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A Series of Vignettes from the USS Enterprise (under the command of Captain Adam Young)

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Adam Young became captain of the USS Enterprise when he proved to be the only person in Starfleet capable of defeating a group of crazy time-traveling Romulans, who turned out to be that crazy because they were being led by a group of beings who might've been aliens, but were more likely the four horsepersons of the apocalypse. Adam was the only one who could stop them because he was the Antichrist, the only son of Satan himself.

He wasn't going to let that stop him from running the finest ship in the fleet, though.

"Wensley, haven't you finished calculating those course corrections yet?"

"Patience, please, Pepper. I know you're eager to 'punch it', but that's no excuse for sloppy work."

"It's just boring sitting up here on the bridge, is all, when there's nothing to do. I wanna get off shift."

"Fencing practice again?"

"Someday I'm gonna use it to save your arse, you know. It already came in handy against the Romulans."

"And my math skills already came in handy when I saved you and Adam with the transporter, so could you maybe be quiet and let me finish the calculations?"

"Fine," Pepper grumbled, and kicked her feet against their shared piloting and navigation console while she waited. Wensleydale shot her a look, but she was saved by the entrance of Brian onto the bridge.

"Hello there, stranger," she greeted him. She, Brian, Wensley and Adam had been fast friends at the Academy, but now that Brian was working in Security, while the rest of them were bridge crew, they didn't see him as often.

Brian produced a bag of crisps from somewhere in his supposedly pocket-less uniform, and she had to shoo him back so that he didn't get crumbs on the console. Wensley barely looked up.

"What's new in Security?" she asked, and Brian blushed. "Ooh, something interesting," she divined.

"Er, well," Brian began. "Y'see, yesterday I was out of crisps—" Pepper hadn't known such a thing was possible— "so I brought in some of 'em snack cakes instead, you know, with the white icing curliques on 'em?" Pepper nodded. "Well, um, they might've, uh, got a bit squished, you know, after I sat on 'em, and some of the other blokes found out and they've taken to calling me 'Cupcake'."

Newton Pulsifer still couldn't quite believe he was the chief engineer of a whole starship. It was something he'd dreamed of his whole life, and also something he'd known he'd never have.

Newt had always been terrible with machinery and electronics. All the desire in the world hadn't made up for the fact that everything he tried, no matter how carefully he followed instructions, went awry. He'd considered it a miracle that he hadn't been kicked out of the engineering track at the academy long before the incident with the beagle.

But then he'd met Agnes, and Captain Young, and it was almost as if they'd worked some magic on him, and suddenly everything mechanical worked for him exactly the way he'd always wanted it to. Agnes had given him the transwarp beaming formula and told him it was his own, and Captain Young had trusted him enough to make him chief engineer.

Newt was quite befuddled by the way everything in his life suddenly seemed to be going right.

Lieutenant Tracy hummed a little to herself as she sat at her station on the bridge, monitoring all normal subspace channels, and a few that weren't so usual. After all, her (officially discouraged) interest in communication with the beyond had played a key part in saving Earth from … whatever those aliens had been. Learning all three Romulan dialects because she'd read somewhere that the spirits sometimes were moved to communicate in them had worked out, if not in quite the way she'd hoped.

She routed a communiqué on deteriorating transporter room cleanliness from that unpleasant Admiral Tyler to the wrong inbox, where it would likely be ignored or deleted as spam, and took a sip from the cup of tea she wasn't technically supposed to have on the bridge (though she couldn't imagine doing her job without a nice cuppa to keep her calm). After her shift, she decided, she'd bring a nice tin of milk down to Mr. Shadwell in Engineering. There was a decent, caring man lurking under that craggy green skin, she was sure.

First Officer Anathema Device hesitated uncharacteristically before pressing the touchpad to activate a communication channel.

It wasn't that she was unhappy, precisely, to have encountered her great-great-great-great-grandmother through some strange quirk of black hole time travel.

But Anathema liked to consider herself unflappable, at least when it came to most things. (Captain Young was most emphatically not Most Things.) And Agnes unnerved her. A person wasn't supposed to meet her ancestors, she reasoned. It was especially uncanny that Agnes looked so much like an older version of herself that Anathema was tempted to run a DNA analysis and be sure Agnes wasn't actually an evil clone.

It wasn't logical to not keep in touch just because she was unnerved, though. It wasn't as if Agnes had any other family in this timeline, after all. Anathema dutifully opened a channel to the new colony where Agnes had chosen to settle.

Of course, Anathema belatedly reminded herself, there were also the psychic powers, and the meddling…

Agnes's vivacious face filled the vid screen, and the first words out of her mouth were "So, have you been down to Engineering and met him yet?"

Tribble was supposed to stay in Adam's quarters, so it didn't get up to any of the sorts of trouble a tribble could make on a starship.

The first few days, it didn't mind. Finding itself on this plane of existence and then being remade by its master into a small, disturbingly fluffy, useless creature of nonsensical anatomy had been a shock, but the delights of purring and lying in the dust under its master's bed almost made up for it. There was nothing so … nice in Hell.

Tribble could still muster up just enough Hellhound to be ashamed of itself, though, and a week after things had settled down it snuck out in search of something even remotely fiendish to redeem its shattered self-image.

Unfortunately, it found no disguised Klingons lurking on board, but it did manage to scare the hell out of a strange unicorn dog it found in one of the science labs.

From Sickbay, the being currently known as Dr. Anthony "Snake Eyes" Crowley comm'd the being currently known as Admiral Ezra Fell for a chat. As copious amounts of alcohol were consumed on either end of the vid screen, the conversation ran thus:

"Have I mentioned recently how absolutely brilliant your plan turned out, Aziraphale?" Crowley asked, sarcasm as sharp as his eyeteeth.

"Not recently, no," Aziraphale replied with poorly feigned patience.

"'Recruit him into Starfleet,' you said. 'Keep a close eye on him,' you said," Crowley bitched. "Bloody typical that your plan ends with me stuck a hundred light-years from civilization, on a space bucket full of disease, danger and darkness, while I can't help but notice that your angelicness is a blessed admiral with a big comfy office on Earth."

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. "Remind me again which one of us had to hand himself over to be tortured by crazed Horsepersons?"

"Oh, as if your side didn't go in for suffering righteously at the hands of one's enemies. I have to heal people, Aziraphale! I've done more good deeds in the past week than in two millennia of The Arrangement! This can't go on!"

"I do sympathize, my dear, but if I go on anymore inspection tours of the Enterprise, the rest of the admirals will be suspicious. More suspicious. I don't think I make a very convincing admiral, I have to do a lot of—" he waved a hand vaguely— "to keep them from looking into my file too closely."

Crowley groaned. "I told you I should've been the admiral. I've done military work before—"

"So've I—"

"Crusades don't count, angel. Now, could you possibly do something with your rank and see about transferring in a replacement for me? One who could arrive, say, tomorrow? It's been ages since we've done the Ritz."

Aziraphale looked thoughtful, and Crowley knew he'd won.