NEW VOY: Faith, Hope and Charity (1/1) PG [Barclay, O'Brien]
Title: Faith, Hope and Charity
Author: Dave Rogers
Email Address: daverogers@geocities.com
Series: VOY
Rating: PG
Codes: Barclay, O'Brien
Part: 1/1
Date Posted: 30th May 2000
Summary: A meeting with an old shipmate challenges Barclay's resolve.
Disclaimer: I hope Paramount don't mind me using their characters, but
I have no faith in their charity.
Acknowledgements: Thanks to Jenn for beta reading.
Faith, Hope and Charity
Miles O'Brien hated to admit it, but he was tired of San Francisco and
tired of life. He sat in the main mess hall at Starfleet Headquarters,
trying desperately to keep track of Keiko's synopsis of her latest
research paper on Bajoran flora, and wondered how long the afternoon
was going to last.
"...the stamens can be used as a herbal cold remedy, and the scent from
the second flowering... Miles, is something wrong?"
He nodded abstractedly. "Yes, dear." Then he realised there was indeed
something wrong. "Sorry?"
"You haven't been listening, have you?" Keiko smiled indulgently.
"You're still missing him, aren't you?"
"Julian?" O'Brien tried to look unconcerned, and failed. "I haven't
got *time* to miss Julian, what with..." Seeing Keiko's smile widen,
he decided to give up trying. "Yes, I miss him. I don't know, it's not
like there's anything wrong with this job, but I just..."
"Don't have anyone to play with any more?" She was clearly having
trouble holding back the laughter, and O'Brien felt a momentary surge
of indignant anger; but he had to admit, she was right.
"Something like that, I suppose," he admitted. "You know, since the
war ended, everyone round here seems to be getting on with their
lives again. I feel like mine's come to a dead stop. I mean, look at
that."
He waved a hand in the direction of a crowd around a table nearby.
A laughing group surrounded a Lieutenant-Commander whose pips looked
like they'd been replicated five minutes ago, and snatches of
conversation drifted over to them - "...haven't seen you for three
years..." "...heard you went down with the Tigershark..." "good to
see you back in one piece..." - that completed the story. It was still
almost an everyday occurrence, nine months after the war; joyful
reunions, old friends picking up old friendships, lives getting back
on track.
"Every day somebody bumps into an old friend round here. Where the
hell are mine? God, right now I'd even be glad to see that half-witted
gobshite..." He caught a warning look in Keiko's eyes, turned round in
surprise, and continued masterfully without a hint of embarrassment,
"Reg Barclay! How are you, Lieutenant? What's it been now, five, six
years?"
"Huh... huh... hello, Chief," stammered a nervously smiling Barclay.
"Six years, I think. Hello, muh... muh... Mrs. O'Brien. Huh... huh...
how..."
"Come on, sit down." O'Brien completely ignored Barclay's attempt at
etiquette. "What have you been up to lately?"
"Haven't you heard?" Barclay's face took on a more animated look.
"I'm on the Pathfinder project. We've made contact with Voyager!"
"Oh, yeah! I heard about that. Nice work, Reg." A though occurred to
O'Brien. "Hey, you were really into holodecks back on the Enterprise,
weren't you?"
"Miles!" Keiko admonished him. "He's only just sat down, and already
you're trying to talk him into one of your holoprograms. Give him a
chance to tell us about..."
"Holoprograms?" Barclay suddenly lost every trace of nerves. "What
sort of thing are you into?"
"Well, Julian and I... Doctor Bashir, from Deep Space Nine..." O'Brien
was a little taken aback by the change in Barclay. He'd never seen him
this focused. "We had this great Battle of Britain scenario. Flying
fighter planes, mid Twentieth Century. Now, I wanted to try some
variations, so I read up on the period, and I found out about
something even better. Have you ever heard of Malta?"
"Small island in the Mediterranean, midway between Italy and North
Africa." Barclay's voice was crisp, precise and businesslike. "Major
strategic location for centuries. Go on."
"Well, I was reading up on the Italian attacks on the island. It seems
there were just three fighter planes defending the place. Old, out-of-
date planes. Just three of them." O'Brien realised that Barclay hadn't
blinked once since he'd started talking, and it was unnerving him a
little. "The locals called them Faith, Hope and Charity. Day after
day, they'd take off and attack these Italian bomber fleets - hundreds
and hundreds of them." A romantic note crept into his voice, and he
started to forget Barclay was even there. "Just these three little
planes, and three men flying them. All alone against an air fleet." He
realised where he was again, and finished, "I had to give it a try.
I've got the program all ready, but no-one to fly wingman."
For a few more seconds, Barclay sat silently, nodding, as if O'Brien
were still speaking. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then
replied, "I'll fly with you, Chief."
"Miles," insisted O'Brien. "Are you sure? I mean, we can arrange a
time whenever it suits you. Of course," he smiled, "if you're free
after lunch..."
"What about right now?" interrupted Barclay.
O'Brien stopped speaking, and looked helplessly at Keiko, his mouth
opening and closing helplessly. Of course, he had to admit, he'd been
on time for lunch every day for the past six months, had spent more
time with the family since they'd come back to Earth than in any other
year, but still... Keiko tended to get a little irritable about people
running off in the middle of lunch for this sort of thing. But then,
at last, he saw her face crease into an indulgent smile.
"Miles, you've been like a cat on hot bricks since we got back. Go on,
have fun. I'll see you for dinner."
O'Brien was on his feet in half a second, Barclay rising to join him.
"Keiko, thanks. You don't know how much this means. Come on, Reg,
there's a transporter booth over by the exit." Catching Barclay's
horrified look, and remembering something about him from the old days,
he quickly added, "Or we can walk. It's only half a mile." As they
headed for the exit, he looked over his shoulder, and called out,
"I'll make you dinner, okay?" And then the mess hall was behind them.
The first impression Barclay got as they entered the holodeck was of
dust. Dusty sandbags formed a dusty blast pen, cordoning off a dusty
airplane from a dusty taxiway leading to a dusty runway over a dusty
landscape. How on earth people had scratched out an existence from
such an unprepossessing piece of land, he would never know. The second
impression was of light, with the Mediterranean sun blazing down from
an azure sky, parching the land and creating yet more dust. And
finally, as his senses adjusted to the light, came the harsh, dry
heat. He'd read a little of the history of this island; what he'd
never understood was why so many armies had tried so hard, over the
centuries, to capture it. It seemed one of the most uninviting places
he'd ever seen.
Ahead of him, O'Brien was walking towards... well, what, exactly? It
looked like a cross between a groundcar and a circus tent, with rather
more wires and struts than his considerable knowledge of aerodynamics
would suggest was consistent with high speeds and low drag. He looked
over the fragile contraption with more than a hint of concern.
"You're sure it'll actually fly, Chief?"
"Call me Miles, I told you." O'Brien walked around the primitive
aircraft in a happy daze. "Gloster Sea Gladiator biplane. See, two
sets of wings. Bristol Mercury radial engine, eight hundred and fifty
horsepower. Four Browning three-oh-three machine guns. Top speed, oh,
about four hundred kilometres an hour. This one's Faith." He waved at
a serial number. "N double-five two four."
"And they actually flew these things? Without any safeties?" Barclay
wasn't sure, but he thought he'd heard the Chief say they were powered
by horses. He could certainly see parts that were made from genuine,
old-fashioned wood, presumably cut from a living tree without the aid
of microcellular scans to check for any internal weaknesses. But then
this was the holodeck, and here there were safeties. "Brave men."
"Damn right. Heroes, all of them." O'Brien walked past the first
plane, round the end of the sandbag wall, and into another blast pen.
A twin of the first plane stood there, oddly conspicuous against the
dust in its broad swathes of dark green and grey camouflage. On its
side was a large letter "R", which O'Brien indicated proudly. "I
checked the markings against a genuine photograph - that's what they
had before holo-imagers. It wasn't even in colour, but the lettering's
right, and the serial number. Look, N double-five one nine."
"This one's mine, right?" asked Barclay expectantly.
"Errr... no," replied O'Brien furtively. "This one's, um, it's set up
for someone special. I'd rather you took the third one. That's round
here." He pointed to the third blast pen, a little further on.
"Charity. N double-five three zero."
"What's different about the setup of this one?" Barclay pointed back
at the second machine.
"It's... look, it's kind of personal. I wrote the program for someone,
someone I miss rather a lot. I've put a holoimage of him in this plane
a couple of times - it's not the same as actually flying with someone
else, but I, I kind of can't picture anyone else flying her. Look,
couldn't you just take Charity and have done with it?"
The call was there again, and Barclay was finding it hard to resist.
Just give in, the small voice inside him murmured, and you'll be
flying, you'll be a hero, you'll have excitement, glamour and glory.
And it all seemed so easy, so much more rewarding than forever trying
to send messages to a lost starship that would probably never reply
anyway.
And then he realised that it wasn't like that. The starship had
answered, just a few days ago. They'd called him the newest member of
the crew; him, Reg Barclay, the man who'd never even felt like part of
the crew of the ship he was on. Admiral Paris had praised him. Pete
Harkins had apologised for doubting him. In a small, quiet way, he was
Starfleet's newest hero; and it was real. And then there was Hope;
he'd only met her two days ago, but already he felt like he had a
chance with her. Reality was out there for him, if only he had the
strength to reach out and take it. The alternative, standing in for
someone else's friend, suddenly didn't seem so attractive. He took a
deep breath, felt the familiar sinking feeling in the base of his
stomach, but screwed up his courage anyway.
"Look, Chief..."
"Miles."
"Look, Miles," he continued, slightly irritated now, "I think I... I
don't want to... that is, I can't..."
Barclay paused in confusion; then, suddenly, the right words came to
him.
"Miles, if I can't have Hope, I don't want Charity."
"You what?!" O'Brien's face was a picture, and the picture might have
been subtitled, 'The man who engaged reverse thrust with the inertial
dampers offline'.
Barclay carried on quickly before the strength left him. "Miles, I
didn't tell everyone, so maybe you didn't know, but... I'm not just a
holodeck enthusiast, I'm an addict. It was destroying my life, just up
to a few days ago. I really... I just... I can't..." He lost the words
again; but it was enough.
"Bloody hell, Reg, I didn't know." O'Brien looked sympathetic now.
Then he shook his head, chuckled quietly. "You know, my great uncle
was a demon for the bottle till he gave it up. One Christmas I offered
him a nip of whiskey, and you should have seen the way my great aunt
looked at me. I suppose this is like that for you. Look, I'm sorry I
dragged you in here."
"That's okay, Ch... Miles. You weren't to know."
"Look, Reg, d'you want to go and do something else? I'm sure we could
find a bar, have a drink, have a game of darts, talk about old
times..."
Barclay cut him off. "It's okay, Miles. You stay here and fight the
Italian air force."
"Are you sure?" O'Brien's face, and voice, were filled with concern
now. "If you need someone to talk to..."
Barclay grinned. "Don't worry, I'll be fine. I can walk away from it
now. And I can do it on my own." Seeing the doubt on O'Brien's face,
he waved at the airplane standing nearby, and for once in his life
came up with the perfect last word.
"Have Faith!"
THE END
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