"Are we there yet?"

[Mreh K'hal 0]

(( Takes place a few days before where we'll pick up on Sunday, June 7, 2009 ))

 

The command team doesn't do it, of course. It has to be on the top of their minds anyway, so why would they need to ask? Everyone else however can't seem to resist. It comes out in more professionally termed phrases, of course. "What's the ETA to Camelot? No navigation hazards forced us to detour, right? We haven't had to drop a warp factor because of the nacelles, have we?" Being the CFCO people would ask him these questions when they spotted him off duty, and he was quite used to it after all this time, but no matter how one put the question to him it was still "Are we there yet?"

 

He couldn't blame them for it, even as annoying as it was. They should look at it from his perspective, though. When you're sitting in the driver's seat and see the distance counter ticking down so slowly with such an amazingly high number of light years to go it makes it seem that much slower. "A watched pot never boils," indeed. The months wore agonizingly by this way. Not nearly as bad as what Voyager went through, Mreh conceded, but no fun nonetheless.

 

Making matters worse was the condition of the ship. The engineers had done a fine job at keeping Excalibur space-worthy and efficient, though almost anywhere you went there were tell-tale signs of the monstrous damage the ship had taken during their long, long mission. The bridge would never be the same with the duranium band-aid over the hole in the roof, and the Caitian helmscat was sincerely grateful that Starfleet loved swapping them out on a regular basis to include minor upgrades to systems and to add or remove the occasional console. Some of the material they had picked up from the Satarimi, while high-quality, obviously didn't look quite right, with their airy design scheme rather clashing with the usual Starfleet drab.

 

What was worst about the whole affair were the missing faces. The Excalibur had lost far too many this round between the exsanguinated fighter squadron, eaten marines, and the battle casualties. Mreh was sure the first comm packet that Corizon had him send out once they finally came into communications range of Avalon and Camelot included the dreaded condolence letters. Even for Corizon that must have been hard, Mreh thought. Especially considering their mission parameters. Almost any way you dealt with them, the Dominion were fatal.

 

They would likely lose a few faces out of those who had survived, too. While the green Zier baby had been the most talked about, there had been other births during the long voyage, a consequence of starship life that Starfleet never mentioned publicly but was unavoidable. The Excalibur wasn't a family friendly vessel, and not just because of Corizon, Mreh knew. Some personnel would have to transfer out so they could raise their young, and Mreh wished them well. He had heard talk from others as well, mainly some of those who'd come aboard as green enlisted crew and even an ensign or two, who'd found out that they couldn't hack the danger quotient aboard a starship. They'd scamper off, either resigning or requesting a transfer to a planetary posting. He also wished them well, for even if they couldn't cut it on the Excalibur they could still do good work for Starfleet and the Federation.

 

All that would of course mean that once the Excalibur was fit to go boldly once again there would be new faces on board. Mreh looked forward to that, as last time the operations were handled by the dual SciOps department and he'd been too green to get his paws in the work. He looked forward to working with JoNs on something that wasn't a dire, life or death situation. Not to mention being able to recruit some more eyes and ears (or other applicable sensory organs) to keep him posted on the goings on in different departments. Regardless of how good his own ears are, it's hard to gather juicy gossip or get quick news when they're stuck on the bridge.

 

With only a few days left before the arrival Camelot, Mreh's thoughts finally turned to what would happen during the repair/refit. He was sure there would be leave scheduled, and while he wouldn't mind taking a week or two to surf somewhere he couldn't quite imagine how he'd spend the rest if it dragged on longer than that. Though before he could even head for the beach he'd have to go through the renewal process for a few of his certifications and licenses.

 

Thinking on it, if the leave was long enough he'd have to check the Command Certification Course schedule to see if he could fit it in. While Mreh really had no great desire to go the command route, it would probably take a little of the strain off Corizon and JoNs to have yet another trained option should the circumstances require it. Not to mention be another feather in his cap for his mother to preen over, thereby pushing the inevitable "Where are my grandkittens?" talk a bit further back.

 

As he looked over that distance counter ticking down yet one more time, he'd have to keep his near-term options open, as it was too early for any concrete plans. It was just nice to be near enough to base to think of any plans at all.