informing you that I arrived. I guess I still got the magic touch after all.” Willburg grinned as recalled bribing the hopeless nincumpoop.
“Don’t tell me their name and I won’t have to let Mike know to talk to them”, Hardy leant over the bar, grabbing a bottle and then two glasses. Willburg raised his eyebrows, mock insulted. Hardy continued to pour them two drinks, “You may be the manager but I’m still the captain. Here,” he slid the glass to Willburg, “I found William.”
Willburg’s expression changed, the humour gone to be replaced by concern, and curioisity.
“Not here,” Hardy said. “Through the Starbase 80 portal. We had a mission to retrieve a scientist.” He looked at the glass. “The sector officer in the alternate universe was a Captain William Hardy of the USS Asteria. He survived the Dominion War. He rose to command.” A pause. “He and I had repaired the relationship, in that universe. They had been speaking for years. Properly.”
“Must have been a jarring experience to say the least. So where is your brothers alternate reality doppelganger now?” Willburg took a sip of the top shelf brandy Hardy had picked out. He suspected there was more to the story than just a chance meeting with a long dead sibling in an alternate universe.
“He’s here,” Hardy said. “In this universe. Aboard his ship. Here meaning I can open a channel right now and he will answer it.” Hardy looked at his own glass without drinking from it. “The corridor we used to get home was collapsing under pressure from something that hunts dimensional instability. The Asteria, his ship, was the only vessel with the power to hold it open from the far side long enough for Victory to get through. He made the calculation before I knew there was a decision to make. He sent his crew away on some pretext, held the corridor alone, and then rode the collapse through behind us.” He paused. “He’s stranded. No crew. No posting. A ship that doesn’t officially exist in any Starfleet registry in this universe, with one man aboard who has my brother’s face.”
Willburg was quiet for a long moment, turning the glass slowly without drinking it.
“And you’ve spoken to him,” he said.
“Twice. Briefly.” Hardy finally drank. “He sent a message after. Comfortable enough. Don’t worry about me. Go work.”
“And you haven’t replied.”
“No.”
Willburg looked at him with the particular expression that Hardy remembered from the Barham, from the Academy, from every officers’ mess they had shared across the decades.
“Odi,” he said. “I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to actually think about it instead of doing the thing where you construct a very precise answer that avoids the fuckin question, like you are so apt to do.”
Hardy said nothing, which Willburg correctly read as permission.
“Are you avoiding him,” Willburg said, “because you don’t know what to say to him, or because some part of you is afraid that if you let yourself feel anything about this, you won’t be able to put it back down in time to go run a delicate diplomatic mission on a Vulcan colony tomorrow morning?”
The Hamilton Lounge was quiet. Somewhere behind the bar, one of the chefs was moving through the kitchen with the particular clatter of someone prepping for the evening service, oblivious to the conversation happening twenty feet away.
Hardy looked at the drink. “Both,” he said finally. “I don’t know what to say to him. And I don’t have the room right now to find out. T’Ralis needs me functioning and I cannot walk into that colony tomorrow carrying whatever this is going to turn out to be once I actually look at it.”
“So you’re not avoiding William,” Willburg said. “You’re avoiding finding out what you feel about William, because you don’t trust yourself to feel it and still do your job.”
Hardy looked at him.
“That’s not a criticism, just a perspective you might not have considered. Thats some heavy baggage for anyone to carry, even you compadre. T’Ralis needs you functioning, but are you at your best if you spending a non trivial amount of your psychological faculties avoidong or repressing whatever feelings or curiosity you may or may not be having.” Willburg added, with dry economy, but also, the clever use of verbiage of a man who had delivered enough hard truths over enough decades to know exactly how much softening they required and rarely provided more than the minimum.
“How do you do that?” Odi shook his head incredulously.
“Quartermaster by trade, master negotiator by experience. And right now, this ship required me to be an advocate for her and her crew, and help get you out of whatever tornado of point and counter point is swirling around in your head that caused you come walking in here with that look and grab that.” Willburg pointed and the brown brandy in the clear glass bottle.
Hardy raised his eyebrows and titled his head implying that he didn’t have a retort ready, and instead finished what was left in his glass.
“So one could rightly say that I’m negotiating with you about trying to help you, get yourself over…yourself.” Willburg reached out and poured Hardy another once and half shot of the brandy over the Captains weakly willed objection.
“Eshh, don’t even give me the ‘I’m on duty’ speech. Ones a waste of booze after all,” after pouring himself another half a shot and slamming it back, Willburg recorked the bottle and grabbed his empty glass and walked back around behind the bar, “I’m not even saying to go call him or not, but make a fucking decision about it and move on from that phase atleast. Tell yourself you’ll call him after the mission, and do it, or call him now, or decide to leave the poor lad lost, alone and without a friend in the entire galaxy. And thats after he had just followed a man that looked and sounded exactly like his brother, correct?”
“And that’s called pressing your advantage as a negotiator. I yield good sir… I’m glad you accepted my offer to come and take the job, Theo. Even if it was three months late.” Hardy threw in the last minute barb as he finished his drink and stood up.
“I was bored anyway. Just took a few months to realize it. Sally’s off on that two year expedition out past Joint Base Dathon, and Tom and Ulara have been looking after and living in our place back on Earth for years anyway.” Willburg shrugged as he referred to his wife, son, and daughter in law respectively.
Hardy moved fof the door before turning back, “Oh, by the way. Do you want me to reinstate your commission, or should we fill out the paperwork so you can serve as a civilian specialist?”
“Sneaky bastard as always. You knew I’d take the commission. Don’t expect me to follow the dress and deportment regs though.” Willburg winked.
“You haven’t followed them for 35 years, why would I expect otherwise.”
