Tom took a sip of coffee and leaned against the balcony railing, looking out over the neighborhood. Twenty years in the Fleet made him an early riser, and he had beaten the morning commuters in getting his breakfast and returning to his new apartment. People watching was a new luxury for him. He'd never been good at pausing to sit and stillness and watch the world around him. It was therapeutic. It gave him a chance to reflect.
Scheria had been as comfortable as anywhere he'd lived, save for growing up in Eden. He was fortunate to have a gradual unwinding from the Fleet. His duty station after PIT kept him in Nausikaa, working with manufacturers at the shipyards. His retirement kept him there, only on the other side of the uniform. But it was still the same faces and the same places. Life had shaped itself into a easy rhythm and had lulled him into a state of complacency. He had forgotten that life is actually navigating an inescapable chaos, That is, until it decided to remind him.
Change came quietly, on a Tuesday morning, with his coffee still in hand. A pleasant chime sounded when his biometrics failed and the security agent that came to meet him to collect the company resources he had on his person. The start-up he helped launch was bought out behind closed doors. And while the severance package took away some of the sting, he still felt a sense of failure. The next several weeks were hectic as he scrambled to pack up his meager shit into shipping crates, move out of corporate housing and into a month-to-month rental to figure out what was next.
The position about the Comity had stuck out to him immediately. The humanitarian missions that C.A.R.E.S. promised were exactly why Tom chose the discipline of Environmental Engineering. The Fleet had sold him a bill of goods regarding what he might accomplish. And while the quantity of work he did was certainly substantial, he often wondered about the quality. The lasting impact. He was clearly waxing philosophic that morning, so it was likely for the best that his comm alerted him...
After accepting the link, the image resolved to flag aide J'Enkins, the Admiral's long-suffering assistant.
"Mr. Washburn," he said with the practiced neutrality of someone who spent hours on comms and often dealt with difficult people. "Please hold for Admiral Washburn."
"Is he in a mood?" Tom offered up with a smile. And while they both knew the comm was being recorded on her end, she couldn't help but quirk her lips the tiniest bit before the screen switched the ADF Office of the Admirality logo. It was replaced a few moments later by his father's face, stern and weathered.
"Thomas." His name and the curt nod concluded the man's warm reconnection with his son. "I see you've settled in."
Tom nodded and gestured with his free hand. "Yes, sir." The old man had always expected the kind of respect that was always demanded at the end of a boot rather than a mutual respect and understanding. He had long been numb to it. "All unpacked. I even had the time to set up a little hydroponics garden, tapping into the water supply to--"
The Admiral cut him off. "Yes, I can see that." He never had much patience for conversations being derailed. Even, when he wasn't the one talking. Tom could tell this friendly chat had a purpose. "I'm disappointed you didn't go in for that meeting. The contract I lined up was yours for the taking. Lucrative, and it would have been in support of the Fleet. It was all upside."
Tom took a deep breath, nodded, and took a sip from his coffee. Partially to swallow down the annoyance of being interrupted and partially just to make his father wait, which gave him a genuine sense of joy. "You may be right. But after looking it over, I don't think I was the best fit for the role."
"Of course. Because you want to play hero." There was a musicality to the word like a knurled tool dragging on a rusted deck plate. "Savior of the people."
"There are worse aspirations."
"Have you walked your new ship yet?" The Admiral didn't relent. He was looking for something, anything to criticize. Trying to get under Tom's skin for some reason, and goddamn it it was working. "What do you know about it?" His father wasn't particularly subtle.
"No, sir," Tom replied, with a curtness that indicated it was taking a turn Tom wasn't in the mood for that morning. "I know it's a Mercy-class and it's fine. I'll get a walk around next week, but even then that's about all I'll have to say about it." Tom wanted so desperately to ask if there was a point to his father's poking at him, but he decided on silence.
There was a pregnant pause after that. A standoff. Tom didn't fold or buckle under the pressure of his father's countenance like he did when he was a kid. Back then, pleasing dad was still somewhere on his priority list. The Admiral seemed to make a calculated decision to play at Tom's emotions.
"Have you gone to see your mother recently? How's your sister?"
Tom sighed. The old man got him. "Not in a while. I'm due for a visit soon. Ryan went to see her and said she was... about the same." Ryan had talked about her visit with their mother when they last chatted, but Tom hadn't made time to make the trip. He had his reasons, certainly. The relocation. The hustle of finding a new place to work before that. The hours before that. He was overdue. "But Ryan's doing well. Work keeps her busy." If he knew his sister, he knew she was dodging his comms.
The Admiral nodded. "Yes, of course. Tell her it's been far too long," the old man said. Tom could see his father's jaw flex, as if he was trying to work out a different angle but realizing he had misplayed the interaction.
With a grin, Tom nodded. "Of course. I'll do that. You have a good day, Dad."
"And you."