The Existence Before This One
______
"J'ai longtemps habit? sous de vastes portiques
Que les soleils marins teignaient de mille feux,
Et que leurs grands piliers, droits et majestueux,
Rendaient pareils, le soir, aux grottes basaltiques."
~Charles Baudelaire; La Vie ant?rieure
"Long ago did I dwell under vast porticos
Which ocean suns illumined with their many fires,
And whose grandiose columns, proper and majestic spires,
In the evening became as basalt grottos"
~Translation by the mun
He stood in the office, feeling for all the world like a green ensign. Which was, technically, still a true statement, as he had barely a year of service to his name. Still, he hadn't felt like that for long, thanks to Commander Mendeleev. The Chief Engineer aboard the Kalashnikov had been a demanding taskmaster, no doubt about it, but cared for his crew like they were his own flesh and blood. The ensign could not blame him a bit for being so insistent on perfect work from his crew; the Kalashnikov seemed held together by chewing gum and duct tape on a good day. They needed to always be at the top of their game to keep her in fighting trim and keep the crew alive.
The lessons he learned from Commander Mendeleev would shape his career, though the ensign did not know that.
The lieutenant commander did. Indeed, one of the most important lessons imparted, the one that had held back his career far more than a failed Command Readiness Test ever could, was one that he found no regret ever in following. Never leave a crewman behind when you could save them. Everyone had been needed aboard the Kalashnikov; not one person had been non-essential. Sure, they could operate with less than a full crew, but it had been pressed into his mind that you did not let someone die just because regulations said it was alright. In retrospect, that mentality explained much of why members of the Baikonur Fleet did not often do well on assignments to any ship not part of that group. Had the Potemkin been part of the Baikonur Fleet, then perhaps he'd be a commander today.
It was the Potemkin that made him cautious; the court-martial that had nearly sent him back to Glasgow a disgrace to his family's name and tempered his rash nature a great deal.
He felt out of his element, however, with the ensign standing there, looking like he was in trouble. Perfect position of attention, not moving or flinching, but noticeably pale.
He holds out his pet tribble -their pet tribble, rather, they've had it since that first birthday celebrated with the Baikonur Fleet- and the ensign startles. Their eyes meet for the first time. He looks away first; can't quite meet that fiery gaze. He wonders when he got so spineless.
"Who're ye? ?Sir?" The ensign takes the offered tribble, vaguely thinking it's the one his friends got him for his birthday just a few days prior. He pets it, feeling a bit calmer and less anxious about forgetting to call the lieutenant commander sir.
He watches the older man, swears that (barring the faint laugh lines already evident around the man's eyes) it could be him with some stolen braids stitched to his sleeves. Well, there are other differences, subtle though they are, that indicate this man has a good decade on him. Wonders where this office is. He swears it looks like they're on a Constitution-class ship.
The lieutenant commander sits at his desk and watches the ensign. There's no doubt about it to him; that is himself, albeit eleven years younger. "You. Or, at least, who ye should ha'e been in eleven years." He's no longer certain of this. Cannot be sure that the Nexus hadn't brought his 25 year old self off the Kalashnikov and to Rhy'din and, because of that, caused himself to no longer exist. However, he hopes that it's just a hiccough of sorts; the Nexus made his body younger and had, for whatever reason, corrected his mind to go with. Probably the latter, given he was able to have this conversation.
It comes as no surprise to him when the ensign looks up, open mouthed in shock. "Tha's impossible!"
"Aye, I'd've said th same thing a month ago."
The ensign stares at the lieutenant commander. His mind goes at something nearing Warp 5, or so it seems to him. There's no way this should be possible, and yet it seems as though he's in this man's memories, in his mind. Given that people know him who he does not ever recall meeting? No, it's not possible. Cannot be. He will not let it be. "I am Ensign Montgomery Scott." Fierce, proud little whisper. From what he's seen of this man, he thinks perhaps the lieutenant commander is a coward. He is no coward, and has no intentions of becoming one.
"Aye, I ken, given tha I'm Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott. An I'd appreciate it if ye'd sew the braid back on my uniform."
The ensign squeaked at that. Like he wouldn't have noticed the braid missing when he'd gone through their memories. It was strange to him; he had the memories he was supposed to have from age 25 on, and then there was a new set forming. Whenever one became clear, he felt as though he'd known it all along, but he could not seem to actually remember anything that the lad before him had not done yet. Made no sense to him. He wanted to see how this would resolve. Wanted to know if he'd ever exist again.
It was his body, at any rate, and he wanted it back. "If ye're quite done bein a mouse; I'd like my body returned?" Not that the ensign could really do that, he supposed. Although it just seemed like the logical thing to request. Like if he asked the ensign to, and the lad agreed, then this whole debacle would be over.
As if anything in the life of anyone named Montgomery Scott was so easy.
"Wha? N-nae! It's mine, ken?"
Honestly, he'd half been expecting that. "Aye, well, it's mine too. Seein as ye're guin tae grow up t'be me an all. So why na jus let me have it back? I've important things t'do." Could anyone blame him for being a bit impatient, a bit peeved? He'd felt barely conscious for a few days now; drifting; only really awake when the lad was sleeping. Which had not helped much with their ability to get decent sleep. He'd been hoping this conversation would end the matter.
That little rant of his backfired, naturally. "Wha makes ye any more important than me? Think 'cause ye're older an all tha maybe I dinne ha'e things t'be doin? I'm me. Go away. Dinne want ye here."
The bulkheads melt, the deck warps, and the office seems to twist and bend as it's tugged by two opposing forces. The two Scotts stare at eachother for a long minute.
Then Ensign Scott wakes up, feeling the strangest sensation of loss. Like he'd had the chance to unravel this entire mystery, solve the problem, fix things proper? and he'd thrown it all away. It's a frustrating feeling, coupled with the vague memory of an unpleasant dream.
A soft noise reaches his ear. Part koo, part trill, and all tribble. He blinks and looks at the nightstand. Sitting there, innocently, is a small white tribble. He picks it up; cups it in his hands. Listens to it purr as it snuggles against his skin. Soothing. Peaceful.
He lays back down, setting the tribble on his chest, wondering how it got here. "Lo, Snowball." Remembers how Ilya Konstantinovich had laughed at his rather original name for a white tribble.
---"Montgomyery Tavishov, zat is most unimaginatif name I haf efer heard for treebill." Ilya grumbled. "Ve find you vonderful present, and you gif it name like zat?" The small, slight man had complained about as soundly as he did whenever he was around to watch Scott brew tea. Their other friends had just rolled their eyes and laughed at the whole exchange.---
At least he had not named it Cotton or Fluffy or something like that! He kept petting his little Snowball, missing the Kalashnikov and the crew more than anything despite feeling so calm and soothed. They had been a week away from Earth when he last recalled being on the ship; a week away from some much needed repairs and shore leave. They'd be docked at the Baikonur Gravity Docks for three weeks, and that entire time was his to spend on Earth as he pleased; one of the few perks of not being a senior officer. He'd had it all planned, too.
He wanted to be back aboard the Kalashnikov. Wanted to be in San Francisco again; even if he could not stand the climate for most of the year. Wanted to be at home in Glasgow. Wanted to be anywhere but in this strange bed in a strange city on a planet he'd never even heard of.
He would take a good night's sleep, however. It seemed far more realistic to expect than any of the other things he wanted. Between his own exhaustion and slightly frayed nerves, the fact that he'd been sleeping poorly for reasons unknown to him, and the gentle noises the tribble made from it's perch over his heart? he fell asleep quickly. It was, perhaps, the best sleep he'd had in a long while.
While the ensign slept, the Nexus did a little bit of work. Hopefully he wouldn't be too upset about that little piece of orange cloth he kept tied around his wrist having gone missing?
