Cal's War Pt 4: Half A World Away

Posted on Sat Jul 11th, 2026 @ 6:34pm by Lieutenant Callum Cowan

4,142 words; about a 21 minute read

Mission: Flashbacks
Location: RF Wayfarer
Timeline: 2381

Emily-Grace Aitken strolled slowly through Wayfarer's operations centre. She had been not-so-subtly lingering around the ship's nerve centre for the better part of an hour, hoping above all else that some kind of news—any news at all—would come through regarding Lieutenant Samantha Vance and Ensign Callum Cowan.

They had departed that morning on what had been intended as a straightforward rescue.

A stranded freighter.

Around sixty civilians.

Collect them.

Bring them home.

That had been four hours ago.

They had been due back in two.

They had yet to appear on the converted freighter's considerably upgraded sensor grid.

Slowly, Emily climbed the short flight of steps leading to the Strategic Operations station. Resting one hand lightly on the back of the console, she offered the duty officer a smile that was just convincing enough.

"Any word?"

The officer glanced at the display before shaking their head.

"Nothing yet."

Emily's smile faded just a fraction.

"Thanks."

She turned to leave.

"Ensign Aitken."

The familiar gravelly voice stopped her immediately.

She turned back to find Commander Hayes watching her from the opposite side of the Operations Centre.

"Commander."

Hayes regarded her for a long moment.

"Is there a particular reason," he asked, "you've spent the last hour orbiting my Operations Centre?"

Emily opened her mouth.

"I'm not—"

"No?"

"...No, sir."

Hayes raised an eyebrow.

"Good."

Another beat.

"Then perhaps you could find something productive to do."

Emily shifted awkwardly on the spot.

"I just thought if—"

"I know what you thought."

His voice remained calm.

"If we hear anything, you'll know."

A long silence settled between them.

Emily looked briefly towards the sensor display before nodding.

"...Yes, sir."

Hayes' expression softened almost imperceptibly.

"I'll let you know the moment we hear something."

The reassurance was small.

Almost reluctant.

But it was enough.

"Thank you, Commander."

She bit her lip, nodded once more, and finally did as she'd been instructed.

---

The Danube-class runabout Tyne had been generously donated to Squadron 17 by a starbase that regrettably no longer existed. That fact alone had led more than a few members of the squadron to wonder whether the craft—affectionately nicknamed The Bus by those who flew her—was remarkably lucky for having escaped such an unfortunate fate...

...or remarkably unlucky for everyone else.

Unfortunately for Cal and Sam, they discovered precisely why that starbase had been so eager to part with her.

Barely an hour into their return journey from what had, by every measure, been an exceptionally straightforward rescue, Tyne shuddered violently beneath them, eliciting a chorus of startled murmurs from the sixty or so evacuees occupying every available seat—and several stretches of deck plating.

"What was that?" Sam asked quietly enough that only Cal could hear.

His eyes were already racing across the engineering display.

"Port EPS grid just dropped offline." His fingers danced across the flight controls almost instinctively. "We've lost one of the main power distribution trunks."

Another warning chirped.

"And we're bleeding propulsion power."

Sam frowned at her own console.

"We're slowing."

She looked over.

"We need to find power from somewhere or we're never getting home."

"Not life support," Cal answered immediately.

He hadn't even needed to think about it.

Sam gave a small nod.

"No."

Cal's eyes flicked between the system displays.

"Forward compartment replicators..."

A few commands later.

"...offline."

"Rear compartment lighting to emergency levels."

Another command.

The cabin lights dimmed almost imperceptibly.

"Still not enough."

Cal looked at the impulse power readout.

"...Engines."

Sam already knew what that meant.

"We'll crawl home."

"We'll get home."

She sighed theatrically before tapping the final command.

"Impulse output reduced."

Both pilots instinctively felt the runabout settle into its new, painfully leisurely pace.

Cal studied the revised flight solution.

"...Estimated time of arrival..."

He winced.

"...Seven hours, thirty-two minutes."

Sam leaned back in her chair.

"This is going to be a very long day."

Cal stared out through the cockpit canopy for a moment before a familiar grin appeared.

"We could always take the power from the Velocity court."

Sam looked at him.

"...We don't have a Velocity court."

"We could build one."

"...Cal."

"Then we'd have somewhere to take the power from."

Sam shook her head, laughing despite herself.

"You're an idiot."

"Possibly."

He gently nudged the controls, keeping the ageing runabout on course.

"But at least..."

He looked back towards the crowded passenger compartment, where frightened faces were already beginning to relax now they knew they were safe.

"...this still ends with everyone getting home."

---

Wayfarer's flight deck was, as always, a hive of activity.

Pilots came and went while engineers worked tirelessly to return small craft to operational status. Around them, deck crews pushed equipment between landing pads as the great bay doors remained open, waiting for a runabout that had long since been due home.

Emily moved slowly across the deck, doing her best to stay out of the way of the organised chaos unfolding around her. The tightness in her chest had grown steadily worse as the afternoon wore on.

How long should they cling to the increasingly fragile hope that Cal and Sam would simply appear through the bay doors?

What had happened?

Had the Borg found them before they escaped?

Had the distress call itself been some elaborate trap?

She forced the thoughts away before they could take hold.

"Owen!"

She spotted Wayfarer's Chief Engineer—Alpha Flight's unofficial wing engineer—and made her way towards him.

Owen Reilly didn't even look up.

"Aitken."

His voice echoed from somewhere inside the exposed engine compartment of an elderly civilian shuttle that Squadron 17 had somehow acquired over the previous few weeks.

"You're not due to fly."

"No..."

There was a pause.

"Then why are you on my flight deck?"

Emily hesitated.

She honestly wasn't sure.

Something about being surrounded by people fixing problems made it easier to believe this one might still have a solution.

"I just..."

Owen finally emerged from the shuttle, wiping his hands on an already oil-stained cloth.

"You're worried."

It wasn't a question.

Emily nodded.

"What if they're not coming back?"

Owen studied her for a moment before placing the spanner he'd been using carefully onto the nearby toolbox.

"Course they're coming back."

"You think?"

"Know."

"How?"

Owen's expression softened into the faintest hint of a smile—a surprisingly reassuring sight from a man who normally reserved facial expressions for catastrophic engine failures.

"Because it's Cowan."

Emily frowned.

"He gets through everything."

A shrug.

"Don't ask me how."

Another beat.

"And he's got Sam."

He nodded towards the open bay doors.

"She's far too sensible to let him get himself killed."

Emily couldn't help smiling.

"You really believe that?"

Owen nodded once.

"I do."

Silence settled between them again.

Then...

"Mind you..."

Owen picked his spanner back up.

"...they'll probably bring me something that's broken."

Emily looked towards the empty landing pad.

"...You know..."

"...I'd be perfectly happy to fix it."

---

The bus continued labouring slowly homeward.

Inside the cabin, the temperature had noticeably increased as the atmospheric control systems struggled with the overloaded runabout's passenger complement. It wasn't uncomfortable, just warm enough that jacket sleeves had been rolled up and the cockpit canopy had begun to mist faintly around the edges.

Relatively, spirits had remained high.

Sam had given her seat to a teenager with a fascination for flying, who had proceeded to pepper Cal with questions he had been more than happy to answer. Meanwhile, she sat cross-legged on the deck playing cards with a young girl who had somehow emerged with a well-worn pack from somewhere amongst the luggage.

The little girl laid down her final card with all the confidence of a seasoned professional.

"There."

Sam frowned.

"...Again?"

The girl nodded proudly.

"I win."

Sam looked down at the cards.

Looked back at the girl.

Then slowly narrowed her eyes.

"Did you..."

Cal didn't even look up from where he was helping an elderly gentleman adjust a blanket.

"She isn't cheating."

"But—"

"She's not Emily."

Sam looked between the child and Cal.

"Yeah, but..."

Cal finally glanced over, smiling.

"She didn't cheat, Sam."

A beat.

"You're just terrible at this."

The little girl burst into giggles.

Sam looked genuinely offended.

"I am not terrible."

"You've lost four times."

"She's clearly a prodigy."

"I'm eight," the little girl offered helpfully.

"There you go," Cal said. "An eight-year-old prodigy."

Sam folded her arms dramatically.

"I demand a rematch."

The girl grinned.

"You'll lose again."

Cal couldn't help laughing.

"I think she's right."

The little girl beamed proudly before beginning to gather the cards together for another round.

Sam sighed.

"You're enjoying this far too much."

Cal shrugged innocently.

"It's nice seeing someone else lose for a change."

She threw him a mock glare.

"I thought we were friends."

"We are."

"...You're still terrible."

Another chorus of laughter rippled through the crowded cabin.

Still smiling, Cal absent-mindedly reached over and straightened the elderly gentleman's blanket once more before turning back towards the teenager occupying the co-pilot's seat.

"Now," he said, resting a hand lightly against the console, "where were we?"

"Warp drive!"

Cal smiled.

"Impulse engines."

"But warp drive's cooler."

He considered that for a moment before nodding.

"...That's fair."

---

"Mateo."

Emily entered the now sparsely populated Alpha Flight bunk room with purpose, making a beeline for her flight lead.

"Emily."

Mateo barely looked up, his attention still fixed on the padd in his hands.

"They still aren't back."

"I'm aware."

His answer came with a tired sigh.

"Well then what are we going to do?"

"There isn't anything we _can_ do."

Emily stared at him.

"We need to go looking for them."

"Look where?"

She opened her mouth.

Mateo beat her to it.

"We know where they were _going_."

He set the padd down.

"We've no idea where they are now."

"They could've reached the freighter."

"They could've diverted."

"They could've picked up another distress call."

He spread his hands.

"We don't know."

"Then we find out!" Emily shot back. "We take a shuttle and—"

"And what?"

The question stopped her.

"We fly around half a sector hoping we happen to stumble across them?"

"We'd be doing something."

"We'd be gambling."

Silence.

Mateo rubbed a hand across his face.

"I know this is hard."

His voice had softened.

"It is for me too."

Emily's shoulders dropped ever so slightly.

"What if they need us?"

Mateo held her gaze.

"If they need us..."

He tapped the padd.

"...then I need to make sure we go looking in the right place."

He drew a slow breath.

"I'm already working on it."

"We're narrowing down everywhere they could have diverted to."

"I'm speaking with Hayes."

"If he authorises a search, we'll launch one."

Emily looked unconvinced.

"So we just..."

"...wait?"

"I know."

Mateo nodded.

"I hate it too."

A long silence settled between them.

Finally he offered her the smallest of reassuring smiles.

"We'll find them, Emily-Grace."

"...Just not yet."

Emily nodded reluctantly before making her way over to her usual seat at the makeshift table.

She sat down heavily.

Waiting had never been one of her strengths.

Closing her eyes, she drew a long, slow breath and did her best to quiet the growing knot of worry in her chest.

---

Six hours into their long journey home, the runabout's power levels had finally settled into something approaching equilibrium.

The cockpit had grown pleasantly quiet.

Cal had briefly attempted to play some music for their passengers, only for the additional power draw to shave another fraction off their already glacial speed. The idea had been abandoned almost immediately, though one of the sixty-odd evacuees had eventually produced a battered musical instrument that Cal didn't recognise, filling the cabin with gentle melodies for a while instead.

Nobody seemed to mind.

Eventually several of the grandparents emerged from the rear compartment—emergency lighting and all—each carrying bowls of a thick vegetable stew.

Quite how they had managed to source the ingredients, let alone prepare and cook it aboard an overloaded runabout with half its systems powered down, remained a complete mystery.

Cal hadn't felt particularly hungry and had politely attempted to decline.

"Nonsense, sweetheart," one elderly woman protested with the effortless authority possessed only by grandmothers. "You haven't eaten for hours."

She pressed the bowl into his hands.

"You've spent all day looking after the rest of us."

A warm smile.

"Now it's our turn to look after you."

Cal glanced helplessly towards Sam, who had finally reclaimed the co-pilot's seat.

She looked up just long enough to shrug.

"She's right."

The woman folded her arms.

"You'll be nothing but skin and bones by the time we get home otherwise."

"At this rate," Sam muttered under her breath, "so will everyone else."

Cal laughed.

The battle was clearly lost.

He accepted the bowl.

It was, quite unexpectedly, the best thing he'd eaten in weeks.

Lunch somehow drifted naturally into music.

The instrument found companions in half-forgotten songs. One voice became three, then ten, until eventually most of the cabin had joined in.

Cal and Sam both resisted for as long as they could.

Neither lasted particularly long.

Truth be told, if not for the agonisingly slow journey home and the increasingly frantic people waiting for them aboard Wayfarer, Cal suspected he would have remembered the day simply as...

...a good day.

---

Wayfarer's flight deck had quietened considerably as the evening wore on.

At some point during the afternoon the great launch doors had been closed. For a brief moment, that simple act had infuriated Emily. To her, it had felt like surrender—as though somebody had quietly accepted that two of Alpha Flight weren't coming home.

She refused to accept that.

Her shuttle already sat half-prepared by the time Owen Reilly emerged from behind a stack of supply canisters carrying two emergency ration containers.

Without a word, he climbed into the shuttle and began securing them behind the pilot's seat.

Emily frowned.

"...Owen?"

He looked up briefly.

"Aitken."

"What are you doing?"

"Making sure our craft are supplied for any emergency launches."

He disappeared back down the boarding ramp before returning moments later carrying another container.

Emily watched him for a second.

"...You're not going to stop me?"

Owen glanced sideways.

"Stop you from what?"

He secured the final container before shrugging.

"I'm just making sure we're adequately prepared."

Realisation slowly spread across Emily's face.

Before Owen had time to protest, she threw her arms around him.

"Thank you."

He endured the hug with the resigned expression of a man who had accepted this was simply part of working with Alpha Flight.

"Don't thank me yet."

The unmistakable rumble of the bay doors beginning to open echoed across the flight deck.

Both turned.

Mateo Alvarez strode purposefully into the bay.

Emily's expression hardened immediately.

"Don't try and stop me."

Mateo blinked.

"Stop you?"

He laughed.

"You thought I'd let you go alone?"

"But I thought—"

"I told you."

He stepped past her towards the shuttle.

"Trust me."

Without another word he began running through the launch preparation alongside Owen.

"Owen."

"Mm?"

"Open the launch doors."

"Fine."

Emily hurried aboard the shuttle, her hands already dancing across the flight console.

"We have permission?"

Mateo didn't even look up.

"I definitely didn't say that."

Emily paused.

"So we're going to be in trouble when we get back?"

"Only if we don't find them."

He smiled.

"Better make sure we don't come back empty-handed."

"Indeed."

The gravelly voice froze all three of them.

Commander Daniel Hayes stood at the edge of the flight deck, arms folded.

"Lieutenant Alvarez..."

Mateo sighed.

"...Sir."

"Did I not instruct you to stand down?"

"I..."

"And Miss Aitken..."

His attention shifted.

"Did I not tell you to find something productive to do?"

"This _is_ productive," Emily protested.

Mateo stepped forward before she could continue.

"This was my responsibility, sir."

Hayes regarded him for a long moment.

"I can't leave my people out there."

"They're our friends," Emily added.

Hayes nodded once.

"I know."

The admission caught all three of them slightly off guard.

"But if I lose two more pilots because the first two are overdue..."

He looked between them.

"...what exactly have I achieved?"

Nobody answered.

"We don't even know where to begin looking."

"We've had Strategic Operations narrowing down every possible diversion route all afternoon."

"We're almost ready to launch a proper search."

Emily looked down.

"We just..."

"...couldn't wait anymore."

Hayes' expression softened ever so slightly.

"I know."

Before anyone could say another word, Wayfarer's internal communications crackled into life.

**"Craft on approach. All hands prepare for arrival in Bay One."**

The entire flight deck stopped.

Mateo looked towards Emily.

"Sensors?"

She reached for the console almost instinctively.

A few seconds passed.

Then...

Her eyes widened.

"It's..."

She looked up.

"They're home."

Nobody moved.

Commander Hayes slowly looked from Emily...

...to Mateo...

...to Owen.

A long silence.

Then...

"I appear to have forgotten why I came down here."

Mateo smiled.

"Yes, sir."

"Good."

Hayes turned to leave before stopping beside Owen.

"Mister Reilly."

"Commander."

"What role did you play in all this?"

Owen looked thoughtfully towards the shuttle.

"None."

A beat.

"I was merely restocking errant equipment."

Hayes closed his eyes for a brief moment.

"I see."

Another pause.

"...Carry on."

Moments later, through the shimmering atmospheric containment field slid a slightly battered, noticeably overcrowded and inexplicably cheerful Danube-class runabout.

Tyne.

The Bus.

She settled gently onto the deck.

Almost immediately engineers appeared from every direction, surrounding the runabout before the engines had even fully powered down.

The rear boarding ramp lowered with a gentle hydraulic hiss.

Warm air rolled out into the hangar carrying with it the unmistakable smell of too many people...

...and vegetable stew.

Medical personnel boarded first.

There were remarkably few injuries.

One by one the evacuees were welcomed aboard Wayfarer.

To Emily, the whole process seemed to take an eternity.

Then...

Sam appeared.

She stretched dramatically before taking the deepest breath she'd managed all day.

"Sorry we're late."

She looked around the bay.

"Slight technical issue."

"'Course you did," Owen muttered.

Mateo laughed harder than anyone had heard in months.

"Good to have you back."

He shook his head.

"Was starting to think I'd have to replace you."

"Not today."

Sam rolled her shoulders.

"I need coffee."

She disappeared down the corridor without another word.

Emily remained exactly where she was.

Waiting.

Inside the runabout, system after system quietly powered down.

Eventually...

Cal appeared in the doorway carrying his flight bag over one shoulder.

He looked around.

Confused.

Before he had a chance to say anything, Emily crossed the flight deck.

She didn't think.

She simply moved.

The bag slipped from Cal's shoulder as she wrapped both arms tightly around him.

For just a second he froze.

Then, instinctively, his own arms folded gently around her.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

She nodded against his shoulder.

Slowly.

"I just..."

Her voice caught.

"I thought you both..."

She couldn't finish.

Cal smiled.

A real one.

"We always come back."

He glanced back towards the runabout.

"...And we're home now."

A beat.

"Actually..."

He shrugged.

"...Had quite a nice day."

Emily looked up.

"...What?"

"It was peaceful."

She stared at him.

Then gave him the gentlest punch she could manage on the shoulder.

"Shut up."

Cal laughed.

"So... no hug for Sam?"

Emily rolled her eyes.

"She was expected back."

"Oi!" Sam's voice echoed from halfway down the corridor. "I heard that!"

The four members of Alpha Flight disappeared together into the ship.

Behind them, Owen climbed into Tyne's open impulse compartment, looked at the scorched EPS junction, and let out a long sigh.

"...Knew you'd broken something."

---

None of Alpha Flight stayed awake particularly late.

The day had left each of them exhausted in their own way.

For Cal, that meant a quick dinner shared with his flight mates, a hot shower that somehow never quite washed away the smell of engine coolant, vegetable stew and too many people packed into one runabout, before finally collapsing into his cot.

As uncomfortable as it was...

...that night he couldn't imagine anywhere else he'd rather have been.

The compartment lights dimmed not long afterwards.

Within minutes, he was asleep.

---

Sleep proved far more elusive for Emily-Grace Aitken.

She lay staring up at the underside of the bunk above her as the old freighter hummed gently around them.

Every time she closed her eyes...

...the same thoughts returned.

What if they'd been lost?

What if nobody had found them?

What if they hadn't come home?

...

What if he hadn't?

She let out a slow breath.

The thought had haunted her all evening.

Not just the fear of losing Cal.

The fear of everything she would never have said if she had.

For weeks she'd found reasons to wait.

Another mission.

Another day.

Another quieter moment.

But _Wayfarer_ never offered quieter moments.

There was always another launch.

Another distress call.

Another emergency.

If she'd learned anything over the last two months, it was that tomorrow wasn't something anybody aboard this ship could count on.

Enough waiting.

She sat up, the ageing bunk creaking softly beneath her.

Carefully she eased her curtain aside just far enough to peer into the compartment.

Darkness.

Silence.

Somewhere across the room somebody snored contentedly.

Mateo.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

She slipped quietly from her bunk, padded barefoot across the compartment and stopped outside another curtain.

For just a second...

She hesitated.

Then she gently drew it aside.

Cal lay exactly as she'd expected.

Curled beneath the thin blanket, one arm tucked beneath his head, fast asleep.

She stood there for a long moment.

Not because she was unsure.

Simply because seeing him there—safe, alive, breathing quietly—made something inside her finally settle.

She reached out, resting her fingertips lightly against his shoulder.

"Cal..."

His eyes opened slowly.

For a second he looked completely lost.

"...Em?"

She smiled.

"Hi."

He blinked again, still fighting through sleep.

"You alright?"

"I am now."

It took him a second to understand what she meant.

He studied her face.

Whatever he'd expected...

It wasn't this.

Without asking another question, he shifted awkwardly towards the bulkhead, making as much room as the narrow cot would allow.

Emily couldn't help smiling.

"You sure?"

A sleepy nod.

She climbed carefully into the bunk beside him.

It had only ever been designed for one person.

Neither of them seemed particularly concerned.

For a while they simply lay there.

The ship hummed softly around them.

Cal slipped an arm around her almost absent-mindedly, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

Emily rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

"...Thanks."

He smiled.

"You don't have to thank me."

Another comfortable silence settled between them.

She listened to the slow rhythm of his breathing.

Felt the warmth of him beside her.

He was here.

That was enough.

For a little while.

Eventually she lifted her head again.

"Cal?"

"Mmm?"

"I've been thinking."

His eyes opened a little further.

"Oh?"

She smiled to herself.

"I kept waiting for the right time." She pause, "A day where nobody nearly died."

She laughed quietly.

"I don't think there is one."

He looked at her for a long moment.

Still a little sleepy.

Still trying to catch up.

Emily reached up and gently brushed an untidy lock of hair away from his forehead.

"I don't want to keep waiting."

She leaned forward slowly.

Not rushed.

Not uncertain.

Giving him every chance to stop her if he wanted to.

He didn't.

Their lips met softly.

Briefly.

When she finally drew back, she searched his face with an expression that, for perhaps the first time all day, carried no fear at all.

Cal stared at her for a heartbeat.

Then another.

"...I've been awake for less than a minute."

Emily laughed, quickly covering her mouth before she woke the rest of the compartment.

"I know."

"I meant to do that."

No apology.

No awkward explanation.

Just the truth.

A sleepy smile spread across Cal's face.

"...I'm glad you did."

She smiled back.

"So..."

"So?"

"...Move over."

He glanced towards the bulkhead.

"I'm already against the wall."

Emily laughed again.

"I noticed."

She settled back against him, tucking herself comfortably beneath his arm.

This time there was no uncertainty.

No wondering.

No waiting for a better moment.

Outside, _Wayfarer_ continued her endless journey through the darkness.

Inside one impossibly small bunk, Emily-Grace Aitken finally stopped waiting for tomorrow.

And, for the first time since she'd watched his shuttle disappear into the unknown...

She simply let herself be happy.

 

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