I Got That Reference!

Posted on Tue Jan 6th, 2026 @ 6:34pm by Commander Donald ‘Don’ Key

813 words; about a 4 minute read

Mission: A Fondness For
Location: Planet Surface
Timeline: Present

:ON:

The channel opens with a delay. Not a technical one—an administrative one. The kind that only exists because someone, somewhere, had to find the correct button.

DON (squinting at the hologram buffer): Sir… the transmission is asking us to “Please Hold For The Next Available Temporal Representative.”

DICK: Of course it is.

The storm outside obligingly fills the silence with a low, judgmental woooooom.

JULIUS: Chronal pressure is increasing. The universe does not enjoy hold music.

ANDREWS: Neither do I, and I survived three hours of Klingon opera.

Finally—pop. The hologram snaps into clarity.

Three figures appear. One Vulcan Admiral. One Human Admiral. And one Bolian Admiral, already annoyed and visibly blue about it.

TEMPORAL OVERSIGHT CHAIR (VULCAN): This session of the Temporal Oversight Committee is now convened. State your name for—

HUMAN ADMIRAL: Oh Christ… It’s Dick Sprague.

DICK steps forward.

DICK: Yes sir, Captain Dick Sprague. USS Albion. And before you ask—no, I didn’t time travel this time.

The Bolian blinks.

BOLIAN ADMIRAL: You mean to imply there were other times that you did?

DON: Statistically? Probably, yes.

The storm gave off what sounded almost like a chuckle.

VULCAN ADMIRAL: Captain Sprague. You are broadcasting from within a stabilized chronal anomaly.

DICK: Yes, sir. We found it singing to itself and decided to invite witnesses.

The Separatist Leader inclines their head toward the holograms.

SEPARATIST LEADER: We warned the Federation what containment would cost.

The device hums, warm and resonant—like a cello being tuned by fate itself.

JULIUS (quietly thrilled): It’s mirroring speech cadence. The field is acting as a narrative amplifier.

ANDREWS: In English?

JULIUS: No, in dramatic irony.

The storm outside flashes—images ripple through the clouds. A Constitution-class starship vanishing. A timeline snapping shut. A captain shouting about paradoxes while a Vulcan rubs his temples.

DON: Oh hey. That’s Yesterday’s Enterprise. I loved that one.

BOLIAN ADMIRAL: Why is the anomaly projecting classified incidents?

SHEERAASHAA: Because it remembers what was hidden.

The device pulses harder.

SHEERAASHAA: And it does not approve.

The Vulcan’s eyebrow reaches dangerous altitude.

VULCAN ADMIRAL: Captain Sprague. Explain. Succinctly.

DICK nods, takes a breath—the practiced inhale of a man about to annoy Starfleet on purpose.

DICK: You’re looking at the accumulated resentment of causality. Every time Starfleet decided the ends justified the means. Every erased colony. Every “necessary” reset button. This planet just… refused to forget.

DON: Think of it like the Guardian of Forever, but instead of saying “Many such journeys are possible,” it says “I kept the receipts.”

The storm thunders approvingly.

BOLIAN ADMIRAL: That is not how time works!

JULIUS: Respectfully, sir—it very much is.

ANDREWS: Just usually quieter about it.

The Separatist Leader steps forward.

SEPARATIST LEADER: We didn’t build a weapon. We built a witness.

The storm softens. Sunlight edges through the clouds.

VULCAN ADMIRAL (after a long pause): Captain Sprague… what outcome are you proposing?

DICK smiles faintly.

DICK: Transparency. A full review. No redactions. No “classified for the greater good.” You let history testify for itself.

DON: And maybe don’t erase anyone this time?

The device emits a hopeful chime.

SHEERAASHAA: The field is stabilising. Acknowledgement reduces pressure.

BOLIAN ADMIRAL rubs his face.

BOLIAN ADMIRAL: This will be… politically catastrophic.

DICK: Starfleet survived Kirk’s court-martials, Picard’s Borg trauma, Sisko punching Q, and Janeway rewriting the timeline before breakfast. I think we’ll manage this.

The storm briefly forms a shape suspiciously like a thumbs-up.

DON: Sir, the weather just endorsed you.

DICK: I’ve had worse reviews. Usually on eBay.

The Vulcan inclines their head.

VULCAN ADMIRAL: The committee will open a formal inquiry.

The device settles. The storm exhales. The song fades into a calm breeze.

SEPARATIST LEADER closes their eyes—relief at last.

SEPARATIST LEADER: We only wanted to be heard.

DICK: You were. Loudly. Across multiple centuries.

The holograms flicker.

HUMAN ADMIRAL: This session is now officially adjourned. And Dick?

DICK: Yes, Admiral?

HUMAN ADMIRAL: Please never do this again.

DICK: I make no promises involving time, weather, or committees. Or separatists. Or time. Wait, I already mentioned time.

The channel cuts abruptly.

Silence. Real silence.

DON exhales like a man who has survived a transporter malfunction turning him into a Tuvix-like creatue and back, and lived to complain about it.

DON: Sir… did we just win an argument with causality?

DICK looks at the calm sky, the quiet device, the planet no longer screaming at the universe.

DICK: No. We just convinced it to stop yelling long enough to file a complaint.

He turns toward the exit and puts a reassuring hand on Don’s shoulder. Don looks up at him like a puppy.

DICK: Let’s go home before it changes its mind.


:OFF:

Commander Donald “Don” Key
Chief Flight Control Officer
USS Albion

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