ten_fwd | ota

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Cambridge really hates it here.

He supposes, on some level, this is mostly petty spite. Starfleet ships aren't that different, really; while one might have a more informal atmosphere, and another goes purely on ceremony, and another contains families and the other just a scattering of scientists, they all have certain commonalities, in atmosphere and content. For example, most ships are more like each other than they are like Starfleet Medical, where Cambridge spent twelve years before being assigned to Voyager.

But, he hates it anyway. There's something missing in the atmosphere, and while the gel packs on Voyager don't have a smell of sorts, he imagines that there's a scent of ozone that's not there that should be. The uniforms look all wrong, and Cambridge resents it every moment, from bustling, bright ensigns to non-coms repairing open conduits.

Eventually, he settles on working on unsolved archaeological mysteries from the last few centuries. Alien, not human. It's at least something to do, and it's well within his area of expertise. Part of the time, he works in Ten-Forward, at a table with a handful of PADDs, frowning fiercely, cross-referencing. "No," is what he says to anyone who approaches him. Without looking up from the PADD.

The rest of the time, he works in his quarters, which he has to himself. And when he works like this, so intently, he doesn't care much for the organization of his room. Things end up on tables, on the floor. At one point he kicks a pair of pants aside, towards the doorway. Unfortunately, the next time the door opens and closes, the cloth gets in the way. So the ankle of the pants sticks out into the hallway, like a flag.

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"No, the seat isn't available."

He doesn't look up, and, in fact, his eyes don't even pause in the way they flick over the pad. He is able to carry on an admittedly limited conversation while still reading at near full speed. His mind is engaged in what's there, not on her - it's a monolith on an apparently abandoned planet, showing an intricate inscription that the universal translator couldn't parse without human help. Cambridge isn't a linguist; someone else did the parsing, he's just working on the legend that the inscription apparently tells.

"Why would I want it?" Emma asks. She wants to know what he's looking at so she glances down at his work and focuses on listening to his mind. The monolith is fascinating, in its own way but Emma isn't a history buff, not even future history.

Still, there's little else to do, she might as well annoy someone who seems like they deserve it. "What's so vital that you can't look up at me?"

A little tilt of his head, as a half-shrug. "Less that it's vital, and more that I don't really care." And also, he thinks, at least in part, it's because he doesn't care to talk to people from (according to his perspective) sixteen years ago. He lived through all of that once.

But he does look up, in another second or two, as the distraction hasn't seemed to take care of itself.

"If you don't want it," he says, "then we've no problem, do we?"

That is almost a sympathetic reason to be a jerk. Emma can't help but feel the tiniest shred of pity for him. Not enough to stop annoying him, of course, but enough that she's curious about him.

"No problem, no. It just seems like an odd place to be if you don't want to be disturbed. You have been given a room, correct?" She taps her chest to indicate where his Starfleet comlink is on his chest. The locals get their own rooms, even if they're displaced in time.

It's perhaps something like paranoia that keeps him out here. Not that he thinks people are plotting against him, but he feels the need to confirm, over and over again, that this is the Starfleet that he knows, that the people here aren't tense in a way that would indicate surveillance or restrictions on freedom of speech and action. One can tell a great deal just about how the people in a world interact with one another.

"Focus is good enough for detail work," he says, "but when inspiration is required, the mind works better on a subconscious level. Meaning that conscious distraction helps knock things loose." Also true; certain kinds of work he gets done better in a crowd, but alone.

"That is logical," Emma admits. If she had work to do, other than keeping track of her daughter, she'd be throwing herself at it too. "I must admit that I mostly intended to annoy you, but now I suppose I'll leave you be."

"Tough luck," mutters Cambridge. This isn't really important enough to annoy him.

Or, rather, he's already annoyed. He's permanently annoyed. It's this bloody starship. It's not being able to come home. It's the widespread destruction and danger that he knows is coming and can't stop.

His thoughts turn the conversation from 'over' to 'imperative'. Emma frowns, leaning down so she can speak more softly and avoid a panic from being overheard. "What danger are you thinking about? Does it effect this ship?"

He freezes, a half-second, before the obvious conclusion hits. A telepath. His mind goes smooth, dark and quiet, his thoughts not vanishing entirely but the volume decreasing considerably.

But, before that happens, the flash of fear is unmistakable. Cambridge lived through the instigating event once already, and it was enough to ensure that he didn't serve on a starship again for another decade. He takes a breath, letting some of the tension release with it, re-manifesting emotional control along with the mental.

"I would truly like nothing more than to tell you, and to tell everyone on board," he says. "But if this doesn't go forward the way it did in my timeline, the further consequences could be beyond catastrophic."

The end of all existence.

Emma backs off when he erects his shields. There are lines she tries not to cross and pushing past someone's shields is a big one. At least if that person isn't an enemy. Beside, his fear is enough to make her take a step back until she gets her own emotions under control.

"Are you certain this is the same timeline? There are a lot of them and they can appear extremely similar."

"My memory's close to eidetic," he tells her, "and I have made an extensive study of history in my lifetime." No variations. He sort of wishes that there were a few small ones, so that he could tell himself some comforting lies. "But, Q has interfered, in a way that I can't trust that he did in my timeline. That could make the difference."

Emma nods, trusting that he's not bragging about his memory. It's a silly thing to lie about, especially to a telepath. She takes the seat across from him, whether he likes it or not. Now she has his attention, at least. "If I know my people we'll do what we can to ensure things go as chaotically as possible. Foiling timelines is something of a hobby to my adopted son. It can't be that hard."

He holds up a hand. "One slight problem with that." He takes a breath, unsure how to explain this. "The balance of events is... fragile. A bit more than a decade from now, someone arrives back in time to change the course of history. That prompts a series of events that begins the cascading failure of... everything."

Everything. He mentally emphasizes the word, drawing out in his surface thoughts that he means all of it - multiverse, every universe at once.

"There is an eventual process of entropy, far beyond the human capacity to imagine, that will eventually conclude all that has ever, does, and might ever exist," he says. "This was prevented. Reversed, actually, as existence itself had already started failing at that point. It starts here." In fact, some of the key players are already in motion, including Q.

"If this isn't the same universe, it doesn't matter," he says. "But if it is, I can't risk it."

Emma mulls the new information over for a moment, pressing her lips tight together. After she has given it due consideration she nods once, as though in reply to an unasked question. "That is your prerogative, as the person who knows what's going to happen. It must be a heavy burden to carry."

"But, then, perhaps it doesn't matter and that same process of destruction can happen in more than one single universe at once, which is quite bloody-minded of existence itself."

And maybe there's another way to prevent everything from failing. Maybe Eden would just find another way there. Maybe in every universe Eden is the one who finds her way there, presence of Voyager notwithstanding.

He rubs at his temples.

"At least," he says, "the human mind is incapable of comprehending destruction and loss on that kind of scale." In this case, that is super helpful. He glances back up to her. "There's a reason I've been keeping it to myself." That, perhaps, functions as a little bit of an apology for inadvertently drawing her into his private moral dilemma.

"I understand. Decisions like that are heavy and it must feel a little like a betrayal to not tell your fellow officers. I don't envy your position." She spoke calmly, her manner soothing and comforting, now. She doesn't pity him anymore, now that she understands his dilemma. Really she's just damn glad it's not hers to handle.

More than just a betrayal of these officers. Cambridge thinks it quietly, shielded, but billions died in the Borg invasion. Entire planets were wiped out. Families. People. Loss on even that kind of scale is beyond a human mind.

"You don't even know what's on the other side of the scales," he says, tightly, and somewhat ironically. "But keeping secrets? No. The officers of this time are not my colleagues. Not quite." Because he isn't their colleague.

"Powerful telepathy you have," he remarks. "Most ones I've come into contact with work by touch."

The subject change was obvious, but so was his discomfort. Emma allowed the change though she was desperately curious about the dangerous event.

"I'm one of the strongest and best trained in my world. That doesn't amount to much, though. Most telepaths are stronger than the kind you describe. We're lousy with them back home." The difference between worlds means that Cambridge is one of the few around her that actually possess mental shields. The noise is occasionally unbearable.

"Huh." It's an expression of slight surprise, not any particular discomfort. He doesn't think of telepaths as honestly that much different from, say, extremely strong aliens - one can give you a punch in the stomach that you'll feel for weeks, and the other can scramble your mind, and Cambridge doesn't really like either of those, but more often people don't feel like going out of their way to inconvenience and hurt others. Just because someone can do something doesn't mean they will. Cambridge could hurt a lot of people. He doesn't.

"I trained as part of security clearance," he says. "Conditions of war. I assume it's more convenient for both of us if I keep shielded?"

"Yes. It's dreadfully noisy in here usually. It's rather refreshing to talk to someone and not know what they're going to say." She wonders if she ought to flag down a waitress and get a drink. Probably not, it would give the impression she was intending to stay past her welcome.

"I'm Emma Summers." She held out a hand to him to shake. "I arrived from some time in the past with my daughter, Faith."

"Your daughter." No wonder she was protective. No wonder she reacted to the thought of danger.

He takes the hand, with a brisk and sharp handshake.

"Hugh Cambridge."

His shake pleases her. It's businesslike, not overly friendly. She doesn't like a shake that lingers. She give him a smile and puts her hands in her lap.

"A pleasure. Were you an archaeologist in your time?"

Edited (tense agreement) 2015-07-14 18:39 (UTC)

A snort. "Am, was, and will be," he says, "a physician, but primarily a counselor and xenoanthropology expert on first contact situations." And a genius. "Some of that has involved study of mythology and ancient origins of various alien and human cultures."

"A counselor as well. Couldn't pick a career?" She is clearly teasing, assuming he is capable of handling a little benign riffing. "You must know a lot about some of the various cultures present on the ship. I've recently been evaluated for a counselor position myself. I'd appreciate your insights." The more she knows about the cultures and lifestyles of her potential clients. "It would be an even trade, I'd be happy to tell you about my people."

Edited 2015-07-14 20:12 (UTC)

"As have I." Though he didn't make the best impression on Counselor Troi.

He opens his hands, with a little shrug, indicating willingness. This, at least, is something he's much more willing to talk about. "Ask away."

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