“Close,” Pitt said. The admiral was everything the CENTCOM recruitment films said he should be. Lean, impeccably groomed, and just enough grey in his hair to convey a sense of experience. He had a raspy voice and a scowl he’d worn so long that Jackson was certain it stayed put even when he slept. Admiral Pitt had been in charge of Fleet operations during the height of the Phage War although he was stationed on Haven, well away from the fighting on the Frontier.

“I was on a courier ship over Haven when those Charlies moved in and began bombarding the surface,” he continued. “We lost main power but had enough velocity to be thrown clear of all the excitement, and the Phage never bothered investigating or pursuing. We floated around for some weeks on a ship that reeked of unwashed spacers and refuse before a survey ship finally stumbled upon us. We were down to the second to last set of emergency CO2 scrubbers, a backup reactor that was close to failing, and the rations had been gone for days.”

“That’s … incredible.” Jackson didn’t know what else to say. One of the greatest fears that seemed to be universal among spacers was that of being trapped on a powerless ship. Dying slowly in a floating tin can was considered one of the worst ways to die in space. “And now you’re working here at the Archive?”

“Not all of us turned our back on the Fleet after a bit of a rough time in the war, Captain,” Pitt said sharply. “I’m overseeing the refit of a new drive system to some of the newer ships. I caught a shuttle down from the shipyards when I heard your ship made orbit.” There was a long, uncomfortable silence following the admiral’s comments.

“So!” the administrator said, clapping his hands. “How about I show you down to the Tomb. That is why you’re here, after all.”

“New drive system?” Jackson asked quietly as they walked to the security checkpoint off the main lobby.

“I hardly think that concerns you anymore, does it Captain?” Pitt said pleasantly, but the bitter edge underneath was unmistakable. Jackson looked at him, but decided not to comment further. It was only natural that his decision to completely leave Starfleet after the war was met with criticism and open hostility. At best the old “Earther” slurs were brought up, at worst he was re-branded a traitor. But he cared about none of that now, and it was only a burning scientific curiosity that had dragged him out of North America again and had him ride an old, slow courier ship all the way to New Sierra.

“Who was the first to speak to it?” he finally asked as the lift doors closed and the car began to descend.