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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.
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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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."
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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.
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"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."
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"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.
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"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?"
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"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."
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He takes the hand, with a brisk and sharp handshake.
"Hugh Cambridge."
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"A pleasure. Were you an archaeologist in your time?"
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"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."
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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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His voice is the forced steadiness of someone with emotions too turbulent to control. It's hitting him in a wave. He saw the images: burnt out cities, planets carved free of life. The time for assimilation is over. Then, there was no chance of survival. Only death.
When he glances up, something about the shape of her face, her coolness, reminds him of Seven. Seven, his lover, one of the people he was closest to in his time. Like Eden. His friend. And Eden doesn't exist yet. Or she won't have existed until her existence was written back into time...
He reaches across the table and takes Emma's hand. And he lets down the shields.
His grip is a little too tight, and the images show why. On the viewscreens, he saw it: the cube striking them down, ship after ship cut down and destroyed by the weapons of the cyborg race. The ships just dissolved under the Borg weapons, turning the deaths of thousands of Starfleet personnel into false-smooth images, polished clean of the blood and ash and dust. In Cambridge's own memory, it turned to red alert sirens, showers of sparks, the corridors tearing to pieces.
And, above it all: the image of the captain of the Enterprise, altered, ghost-white and covered in Borg implants. Resistance is futile. Disarm your weapons and escort us to Sector 001.
Hugh Cambridge survived this.
"Damn it all," he mutters, "cause the chaos, I can't let this happen. I have to try."
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She takes a moment to regain her composure, smoothing her hair self-consciously. Few people ever see such a genuine reaction from her. Without thinking she calls Faith closer, scooting out the adjacent chair. Once the red haired little girl is seated Emma puts a protective hand on her shoulder. "We'll prevent it. There has to be a way."
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He only lets go of her after she calls for Faith. He hadn't even realized he was still holding on to her hand, and he regains his own composure similarly.
He eyes her, a moment. He finds her instinctively trustworthy. His instincts are usually good, too; no kind of supernatural sense here, but he is good at understanding people. It might be worth examining why he's done this, later, to see if there's anything hidden in his motives, but for now, he believes he's done the right thing. The emotional thing, but the right thing.
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"Would you care to establish a telepathic line of communication? It will make explaining my people much easier and safer." She miight trust him, because of his reaction to her powers, but she doesn't trust the people who might be listening in. Picard reminds her too much of Xavier when she looks at him. Trusting the captain is difficult. "I promise not to abuse my welcome."
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He watches the girl. Faith. Her attitude with her mother - and her mother's attitude with her - can tell him a lot about the both of them.
He glances back to Emma. "My mind can be an unpleasant place."
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"Not all electrocution is a terrible thing. Some people are quite fond of it." She ought to know, it is her great pleasure to induce that type of shock. "As for your mind, I've often found that the worst minds are the most fascinating. I'm not afraid of monsters, though I hardly think you are one." Still, she waits patiently because he hasn't said clearly that he'll permit her to use her powers. Like those pleasant electrocutions the recipient must be as willing as the provider or the whole thing becomes torture rather than a nice night in.
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Finally, he shrugs.
"In the future," he says, "take it as granted that you're free to initiate telepathic communication, so long as you respect the sanctity of the information I intend not to convey." That, mostly, is to keep patient confidentiality, and it's also because he doesn't really want the details of the future going into general circulation. He'll keep a tight handle on those, for the moment. Wolf 359 is an exception, not a rule.
He does appreciate that she wouldn't assume. That's quite good. This, however, is him giving explicit permission.
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With that said she closes her own eyes and reaches out with her mind. His is the closest little light, a tiny candleflame similar to all the other non-telepathic minds. She makes gentle contact, then speaks in a voice slightly deeper and with a slight Bostonian accent. "On my world people with abilities like mine are called mutants. We're largely feared and I suppose I can see why. I'm something of a special case among the mutants here, but we'll get to that in time."
The second reason for having him close his eyes is so that images projected in his mind wouldn't fight with his vision for dominance. She shows him the Xavier school and her students. "I was a teacher, that's my real passion. Shaping the young minds of the future leaders of the world. In my dreams I was somewhat racist," she pauses, then admits, "Quite racist. I had personal reasons and so did many of my students and peers. It was a cruel, terrifying world for us in my dreams."
She refers to the dreams in a strange way. It's like they're real to her, as real as her own memories. Though all the images of battles she fought as an X-man are from another universe they are as crisp and clear as her recollection of her real life. She is aware of her identity issues and it's perhaps her largest challenge.
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- All of these thoughts go through his mind quickly, showing that, even if he's not an expert in science, he has a good grasp of the basic concepts behind most things.
Racist against humans, he states, to clarify. He is able, personally, to sharpen particular thoughts into something resembling speech, without mentally shouting the words.
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Now she shows him the Hellfire Club and her participation in the coup that wrested control from rich old men to powerful young mutants.
I'm not native to that universe, but I have all the memories and feelings of that Emma. Most of the mutants here are natives and I would do anything to protect them from the things they experienced there
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Fade to black as they head off to Sparta?
Sure!