clockheartedcrocodile
“Captain’s log, 4705.13. Terror continues to drift.”
Saurian brandy burns when it goes down but James Fitzjames knocks it back easily enough, only grimacing once. He pours himself another glass- only his second, he’s no goddamn lushington- and reclines in his chair, lazily adjusting the neckline of his wraparound command tunic.
“The fact remains- both ships are utterly paralyzed in uncharted space,” he continues, speaking in a strong, slow voice for the recording. “The ion storm did more damage than we’d previously anticipated, though the exact nature and extent of the damage remains to be seen. Admiral Franklin has ordered that Mr. Collins be beamed out at the next alpha shift to see about repairing the starboard nacelle. All ship’s functions are operating as normal, if you discount warp capacity, manual spaceflight, communications with Starfleet, functional shuttles, and stable transport beams,” James swallows grimly. “It is the same on Terror.
“Should the ships continue to drift apart, beaming between them with our transporters in their current state will become increasingly unrealistic. Terror’s CMO MacDonald has already suggested at the last officer’s meeting that we beam all willing volunteers from Terror over to Erebus, before our ships become permanently separated. Ensign Hornby has already been discorporated mid-transport.
“The class M planet below us is the only planetary mass in our vicinity- indeed the only astral body of any sort for lightyears in any direction- and the scanners indicate it is devoid of all life but two humanoid signals in the northern hemisphere. How they’ve survived down there in that planetwide arctic wasteland is anyone’s guess. Lieutenant Gore will be leading a landing party to assess the surface of the planet.”
James runs a tired hand through his hair. His jaw clicks when he yawns. He had not known exhaustion could be like this; a comprehensive fatigue of both mind and body, unglamorous and unproductive. The temptation to retire to his berth and sleep through the gamma shift is enormous, but James resists it. He is not that kind of man, nor that kind of captain.
He will not allow Crozier’s misery to infect him.
“Admiral Franklin maintains a demeanor of good cheer despite everything. I admire him greatly for that,” James says slowly. “He believes- as I must- that fortune will fall in our favor. That we have not been undone a mere two years into our five year mission.”
He can still hear Franklin’s words to Crozier behind the door. Gray-hearted and hard to love. While James might privately agree with the sentiment, the turn of phrase displeases him. He wishes Franklin had not said it. The knowledge that Franklin might turn a man’s parentage against him in a moment of ill temper gnaws uneasily at the back of James’ mind.
“The heavens themselves, the planets, and this center…” James murmurs thoughtfully, forgetting the log as his mind turns to his joyless counterpart aboard Terror. “Observe degree, priority, and place… insisture, course, proportion, season, form … office, and custom, in all line of order…” Remembering himself, he clears his throat. “Fitzjames out.”
His entry concluded, James stands, feeling the ache of weariness cramping in his legs as he does so. The windows in the captain’s quarters afford him a generous view of the black, so he looks out at it for a while, admiring the beauty of the starfields. He has a clear view of Terror, so close and yet so far in the desolate emptiness of space. She lists heavily to the side, almost upside-down.
James thinks of Francis Crozier, sitting alone in the dark, looking out at the stars upside-down.
The thought almost makes him smile.
