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Somewhere on the other side of the galaxy, there may (or may not) be an admiral deciding the fate of eight Constitution-class starships. It's not the sort of thing Jim can ask about, given how things work at Starfleet Command. Decisions about classes of ships are made in quiet (if not quite secret) contemplation. And even if Jim could talk with the other captains who ships might be mothballed, he doubts it would make a difference.

So maybe the best Jim can do today is take a walk along the lake. And try to not think about how his command might be taken. Again.

Yes, let's not think about that, shall we?

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There's a woman sitting out by the lake. Not walking. Not even rolling. The paths aren't bad, but they're not really for casual travel. But the view is nice, so every so often she makes the trip.

She hears footsteps moving along and glances up over her shoulder.

"Barbara, right? Hello." He remembers talking with her some time back. At least he counts time. Around here, that doesn't mean much.

She smiles. "You remember."

Her head tilts to one side. "Jim. It's been a while." More than, in fact.

"Still flying all over the galaxy?"

"Still flying, for the moment." His smile flickers for a moment. "And you? How are things...where you're from?" Sometimes, it's hard to keep track of everything here. And will all the things he needs to keep track of on a ship, it's hard to blame him for forgetting things now and then.

"Not bad." She smiles. "Good enough that I decided a little trip down to the lake was something I could afford."

And don't think she missed that, Kirk.

"For the moment?" she prompts, eyes flashing sympathetically for a moment.

"Starfleet bureaucracy. It's not important right now." Which has been the party line every time anyone at home he's asked him about it, too. "We'll manage."

"Not important," Babs repeats, not sounding like she believes it for a moment.

She hesitates, though, not sure if she should push this one or not.

"Not something I want to deal with right now." The frustration is clear in his voice.

"That I can get." Babs knows how to avoid such things, too. She nods toward the space next to her. "Join me for the view?" she offers.

"Of course.

"I miss views like this in space. I have the best views of space, but it's not the same." Though he wouldn't trade one for the other.

"Looks different from my apartment, too." Which, to be fair, doesn't have much of a view.

"Though I have to say that I envy your views more than this one." She likes the lake, but... space. You know?

"I cold tell you that once you're seen one nebula, you've seen them all.

"But even my rather matter of fact first officer would tell you that's not at all true." Though Spock would then proceed to explain the physical differences.

Babs laughs. "Even without your first officer's input, I don't think I'd believe you."

"Or," she glanced over at him with a sly smirk, "I'd demand visual proof."

"I probably could find the complete visual catalogue of known nebulae and reduce it to six or seven basic types. After that, you would never have to see one in person." His deadpan look doesn't hold for long.

She snorts. "And if someone made you such a generous offer?"

"I would have to consider it. And make time to see all the ringed planets instead. Or maybe all the comets." Still deadpan.

"Huh. Those are at least as impressive, then?" she asks, looking utterly serious for a moment.

"Ringed planets do tend to look either like Saturn or like Jupiter. Elaborate rings, or a tiny one of little importance.

"But when it's like Saturn, it's usually amazing. Variations in color, width, sometimes even angle." Which was known to science long ago, when Voyager 2 arrived at Uranus.

"So I suppose it's okay if you skipped a few nebula for those..." She'd allow it.

"Not that our mission profile is all about observing ringed planets, or nebeulae." Because, after a while, the data set does get repetitive even if the views don't.

"You mean you don't just get to fly around playing tourist?" Babs shakes her head. "How disappointing."

"There are times when we get to choose our own agenda, within limits. But not lately." And yet again, a good mood fades.

She nods slowly.

"I'm sorry." That it's worked out that way.

"Things change. The fleet of my youth is...not the fleet of today." He wants to be philosophical about it.

That's not his way, is it?

"Even when they shouldn't sometimes," Babs suggests. Her tone is half-sympathetic and half-questioning, just in case she's read him wrong.

She doesn't think that she has.