Friends

We were at Nordic Station, although unfortunately not to enjoy some well-earned downtime. Instead, we were looking for an assistant engineer. This was entirely First Officer Smith’s fault: when she’d hired our current engineer, Kate Meachum, Smith had failed to inquire after the engineer’s age or physical condition. These turned out to be “advanced” and “poor.” I mean, I admit that we simply needed an engineer, and Kate was one. Kate also didn’t need much money, which fit right into the Troll’s perpetually lean budget. But Kate couldn’t do the job on her own. Her eyesight, in particular, was laughable.

“You need to let her go,” Captain Ryan had said almost immediately. “She needs to retire.”

“I would,” Smith had said, “but quite honestly I think her heart would stop the day she’s no longer part of a crew. She’s a spacer, Buzz.” The Captain relented.

Anyway, we were in some run-down Viking-themed bar trying to follow up on some potential assistant engineer leads. Unfortunately, all of them were either straight-out con artists, or extremely expensive. Meaning, they wanted more than room and board. Captain Ryan, Smith, and myself were all brooding over a beer after our eighth lead didn’t pan out. That’s when this kid–and I swear, there’s no way he was older than sixteen–walked up to our table.

“I hear you’re looking for an assistant engineer,” he said. “Take me with you. I’ll work for free.”

“Well, the price is right,” Ryan said. And the kid did look a little young to be a con artist, but still. “Why for free?”

“I was spacer born,” the kid said, “and stranded here. Space stations… aren’t for me.”

That is an old tale. Some stationer, likely acting under the influence of alcohol and being not at all wise, sleeps with some random spacer. The spacer, quite predictably, leaves, and the stationer ends up with a prize. The kid, hearing of his “heritage,” grows up restless. They make up stories about roaming free, visiting foreign ports, and things he’ll never see. Toward the edges of Federation space, joining Starfleet isn’t a widely promoted option, and without a decent Academy education the kid will never be more than an enlisted janitor anyway.

“A spacer’s more than born,” Ryan said. “He’s bred. He’s trained, usually from a very young age. Not that you’re that old, but you’ve no experience, no training. You’ve grown up on a station. I’m sorry, man, but you’re no use for us.”

The kid nodded, and slowly turned and walked away. “Buzz,” I whispered, “he’s not going to give up. Look at him. He’s just going to keep trying, and eventually someone’s going to take him up on the offer to work for free, and it isn’t going to be someone nice.”

“But he’s got no experience!” Smith whispered.

“He can be taught,” I whispered back. “You have to be able to feel the determination. It’s practically radiating from him and I’m not even–”

“Stop,” Smith said. “You’re right. And besides, Buzz,” she said, turning toward our Captain. “Space is wide.”

“And good friends are too few,” he finished. “I get it. Hey kid!” he called. The kid stopped and half turned back toward our table. “You’re stubborn. If you work with half that will… well, our engineer could use a hand. We’ve got a berth to fill.”

The kid turned to face us, scowling. But it was an act: even I could see the tears trickling down his face. He signed his papers on the Captain’s padd, never saying another word. In fact, he never was much for talking. I learned his name: Sam Jones. After that, “yes sir,” “yes ma’am,” “no sir,” was about all you’d get out of him.

Now, Smith’s new-hire engineer, Kate Meachum, clearly needed help. Her eyes were going bad. She knew, she knew that we knew, and we knew that she knew that we knew. But that kid drove her mad. He was always wanting to help, always asking her questions, and it was impossible to punish him. “Get out!” she’d yell back in the Engineering hull, when he ticked her off. And he’d just lie low until Kate got cool, and then sneak back in and do whatever scutwork there was, while Kate called him names.

So, they got along okay.

As the weeks and months passed, they became a real team. Kate’s eyes got much worse, and we all knew, but again–this woman was a spacer. She’d been places, and she’d seen things. She’s die the minute someone grounded her, and that someone wasn’t going to be us. But that close-mouthed kid just covered for her. “Kate,” we’d hear him say, “check the number four? Er, Kate, that’s nine point eight, actually.”

We continued on our way, flitting from salvage job to salvage job, stopping in at our regular ports to dump the salvage and collect our pay. Almar, Halley’s, Downbelow, you name it, we hit them all. Well, this one day–this is a little difficult to write about, if I’m being honest. Any spacer has these moments when–well, you’ll see.

Space is deadly. It’s not so much that it hates you, it just doesn’t care so deeply that, at some point, something is going to go wrong. You train for it, you prepare for it, but space always has something new. So, this one day, we’re shooting along at warp 3 when the engines fail. We drop out of warp, still ticking along at three-quarters c, right near this little K-class star. Surrounded by an ionized dust cloud the size of a freaking nebula. And everything’s offline: navigation shields, warp drive, impulse engines. Everything.

“Damn!” came the comms from Engineering. “It’s the number three dilithium conduit on the port nacelle,” she said.

“We’ve got a spare, right?” Ryan said.

“Yeah,” she confirmed, “but we can’t fix it from here. It’s an outside job. And pulling that thing in the middle of a high-velocity dust cloud, like we are right now, is tricky.”

“I’ll go,” I said, standing up from my console.

“No,” came her reply. “It’s a job for the engineer.”

We were all silent for a moment, the only sounds the soft beep-doops of the bridge equipment, and of course the high-vee dust chewing away at our unshielded hull. “Kate,” Smith said, “it’s hell out there. You hear it on the hull? It’ll chew a hard suit even faster. You won’t last ten minutes.”

“Die now, die later,” Kate said. “I’ll just work a little fast.”

I sat down and listened to the comm as Kate struggled into her hard suit and cycled the aft airlock. “Jesus,” she said, her voice full of static, “it’s like being in the middle of a banshee wail out there. Okay, I’m at the nacelle. I’m on it. I’ve got the cover clear.”

I double-checked to make sure all the auxiliary power was routed away from the access point she was at. There was silence for a good long while, and then, “Dammit, my faceplate’s fogged. My sight’s gone all to mist.”

“Kate,” I said, standing again, “get back inside. I’m coming out.” That’s when I noticed the aft lock cycling again. “Buzz,” I said, “I think–”

“Steady, Kate,” came Sam’s voice, cut through with static. “I’ve got you. Easy. My suit’s brand new, you just keep as low as you can. I’ll find the release pins. You tell me how, and we’ll get this sucker free.”

“Ten minutes gone,” Smith said after a moment. We could hear Sam’s hard breath in the comms.

“I got it,” the kid said. “Shove the other one in and hold on for your life, Kate.” My console lit up, showing the repaired power pathway. “Shit,” the kid said, the first time any of us had heard him curse. “My arm’s gone numb. Oh! Now, there, Kate, it’s in and locked! Get inside, fast! Get outta here!”

“Boy! Hang on!” Kate’s voice said. Then we heard her swear.

Then, nothing but static.

“I’ve got confirmation on power,” I said softly, after a few minutes.

Nobody said anything for four more minutes. Just the dust, slowly scoring our hull. Nothing came over the comms.

“Power up,” the Captain said quietly.

I tapped my console. “Power restored,” I said, trying to talk around the lump in my throat.

The Captain reached over my shoulder, tapping my console to engage the shields and impulse engines. The Troll turned toward that little K-class sun, exiting the dust field so that we could safely resume warp speed. But Kate and the kid went on together on their own journey.

Old half-blind Kate and young Sam Jones made a hell of an engineer.

“Turn down a glass for such as they,” the Captain intoned.

“And thank God we’re sitting here,” Smith finished.

For space is wide, and good friends are too few.