Episode 135. USS Outta Time

Story

It has now been more than fifteen minutes since we left the Charles Tucker III Spacedock. Enterprise-J has faded behind us like a dream too vast to be real. Since then, the shuttle has glided silently along its course while orbit slowly scrolls around us.

Angie is half dozing in her seat, one arm carelessly resting on the armrest, while T'Met and Tarsi speak in low voices about subjects I cannot possibly identify. It could be quantum mechanics or the breeding habits of Tholian tricoballs. With them, anything is possible.

I have stayed up front near our pilot, eyes glued to the viewport. I never tire of this view: Earth beneath us, deep space around us, and continuous, precise traffic made of freighters, satellites, stations, and platforms. It is peaceful and strange at the same time.

I am beginning to wonder whether this famous "ride in orbit" has a more symbolic purpose than a practical one when a subtle change in the light catches my attention. Brightness has dimmed. A dark veil has slipped across the horizon. And suddenly, I see it.

At first, it is only an irregular shadow clinging to Earth's curve. Then the outlines sharpen: tubular structures, mechanical arms, platforms suspended in the void, all arranged around a central core. I straighten slightly. Even Angie opens one eye. Something tells me this ride has reached its climax.

The shuttle begins a slow, controlled approach to the yard. Between the mechanical arms, a space opens: a wide docking bay that lights up progressively as we arrive. Inside, the ship's silhouette begins to take shape. Huge, but still under construction. Blue light brushes over its incomplete hull. The flight deck opens before us.

A soft click sounds. The hatch opens, letting the flight deck light spill into the shuttle. One by one, we climb down and walk slowly across pristine metal, still carrying the smell of new construction. The lights adapt to our presence and grow slightly brighter. Nothing moves.

Suddenly, a shimmer of light crosses the air in front of us. A shape materializes silently, as if projected from nothing. In a fraction of a second, she is there.

A woman. Blonde. A tight purple outfit, almost unreal. Straight posture, hands folded behind her back. And that gaze... analytical, unfathomable. As if she knows us better than we know ourselves.

We stop dead. Angie takes half a step back, eyes wide.

T'Met gives Lingua an approving nod. A muffled sound echoes across the flight deck, followed by a second, more familiar one. Two platforms slowly rise from the floor, revealing carefully arranged objects:

- on one, a shuttle with familiar, gleaming lines, carefully repainted: Herbie 53.

- on the other, a matte-black motorcycle, massive and sleek, ready to leap forward. Its Diavel logo glows faintly under the lights. A small blue diode lights up on the handlebars.

As the blue diode blinks on the handlebars, a faint hum precedes a sound pulse. The motorcycle shivers. Then, in a clear audio burst, a synthetic female voice rises, rhythmic and slightly hysterical.

A flash of LEDs runs across the bodywork like a wave of neon in a retro nightclub.

I do not know exactly what I feel. Between Lingua materializing like a B-movie holographic heroine with intergalactic style, Angie finding Herbie 53 as if a child had been resurrected, and my motorcycle singing digital ketchup before offering me "toys"... let's say the morning has taken a strange turn.

And yet, I feel that all of this makes sense. That none of it is there by chance.

T'Met gestures to us. We leave the flight deck. The doors close behind us with a muffled breath, as if silence itself wanted to keep this moment.

We walk through the ship's corridors, still bare and incomplete. Some ceilings are open, consoles disabled, walls unfinished. But the essential is there. The structure. The heart.

Angie walks beside me. She says nothing, but I can tell she feels the same thing.

We reach one final door. It is wide. Tall. Behind it is the command bridge. Or at least... what will serve as one.