Thought and Memory

[Cptn Swain 0]

Gliding through a pocket of interstellar gas on its twenty-two day jaunt from Camelot to Deep Space 9, the Excalibur’s commanding officer sat sullenly looking out the window of his quarters as the brilliant blue and green gasses gave way before his ship, after a few moments of clear space, the familiar flash followed by the streaming starfield of warp travel filled the panorama.

 

The Excalibur felt somehow incredibly lonely. He had never, to be truthful, settled in to his quarters -- he actually still had a couple of unpacked boxes stashed away in a closet -- or the ship more generally. It was big, the crew not his own, and the mission profiles drifted further and further away from the ones he’s become so adept and familiar at handling for the near decade he’d commanded the Idrisi. He had let himself become complacent in his solitude. It had simply been easier to retreat into his ready room than to learn his new crew. It had been simply easier to stay away and hope that the assignment ended soon. Now, however, he was facing the reality that Excalibur was his home.

 

Swain stood and made his way to the fresher, pulling off his red command undershirt and throwing it in the fresher. Earlier in the day they had intercepted a squadron -- no fleet -- of Dominion attack ships and troop transports flying the flag on an unannounced trip to the Tarawani sector. Matsumura had commented that it was the largest grouping she’d seen since the Dominion war, and indeed, it was for him as well. His thoughts lingered to the images of the fleet moving towards Tarawani. The Vorta functionary, Maliv, had said they were conducting military exercises, and perhaps they were, but it made Swain feel disquieted nonetheless.

 

Lookin in the mirror for a long moment, his eyes darting to the two stylized raven’s tattooed on his chest. They had been Charlie Ostander’s idea one night during a rather raucous leave while they were in the academy. To be entirely honest he’d rather forget what the reasoning behind them had been. Still they served as a reminder to him of happier, easier times when the cares of the world seemed long removed. Putting a hand to them, he smiled.

 

Perhaps it was time to let the dead be the dead. The crew needed a captain, not a whimpering, sulking baby. They were getting new crew, a new executive officer, and if the fleet they ran across had been any indication, unsettled times in the Dominion. If he continued to sulk, continued to stay shut away in his ready room, then the crew would suffer, and he would lose them entirely.

 

His thoughts wandered for a moment, as he ran his hands over the tattoos again, and then he remembered their meaning.